Disorderly Conduct Read online

  So yeah, if he walked past me right now on the sidewalk, I would be tested. Especially if he was wearing those uniform pants that made his package look like a Christmas present wrapped in a zipper. If I texted him right now, he would meet me. He would give me the Adam Levine sex and ask me no questions, tell me no lies.

  Unfortunately, I miss his laugh and those adorable eyebrow waggles more than anything. So there will be no texting, because in that direction lies ruin. He’s probably already looking for someone to be his new acquaintance with benefits. Maybe he found her already.

  That jarring thought forces my eye back on the prize. I’m here to give an effort. Like the girl in front of me. She obviously knows her shit.

  Tomorrow morning, I might actually have a reason to call my mother. As long as I remember that, as long as I remember I might be doing something that could make her proud of me, or give us something in common, I can face anything.

  Toward the front of the line, I hear a commotion and bend sideways to check it out. There is a group of young men my age in a tight-knit pack. Like me, they don’t look like they belong in line, either. The advertisement for this speed dating event mentioned young professionals, and I’m willing to bet these guys do not fit the bill. They’re all wearing aviators and chucks. Crew cuts and shaved heads. Serious expressions like they’re on some important mission from Ray-Ban. Maybe one of their little sisters is speed dating tonight, and they’ve come to keep tabs. If that’s the case, I’m rooting for them.

  The line begins to move, and the Aviator Squad slowly elbows their way into the queue, glancing back over their shoulders, probably checking out the competition. Or merchandise, I amend, when a couple of them zero in on me. I frown at one who stares a little too long, and he smiles back, whispering something to his buddies.

  What the hell is going on here?

  I don’t have much time to think about Aviator Squad again, because once we’re inside, a harried woman ear tags us like cattle—in the form of a name tag—and gives the women table numbers. As I walk into the dimly lit room, I hear men complaining outside on the sidewalk through an open window. I can’t make out their exact words, but once I take a seat and watch the men file into the room, the nature of their complaints becomes obvious. The dudes who were here first, patiently waiting for their turn to impress the womenfolk, were muscled out by the new, hot-shot arrivals, although a decent number of the original line dwellers have made it through.

  Someone passes by and clunks a glass of house red on my two-seater table and I gulp a few sips, hoping to round the edges of my nerves as quickly as possible. And I need the rounded edges, because there is literally a giant digital timer in the corner of the room, glaring at me like an electric vampire. It’s set to five minutes. Okay, I can do five minutes with each of these guys. No problem, right? I have to make small talk pretty frequently at catering events, especially if I need to step in and make tray passes, so this should be a walk in the park.

  One of them could be great, Ever.

  This is the part I need to understand. I’m not dating to get it over with, so I can go home and soak in a bath. I’m really looking for someone. I have to remember that when the urge to give a half-ass effort arises. An image of Charlie winking at me through the crack in my apartment door arises, accompanied by birds chirping, but I shove it away.

  “Okay.” The woman who name-tagged us stands in the center of the room, beneath a dusty chandelier. She’s been doing this a while, and it holds no magic for her anymore—that much is clear. Absently, I wonder if she’d be open to jazzing these events up with some catering. It can’t hurt to leave her a business card. “The gentlemen have been given an order of numbers that correspond with each table. They will follow the order and have five minutes to visit with each of you. The clock will automatically reset and begin after the allotted time passes. Does everyone understand?” A low murmur of voices. “Splendid. I’ll be out back having a cigarette.”

  On the way out, the woman smacks the timer and it begins counting down. It’s like someone stuck the room’s energy in a light socket. As soon as the supervision disappears, the men crisscross and plant themselves at tables, reaching across to shake their first victim’s hand. When no one sits at my table, my skin gets extra-tight. Oh God, my first experience dating and an error has occurred. I’m at the dud table.

