For something I can’t have anyway. Stupid horny hormones.
“Nothing’s up. I just haven’t seen you in a while, and I missed you, so….”
“Missed me, right,” I say, sarcastically. “You mean, missed coming over to list all my faults and what I should do about them?”
He rolls his eyes. “Nicolette,” he says, “it’s not like that.”
“No? The last time I saw you, I think the list was something like, ditch Dane, apply for a job across town at that fancy new restaurant, take a Pilates class, and, um, what am I leaving out? I think I’m leaving a few things out because I know you didn’t stop there.”
“How is Dane?” asks Matthew. He’s got a serious expression on his face, all full of concern, you know? But I think the concern is just about whether the people in his life are doing what he wants them to do, like he thinks we’re all his puppets or some damn thing.
“Dane is fine,” I say, but I suck at lying.
“Um-hmm,” says Matthew, not buying it for one second. Then he grins again. “So hey, notice anything different about me?”
I look, startled by the question. His chest is just as meaty and delicious, and he’s wearing a tight T-shirt that shows it off perfectly. His hair is short, in a military-style brush cut that I’d love to skim my hands through.
I don’t dare let my gaze drop below the waist.
“No, I don’t see anything different. What, you start wearing girl’s underwear or something?”
Matthew laughs. “Nope, not today,” he says. “Actually, I got a promotion. Not a beat cop anymore—I made Detective.”
“So no more uniform.”
“That’s right. I’m on duty now, plainclothes.”
Well, I happen to have liked the uniform. And plus, handcuffs and all? It was hot.
Or it would have been if Matthew weren’t such a freaking good guy. I wanted more like, cop gone bad, you know what I mean?
“If you’re on duty, aren’t you supposed to be scarfing down doughnuts at the doughnut shop?”
“Very funny. You’re not happy for me? A little proud?”
“I’m not your grandmother,” I snap. Then I’m a little sorry for being so bitchy. “Yeah, sure. Congrats, big bro. It’s great to know that when I get in real trouble, I have a guy inside.”
Matthew’s face falls just a little. He quickly changes his expression but I saw it. I don’t know why I feel compelled to say mean things to him. Maybe because I just can’t stand him? Why does he come over to my place on my day off just to brag about his latest achievement? Because count how many fucks I give: approximately zero.
“So how’s work?” he asks, moving into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Got any cream?”
“Just skim milk,” I say in a withering tone.
“Nic,” he says softly, turning away from the refrigerator. “Why are you so bitter towards me? Did I do something to hurt you? Honestly, just tell me!” He reaches a hand out like he’s going to touch my shoulder, but takes it back before it gets to me.
“I…”
“Come on, what did I do?”
I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s time to tell him at least part of how I feel—the less embarrassing part. “You’re always bossing me around and telling me how to change my life. You’ve got a million different plans for how I can improve myself. Well, what if I don’t think I need improving? What if I don’t want to be your fucking project? Huh?”
Matthew looks stunned, like I’ve slapped him in the face. And yeah, I was brought up to be polite and to think of other people’s feelings and I’ve never gone off on him like that before. I’m cringing inside now, worrying about what he’ll say.
He walks over to me. My nostrils flare when he gets close and I’m sucking in his pheromones like they’re the most addictive perfume on earth. I get all tingly between my legs and I’m cursing myself for it, and for opening my big mouth because now I’ll never get rid of him and his big bags of advice I never asked for.
And the worst thing of all would be for him to find out just how wet he makes me. Talk about humiliating!
“Nic,” he says again, and this time he reaches out his hand and strokes my cheek with the back of it. He steps closer, so close our chests are almost touching. I see him glance down at my breasts, and—was that a flare of desire I just saw in his eyes? The what?
No way. Couldn’t be. What would a buff dude like my stepbrother want with a marshmallow like me.
He looks deep into my eyes and it’s so intense I almost look away. I can’t believe it, and the whole thing is like in slow motion, but I think Matthew is about to kiss me!
Which is right when the buzzer goes off.
So fucking typical.
I block Matthew’s view when I open the door, thinking that I can at least give Dane a few seconds of warning that a cop is in my apartment. It’s not like he’ll be stumbling in with a needle stuck in his arm or a bale of weed under his arm—at least I hope he won’t—but still, a head’s up can’t hurt, right?
“Matthew’s here,” I whisper to him when he comes through the door to the stairwell.
He stops. He’s looking pretty ragged. I have the twin urges to run back to my place and lock the door, and to get a damp rag and wipe the funk sweat from his brow.
That’s how it always is with me, I guess: everything is love/hate, black/white, yes/no, and all at once.
Dane scratches under his arm. “Want me to leave?” he says.
I…I…
I don’t know what I want. Well, yes I do, but I can’t have it. So.
“Nah, come on in. He won’t bite.”
“Glad to hear it,” says Dane snarkily and pushes past me into my place.
“Hey Dane,” says Matthew. I can read on his face how much he can’t stand Dane, but to anyone who doesn’t know him like I do, his feelings are pretty well hidden.
“Dude,” says Dane, and holds out a hand for Matthew to slap.
