Disorderly Conduct Read online

  I give him a teasing peck on the cheek and shove him away. “I guess vocabulary isn’t part of your academy training.”

  He reaches over and pinches my waist. “Smart ass.”

  “Much better.”

  Charlie fixes his clothing, watching me all the while. Closely. Like he’s already a cop and I’m a suspect. Not wanting him to notice anything off about my behavior, I grab some paper towels and kneel to clean up the spilled chocolate. I’m not surprised when he hunkers down to help me. For all his arrogance and commitment-phobic ways, he was raised right. But what he asks next? That’s new. “Anything you need done around the place? Creaky floorboards? Leaky pipes?”

  “Leaky pipes. Really.” I lift an eyebrow, trying to make light of the unexpected offer. “Too easy.”

  His laugh is as rich as the chocolate we’re cleaning up. “Come on, Ever. I know you don’t like gifts, but let me do something for you.”

  A fluttering occurs in the general direction of my chest. Oh. Ohhh no. This is bad. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t gotten a little attached to Charlie. He makes me feel safe. We have fun, with the little time we allot ourselves. His lop-sided smiles are the highlight of my day. But now he’s starting to feel guilty about leaving after sex. Have I projected my sort of attached-ness and he’s just responding out of decency? Legend has it, that’s how the decline starts. Decency. Then decency turns to responsibility. Also known as The Mistress Kiss of Death.

  This is why the one-month rule exists. Leave them before they leave you.

  There’s nothing but earnestness in Charlie’s blue eyes trying to see right through me. But I know the stories. When a mistress becomes an obligation, instead of an outlet, that’s when the fun stops. That’s when men stop calling you, stop wanting you, and find greener pastures. Being discarded is a mistress’s ultimate fear, and I may not be a mistress in the traditional sense, but I’m no different.

  My concerns are only valid with guys like Charlie. And I chose Charlie for a reason. He won’t hold me back on my path to catering company glory. He won’t hog tie me and drag me to the suburbs or slowly become a fixture on my couch. I’m aware that men exist in Manhattan whose faces don’t transform into Edvard Munch’s The Scream at the prospect of commitment. So the fact that Charlie—who has shared my distaste for couplehood on numerous occasions—is causing a flutter? That’s alarming, to say the least.

  One more time with Charlie. Then I’ll end it.

  “I have a super who fixes things,” I murmur around a smile, gaining my feet. “Go ahead and catch the train. I’ll see you next time.”

  “Okay.” He’s still watching me as he backs toward the door. “Ever?”

  “Yeah?”

  He looks puzzled for a split second, but he rakes a hand over his dark, police academy crew cut and continues toward the door. “Nothing. Just . . . see you next time.”

  When the door clicks shut behind him, it takes me a while to get moving again. Minutes. And when I finally kneel to finish cleaning up the chocolate, footsteps move outside the door toward the stairs, as if it takes Charlie a while to get moving, too.

  Chapter 3

  Charlie

  I’m staring into my locker like it holds the meaning of life, instead of my smelly, black gym bag. We’ve just gone through hours of safe takedown procedures, including the arm bar hammerlock, my brother refusing to dismiss us until every recruit demonstrated the move to his satisfaction. Now the future protectors of the five boroughs are snapping towels at each other and deciding between Chinese or pizza for dinner, but I haven’t even changed out of my sweat-soaked clothes yet.

  I’m not even sure what the fuck has me so baffled, but I’ve been in this weird, functioning coma since leaving Ever’s apartment. I don’t remember walking to the train or riding it back uptown, although I managed to pull together for this afternoon’s training session since my brother was running the drills. If I’d slacked off for a second, I would’ve been the recipient of one of Greer’s long-winded lectures.

  Speaking of being in a coma.

  Okay, let’s backtrack. Everything was fine when I walked into Ever’s place, right? Baking as usual. Dressed like a certified knockout. The sex was phenomenal, no getting around it. I’m actually starting to worry that we’ll never reach a plateau, and one day we’ll just bang ourselves into another dimension. Sex dimension. Actually, I think I might have entertained myself to porn with that title, if I’m not mistaken.

