Solid Ground: a Wounded Love novel

by Megan Green

  Once Emma finishes telling me about the latest vet who’s joined them—a nineteen-year-old kid whose unit was ambushed during his first tour—she changes the subject to me. “So, tell me about what’s going on with Joey. Oh, excuse me, I mean, Joe. Tell me what’s up with Joe.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing she knows that’s exactly what I’m doing and groan into the phone. “Joe is busy with saving the town from the big, bad kitties stuck up in the trees and the evil old ladies crossing the streets. Seriously, Em, this town could almost fucking rival Disneyland as the happiest place on earth. Everywhere you go, everybody’s always fucking smiling at you and asking how you are and saying things like, ‘Hey, did you see that episode of Law & Order last night?’ It gets fucking tiresome.”

  Emma laughs at my exasperated tone. “Oh, boohoo. Poor Joey lives in a town where his neighbors actually like him. Just give them time, Joe. Soon enough, they’ll figure out what a bear you are and go back to avoiding you.”

  I smile at her through the phone. Fuck, I really do need to get the ball rolling with this video-chat shit. I’d give just about anything to see my best friend’s smiling face right now, her blonde hair wild and crazy after a long day with the dogs.

  Thinking of blonde hair reminds me of the pictures of the latest overdose victim. “Oh, we’ve actually had a string of overdoses recently. Most of them are just kids. The chief has been going apeshit over it. That kind of shit doesn’t happen around here, ya know? We’re all under strict instructions to keep an eye out for any signs of unusual behavior when we’re out on patrol. But, other than that, Chief is keeping this case under wraps, running himself ragged trying to get this guy. I guess he just doesn’t trust any of us enough yet to give offload any of the grunt work to us. He sees this as his town. Someone selling drugs to his kids. I hope we find the dealer soon. Otherwise, Chief might be working himself right into an early grave.”

  “How do you know it’s a guy?” Emma asks me.

  I quirk my brow up at her question even though she can’t see me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Mr. Macho, how do you know it’s a guy? Women can be drug dealers, too, ya know.”

  I snort. “Leave it to you, Em, to get all women’s rights on me when we’re talking about a drug dealer.”

  She snorts. “Oh, please. I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. I just meant, don’t overlook any suspicious women because you guys are locked in on the idea that the dealer is male. Do you know what embedding is?”

  “Quit watching 22 Jump Street and thinking you know all there is to know about crime and cops, Em,” I say with a sigh.

  She giggles. “Have you seen that movie though? It’s the shit. Do any of the guys on your team look like Jenko?” she asks dreamily.

  “Nope. But we do have a few who look like Schmidt. You want to leave Isaiah and come on out? I can introduce you.”

  “Hardy har har,” she responds dryly. And also lamely, might I add.

  Who the fuck says hardy har har anymore?

  I’m just about to poke fun at her when she interrupts me, changing the subject yet again, “So, tell me about the love life of Joey Roberts.” She doesn’t correct herself this time when she calls me Joey instead of Joe.

  I give her an indignant laugh, ready to tell her that my love life is nonexistent and is going to stay that way for the foreseeable future, when I remember the plans I made with Nichole last night.

  After I won the coin toss, Nichole reluctantly agreed to having dinner with me. In three fucking weeks. With her working at the restaurant and my crazy hours as a cop, it was the first night we’d been able to make work. So, three Fridays from now, we have plans to meet up for dinner. I asked her if I could pick her up around six that evening, to which her only response was a pointed look. I backed off, agreeing to meet her at Javier’s instead. She seemed hesitant enough about this whole idea, and I didn’t want to push her too far.

  I could tell by her demeanor that the idea scared her. We have a history. A long, complex, sometimes bumpy history. And, since then, Nichole has lived an even more complex and downright rough life. I can’t blame her for her hesitance.

