The Switch

by Jc Emery

  “I want to know your history.”

  The words slipped from my mouth before my brain even registers what I said. I’m always more honest when I’m drinking.

  “My history?” He ducks his head, his attention back on his work. “Well, I have been employed as a member of the NOPD for exactly one week. Today was my first day off. How’s that for a first week?” His eyes lift, meeting mine. I’m too stunned to fully appreciate the shy smile on his lips.

  “One week?” I ask with disbelief.

  He nods his head and shrugs his shoulders slightly. “What, you can’t tell?”

  I fight the floppy smile that threatens to split my face wide open. “So you’re a baby cop. That’s why you still believe in the oath to serve and protect.”

  “I hope I’ll always believe in the oath.”

  I hold my head to the side, curious. He’s definitely a helper. One of those guys who is always for helping out a buddy. He must think I’m one terrible soul.

  “Tell me more,” I say.

  Suddenly I want to know everything. I want to know if he’s a native. I wonder which schools he attended. I want to know his favorite sandwich shop. I want to know who his first love was, and I want to know what makes him believe so deeply in helping others. And though I’m trying to disguise my intrigue as mild curiosity and not what it really is, I really want to know what he’s doing next Saturday night. Because if I had my way, he and I would be heading up the quarter, and I’d be finding out exactly how bad of a boy the good officer can be.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “That’s a tall order.”

  “We’ve got time,” I say as I look around. There’s not much out here for miles. Even if there were, I think we’re supposed to be lying low.

  “Well, as you know I’m a new recruit. Before I joined the force, I worked offshore. I hated it—being gone for weeks at a time, being stuck on a rig in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of guys I’d never willingly keep company with. The ones that have been doing it for years were worse for wear. They just look old, like they’ve had the life sucked out of them. My dad works offshore. I never really knew how hard he worked until I did it myself. Anyway, I didn’t want to do that forever, so I sat down with my dad and asked him if he could go back in time, what he would do.”

  My own dad worked offshore for a couple years when he and my mother were first married. All these guys out on an oil rig for weeks at a time, and he hated being away from my mother for so long. Then when I came along, he decided the pay and time away from his family just wasn’t enough. Though my father had quit working offshore, he would occasionally run into trouble finding work and would do a short stent out on water. I can appreciate how hard Chase had to work out on the rig.

  “So you’re doing what your dad wished he had?” I ask.

  He laughs, shaking the entire bed.

  “No, he said he would have been a garbage man.”

  Now I’m laughing, as well, because I’m not entirely sure how Chase went from asking his father for career advice to rejecting everything his father said.

  “When I told them I was going to become a cop, he said, ‘Shit, son you could do anything and you choose to become a crook.’ My dad has never been a fan of our boys in blue,” he says.

  I can understand that, with all the corruption in the city. Though I’m still a little fuzzy on how Chase came to this career path. And though I find his career choice interesting, to say the least, it’s not what I really want to know. What I really want to know is the stuff he’d share with a girlfriend, not what he’d share with a possible suspect.

  My eyes are getting droopy, and I can feel myself being lulled into sleep. The burning has subsided, and my fear of being stitched up in this tiny cabin is practically gone. I think about the pain for a moment and realize I can’t feel much of anything. In the background, Chase is still talking about his decision to become a cop. As he said, he’s only been on the force a week and this is his first day off.

  Some day off, I think.

  I barely know what he’s saying anymore, but the sound of his voice brings a comfort I didn’t know was possible. I imagine wrapping myself around his voice and taking a good long nap. Before I know it, the words fade in and out, and I fight to hang on to the tenuous grasp of reality that I have. It’s not long before I lose the battle and pass out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chase

  This woman is trouble on the fast track.

  ONCE SHELBY PASSES out, I can work much faster. I’m no longer hampered by concern over how she’s handling the pain. Though right before she passed out I didn’t see much coherency in her eyes. Her hands held the bottle of bourbon sloppily, and she was slurring her words.

