The Switch

by Jc Emery

  I chance a look back at Shelby and see her filling up her glass with more bourbon. Her hands shake as she pours. I turn away and look out the small window over the sink. There’s a line of trees marking the edge of the woods, just about fifty yards from the back of the cabin. I look to the left and see a small lake. On the other side, set back at least a few hundred yards, is a palatial home with a gaudy, Mediterranean style that looks completely out of place amongst the thick woods surrounding the property.

  “Chase?” Her voice sounds small, apologetic even.

  “Yeah?” I say without turning around.

  “Can you let my dad know I’m here? He must be worried.”

  While I wait for the water to boil, I dig her phone out of my pocket. In her contacts list under D is DADDY. I send a quick text.

  AT CABIN. BRING PAIN MEDS.

  It’s just a hunch, but if Shelby’s dad is worried about her, then he likely knows what kind of shit she’s gotten herself into and will be out looking for her anyway.

  Once the water is at a full boil, I drop the rag in and let it sit in the boiling water, constantly checking to make sure it’s fully submerged. After a few minutes, I turn off the heat and wait for it to cool down while I stare out the window. For a moment I consider checking on Shelby, but then I remind myself why it’s better I keep my distance. With her ever-changing personality, I could easily become sucked into her shit storm. And I refuse to be sucked in.

  I wash my hands with the dish soap as thoroughly as I can, making sure to clean under my nails, before pulling the rag out of the water and wringing it. From the basic medical training I received in the academy, I at least know that I’m not supposed to set the rag down on a dirty surface. With one hand holding the rag, I use the other to refill the pot and set it back on the burner. Once the water is starting to heat, I walk over to Shelby and see that the bottle of bourbon is lighter than it was when I began my tasks.

  “You have a pretty chest,” she says, her words slurred and her smile a little dopey. She’s a goofy drunk, it seems.

  I look down and realize I’m not wearing a shirt. I had to tear mine up to stop her from bleeding out.

  “Thanks. I’m sure you have a pretty chest, too.”

  “I’m hot,” she whines as she struggles out of her brown leather jacket.

  I poke through the first aid kit and find a place that might not be too awful to set the rag down. With my hands free, I take the glass from Shelby’s hand and set it down on the small table.

  “Stop struggling.” I reach over and hold her hand. It’s clammy. I reach up and feel her forehead, which is practically dripping with sweat. I gently push the sweat back into her hairline and stare into her eyes. She looks so helpless, so incapable of caring for herself.

  “How did you get yourself into this mess?” I ask. Because underneath the insanity, I can see the fear in her eyes.

  She looks up at me with a hundred questions at the forefront of her mind. But she doesn’t manage to ask a single one. She just shrugs her shoulders.

  “That’s it?” I ask. I’m pushing more for my own curiosity than anything else. I’m sure Sarge would like some information, as well, but this right here isn’t about me being a cop. This is about a guy wanting to know how this chick’s life has spiraled out of control so bad she winds up squaring off with a drug kingpin.

  “I have awful taste in men,” she says. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and works on it. I’m beginning to recognize this as a sign of worry. And just when I think she won’t continue, she does. “I always pick the wrong guys. Becca’s the one who sees trouble and walks the other way. I see trouble and I hone in on it. My mama says I’ve been sticking my nose in trouble since birth.”

  “But what I don’t understand is how does awful taste in men translate to your friend getting kidnapped and you stealing a big ass fucking diamond?”

  Her mouth shuts, lips clamped together in resistance.

  “Look, whatever the story is behind the diamond, I’m not going to tell anyone. I just need to know. In case you haven’t noticed, I got sucked into your fucking mess, and I can’t help protect you and Becca if you don’t tell me what’s going on and why.”

  She blows out a breath, and I can see her thinking behind her contemplative eyes.