There’s a totally uncomfortable silence. I’m looking from one to the other, and they’re just staring at each other, and yowee the room gets cold.
“Um, can I make you guys something to eat? Coffee’s made, if Matthew hasn’t drunk it all. I could make pancakes or something. How about some waffles?”
“Not hungry,” says Dane, his eyes narrowing at Matthew.
“Got any fruit?” asks Matthew.
Matthew was always nuts for fruit. When our parents married, my mom used to tease him all the time about how he ate a whole bunch of bananas in one sitting, or an entire bag of apples. I guess a guy who works out that hard needs food, right? I go into my little efficiency kitchen and start on some fruit salad. Then I see right on the counter, right next to the coffee maker, the rolled-up dollar bill left from the night I did blow with Dane.
It was three weeks ago now, but I’d left that rolled-up bill there as a kind of reminder, something to trigger the awful feelings that rolled in once I was coming down—I left it there as a kind of stop sign, if that makes sense.
And now, without a doubt, Matthew has seen it. You don’t get to be a detective without noticing stuff.
Fuck. Can you just imagine the lectures coming my way now? I’m wondering why he hasn’t started in already, the moment he saw the damn thing.
I come out of the kitchen with the big bowl of fruit salad and three bowls and spoons. “I’ve got some cream, anyone want me to whip some?”
Matthew and Dane are still staring at each other and the room is like walking into a freezer.
“Did you say whipped cream?” asks Matthew, grinning. He reaches for me and pulls me over to him. “I sure love having a great cook in the family,” he says warmly, slipping an arm around me.
What? I haven’t had an arm around me like this in…a long time.
Dane is sitting on a stool and seems to shrink in Matthew’s presence, who makes him look skinnier, sicker, pastier—what I’m saying is, it’s like Matthew being there makes Dane seem d
ifferent to me. But I mean, who’s not going to look shrimpy next to Matthew? We can’t all be gym gods after all.
I pull myself away from Matthew and go over to Dane. He turns those big brown puppy dog eyes on me, and what I read in his look is: get rid of the cop for fuck’s sake.
I press my lips together and give him a quick nod, and go back in the kitchen to whip the cream. I hear some low talking, then the door opening.
“Hey Nic, I gotta run! Catch you later!” And Matthew is gone. I’m standing there holding the stupid bowl of whipped cream looking at the closed door, just standing there feeling crappy and sorry that he’s gone even though I’ve been telling myself that’s what I wanted from the minute he showed up.
“I brought you a present,” says Dane, with a sly smile. He needs a shave. When you’re as skinny as he is, the stubble look is not sexy.
He reaches into his jacket, which has stains all down the front like he’s never heard of a washing machine. And then opens his palm to show me a pair of little white envelopes, cute little miniatures, neatly folded.
I back up a few steps. “Unh-uh, Dane. I’m not doing that again.”
“Come on, party with me! I’m sharing.”
He sits down on the sofa and makes space on the coffee table. “Give me a credit card, willya?” he says, shaking out the white powder into a tiny mountain.
I told you I’m weak. I go to my bag hanging on the back of the door and fish out my wallet. I hand him my bank card. And I watch him cut lines on my coffee table and snort one up, and then he hands the rolled-up bill to me.
4
I DIDN’T EVEN want to do it. I told myself, I’ll just do one to keep Dane from pestering me about it, just a quick line to show I’m not a prude and that’s it.
Ha. Yeah, right.
The rest of the day and night are a total haze. At some point we went out—middle of the night—to score some more, and it was weird as shit being out on the street high like that. I felt like nothing bad could happen to me, like I was in a protected bubble or something. And later when I came down I saw what a load of crap that was, and how much trouble I could have gotten myself into. It’s not like we were hanging out with kindergarten teachers, ya know? We were looking for street dealers in the worst part of town, where people got mugged all the time. What better target than some idiot high shithead with a pocket full of cash looking to buy more? Desperate to buy more?
Anyway, we came home and snorted away last month’s paycheck that I was saving for a downpayment on a car. And finally at about six in the morning I fell asleep, forgetting to set my alarm.
Late for work again.
The owner didn’t even bother to take me into his office. He just showed up at my station as I was cutting potatoes into cubes and told me I had one more chance. And if I blew that one chance, not only would I be fired but I could forget getting any kind of rec from him or anyone at Hole. So like, out of a job and no way to get another one.
I’m just going to say this one time and one time only. It’s true that for the hours of being high, of snorting that shit up my nose—it’s fucking good. I mean, obviously. Half my neighborhood wouldn’t be circling the drain over it if it was meh.
But the thing is, the pain it numbs? It’s right there when you come down. Only it’s bigger. Like it’s grown three eyes that follow you wherever you go, and pointy sticks to poke you with, hard, every time you try to chill.
I mean it this time. No more.
I’m working lunch, trying to make this pile of potatoes like the most awesome thing in the world. The chef is going to come when he sees how beautiful they are, how exactly the same size, perfect. My eyelids feel like they’re covered in glue and my stomach is churning, but I stay focused on the spuds, on my glittering knife, on everything but my fucked up life.
