by T. R. Cupak
“Donovan, Mathis, Foreman, and McCullin aren’t married,” the Chief mentions.
It takes me a moment to process anything said after the Chief’s statement.
“I’m going to need another drink,” I say on a heavy breath out.
Words are spoken around me, but they don’t register as I grab the closest alcoholic beverage that is being raised to one of the officer’s mouths at the table. I chug it, wishing it was a never-ending supply.
The rest of the night is a blur until I’m called up on stage with Donovan, Mathis, and Foreman. The three male officers are auctioned off as Phineas Wilder shares some anecdotal stories about them. Combined, they bring in sixty thousand dollars. As Phin announces my name, my stomach churns as I look out into the crowd. The lights make it hard to see faces, but I can tell all eyes are on me. He mentions a few things about me, but nothing personal.
“We’ll start the bidding at five thousand dollars since you all were so gracious with our other dates,” Phin announces. “Do I hear five thousand?”
“Five thousand,” a males voice shouts from the empty void before me.
My eyes search for my sister and I see her face beaming with excitement. She’s going to have a lot of making up for tonight once this is all done.
“Do I hear twenty-five thousand?” Phin’s voice booms.
My head jerks in his direction and then immediately back out to the crowd when I hear a man confirm the requested amount. Were there other bids or did it just jump twenty thousand dollars?
“Thirty thousand,” a voice shouts.
“Forty thousand,” a different voice counters.
“Wow,” Phin says with an amused tone.
“Sixty thousand,” another voice hollers.
“Eighty thousand dollars,” the voice on the microphone booms.
I slowly turn to face Phineas Wilder and find him out stretched arm pointing out into the crowd. My gaze goes in search of who my potential date may be.
“One hundred thousand,” a voice shouts.
“One hundred and twenty thousand,” another voice offers.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” a voice booms louder than the rest.
My mouth drops and my head spins back to Phin.
“Sold,” Phin confirms a second later. “Sold to the man who bid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Oh, yeah…and that’s me.”
Did he just—?
About Martha Sweeney
Martha Sweeney is a Best-Selling author who writes in a variety of genres: romance, suspense, thriller, coloring books, and soon into romantic comedy and science fiction. She strives to push herself as a storyteller with each new tale and hopes to push her readers outside of their comfort zone whether it be genre or the stories themselves.
SCARLET BLUES | Nicole Loufas
Chapter One
I remove my gun, badge, and shoes, replacing them with street attire. The days of traveling to and from work in uniform have lost their swagger, along with the excitement of being on the force. The monotony of my day-to-day routine is killing me. I go out every shift hoping for something—a robbery, a mugging, anything—to make me feel alive.
I’ve ostracized every available man in my social circle, cried wolf on two potential drug rings, and chased down a skateboarder so I could cite him for defacing public property. I was one bad decision away from losing my shit.
Then I met him.
“Hey, sexy.” Theresa walks into the locker room and sits in front of the locker beside mine. “Cocktails at The Holding Tank?”
“Not tonight.” I pull out my makeup bag and dangle it in her face. “I have plans.”
“Am I ever going to meet Mr. Wonderful?” She begins undressing. “You realize I don’t even know his name?”
Nobody knows about him, not even my sister. We’ve been dating two months and haven’t gone public yet. I’m not ready to share him with my world.
“Mr. Wonderful will do.”
There is no better way to describe him. He has that something none of the others had. That wonderful thing everyone is searching for but can’t quite find. He is my missing link, the last piece to my puzzle.
“Come on, Scarlet. Just a first name.”
Theresa is down to her bra and panties. Her body is superb: boobs a perfect C, tiny waist, flared hips. She’s every man’s wet dream. That’s one reason I don’t bring my guy around. Why would he stick it out with me when Theresa is available?
I have a tiny self-esteem issue. As a former curvy girl, I still have insecurities when it comes to my body. Had. With him I leave the lights on.
But if I don’t give my nosy ex-partner a crumb, she’ll start to think something is wrong.
“M,” I say and close my locker.
“First name or last name? Doesn’t matter. I’ll call him Mr. M.” She pulls a purple Planet Fitness t-shirt over her head. “I’m throwing myself a dirty-thirty birthday party. I expect you to be there with Mr. M.” She slams her locker.
“When is that again?”
“End of summer.”
“I can’t plan that far ahead.” I sit down and buckle my wedges.
“Consider this a save-the-date.”
“Aren’t those for weddings?”
Theresa stands over me, hand on hip. “Can you put a muzzle on Debbie Downer and just say you’ll be there?”
“I’ll be there. I can’t make promises for anyone else.”
“Good enough.” Theresa moves in for a hug. “Have an orgasm for me.”
“Gross.”
“I live vicariously through you these days. Nobody wants to pet my kitty.” She purrs then turns toward the door.
“Seriously doubt that.”
I wait until she’s gone before I check my cell phone and find a text from him.
Him: Your place
Our texts are limited to a few words.
Your place.
My place.
Wine.
Beer.
Pizza.
Chinese.
This is how we set up all of our dates.