  “I knew what Victor was. I wasn’t stupid. If we were out and he had business to attend to, he’d take me along. I’d either sit in the car or wait outside with one of his guys. But he never left me behind. At first he’d talk real quiet and in code about his business, but after he noticed I’d never asked, he started to loosen up. He started to talk about shipments in front of me and was even planning a trip for us to the Caribbean. He was nice, there was no drama, and I liked the fact that he’s a powerful guy. He makes things happen with the flick of his wrist. I liked being a part of that.” Her voice trails off. She’s told me about her and Victor’s relationship, but she hasn’t really explained how she got sucked into this world yet.

  It’s barely noticeable, but out of the corner of her eye a small tear forms. She wipes it away before it’s able to fall. I cup her cheek with my hand and give her a soft smile. She’s opening up, and I can’t afford to let her backtrack.

  “We’d only been together a few months, but he started talking about moving in together, and then one time he said, ‘When you’re my wife . . .’ and I kind of started freaking out from that. I mean, I’m only twenty-four. And we weren’t even serious, or I thought we weren’t. So when Victor would call, I’d let it go to voicemail. And then when he’d want to go out, I’d make up an excuse. I probably should have just told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” I say. Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “Losing a beautiful woman like you would have made him lose his shit no matter how you went about it.”

  Her expression softens and a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. I catch myself watching her mouth as her lips part. A sudden heat rips through my torso, practically knocking the breath out of me.

  Shelby’s a beautiful woman, but the chaos of the situation had been bearing down on me before. I was unable to really look at her and appreciate her beauty. From her thin frame to her wavy brown hair and right down to her inviting gray eyes, Shelby is a knockout. No wonder this Victor guy is pissed and determined to get her back. If I had her in my bed . . .

  I stop the thought the moment it appears. Quickly, I stand and stride to the kitchenette where the water is now at a full boil. I turn off the heat and lean against the sink taking several deep breaths. I’m letting myself get sucked in. Beautiful girls always come with trouble, and I’m just not at a place where I can afford the kind of trouble she’s going to bring.

  Maybe two years ago—hell, maybe even a year ago I could have done it. But not now.

  While I wait for the water to cool, I take several deep breaths and stare at the line of trees marking the edge of the forest like fucking fairies are about to pop out or something. I focus in on what I’m going to say to Sarge when I call and think of what I’m going to tell my mother when she asks why I’m not home yet. I focus in on anything that doesn’t have to do with Shelby and her gray eyes and inviting lips.

  Anything.

  Including that one time I walked in on Sarge in the showers at the station and he was naked.

  But no matter how much I focus in on Sarge and my mother, none of it’s working, because I can hear the noises Shelby’s making from behind me as she sips her bourbon from her glass.

  CHAPTER 7

  Shelby

  Shelby, you’re drunk.

  I’VE NEVER LIKED bourbon. I don’t like most hard liquors, actually. The only thing I can really shoot is tequila, and that’s even a feat in itself. So why I asked for my father’s bourbon I’ll never know. The warm liquid slides down my throat, burning along the way. I close my eyes tight and try not to gag. Throwing up in front of Chase would just be the icing on the cake.

 
; Chase stands with his hands planted on the edge of the sink in the small kitchen in the far corner of the cabin. His well-defined muscles ripple as he rolls his shoulders. He’s focused on the window above the sink, no doubt surveilling the area. He’s so focused.

  But I can do anything but focus. I wasn’t lying when I told Chase I have a history of choosing awful men. If only he knew the length of it—he’d probably leave my stupid ass here to die of an infection or something.

  But even if he knew the extent of my poor choices, he still took an oath to serve and protect, and that’s something he seems very keen on. Still, though, I don’t want him to know how I really got into this situation. I don’t want him to know the numerous ways I broke the law and for little other reason than a few extra bucks. For whatever reason, I want Chase to see the good in me. I want him to see past this situation and past the whole pulling a gun on him thing. I just don’t want Chase to be one more person I’ve disappointed.

  The way he was just looking at me, like he saw more than an obligation, the way his lips parted and his breathing picked up, I could have sworn he wanted to kiss me. But then he just stood and walked away like that moment hadn’t happened. And who knows, maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’m drunk.