Usually there’s a radio going in the kitchen. Salsa, mostly. But today of all days, while I’m at my station doing my best to stay engrossed in the potatoes, a bit of news comes on. Local. Talking about a huge drug bust, in the works for months, fifteen people arrested, a few people shot.
A chill falls over me, I don’t know why.
It’s not until I get home from work, dead tired and sore, that I get a call from Dane. He’s in jail, rounded up in the bust, and he wants…he wants everything. For me to get him out, to make it all better. He’s got a certain tone of voice to match the puppy dog eyes and he’s using it to the max. And tired as I am, I can’t leave my boyfriend in jail. I put my coat back on and head downtown.
I’m riding the bus when I think of Matthew. I hate the idea of asking for any kind of favor, but hey, it’s not like I have money for bail or even understand how the system works. He could be really helpful if he chose to be. So let’s just see how much this idea of family he’s always droning on about really matters to him.
I despise people who make calls on the bus, trapping all the other riders into their conversation. But here I go, doing it myself.
“Matt,” I say, as quietly as I can.
“Nic,” he says. There’s something…from his tone, I can tell: he knows about Dane.
“Dane,” I say.
“Yup,” says Matthew.
“You know?”
“Yup.”
That chill comes over me again. “Did you have something to do with it?” I ask, instantly furious at the possibility.
“That’s not my—”
“You did this!” I shout, wishing he were here so I could smack that smug look off his face I know he has without seeing it. “You hate Dane, have always hated Dane, and now you’ve got him locked up!”
“Nic—”
“He didn’t do anything!” I scream, and then I hang up on him. My face turns beet red because the two old ladies next to me are staring, and you know whatever they’re thinking it’s probably not a compliment. And my blood is fucking boiling. How dare Matthew try to run my life like this? I can just picture it, him sitting down with the drug cops, giving them a description of Dane, telling them to do whatever it takes to get him off the streets. Cops do favors like that for each other all the fucking time, does he think I don’t watch TV and know how it works?
I’m totally taken over by this rage at him, my body is shaking and it’s hard to keep from screaming out a rant at the little old ladies who are still cutting me sideways looks.
It’s my life, Matthew! My life to live however I want to! My choices to make however I want!
Thank god the bus pulls up to my stop and I can get off—nothing like having an attack of claustrophobia on public transportation. The stop is right outside the jail. It’s a big ugly building with barely any windows. I’ve never been in there, and suddenly it seems like a big line to cross, you know? Like it’s one thing to have a boyfriend who uses, and another to have a boyfriend you visit in the fucking slammer.
First I have to put my bag through security and then they take it away from me anyway. I walk through two different metal-detectors and then get frisked by a stony-faced woman who looks like she despises her job, the world, and everyone in it. The place is all mint-green tile that makes my stomach churn even more, and there’s a terrible, horrible smell. Like—it’s the smell of losers, you know? Of desperation. Giving up.
I get herded down the hallway with a bunch of other women who’ve come for visitation, and then into what they call the Reception Room. Wooden chairs that look like people have chewed on them. Scratched-up tables. Guards with guns. I wonder if Chickie is in here too.
Cheerful it ain’t.
I give a form to another miserable-looking woman behind bullet-proof glass, and she tells me to sit down and wait.
So that’s what I do. I sit there waiting to see Dane, the guy I’ve been telling myself I love, while looking away from that mint-green tile that’s making me want to puke, and doing every trick I can think of to stop thinking about Matthew, because all that does is make me want to hit somebody.
No one gives a fuck. That’s the thought I keep ha
ving, sitting here in the City Jail. No one cares about me and these other women who are spending hours sitting here waiting to see their loved ones. It would make me angry except I already have enough stuff on that docket, thank you very much. I get some stale chewing gum out of a machine and the taste of that is pushing my stomach closer to the edge instead of settling it.
Finally Dane comes in, with a guard right behind him. He gives me a weak smile when he sees me, and holds up a hand in a limp wave.
“Half hour, no touching,” says the guard, and walks away.
And my first thought is, “Touch him? Are you fucking kidding me?” No idea where that came from.
“Thanks for coming, babe. It means so much to me,” says Dane, reaching for my hand across the table.
“Guard said no touching,” I say, thankful to have an excuse. “So what happened?”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I was just walking down the street minding my own business. Going to see about a job. And all the sudden the street is full of cops and they’re shooting. I’m lucky I didn’t get hit.” And then—puppy dog eyes.
“Jeez,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I hate seeing him in here. This place—it’s as awful as you’d guess it would be. And if I find out Matthew had anything to do with it….
“Listen,” says Dane, now reaching both hands across the table and taking mine and holding them, “I’m going crazy in here, you know?”
“Yeah, I can see why.”
“It’s bad, babe. I’m on the fucking edge, you know? So I was thinking, look, if you could bring me a little present, I would appreciate the fuck out of it.” He gives me an intent look. The brown of his eyes is like, I don’t know, like quicksand or something. Like I might get sucked in so far I suffocate.
“Are you asking me to bring you…what I think you’re asking?” I whisper.
“The guards are on the take, big surprise,” he says, patting my hands nervously. “So bring some cash with you just in case. It’s no big deal.”
Stepbrother on the Force Page 2