  And I meant what I said to her after I’d finally asked her to dinner. Despite the fact that I am obviously still attracted to her, I won’t push her for anything she’s not willing to give. I’m willing to settle for friendship. And, after sleeping on it and having the day to think, I can’t be sure that this attraction I am feeling isn’t just some misplaced emotion because of the history we have shared. Nichole stumbled back into my life like a wrecking ball, and I think we both owe it to ourselves to clear the air between us. Once we get this all sorted out, we might just move right back to our lives and continue on as acquaintances, possibly friends at some point. I just knew I’d never get her off my damn mind if I didn’t spend some time with her to get my thoughts and emotions squared away.

  Emma is my best friend, and I know she’d be an excellent sounding board to bounce all this shit off of, and she’d give me advice. But then I’d run the risk of giving her false hope. Emma wants so desperately for me to find what she and Isaiah have. She says I won’t really know what I’ve been missing until I have it.

  The thing is, Nichole was my Isaiah. Well, she’s not a dude, but you get what I mean. She was my whole world, my sun and moon and stars and all that sappy shit combined. After I left, I knew I’d never find another girl like her. Another person who would love me so unconditionally and accept me for everything I was.

  In the last twelve years, I’ve never had a relationship. Oh, I’ve had plenty of sex over the years. There was never a shortage of women who were willing to warm my bed. But that was as far as it ever went. I was up front with them from the beginning. If any of them ever expected anything more, well, that was their own damn fault because that wasn’t something I was willing to give.

  I’d lost that part of myself years ago, the day I’d walked out of this town and never looked back. And I was…well, maybe not happy but content with the way my life turned out. Then, my dad had his accident, and I ended up right back in the very place I’d never wanted to step foot in again. Right back in the path of the very girl I never thought I’d see again.

  Since I’ve been back, there haven’t been any women. Not for lack of interest, but lack of time. A crash course through the police academy, having to prove myself double because of the fact that I’m an amputee, plus house-shopping and then remodeling, didn’t leave much time for a social life. And, after Nichole barreled back into my life, I honestly just didn’t have much interest in dating.

  Fuck it, I think before spilling the beans to Emma.

  I don’t tell her everything. I skip the part where I found Nichole unconscious on her kitchen floor, and I leave out the major details of our breakup, simply saying there was a misunderstanding.

  But I do tell her how confused I’ve felt since I first saw Nichole again. How she seems to be the only thing I can think about these days. I tell Emma about how Nichole and I were friends for so many years before finally becoming something…more. And I tell her how every woman I’ve dated since has never measured up to that first love.

  After I finish, Emma is silent for a moment. I check my phone, thinking maybe I went through all that for nothing because my damn piece-of-shit phone disconnected the call. But the timer is still counting up, her goofy face grinning back at me from the picture I have set for her on my screen.

  “Em?” I ask cautiously. “You there?”

  “Yeah,” she responds, her voice quiet and hoarse.

  It almost sounds as if she’s been…crying.

  She sniffles, and that confirms it.

  “Wait, are you crying? What the hell, Em?”

  She laughs into the phone, the chiming soft sound instantly switching off any exasperation I might feel.

  “Yeah,” she says with a sniff. “It’s just…that was so damn sweet, Joey. The way you talk about this girl…it’s different. You’re d
ifferent. I don’t know her, and I don’t know the details of your relationship. But I do know you. And if you’ve found someone who can bring out this side of you, Joey Roberts…well, you’d better hold on as tight as you freaking can.”

  I lean forward, resting my elbow on my knee, so I can rub my forehead with my hand. The other hand clutches the phone to my ear. “But did you hear anything else I said? About how I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling? What if this is all just…old feelings? What if I get to know her now, and I can’t stand who she’s become? What if she’s completely different? What if I’m completely different?”

  What if I fall in love with her again, and she doesn’t love me back? Can’t love me back?

  I don’t say this last part out loud, not wanting to give voice to what I now realize truly frightens me about all this. Instead, I pound the palm of my hand against the center of my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I ever let myself get into this mess?