  She was also the most real I think I’ve seen her. After her freak out when she started asking about me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to give her anything. She’s a suspect. We’re not friends, we’re not lovers. We’re two people stuck in a shit situation. And all I wanted when I woke up this morning was to catch some good music, eat some good food, and relax. And now here I am, in this cabin. Some day off.

  But then Shelby said she wanted to know my history. The way she said it, the inflection of her voice and her actual choice of words, made the wall I’ve been trying to keep up crumble. I’ve never had a woman ask me, in such a unique way, about who I am. Not just where I come from or where I’ve been, but the whole of my history. And in that moment, despite her drunken haze, I believe she was serious. She made me believe in her, so I let her in just a little. And as I spoke, her eyes followed me. She was listening in a way I don’t think a woman ever has, except for my own mother.

  The sun set hours ago, and Shelby’s been passed out since well before it began to drop in the sky. The stitches were a success, I think. I tried, and failed, to do an internet search for directions on stitching up a wound just to ensure that my rusty skills didn’t cause more trouble for Shelby than help, but without wireless internet, I couldn’t get a page to load with this weak phone signal. I just hope I’ve remembered the brief EMT training I got at the Academy correctly.

  My phone rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. I pull it out of my pocket and realize I’ve pulled out Shelby’s phone. I toss it on the side table and pull out mine. The shrill ringing reminds me how quiet it is here in the cabin. There are few sounds here. It’s very welcoming. I could get used to this kind of quiet. I slide my thumb across the screen and put it up to my ear.

  “Sarge,” I say into the phone, pulling back to see if the obnoxious ringing startled Shelby from her sleep. It didn’t. She’s still in the same spot I left her in, mouth agape, light snoring escaping her parted lips. I turn and walk to the kitchenette and lean against the counter.

  “How’s the girl?” Sarge asks, his voice even more grave than I’m used to.

  I begin to response but then catch myself and lower my voice. “Passed out cold. Drank herself into a stupor, but I stitched her up and I think she’s going to be fine.” I try to sound confident, sure of myself and my work. Still, the knot in my gut twists uncomfortably. I make a vow to myself that I’ll take the optional advanced level emergency response courses the city offers. I don’t ever want to be responsible for stitching human flesh together again, but if today has taught me anything, it’s that I should expect the unexpected.

  “Good,” he says. Sarge isn’t one for compliments, so I figure this is as good as it’s going to get in terms of praise. “I got my guys tracking this Victor guy. We’re getting some ideas where he might be and where he might have the friend. But right now I need you to stay put and keep that girl out of it. Just lie low.”

  I let out a deep breath and rub the back of my neck with my free hand.

  “How long?” I ask. I’m beginning to worry this isn’t just a one-night situation. The long pause Sarge is giving me gives me the space to worry that I’m going to be in the company of the dangerously enticing Shelby Brignac longe
r than I can resist for.

  “Couple days at least. Let the girl’s wound heal. Just keep her out of it. From what you’ve told me, she really stuck her nose in it, which is what got her into this situation to begin with. Last thing I need is her mucking up my investigation and getting that friend of hers killed.”

  “I don’t know how this is going to work, sir,” I say. What I really want to do is to tell him there’s no way I’m going to spend the next three days in this damn cabin with this woman. I look over at her in her underwear and have to turn away quickly before my body has a very unprofessional reaction to her nearly naked form. This woman is trouble on the fast track, and as it is, I’m doing everything I can to keep the lines between professional and personal as clear as possible.

  “Make it work, Guilliot. Whatever you do, just keep that girl in that cabin. I already got one girl to worry about—don’t need the other one hobbling in to the rescue. You get that, son? Victor Abraham is one serious son of a bitch. I trust my team as much as I can, but I still can’t get a read on a few of the newer guys, so we’re going to keep this one close to the vest.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say firmly. “I’ll wait for your call, sir.”

  “Quit kissing my ass, Guilliot,” he says lightly.