Everything important is said in person. No emoji can genuinely express feelings or thoughts. There is no substitute for face-to-face conversation. I learned my lesson when it comes to texting and oversharing on social media. Constant communication kills the magic. I want to live in the enchanted world we’ve created as long as possible. Once our texts involve picking up dry-cleaning or whose turn it is to do the dishes—it’s the beginning of the end.
The drive from the station to my home is less than ten minutes but feels like an eternity knowing he’s waiting for me. I gave him a key after two weeks. It felt fast, but he didn’t flinch. I took that a good sign.
His black convertible Audi is parked on the street in front of my house. I’ve told him a dozen times to park in the driveway. His car is worth twice as much as my Honda. Even though I’m going to give him shit about parking on the street, I like that he doesn’t care. My ex-boyfriend was a gearhead. His car was his baby. I always came second to his big-block Chevy.
I park and take one last glance in the mirror.
Lips – red.
Hair – messy but he likes my naturally curly hair.
Teeth – food-free.
Breath – minty fresh.
I step out of the car and walk gingerly up the stone path to my bright red door. The smell of food makes my stomach growl.
He’s cooking.
This is one of those moments, the ones when I want to whip out my cell phone and snap a picture of him standing in my little kitchen wearing an apron and holding a glass of wine. I’d caption it something like: He’s a keeper.
A soft glow from the candles burning on the dining room table light the living room. I close the door and lock it. I don’t call out. He knows I’m here. We say nothing, not until the moment is right. I start around the sofa towards the kitchen and feel a hand slide around my waist from behind. He presses on my stomach and pulls me against
him.
He offers no words.
I have none.
We stay like this for a few minutes. Just breathing, enjoying the feel of our bodies pressed together. When he releases me, I try to turn around. He grabs me with both arms to prevent me from turning. I nod to let him know I understand.
No moving.
The candles flicker, something on the stove sizzles.
I don’t move.
When he returns, I feel him behind me even though we don’t touch. Something comes over my head and covers my eyes. This is new. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with blindfolds. I stop him before he can finish tying the strings behind my head.
“Wait,” I whisper. Whispering feels appropriate. “Say something so I know it’s you.” I know it’s him by the feel of his hands, his delicious smell. I need to hear his voice.
“I have a surprise.”
His English is perfect, but in moments like this, when he isn’t thinking, hints of his native language make their way to the surface. He makes me wish I’d paid better attention in Spanish class throughout high school. I get by, but there is nothing sexy about the way I speak his language.
He leads me to a chair. It isn’t a long walk. It’s safe to say I’m seated at the round table in my dining nook. The small table is made for outdoors, but it’s all I could afford when I bought the house.
“Stay.” He taps my shoulders.
I hear movement in the kitchen: glasses clinking, a bottle of wine is uncorked—it’s music to my ears. When he returns, he sits at the chair opposite me. Our knees touch beneath the small table.
“It smells amazing.” It’s some sort of fish in a garlic butter sauce. I’d bet my badge it’s shrimp. That isn’t the only smell competing on the table. “Did you bake?”
He unties the blindfold. “Happy Anniversary.”
My eyes take a few seconds to adjust.
He slides his hand over mine. “It’s our two-month anniversary.”
I’ve been trying to keep our relationship on a mature level. Two-month anniversaries are so middle school.
“This is really…sweet.” I cringe as I speak. “I didn’t realize we were celebrating milestones?”
His sun-kissed skin turns a slight shade of red. “It’s corny, but I wanted an excuse to cook to for you.” He lifts my hand to his lips. “I know how much you love brownies.” He uses his finger to dig into the corner of the dish. “Open.”
I obey his command, then close my mouth around his finger. I savor the chocolate and the taste of him.
“Mmmm.” I suck his finger clean. “That was delicious.”
“I have big plans for those brownies later.” He sucks my saliva from his finger.
If this were a movie, I’d clear the table, sending my cheap IKEA plates crashing to the floor, covering my hardwood floor in angel hair pasta and prawns, and splattering red wine across my wall. I want to ruin this dinner and skip straight to dessert.
“Shall we eat?” he suggests.
“Uh, yeah.” I place the napkin in my lap like I’m civilized. “It looks great.” My fantasy is put on hold when my stomach reminds me we haven’t eaten in nine hours.
I somehow make it through dinner without licking his fingers again. Just mine. Dinner is amazing.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask as we load the dishwasher. “You barely even made a mess.” When I cook, there’s evidence on the counters, walls, and floor for weeks.
“I can’t ski.” He places a pod in the dishwasher and closes the door.
The man knows his way around a kitchen.
What kind of man knows his way around a kitchen? A married one.
I play this game a lot—the one where I come up with reasons why this won’t work out. It’s a dangerous and exhausting game, one that will surely ruin my dreams.
“I can’t ski either,” I add.
“I tried a few times as a kid and once when I was in college. It was a humbling experience.”
This is the most he’s ever disclosed of his past. The past is a sore spot for me; I bring it up as little as possible. We focus mainly on the present, rarely on the future. That’s me too. I don’t want to scare him away or myself.