  Like you ever had a choice. Nichole has never been optional in your life. No, when she’s around, she’s a fucking requirement in your life.

  I silence my inner voice, waiting for Emma to respond.

  “Do you hear yourself? What if this? What if that? What if, what if, what if? Well, how about this? What if it isn’t just old feelings? What if Nichole still has feelings for you, too? What if you’re wasting the opportunity of a lifetime because you’re scared of what could happen? There’s no doubt that the two of you are both completely different. It’s been twelve years. But just because things are different doesn’t mean that they still can’t be beautiful. You just have to give them a chance to thrive. To grow into themselves. Some of the most magnificent things in life transform with time. Caterpillars, for instance. Given the chance, that creepy little million-legged insect will blossom into an elegant butterfly. Don’t you want to be a butterfly? Aren’t you tired of being a caterpillar?”

  Laughter bursts out of my chest at that. “Okay, Em, that’s it. I’m calling Isaiah and telling him to ban you from all future Lifetime movies and to sell your Kindle. You’ve become too damn sappy from all that romance shit.”

  She giggles back at me. “Fine, that was cheesy. But, still, I know what I’m talking about. You should listen to me. I can hear a difference in your voice already. You need to see where things might go with this girl. And, if she breaks your heart…well, I’ll be on the first plane out to help you egg her house.”

  I laugh again. My friend sure is brazen; I have to give her that. But she’s right. I am fucking tired of being a caterpillar. And, while I might not want to be a butterfly, I sure as hell wouldn’t mind having a beautiful butterfly of my own. I think I’d call it Nichole.

  Fuck. I need to get off the phone before I start spouting Shakespeare at the throw pillows.

  “All right, Em, I’d better get going. Got work in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay,” she pouts, her sadness coming through even though we’re thousands of miles apart. “You’d better call me that Saturday to tell me what happened. And get your fucking Internet up by then. I need to see you when you tell me all about your hot date.”

  “Good-bye, Emma,” I say in exasperation, hanging up after I hear her giggle.

  I have three weeks to get myself ready for this date.

  Ready for Nichole.

  Ready for…what?

  I stare at my reflection in the floor mirror in the corner of my tiny apartment, my shoulders slumping in disappointment. In my haste to leave James and the house, I packed only the bare essentials, instead focusing my attention on getting what I could for Cade to make this transition as easy and comfortable as possible for him. I only grabbed a handful of tops, a few pairs of jeans, and some socks and underwear for myself. It meant going to the Laundromat more often than I’d like, but it’s better than the alternative of going back to get more. Besides, it’s not like I have a ton of room to store more clothes. I can hardly fit what I have in the small closet.

  But, as I ready myself for my date—no, not date, just dinner—with Joey, I can’t help but wish I had something a little nicer. Something pretty. A shirt that hasn’t faded from dozens of washings and jeans that aren’t wearing thin in the knees. I think longingly to the few dresses I left behind in my closet, the ones James had bought me back when he insisted I accompany him to various charity events and town meetings. He always wanted me to look my best, which meant designer dresses that cost thousands of dollars and had everyone in attendance eyeing me with envy. Only I didn’t give a shit about those dresses then, wishing James had given me a few hours of peace and love instead of showering me with expensive and lavish gifts and then later towering over me as I cowered below him, begging him for forgiveness for whatever crime he thought I’d committed against him at the time.

  Now, I think back on those dresses—the black silky one in particular. Strapless with a fitted bodice, it hit me just above my knees, the soft silk flaring at my waist and swirling around my legs as I walked. The one night I wore it was one of the few times I felt beautiful in all my years with James. And, as I take in my plain reflection in the mirror tonight, I try to imagine the look on Joey’s face if I showed up in that instead of my T-shirt and jeans.

  Joey’s mouth slightly drops open as he takes in the sight of me, my chestnut hair curled to perfection, the dress still fitting my body perfectly. Heat flares in his eyes as I take my seat next to him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say flippantly.