  Sarge’s demeanor lightens up some, once he knows we are safe. He doesn’t ask where we are. Just as I’m about to tell him, he ends the call. So it looks like now my task is to stay put and make sure she heals. Then we can return home to our respective lives, and I can go on about giving speeding tickets and responding to domestic calls.

  I close my eyes and realize exactly how exhausted I am now. I lean over to flick off the dull light that hangs above the sink and cross the open room to the couch. I pull the gun out of the waistband of my cargo shorts and place it under the middle couch cushion. There’s a small blanket strung over the back of the couch. I grab it and plop down on the couch, letting my body sink in. Muscles I hadn’t realized were tense begin to relax. Forcing my brain to slow down and stop worrying, I allow myself to sink into a much-needed sleep.

  “Chase?” I hear Shelby’s voice, weak and heavy with the exhaustion of trauma, sound from behind me.

  My eyes shoot open, and my left hand pulls the gun out from under the couch cushion. I shoot up from the couch, a sudden fear nipping at my heart. She can’t defend herself in her state. A quick survey of the entirety of the cabin sans the bathroom and I find that we’re still alone. My eyes fall on Shelby, and I relax immediately. She’s not hurt; she’s safe. Her face is pale and covered with a sheen of sweat, and her wounded leg has slid off the pillow I put it on. My already fragile nervous system crumbles at the sight of her.

  I set the gun down and rush across the room, feeling her forehead. I wipe the sweat away from her brow line. She’s clammy, but at least her fever finally broke.

  “I’m cold,” she chatters.

  I look down and her injured leg is swung out of the covers, bandaged up as good as I could get it. I reach down and touch her leg, which is also damp and is hot to the touch. She’s got the chills. Sucking in a deep breath, I take a brief moment to figure out what I’m supposed to do in this situation. If she’s got chills and her temperature’s gone, then she should be well on her way to recovery. I should get the blanket from the couch and wrap her up tight and then return to my station, far away from this bed. But I don’t want to.

  I feel her cheek, neck, and collarbone and sort out part of the problem. She’s sweated through her jacket, which she has yet to take off, and the shirt beneath doesn’t feel much drier. I begin by removing her jacket from her vibrating frame but soon realize it’s not enough. The shirt has to go, too. Shit. The last thing I need is to be holed up in this tiny place with this woman . . . naked.

  “Shelby,” I say, my voice harsher than intended. It does the trick, and her droopy eyes focus on mine. “You’ve sweat through your clothes. Are there are clothes in this cabin?”

  The words fall from my lips much less like a question and more akin to a prayer. My oath to serve, protect, and not be a fucking pervert can only go so far under certain conditions. Thankfully she points to the large trunk at the foot of the bed. I stride toward it, and inside I find a modest collection of clothing—for both men and women. Crisis averted.

  I pull out two large T-shirts and a pair of men’s pajama pants. There are no underthings in the trunk, but this will do for now. Once Shelby’s feeling better, I can probably get her to hand wash the laundry. I bring her one of the T-shirts, an old, faded football shirt from an era when Saints fans wore bags on their heads.

  “Here,” I say and hand her the clothing, then turn around like the good officer that I am.

  I hear grumbling and then an exasperated sigh, then the telltale rustling of movement. The fact that the moonlight shining off the window across the cabin gives me a perfect view of her small frame means nothing. Still, I fight the urge to keep my eyes open as she pulls her drenched shirt over her head. I catch barely a glimpse of a black bra before I clamp my eyes shut. The last thing I need is to see her changing and then get slapped with a sexual assault rap because I did something inappropriate shortly thereafter.

  “Um. I don’t have any pants,” she says. I open my eyes and turn around. She’s swimming in the large men’s shirt, but damned if she doesn’t look good. Her hands tug nervously at the shirt’s hem.

  “Your wound needs to breathe,” I practically cough out.

  “You don’t look so good, Officer.”