  Focus, shithead.

  Right. Nothing was off with Ever until she climbed off my lap. My cock springs to life in my gym shorts remembering the way she stood up, thong around one ankle, her ass red from slapping against my thighs. Christ-at-large. I can’t ask her to meet me twice in one day. Can I? This isn’t the first time I’ve kicked around the idea. More like, the four thousandth time. Since this afternoon.

  I can’t shake this memory of how Ever looked at me today. When I asked her if I could fix something or help out. God, I think I might have actually spooked her. Look, I’m just as antirelationship as Ever, but that seems a little extreme. So this is where I’m getting caught up. Wanting to know why. And that’s against the rules. There’s no discussing pasts or futures. Just afternoon delight with an occasional Adam Levine meltdown. I don’t want to know where Ever’s fear of coupling up comes from, and she doesn’t want me fixing busted pipes.

  End of story. Stop moping around like a fucking puppy.

  The academy requires every ounce of my focus if I’m going to meet expectations. There’s no room for anything else. Not now. Not ever. Both men in my family are sans women. My mother left when I was in first grade, because she was treated as an afterthought in a house full of men with a sole ambition. She wasn’t treated right, so she left. There is no chance of me doing better when reaching the highest possible peak of law enforcement is my goal. I don’t remember a time in my life when accelerating to the top wasn’t drilled into my head as the most important thing life had to offer.

  Jack straddles the bench beside me, tipping a water bottle to his lips. I can smell the vodka it contains. Everyone in our row can smell it. But no one says boo to Jack unless they want a busted lip. Unless you’re me and you’ve already taken the busted lip and given him one back. Like some asshole rite of passage that makes perfect sense unless you think about it too hard.

  “What’s going on with you, Burns? You only beat everyone’s timed mile by a full minute today.” Another tip of the water bottle. “Everyone thinks I’m dragging you down with me.”

  “Now, come on. That’s bullshit.” I finally drag my gym bag out of the locker. “I was at least a minute ten ahead of the next guy.”

  That earns me a shove in the ribs. Fair enough.

  “I guess the part about you dragging me down is also bullshit.” Since that was kind of a compliment, I peel the T-shirt over my head to avoid any bro-moment eye contact. “I would remind you that showing up without a hangover once in a while might shave a minute off your time, but that would be one less person making me look good.”

  Jack snorts. Awkward moment averted. Well, mostly. Because he knows I’m not completely joking. Jack was raised in an illegal brothel in Hell’s Kitchen, where he learned quite a few handy tricks (just another reason I keep Ever away from my apartment). When his mother got too old to entertain, he got a job unloading cargo from ships on the West Side in order to support them. He understands hard work and could probably be a powerhouse if he put in some effort. I guess it’s going to take more than the promise of law-enforcement glory to motivate him. Time will tell.

  “Come on, Burns,” Jack groans at the locker room ceiling. “Give up the goods. Your brother’s voice has taken away my will to live. I need something interesting to kick start my brain again.”

  I pull on a fresh T-shirt with the academy logo on the pocket. Jack smirks when he notices, but I ignore him. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “You ever heard the expression don’t bullshit a bullshit
ter?” Jack salutes me with his bottle. “Words to live by.”

  “Yeah? Here’s two more words to live by. Fuck you,” I mutter. But now I kind of want to talk about what happened this afternoon. Why? There’s nothing to talk about. Is there? “I saw Ever today.”

  “The girl with the golden—”

  “You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

  “I was going to say, ‘golden heart’,” my pirate asshole friend finishes.

  “Sure, you were.” A locker slams extra-loudly behind us, and we both give the offender our best what the hell expression before going back to the conversation at hand. “She wasn’t . . . Ever today. Something was different.”

  “I knew it.” Jack’s voice echoes off the lockers. “You have to hand it to the girl. She put on a good show, but they all break out their tap shoes eventually.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means she’s doing the relationship dance.”