  But . . . no. Two men are arguing at the center of the room, quiet enough that I can’t overhear. One of them is wearing aviators. The exchange of words lasts about thirty seconds before Aviators wins the battle and the other man storms from the room. When Aviators slides into the seat across from me, I’m highly suspicious, but I say nothing. I just sip my wine and wait.

  “Hi, there,” he said eventually. His confidence melts before my eyes, probably because he’s not surrounded by his posse. “Ever.” He reads the name off my tag. “That’s a cool name.”

  “Thanks.” I set down my glass and lean forward. Trying. You must try. “My mother told the nurse to write Esther on the birth certificate, but she was still floating down on pain meds, so it came out garbled.”

  He laughs before seeming to catch himself and sobering. Weird. “Uh. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m the co-owner of a catering company.”

  “Well, I love to eat. It’s a match.” Again, he visibly reins himself in. Which is the opposite of the point of this exercise, right? “I mean, that seems all right.”

  “Yeah . . .” I send the timer a discreet glance. “What about you?”

  “Unemployed,” he answers quickly. “I’m in the process of finding something, though. It’s been difficult.” He shoots the table beside us a discreet look. “I’m in a prison work release program, so my options aren’t exactly incredible.”

  “Wow. I didn’t expect you to say that.” Don’t look now, folks, but tonight just got interesting. “Do you mind me asking what you were in for?”

  His fingers drum on the table. “I robbed a jewelry store. I bet that’s a deal breaker, right?”

  God, he looks almost hopeful. Which, ironically, almost makes me want to try harder. “Well, I don’t know.” I fall back in my seat, trying to picture this clean-cut guy in horizontal stripes. “If you tell me you were stealing an engagement ring for your sweetheart, I could be understanding. Or if you tied up the store owners and were really apologetic while you were doing it. Maybe held a paper cup of water to their lips?”

  I don’t realize he’s still wearing his sunglasses until his eyebrows lift behind them. “Man, I totally get it now.”

  “Get what?”

  The buzzer goes off, but he doesn’t move right away. Actually, he looks as though he wants to say more, but eventually he stands. And another set of aviators takes his place. “Hi, there.”

  Is that the standard issue, speed dating greeting?

  “Hi,” I say back, wondering when and if they are going to refill the wine. Five minutes isn’t really enough time to learn the important things about someone, is it? I barely scratched the robber’s surface and now he’s talking to some other girl. Am I imagining it or is he still looking over at me? “Um. Are you also in the prison release work program?”

  New guy chokes on a laugh. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “You guys came together, so I just assumed . . .”

  Aviators Number Two hooks an arm around the back of his seat. “That was a cover story.”

  Oh boy. “What is he covering up?”

  “We’re actually paranormal experts. We’re casing this place for a future investigation.” He tips his head back and scans the ceiling, apparently looking for Casper. “You might have seen us on YouTube. The Boo Squad? We get a lot of hits.”

  “Was one of them in the head?” Realizing I said that out loud, I hold up a hand. “Look, I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  Was he fighting a smile?

  “Honestly, though, I think paranormal expert sounds slightly better than ex-con. Yo
u might want to tell him to just be honest next time.”

  The buzzer goes off and I bury my face in a palm. This is getting ridiculous. I get the feeling these guys are just bullshitting everyone for a laugh, and the possibility prods my temper. As if strangers judging your personality isn’t hard enough, now we’re being mocked on top of everything else?

  When a third guy sits down in a pair of aviators and says, “Hi, there,” I just stare back. He coughs, shifting in his seat. “In the interest of being upfront and honest, I’m here to inquire about your renter’s insurance needs.”

  “Oh, screw this.” Humiliation and outrage building in my chest, I toss back the final sip of wine, grab my purse and gain my feet. Nina had warned me about speed dating, and she was right. She’d said it was equal to torture, but I doubt even my seasoned friend could have predicted this. I was probably being filmed for some Internet prank show the whole time, so I guess now I just sit back and wait for someone to send me the YouTube link. Unbelievable.