  I look down at her. Her hair is a mess, and there’s sleep in the corner of her eye. Her eyes blink and she lets out a yawn, but the remnants of a smile are left behind. The way she’s looking at me, I can’t quite make out if she can tell that I’m attracted to her, or if she’s not just playing dumb and she genuinely doesn’t have a clue. I give her a reassuring smile and tell myself that I’m a competent officer of the law.

  I turn around and stride to the couch, retrieving the extra blanket. Returning to the bed, I tuck Shelby in as best I can and then lay the extra blanket on top of her wrapped form. I try to avoid her eyes as best I can while I make sure she’s settled in.

  “Thank you,” she says, her teeth chattering.

  “You’re still cold?” I ask.

  She nods her head, teeth still noisily clinking against one another. Shit. Though I know the idea of crawling into bed with this woman and keeping her warm is a bad one, my ability to deny myself wanes, and I kick my shoes away and yank off my socks. I look down at my bare chest and cargo shorts. The shorts have droplets of blood on them, and I decide they’re not as comfortable as I’d like anyway. Without another thought, I grab the pair of sleep pants and go into the bathroom. I close the door and change, purposefully choosing not to put on one of the available T-shirts from the trunk. I’m clearly a fucking glutton for punishment, because despite knowing how bad this could get for me, I still want Shelby to keep appreciating my body the way she has been.

  Before leaving the bathroom, I use the bar soap on the sink to clean myself up a little. On my way out, I grab the gun from the couch and bring it over to the empty side of the bed, tucking it between the mattresses. I lift the blankets and carefully slide in. Shelby’s eyes dance sleepily as she watches me get settled.

  “Body heat should help,” I say, trying to convince myself that’s what crawling into this bed is about and not just some fucked-up ploy to get closer to this woman.

  When I reach over to her side of the bed, I find the sheets are damp. No wonder she’s still cold. I suddenly feel like the biggest moron on the planet. Of course she’d still be freezing. I left her in the same spot.

  As gently as I can, I reach over and encourage her to sit up. When she does, I reposition myself and slowly drag her body toward mine. She catches on pretty fast and facilitates the move by using her healthy leg to help move her injured one. Barely a few whimpers sound from her throat, and thankfully she doesn’t cry out. I pull her the last of the way and then sett
le her back against the front of my body. I grab her pillow and flip it over so her head rests on the dry side and place it between us. Yanking it away, she tosses it to the other side of the bed.

  “I’d much prefer it without the pillow,” she says in nearly a whisper as she stares up at me through her lashes.

  I tighten my jaw and give her what I hope is nothing but a friendly smile. She rests her head back on my chest and lets out a contented sigh. Trouble. My brain shoots me warnings left, right, and sideways. This woman is straight-up trouble.

  It’s only a few minutes before she falls asleep, head rested on my chest and lower half tucked between my legs. It’s probably the stress of the situation and the delirium from how tired I am, but this right here feels right. Dangerously right. I could let myself get attached to this woman easily, even though I know this would be a train wreck waiting to happen.

  In the back of my brain, I can practically feel the latent want and need to touch and be touched by another human being. Like now, only more. Holding her is good, but it’s just not enough. So I run my hands up and down her arms to warm her. Her body slumps against mine, and she starts to breathe more heavily, a sure sign that she’s fallen asleep. Her teeth have stopped chattering, and the goose bumps on her damp skin have subsided, which only encourages my efforts. I pull her in as close as possible and wrap my arms around her midsection to keep her body tight against mine, refusing to admit that I’d want this woman in my arms even if she weren’t freezing cold and in need of more heat than the thin blankets can provide.

  CHAPTER 9

  Shelby

  It’s Chase. . . coming in to rescue me.

  TIME PASSES, THOUGH I can’t make out how much. I know I fell asleep in Chase’s arms. I know my leg still hurts. I know everything that led up to being stabbed and now being in my parents’ cabin. I even know the few times Chase has gotten up to leave me and when he’s returned, but I can’t make out how long he was gone for.