Man Cuffed

by Sarina Bowen

  When will I learn?

  I’m actually frozen, one foot on the first of three steps up to the front porch. Julie looks down at me, her jaw unhinged. We’re both sort of locked inside our discomfort for a very long moment, while my nephew squeals and struggles to get to me.

  So I do the only thing a guy in my shoes can do. I unstick myself, climb two steps, and reach for him.

  Gaping, Julie transfers his weight to me. And then the baby is perched on my arm, looking up at me. He lets out a squawk, but then goes suddenly quiet. Like he’s figured out that I don’t have the right haircut or maybe the right clothes. I don’t smell like his dad, probably. Not enough whiskey on my breath.

  Okay, maybe that last thing isn’t fair. My mother tells me Morris has finally got his shit together. At least some of it. And I hope it’s true, if only for the sake of the fifteen-pound person who’s peering at me like he’s seen a ghost.

  I clear my throat. “A few of the details are wrong, aren’t they little guy?” And then I wish I’d kept my trap shut, because the words echo back inside my chest. The details are wrong. Julie obviously doesn’t agree. She made her choice.

  Now she looks at her hands, growing visibly more uncomfortable. A few more details start to sink in, too. Her hair is mussed, but not in a sexy way. It’s unkempt. That just doesn’t look like the Julie I know. Then again, I’m not sure I ever really knew her. “You okay?” I ask. “Can I assume your call to the station was about that party?”

  “Oh, I’m fine!” she breathes. “I mean, can you believe how loud they are? That kid’s parents are gone to Mackinac for the weekend, and they left him unsupervised and he’s throwing a rager. Can you get them to quiet it down a little? The baby won’t go to sleep. I haven’t been able to watch the ending of The Bachelor and it’s killing me. Every time I press play, the dialogue is totally drowned out by the twerps next door.”

  It’s a whole lot of verbal diarrhea. And it just keeps on rolling.

  “Morris is in Chicago. Business trip. Again,” she says. That again is weighted, but I’m not taking the bait.

  “Okay.” The music thumps on into the silence between us. “My, uh, partner is going to shut ‘em down next door.” And that’s when I run out of things to say. I look down at the baby, who’s still gazing at me, puzzlement on his rounded features. “You have a good night, now. Don’t keep mommy up.”

  “Bah,” he says gravely. Then he drools a little.

  “So…” I wait for Julie to come unstuck.

  She blinks and then grabs him back. She looks like she wants to say more, but I’m not here to talk her down or ask her about The Bachelor, for chrissakes. I glance over at the neighbor’s place, where Lance is currently scaring the shit out of some teenage kids. They’re actually pouring out of windows, trying to escape.

  Sometimes the uniform is enough. This is one of those times.

  I turn back to Julie. I’ve got nothing more to do here. I just need to fill out the paperwork and take Meg home. Not with me, of course, although that sounds nice.

  Then I feel Julie’s soft hand on my arm. “It’s good to see you,” she says. “Weird, but good. How long has it been?”

  “Let’s not,” I say abruptly. “Let’s not do this. My shift is over. It’s late.”

  She swallows hard and runs a hand through her hair. Next door, the music shuts off abruptly, like a needle ripped off a record. That’s how Julie and I ended, too. One ugly day the music stopped and there was nothing left to do but pick up the overturned red plastic cups of my youth and carry on.

  “I’m going off shift,” I say, trying to figure out how to get off this porch. Lance should rescue me. Where is that guy?

  “Okay,” Julie says, and then sighs. “You could come inside and have a drink with your old sister-in-law. I don’t bite.”

  “No thanks,” I say quickly. Because that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. “And I have to get this back to the station.” I motion to my squad car.

  Julie looks past me. “Oh! You’ve got a criminal in there?”

  My reaction is immediate and visceral. Meg is sitting in the front seat, her bright eyes watching me. There’s nothing remotely criminal about Meg, except for how hot she is.