  As I leave the room, I swear I hear high fives taking place behind my back. I whirl around and scan the room through narrowed eyes, but no one has moved.

  Walking out onto Third Avenue, I feel like I’ve just escaped from an alternate universe. My skin is clammy and my heart rate is jumpy. There’s a lump in my throat. In desperate need of a place to crawl and lick my wounds, I promptly head in the direction of a Guinness sign in the distance. The international bat signal for cold beer and good music. Anything to take my mind off my first failed attempt to meet someone and start something meaningful. Next time, I’ll be smarter. And there will be a next time. The speed dating fiasco could deter me if I allow it to. Or I can internalize the embarrassment and let it make my resolve stronger.

  Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

  Chin raised, I weave through the evening sidewalk crowds. People are heading to hot yoga or piling into restaurants. Probably muttering prayers under their breath that the date they’ve arranged for the evening isn’t a felon. Or someone pretending to be a felon. How strange. One day on the dating scene and I’m seeing the world through new eyes.

  So when I spy Charlie buying a can of soda from a street vendor, it takes me a moment to believe he’s really there. My feet falter on the hot concrete, goose bumps racing down my arms. A tiny man plays the harp with my intestines.

  “Charlie?”

  He turns, nearly knocking me over with those blue eyes. The glow from a restaurant sign lights them up brighter than a beach day sky. Wow. I’d forgotten how unique his appearance is compared to everyone else. Slightly crooked nose, that crease down the middle of his lower lip, all that energy. It crackles. There’s only one Charlie Burns. Intense, charming, sexy and capable, all at once.

  “Ever.” The vendor nudges his elbow, reminding him to take the change, and he pockets it, turning back to me. Scanning my face. Stepping closer. So close, I suck in a lungful of hot, summer city air. “What are you doing this far uptown?” The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Not getting into trouble, I hope.”

  I have this destructive urge to tell him how hard tonight sucked. That he was right, and I already miss the uncomplicated nature of our daily booty call. I want to spill everything, right there on the sidewalk, while foot traffic bottlenecks around us. Instead, everything catches up with me at once, the way things often do after one glass of wine, before the numbing effect of number two. My mother ending up lonely and unfulfilled. How broken she’d looked. How humiliated I am over the last twenty minutes. I’ve never witnessed a loving, functioning relationship, and I have this fear that I’ve done uncomplicated so long, I’m not equipped for serious. And only Charlie understands. That has to be why I’m kind of paralyzed, standing there, no idea what to say or do. But hoping he hugs me.

  Stupid, destructive hope.

  Charlie

  Shit. Have I done something awful?

  Paying off my fellow recruits to sabotage Ever’s speed dating session seemed like the perfect solution to my panic this afternoon. Actually, I was so sure the plan had been genius right up until two minutes ago, when she approached me on the sidewalk. But she looks . . . crushed. What the fuck did they say to her? I probably should have been a little more specific than, “Don’t let anyone with a penis get within two feet of Ever.”

  Keeping her safe and ensuring her heart remains intact were my main reasons for wrecking her speed dates. Well. That and wanting her back to myself. But if what I’ve done upset her, I’ve failed. Hard. Some jerk-off did hurt her feelings—me.

  She’s standing right here in front of me, looking like magic in the fall of nighttime, in all her golden blonde mermaidness. Exactly as I had hoped. I didn’t want her to be sad, though. God, no. I’ve never seen her anything but smiling and full of mischief. My guts feel like they’re being mashed together between two Hulk fists.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Her voice is scratchy and she laughs, like she’s trying to hide it. She seems almost disappointed, but I can’t pinpoint why. I hate this feeling that I’m somehow letting her down, just by standing there. There was one other time in my life a woman stood in front of me, expecting something I’d never been taught how to give. It’s a helpless feeling. An inadequate feeling. I’m much more comfortable with people expecting success from me in school or professionally, so I’ve learned to stick with expectations I can meet. Right now, though, I’m sorely wishing I had more in my wheelhouse.