  My eyes narrow. “There was dancing . . .” Ah God, now I’m thinking about her climbing off my lap again. Don’t even think about calling her twice in one day. “But you’re wrong. She’s the one who made the rules. Nothing serious. Her exact words.”

  “Right.” Jack throws both legs onto one side of the bench and stands, leaning against the locker beside mine. “I’ve heard tell of this strategy. She was lulling you into a false sense of security. Playing the long game.” He shivers. “She sounds ruthless, man. Glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  All right. This is why I should limit my discussions with Jack to fantasy sports. “You’re way off. I’m telling you, she’s a fucking unicorn.” I shrug. “She probably just had a bad day or something.” My neck starts to itch at the idea of Ever being upset, but I scratch it and move on. I have to. There are boundaries between her and I. Crossing them would mean the end of this perfect thing we’ve got going.

  A relationship isn’t an option for me. I’ve seen my father and brother, watching me train from the wings when they think I’m not aware of their presence. Their speculation on my progress. I’ve got some intimidating shoes to fill, and nothing is going to hold me back or turn me into a disappointment. When my mother left, being the best became a must. Otherwise she left for nothing.

  A badge is something you earn and keep. It doesn’t disappear when things get rough—no, it shines brighter. It’s a sure thing. A lasting thing. The goal is to make sergeant within the first three years of graduation from the academy, then take the lieutenant exam. Pass it with flying colors, as I’ve been groomed to do. After that, there won’t be time for anything but keeping the streets safe. Living up to my legacy. Making my small, but powerful family proud.

  Have faith. Tomorrow everything will be back to the way it was. Ever will be waiting for me with a smile. I’ll have my head back in the fucking game, training to fulfill my legacy with a clear mind, free of women and relationship worries. Everything will be exactly as it should be.

  But when I get home later that night, I don’t even remember the walk.

  Ever

  We have a job tonight. Not a huge one. But not a small one, either. Nothing is small to our business—Hot Damn Caterers—right now. My roommate, Nina, and I were clueless when we started building the company. The first thing we did was design business cards. Red ones with white script and saucy clip art. When they showed up in the mail, we set them on our kitchen table, realized we were twats for wasting precious money and split a bottle of rum.

  When the hangover passed, we got our asses in gear.

  Nina’s grandfather owned a donut shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, for thirty years, but was forced to close its doors when wine bars and designer cupcake shops moved in to accommodate the younger scene. However, he was left with the deed to an off-site bakery where the donuts were actually produced. Small in size though it is, the space is valuable, convenient and was quite generously bestowed on Nina—a top-notch pastry chef in her own right—when she turned twenty-one.

  So what do I have to offer this amateur operation? In the beginning . . . not a hell of a lot. I could cook a mean cannelloni—oh yes, I could—for one person. Maybe two. But apart from an associate’s degree in women’s studies from Borough of Manhattan Community College, I had no education of which to boast. Especially of the culinary variety. So I learned and I learned fast.

  I took night classes on the cheap from culinary school students looking to fulfill teaching credits. I cooked, failed and tried again until I could be useful. Food became my escape, my focus—each time I opened the oven, I accomplished something new. Now, almost two years later, Nina and I hire college students with waitressing experience to carry my creations around on trays at events, which comes with its own brand of drama, but works out for the most part.

  Owning a catering company wasn’t a dream I had since childhood or even college. Manhattan is such a kaleidoscope of opportunities—fashion, finance, fedora sales—that it took me a while to catch up with the rest of my eager beaver generation and decide on one path. Once I did, it was as though culinary arts had been waiting patiently for me to discover it, before leaping into my arms like a long-lost friend.

  Bottom line is, Hot Damn Caterers is something I’m proud of. Something unexpected and wonderful. It requires all of my energy, and I’m happy to give it. I’ve actually built something out of nothing. I never thought I’d be able to say that.