  I cast a look at the bottle of bourbon and decide too much of it is missing for me to not be drunk—which would explain why the blinding pain in my leg is now down to a dull throbbing.

  Eventually Chase returns with the one pot my father keeps in the cabin. It’s no longer steaming from the top, which is a good thing. He uses the corner of the table to hold the pot in place and shoves things around to make room to set it down. Then he starts digging items out of the first aid kit my mother insisted my father keep fully stocked and pulls out a few sealed gauze pads, some medical tape, a small pair of scissors, and—to my abject horror—a needle and some thread.

  It occurs to me that I’m going to need stitches. I eye the last finger of bourbon in the glass and throw it back like it’s water. I can barely taste it anymore.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask.

  Chase pauses and looks up at me. He has a ruggedly handsome face, and it might be the bourbon, but I think his facial hair has grown in since I first met him in the restaurant. Then again, I was on the run from a madman, so I don’t really know that I was paying much attention. Now, though, his cheek looks prickly to the touch.

  Before I can stop myself, I reach out a hand and cup his face like he did to mine earlier. I drag my hand down to his chin and let it slide down his neck and rest on his shoulder. He’s so close and yet so far. My fingers strain to keep the contact and not to lose his touch. His chest is covered in a thin layer of brown hair. It’s actually a relief that his chest isn’t waxed like some men his age like to do. It always makes me feel like I’m back in high school and making out with Bobby Reynolds behind the gym. He had this thing about me putting my hand up his shirt. I just remember how even at seventeen, when other boys’ bodies were really working on body hair, Bobby Reynolds’s body was smooth, with nary a hair in sight.

  “Shelby, you’re drunk,” Chase says, snapping me out of my reverie.

  I pull my hand back like his skin was hot to the touch. Chase doesn’t want me touching him or thinking about his chest hair—even if it is on full display—and he most certainly doesn’t want me thinking about what it would be like to be with him.

  Not that I should be entertaining such thoughts. I’m in this mess because I entertained the idea of what it would be like to be with a man like Victor—older, wiser, successful, powerful . . . mean—and look where that got me. And even if Chase is the total opposite of Victor, in that he’s been kind even though he has no reason to be and he’s younger, just starting out, the difference between the two that’s most obvious isn’t about them. The difference is that Victor wants me and Chase doesn’t. So I just shut those thoughts down immediately.

  “You might want to close your eyes,” Chase says as he peels the bloodied fabric away from my skin.

  I catch sight of the dried blood and grime that looks like has made its way into the wound. I feel the bourbon slinking up my throat and close my eyes. I’ve never really dealt all that well with blood in the past, and I don’t imagine I’ll do much better now. Still, I can’t help but peek every now and then.

  Chase works to clean the wound with the rag and the warm water. I can feel the tug of the fabric and can’t stop myself before I begin imagining what he’s doing. He removes the fabric and begins working on cleaning out the knife wound. I peek down at my leg and see him sliding a fresh towel underneath. Once it’s situated, he pours water over the wound. I clamp my eyes shut and withhold the scream that bubbles in my throat. Tears pool in my eyes and bile rises in my throat. As the sensation overtakes me, I fight to hang on to any sense of reason. Even with my eyes closed, the room feels like it’s spinning.

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I peek down at what Chase is doing, again, and find the watery blood spilling down my flesh. Instinctively, I kick my leg out as a fresh wave of pain hits. I gasp for breath as the panic rises in my chest. He hasn’t even begun to stitch up the wound and I’m already writhing in pain. I can’t take any more.

  “Stop!” I scream and crawl back toward the headboard, dragging my dripping leg with me.

  I can’t do this. I can’t take any more. I need pain killers. I need something.