  “I was just going to grab a drink, then head back downtown,” Ever says, tucking a flying strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “How have you been?”

  “Busy with the academy.” Scheming with a bunch of knuckleheads to purposefully ruin your night, then pacing back and forth on this street corner like a lunatic, wanting to strangle anyone who traded two words with you. “Training. Studying for exams. You know how it goes.”

  She nods way too eagerly; her eyes are no longer meeting mine. “It was good to see you, Charlie. I’m going to skate.” The wind moves around me as she sails past, throwing me a wink. “Take care of yourself, big man.”

  That’s it?

  I’m so stunned at her abrupt exit, it takes me a moment to realize the full scope of what happened. I failed. The plan backfired. I upset Ever for nothing, which makes me a bastard and a sucker. The bastard part is worse, though. Way worse. I turn and watch her float down the sidewalk, remembering the way she’d seemed to be waiting for something from me. What the hell was it?

  She’s more determined to meet someone else than I originally thought. That much is clear. Actually, I’m pretty fucking embarrassed for assuming she’d want to resume our arrangement so easily. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Jack.

  Regroup, man. Regroup.

  Here is what I know. I don’t like the crashing cymbals that grow louder in my head the farther away she gets. My palms are sweating, and I think I might swallow my tongue. I definitely don’t like her walking away upset, especially when I’m the one who caused tonight’s fuckery. And I’m not going to end up in bed with Ever tonight.

  That last one is downright painful.

  A man with a more righteous moral code might walk away at this point. Resolve not to cause any more destruction. Leave Ever to find her Frat Founder Romeo and fade into the sunset. Me? I don’t have it in me to quit. What Ever and I had only comes around once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, and if I can just show her that, she’ll come back to me. Hell, I’m saving us both. This is literally God’s work I’m doing.

  No more date sabotage, though. I hurt Ever tonight, whether or not it was intentional, and I cannot, will not, see her like that again. If she’d actually cried, I would be in a fetal position on the sidewalk right now. So causing her dates to fail is out.

  So what is the next play? Go with Ever right now to get that drink?

  It’s a bad idea. I know it. She’s vulnerable after a shit show I caused. Having a drink means conversation, means me cheering her up. It is crossing the line
from hookup to . . . friend. No way am I going to end up in Ever’s friendzone and be subjected to details about her dates—

  Wait a minute.

  Wait.

  I have a new plan.

  That old saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, takes on a whole new meaning. Right now, my enemies are everyone on the island of Manhattan with a cock, Internet access and enough money for happy hour. That is a lot of enemies. But if I know about these pricks in advance, I can monitor the situation from the inside, ensuring Ever stays safe and my sanity remains intact.

  Maybe the friendzone wouldn’t be such a bad place to be, if Ever confides in me about her failed dates . . . and I’m sitting pretty looking like the better option.

  A voice in the back of my mind screeches like a creature from the underworld. Bad idea, Charlie. Bad. That voice has tried to reason with me many times before and failed. From a young age, I’ve been somewhat notorious for coming up with ill-advised plans. Faking two identities so I could give blood three times, just to afford tickets to a Foals concert. Buying a tuba from a pawn shop on the cheap, so I could get out of school early, posing as a band member on their way to a big game. Using my father’s classic Chevy as collateral on a bet in high school. And losing. Thankfully, I’d doubled down and won it back before anyone was the wiser, but it had been touch and go for a while there.

  I’d promised my father I would be more disciplined, more logical-minded, when I joined the academy. So far I haven’t let him down. And I won’t. But I need Ever. This idea of mine is an avenue to achieve that. So I take it.

  “Ever,” I call, right before she dips into the bar. She turns, blonde hair flying in eighty directions around her face. A pounding in my chest begins, so loud it drowns out traffic whizzing past on the avenue. “Wait up.”