  “Are you kidding me right now? That’s not a criminal. That’s my girlfriend. Why would you assume that? Is it because of her skin color?” Funny how the word girlfriend comes out smooth and easy. Maybe it’s because I’m mad.

  “Oh, god.” Julie puts a hand up to her cheek. “I’m sooooo sorry. What a stupid assumption I made!”

  The baby lets out a squawk of agreement. I like this kid already.

  “She’s waiting for me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “In your squad car? She’s a cop?”

  “No, she’s a drama queen. Gotta go.” I turn and hop off the stoop. Smooth, Maguire. Oh well. I never was smooth with Julie. Never could be. Everything about this night is stressful.

  And now I know what my child would have looked like if I had had one with Julie.

  I turn my back on the house where Morris and Julie live. It’s like visiting a version of my life that could have been. An alternate universe. I walk toward what my life is now. My job...and Meg. Or just my job. And an apartment where there aren’t any baby toys strewn around.

  So I got that going for me. It’s something.

  I can feel Meg’s eyes on me as we drive away. She’s staring. Maybe it’s because I’m driving out of Julie’s neighborhood like zombies are chasing us and the car is on fire.

  “So,” she says.

  I grunt.

  “That woman. Who is she, Mac?”

  “Why?”

  “Because she looked wary. You didn’t look happy to see her. But her baby freaked out. I can’t make any sense of it.”

  “I’ll bet,” I snort. “What if I told you I’d never met that kid before?” And honestly, it’s the only thing about the whole familial standoff that gives me pause. My family’s betrayal cut me deep. And I feel no guilt for cutting them out of my life. But how long is too long? Does anger have an expiration date? Best if used before…

  “Who is she, Mac?”

  “My ex.”

  I hear Meg’s sharp intake of breath. “Maguire. Do you have a child?”

  “No!” I laugh. “But I have an identical twin.”

  3… 2...1… I can almost hear the cogs of Meg’s mind turning. She’s smart, so “HOLY shit!” explodes out of her mouth awfully fast. “Your identical twin has a baby with your ex.”

  “Yup,” I sigh. This topic isn’t any fun at all, and I’m tired.

  “Just a wild guess here. But is she the reason you need a date for Rosie’s wedding?”

  I say nothing. But we both know she’s right.

  “Because...” Meg tries. “Because you broke up with her, and she was so heartbroken she took up with the only human on Earth who looks just like you?”

  I stop at a traffic light. “That’s a nice version of the story, Meg. But that is not what happened. I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Then I went away to school, and she started sleeping with my brother.”

  Meg groans. “And then you killed him?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, he still lives.” Although I did have some violent fantasies right after it happened.

  “You haven’t seen him either?” she yelps. “In how long?”

  “Ten years.” God, that sounds weird when you say it out loud. “We don’t speak.”

  “Whoa. Not ever? But I met your parents. They seem normal.”

  I give her a look.

  “Okay, not exactly normal,” she amends. “There’s the inflatable penises and the collage art to consider. But they’re not monsters.”

  “No.” I press the accelerator. “But they never seemed to care that Morris broke us up.”

  “Not at all?” she yelps.

  “They sort of shrugged when it all went down.”

  “What happens on Christmas? Or Than
ksgiving? I mean, there is not enough wine in the world for that meal, right?”

  “I don’t attend,” I admit.

  “Oh. I see.”

  We both lapse into silence. Even the radio is quiet while I drive back toward the police garage. I’m too far inside my head, wondering how it all ends. Do I ignore my brother’s family forever? That seemed perfectly rational until a few minutes ago.

  I experience another quick flash of hatred for Morris. For putting me in this situation. For making me feel guilty for something he did.

  “So how do you spend the holidays?” Meg asks suddenly.

  “I work. Nobody wants those shifts. You can make a lot of friends volunteering for those.”

  “Friends, but not family,” she says under her breath.

  “Trouble! Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s my choice.”

  “Really? It was your choice to have your brother move in on your fiancée? And then marry her?”

  “Let’s just forget about it,” I grumble. “That’s what I do most of the time.” I pull into the cruiser lot and park the car.