“Where did you go to college?” I polish off the rest of my wine.
He picks up the bottle and pours the rest into my glass.
“I went to UC San Diego for a year, then I had to drop out. My father needed me to help with the family business. I’ve worked for him ever since.” He appears to drink from his glass, but really, he’s just wetting his lips. He does this often—pretends to drink. I wonder if he only drinks for my sake. When I’m home for the night, a glass of wine is somewhere nearby.
“As a kid, I spent summers in Mexico working on the farm. After I left college, I went to work in the Imperial Beach distribution center. Been here ever since.”
Arini Family Farms is one of the largest produce importers in California. Its website touts it as the oldest too. If you ask local law enforcement, the company was importing more than just corn and avocados. The Arinis are notorious and their history in Imperial Beach is riddled with folklore, from drug running up Smuggler’s Gulch to importing illegal goods. I wasn’t fazed when I learned who Marcus was; in fact, I kind of liked it. He was exciting and so different than any other man I’ve dated. Being a cop, I made sure his family was clean. I couldn’t find a single blemish on their record. Other than a small outbreak of salmonella in the early nineties, they’re clean.
“It must be nice working with your family. You must be really close. I just have my sister, Cindy, and she’s always off on some exotic trip with her rich boyfriend.”
“Is that important to you? Money, exotic trips?”
“No, not at all. My last boyfriend was broke.” I hate talking about my ex. Everyone’s ex should be off limits.
“Well, you’re in luck because my family does very well.” He crosses the kitchen and places his glass on the counter beside me.
“I don’t need a man to take care of me.” I stand my ground, pretending his body heat isn’t melting my insides.
He moves my hair and places a soft kiss on my forehead.
“Good, because I’m not looking for a pet.”
“What are you looking for?”
He lifts me under my ass and sets me on the counter, so we’re eye level.
“A partner.”
I kiss him, hard, and try to make sense of what he’s saying.
Am I partner material?
Is he asking me to be his ride-or-die?
He wouldn’t tell me if I wasn’t in the running?
The man did bake me brownies.
I see my Facebook relationship status change from It’s Complicated, to In a Relationship.
“No more talking,” he orders and carries me to the bedroom.
He frantically removes his clothes. I match his hurried demeanor and undress, tossing my clothes onto the floor. This isn’t normal. We usually take our time undressing, savoring every second. His frantic need to be inside of me leads me to believe he’s feeling vulnerable. Sex gives him control. I allow him to reign over my body.
I marinate on every tidbit of information he’s offered tonight. I flip the notes around in my head trying to form a logical conclusion. I can’t turn off my cop brain. He shopped for groceries and made dinner. That isn’t a last-minute booty call. Tonight was special, important to him. I want to make it more special.
He’s lost in the first moments of bliss as he moves in and out of me. I slow him down with a jerk of my hips. His eyes open.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I kiss his chin. “I want to try something new.”
He grins and drops down to his elbows. “Anything.”
I plant my right foot on the mattress and push off, rolling him onto his back. He takes my hips and pulls me on top of him.
“No.” I shake my head.
He’s trying to read my next move like we’re playing a
game of chess.
I kiss him deeply and gently suck his tongue. His cock responds. Reluctantly, I leave his mouth and slide my naked body down his torso until my face is buried beneath the sheets. He smells like me. I may not own his heart, but his cock is mine. I kiss the tip before parting my lips and sucking him into my mouth. Most of him.
He moans and grips the sheets. I pause a few seconds, allowing him to gain control, then I repeat the ritual. Kiss, open, suck.
I feel him pulsing, he’s ready to blow. I stroke him.
“Scarlet, no.” He finds the top of my head under the covers. “I don’t want to come.”
“I want to do this.” I plead for him to come in my mouth. That’s a first.
He sits up, pulling his cock from my mouth. I have to say, I’m a little embarrassed.
“Is there something wrong?” I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Baby, no.” He scoots closer and pulls me into his arms. “I don’t want to finish like that. I don’t want to do…that with you.”
“I don’t understand.” I’m fully aware this conversation doesn’t lead anywhere good. Explaining why he doesn’t come during oral sex forces him to think of the women before me. “You don’t like it?”
“Of course I like it.” He kisses the top of my head. “Having a woman suck me off isn’t something I live for. In fact, it’s always been a thing women I don’t care about have done.” He’s struggling to explain. “I vowed to stop giving myself away—my body, my mind—to useless women. Women I didn’t care about.”
He clings to me like he’s afraid I’m going to run. My cop brain says whatever he’s trying not to say is bad. I test my theory and try to pull away. His arms tighten. The red parrot tattooed on his shoulder flinches.
“Just say it,” I snap. Patience is not one my virtues.
He takes my shoulders like he’s going to scold me and searches my face like he’s trying to read my mind. I’ll tell him whatever he wants to know. All he has to do is ask.
“I wasn’t looking for a relationship when I met you. My family is difficult and emotional when it comes to dating. Especially when the woman I’m seeing is…”