  Joey just continues to stare. His mouth snaps shut, and I see him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing deeply in this throat. With a knowing look, I slide my glass of water across the table to him.

  He greedily grabs it, drinking it down in just a few swallows. When he finishes, he slams the glass down, his eyes no less heated but with a determination that wasn’t there moments before.

  Without a word, he shoves back from the table, his chair clattering to the floor in his haste to reach me, but he doesn’t care. Within an instant, he’s by my side, grabbing my hand and pulling me from my chair.

  I don’t resist. Instead, I let him lift me from my seat, and he pulls my body flush against his. It’s every bit as hard and strong as I remember, except it’s multiplied by a thousand. Every inch of him feels amazing while pressed against me. I rest my chin on his shoulder, and my hands go up around his back, my nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt.

  “Do you have any idea what you still do to me?” Joey whispers in my ear.

  A shiver runs down my spine, my skin igniting with the intensity of his voice. I pull back to answer, to tell him that I do know because he still does the exact same thing to me. But I don’t have the chance.

  The moment my lips are in sight, Joey captures them with his own, claims them as his own. His kiss consumes me, the past twelve years evaporating like vapor around us. Wrapping my arms up around his neck, my fingers now clutching at his hair, I deepen the kiss, my tongue licking his lower lip just once. He immediately responds, his mouth opening as his tongue tangles with mine.

  There are no thoughts of James. No thoughts of the people surrounding us in the crowded restaurant. It’s just me and Joey. And the unbridled hunger burning between us from being apart for more than a decade. It’s all-consuming, fierce, and unrelenting in its magnitude.

  Joey hitches my leg up around his hip, and I can feel the shape of his erection through his slacks, pressing into my core. I moan against his lips, and this ignites something in him. Before I know what’s happening, the table we were just seated at is cleared, and the bare skin of my back is rubbing against the soft linen tablecloth as his weight presses into me from above.

  “You’re mine,” he growls into my mouth, not moving his lips from mine.

  Yes! I scream inside as I writhe against him. Yes, yes, God, yes.

  “Mommy?”

  I jump like I’ve just been caught doing something terribly wrong—which, in a way, I guess I have been. I straighte
n the picture frame and bottle of hair spray I knocked over on the small dresser next to me, both victims of my flailing arms when Cade startled me. Turning to face him, I find Cade staring at me, his nose scrunched up as he studies my face. I can feel the blood pooling in my face, my cheeks heating from embarrassment and lust. I can’t believe I let my thoughts get so far out of control, especially with my son soaking in the tub not even ten feet away, only a thin wooden door separating us.

  I pull open the top drawer of the dresser and grab the small makeup bag resting among my unmentionables. That’s what my mother always called her undergarments. It used to make me laugh when I was little. And, even though I’m in no way as proper and ladylike as my mother ever was—growing up with two boys as your best friends would do that to a girl—it’s still something that stuck. I smile to myself every time I say it, love filling my heart at the memory of my mother.

  I move past Cade without a word, feeling slightly guilty that I’m almost ignoring him. But I don’t trust my voice right now. I don’t trust that I can talk to him and not sound like I was just seconds away from coming at the mere thought of Joey’s kiss.

  I mean, what in the actual fuck?

  Cade sits on the bed, his curious eyes following me as I hover over the sink in the small bathroom. I take extra care in putting on the minimal makeup I always wear, again wishing I had something a little nicer for this evening.

  But I’m unable to tear my thoughts from my little fantasy for long. My skin feels warm, and there’s an undeniable tingling sensation lingering in my lower belly. It’s been years since I’ve felt that particular feeling. I almost forgot what it felt like.

  After applying a few extra coats of mascara to my lashes, I decide this is as good as it’s going to get, and I toss everything back in the bag. Cade has turned on the TV while waiting for me, and he’s no longer strangely looking at me. I’m suddenly thankful for the short attention spans of seven-year-olds.