  “That explains a lot about you,” she says, climbing out of the passenger’s seat.

  I want to argue the point. But she’s right. It totally does. And anyway, I have to go inside and sign off on a few things.

  Meg waits for me in her car. She’s my ride home. I took my car in for a service because I knew she’d be around to drive me home tonight.

  When I come out, she’s sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to some music. I open the passenger’s door, and there’s something on the seat. “What’s this?”

  “The treat I brought you. But you have to wait until we get home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like crumbs in my car, Copper. Sit down already.”

  Her car smells like chocolate and heaven, though. It’s a long fifteen minutes until we’ve pulled up in our lot. I get out of her car, and I’m just about to pull the lid off when Meg grabs the box out of my hands.

  “Upstairs,” she demands. “These would go better with a drink.”

  “Like milk?” I’m hungry all of a sudden.

  “Like rum,” she says. Then she turns on her heel and sashays into the building. All I can do is follow.

  17 Hard-boiled

  Meg

  I feel absolutely entirely too aware of Mac as he follows me into my apartment. I wonder where his eyes land as I flip on my mood lighting, which consists of strings of fairy lights and a single beaded lamp on the kitchen counter. It throws multicolored light around my kitchen.

  What does he see when he looks at my apartment, with its kitschy fabrics and bright colors? I’ve been dressing the space up and it’s starting to feel, dare I say it, like my artistic home. But I wonder what he thinks of the pillows and paintings. The large tapestry hanging by the bathroom. The blooming flowers in every feng shui corner there is. He makes me feel self-conscious, because his opinion matters to me. But I have no idea if he feels the same way about me.

  “Sit,” I tell Mac, pointing at a counter stool.

  He obeys me. A man will do anything for chocolate.

  But I make him wait.

  I tap my phone a couple of times until my new favorite playlist comes over the speakers. Then I grab my favorite cocktail shaker and fill it with ice cubes.

  “You don’t have to go all out,” he says.

  “I told you I don’t cook. But I love mixed drinks. And this one makes me think of you.”

  He glances up at me, and I forget what I’m doing. Because those gray eyes look so serious. “Why’s that? Is it a drink for grumpy guys who won’t date their hot neighbors?”

  I let out a hoot of laughter as I reach for the limes on my countertop. “Yes and no. It’s a drink named after a famous old codger. I’m making you a Hemingway Daiquiri. Supposedly Papa drank these.” After cutting it in half, I squeeze the first lime into the cocktail shaker. After lime juice comes a splash of grapefruit juice, some maraschino liqueur, and the white rum.

  Mac watches all this with growing amusement. “You’re telling me Papa drank fruity drinks?”

  “Everyone likes a good cocktail. Some people—out of misguided ignorance or arrogance—pretend not to.” I shake the shaker. “These are delicious. And Papa was known to like his alcohol. They didn’t waste time with light beer in Cuba, Mac.”

  He gives me an appraising glance. And then, as I’m shaking up our cocktails, he reaches for the moanies in their container.

  I smack his hand away. “No cheating! You think you’re the only one who lives by an ironclad set of rules?”

  “No, I suppose not,” he says, showing me that arrogant smile of his. “You obviously have standards. Fresh squeezed lime juice, huh.”

  “Well, duh.” I pour our drinks into two martini glasses and cut lime wheels for a garnish.

  “Loud show tunes in the evenings—oh, wait. You play loud music all the time.” He gives me a smirk. Then, before I have a chance to react, he reaches for the moanies again.

  “Copper!” I set down the shaker and dart around the counter to where he sits, making a lunge for the dessert that I made for his grumpy ass anyway. Honestly I don’t really care if he eats the whole box. But I do enjoy teasing him.

  He raises his arm to escape my reach, but I fearlessly sacrifice my body by reaching up, leaning against his. This destabilizes him on the bar stool, and for one tricky moment I think I might actually tip the man over. But his solution is to grab me around the waist with his free hand.