  I just can’t do this. I have to go. I have a sudden desire to flee. The bed dips, and the medical supplies are dragged away. I notice Chase’s body heat first and then his rough skin as he pulls me into a hug. Immediately, I wrap my arms around his torso and pull him closer. My nails claw into his skin as I let out every ounce of pent-up pain and fear. Victor’s business, his promises of our future, my stupid agreeability, losing Becca, stealing the diamond, pulling the gun on Chase, being stabbed, seeing Becca being cut . . . it all comes out in a painful ripping away. It’s as though a very part of myself is detaching from my body and becoming something on its own. It’s immeasurable.

  This person Chase has met isn’t me. I’m a waitress, a best friend, a daughter. I’m a part-time college student with a below-average GPA and a spotty driving record. I’m not a mover and a shaker in anything, least of all the drug world. I’m not dangerous, nor am I a felon. I’m just naive.

  A few minutes pass, and my breathing steadies. I pull away from Chase and wipe my eyes. Having had my face buried in his chest, he’s now a hot mess, as well.

  “Sweetheart, I have to clean your wound and then stitch you up,” he says.

  His voice is soft, understanding. Victor would have told me to deal with it. He never was a terribly soft person. But here with Chase, I’m seeing a softness I didn’t expect, nor am I sure I deserve. I nod my head and move down the bed to where Chase has set up his little station.

  Chase repositions my leg and pulls me closer to him. He has his hands wrapped around my upper thigh. The intimacy of his touch takes my mind off the pain for a moment. This is why I don’t do well outside of relationships. I value the intimacy of human contact far too much to go without it for long. And it’s also why I tend to get myself into relationships with stupid men.

  Chase’s hand gently slides down my leg as he begins cleaning my wound again. His touch is featherlight, but the burning is intense. I clamp my eyes shut, bite down, and count backwards from one hundred. It’s a trick my dad taught me years ago to cope with pain.

  In order to stop myself from thinking about the blinding pain shooting up my thigh and up my spine, I think about my parents and all the happy times we spent in this very cabin. My parents spent their honeymoon here, back when it was my grandfather’s. They’ve spent every anniversary since here in his cabin. I’d never invited anyone here, not even Becca. The realization that Chase is here with me now, despite the circumstances, sends a dull pain through my heart. I try not to let my brain get carried away with fantasies of what it might mean, but most especially of what I think it might m
ean to me. Chase is the good guy, not a fool, and he’d be stupid to get involved with me. Especially now.

  “Just breathe, baby,” he says.

  My eyes shoot open at the term of endearment. I don’t think he meant anything by it. Still, the words give me butterflies.

  I shouldn’t be having these thoughts, especially considering everything that is so very good and great about Officer Chase Guilliot. Once it’s safe, he’s going to leave, as he should, and I don’t know what awaits me. I’m terrified that it might be jail. I give myself a quick reminder of who Becca is stuck with right now. I let the fear wash over me, the concern, and I don’t run from the feeling of guilt and shame that engulfs me.

  For once, I’m going to do right, make this right, by doing right. Like my dad always says, playtime is over, and it’s time to be an adult and start making better choices. Funny how getting stabbed and my best friend kidnapped is all it took for me to change my ways. Yes, Chase could do much better.

  I peek my eyes open just enough to look around for the bottle of bourbon. It’s lighter than before, and from the way I’m feeling, I don’t have to wonder why. Shakily, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a long swig. I’m pretty drunk, but I’m still feeling the pain as Chase attempts to clean out my wound. So clearly, I have not yet drunk enough.

  He hasn’t even started on the stitches yet, and the burning is so intense I’m not certain I’ll be able to withstand. This entire situation is one I will be happy to never repeat. Though my mind has grown foggy, I still feel far too coherent. In an attempt to remedy this, I bring the bottle to my lips and chug as much as I can before I feel the bile rise in my throat.

  “Take it easy there, chief,” he says.

  I tuck the bottle into my side. My gaze avoids his hands, and I look right into his eyes. Even though the smirk covers his face, underneath it I can make out the lines of worry. He’s probably concerned that after he’s done cleaning out my wound he’s going to have to hold my hair back as my body expels the bourbon from my system.