  Lately, though? I’ve been experiencing this sort of . . . anticlimax. Not sure how else to explain the feeling of bursting at the seams to share a triumph with someone, looking around and finding myself alone. Nina is great. Nay, the greatest. I couldn’t ask for a better friend or business partner. Nina has a boyfriend, though, and I can’t even remember the last time she slept at the apartment. We see each other at the Williamsburg kitchen occasionally when Nina needs help with a large baking order, but I’ve taken on the administrative side of Hot Damn and that work is done here, in the apartment. Where the only person to celebrate a new contract with is the dust bunny beneath my bed.

  There have been these moments recently with Charlie when I had the urge to tell him a story about the prior evening’s catering job. Or throw him into a chair and force my newest savory puff pastries down his throat so he can give me star ratings. Isn’t that ridiculous? Yes, it is! It’s ridiculous. The beauty of our nonrelationship is the lack of goo. We are antigoo. Charlie couldn’t be happier with the arrangement, either. He blazes a trail out of here that still smokes an hour later. The closest he’s come to tasting my cooking was licking chocolate off my ass yesterday.

  It’s probably a phase. I’m twenty-two. Everyone I pass on the street is coupled up or dating online. It’s only natural that I should get the false sense something is missing. The phase will pass. Will it start when I break things off with Charlie? Over time, I think it might. Why that scares me even more, I’m not sure.

  I’m piping cream cheese into these neat little phyllo dough puffs when I get a knock at the door. Huh. Nobody buzzed from downstairs. It’s too early for Charlie to show, and he never stops by without texting first. Another one of our unofficial rules. And it can’t be Nina, unless she lost her keys. Although, she’d be shouting Brooklynese at me through the door by now. Weird.

  Piping bag in hand, I pad toward the door in my socks and check the peep-hole. A version of me, about twenty years older, stares back from the hallway. “Mother?”

  “The one and only.”

  I force myself to stop gaping and unlock the door, although I use the piping bag hand, which results in cream cheese squirting all over the ground. “Shit.” I’m in a flustered limbo, stuck between opening the damn door and trying to clean up the lake of cheese before my mother comes in and thinks I’m a slob. “Uhhh. Hold on.”

  I use my shirt to clean up the cheese. Hold your applause, ladies and gentlemen.

  When my mother walks into the apartment, she looks like a hummingbird deciding on which flower to land. Or maybe an adult version of the ho
key pokey. She sets one foot in the kitchen, cocks a hip, backs out. Turns in a circle on the way into my living room, perches on the couch arm, stands again. Then she reaches out with toned, tastefully tanned arms. “Baby girl.”

  “Hi.” I walk into her embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of Dolce & Gabbana Velvet Sublime. I step back, giving her outfit the same once over she’s giving mine. “You look amazing. What brings you to my neighborhood?”

  “Oh, you know. This and that.”

  This is when things get strange. My mother, who never settles, never stops chattering, gossiping or running her fingers over everything in the vicinity . . . she just winds down. And flops—flops—onto my couch. I’ve never seen her execute a move that fell short of elegant, but she’s literally slumping into the pillows, hand to her forehead. Someone has died. That’s the first conclusion I land on, but immediately dismiss it as absurd. We have no people. My father was never in the picture, my grandmother made for greener pastures a decade ago. There’s no one.

  Unless. “Oh, God. Did Hula Hoop die?”

  “No,” she cries, her spine shooting straight. “Why would you say that?”

  Okay, so her half-blind poodle is still up and running. “I don’t know. You seem distraught.”

  She holds up a hand as she visibly calms herself down. “Hula is fine. She’s downstairs waiting in my Uber.”

  “I guess you’re not planning on staying long.” My throat aches as I say the words, but none of that comes across in my tone. The no commitment rule my mother taught me is a facet of our relationship, too. As a child, I remember her being somewhat warmer. Maternal with occasional flashes of bittersweet joy. She was the only Carmichael woman since my great-grandmother to disregard the three mistress rules—and she was rewarded with me in her belly. The summer she turned twenty-one, she interned at a retail buyer in the fashion district. She fell madly in love with her boss, only to arrive at work one day and find him in the back room with the lunch cart girl, rogering her against the copy machine.