  And it works. It works a little too well. His iron-like arm wraps around my body, just where I’d always wanted it to be. Suddenly we’re chest to chest, nose to nose. He goes absolutely still, and our eyes meet in a stare that’s full of possibility.

  “Careful, Mac,” I whisper into the silence. “What would Hemingway do right now?”

  Slowly, his grin turns sly. “Funny you should ask. Once he said, ‘It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.’”

  “Is it now?”

  “Yeah,” he grunts. “I don’t think I really understood that quote until tonight. You undo me, Trouble. I don’t make good decisions when I’m standing close to you.”

  We both study each other for another long moment. Then Maguire puts the moanies down on the counter with a decisive thud. He slides a big hand to the back of my neck. It’s a maneuver filled with such control and confidence that I shiver. And then his mouth claims mine.

  His kiss is shockingly hot and slow. As if he’s giving me time to get used to the idea. Firm lips close over mine. This time, the kiss isn’t a joke, or a ruse, or a mistake. It’s just us. A hungry man and a smitten girl finally coming together because we need it so badly. His lips press and search. My mouth lifts and beckons.

  He wraps his hand in my hair and gives it just a little tug so I’ll tilt my head back to meet his lips more fully with my own. Our connection tightens, and so does my belly.

  Nobody’s laughing now. Because this is a kiss that’s the start of something. Like a match flaring. All you need is a tiny flame to start a forest fire. I give his lip a little nibble, and he makes a sound deep inside his chest.

  Then our tongues collide, and flames begin to lick at my insides. An aggressive tug pulls me more tightly against his chest as his tongue probes my mouth.

  This. This is what I knew it would be like with him. I knew because I’ve heard him through my thin walls. He and…

  No. I will not think about her or anyone else. I will not think about anything besides this kiss, and about the way his bossy hand is already cupping my ass. I’m flush against his big hard body. Tighter than a bumper sticker.

  He doesn’t date, though. It’s only sex.

  Shut up, brain! We don’t have time for semantics because this feels too good. I’m going to mack on Mac right now. And worry later.

  But then he gentles the kiss, which is not okay with me. I wrap both ar
ms around his neck and lean in.

  “Hey, slow down, Trouble,” he whispers against my lips.

  “Why?” I whimper. Every atom in me wants him to stay.

  “We have all night.”

  “Do we?” I challenge. We study each other, his gray eyes boring into mine. We’re both breathing heavily. I guess this is the moment where we decide. Are we crossing this line? Or does he head back to his apartment instead?

  I make myself take a half step backward, though. If he wants to leave, I’m not going to beg. It’s not my style.

  Mac stands up from the bar stool, and my heart stops. He’s about to leave. Again. But then he lifts the lid off the moanies, plucks one out, and breaks it in half. “I want to hear you moan. First with this,” he says, placing the bit of brownie into my waiting mouth. Then he grabs my hand and puts it on the swell of his jeans. “And then I want to make you moan with this.”

  Sensory overload! I moan on command. Anybody would. There’s chocolate in my mouth and a rock-hard dick under my palm.

  That’s it. My brain has entered complete shut-down mode.

  I hurl myself at him.

  He catches me, smiling. Our next kiss has the taste of chocolate. But I need more. My lips begin a patrol of their own, beginning on his roughened cheek, and traveling across the bristle of his jaw. Then I lick my way down his neck.

  “Ungh,” he says as his fingers find the first few buttons of my shirt. I love the slightly salty taste of his skin, and I show him how much with more kisses. Mac makes hasty work of my buttons. Broad hands slide up my tummy and work their way under my bra. A jolt of energy zings through me. That roughened hand on my breast is everything. I pull back and look up at him, my chest heaving.

  He slides my shirt off my shoulders, tossing it down, revealing my lacy (hand-washable!) bra, my breasts heavy in the cups. He doesn’t take time to mess with unclasping my bra, but just takes each breast and lifts it out, so that I’m spilling over my underwire. He teases one nipple with his thumb while his other hand cups my ass. Like he can’t decide what to touch next.