by K. Bromberg
When I apply that knowledge to the little I know of Emerson’s history, I can completely understand why seeing me may have caused some of the memories to rush back.
Chairs shift as the meal ends. The table is cleared. Dishes are washed. Luke helps, but he gets more water on the floor than in the sink. The night wears on.
My hands are on the railing, my body braced as I watch the sun begin to set in the distance.
My mom steps up beside me and slides an arm around my waist. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About a dispatch or about Emmy?”
I should have known she’d revisit the topic. “A little bit of everything.”
“It’s okay to be curious about her, Grant,” she says.
“Yeah, but for some reason, I don’t think she wants me to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“She bolted, Mom. She saw me, and I swear the look on her face went from happy to anxious. It was as if she was scared of me.”
“You’re a reminder of her past she’s probably chosen to forget.”
“Yeah. I guess.” But that still doesn’t explain why she’s here in Sunnyville or why I can’t stop thinking about her.
“Are you going to see her again?”
“Even if I wanted to, I told you I don’t have any way to—”
“And I raised self-sufficient, resourceful sons. Don’t give me your excuses,” she says, putting me in my place before patting my shoulder and walking back inside.
Betsy Malone has spoken.
The only woman who can put the Malone boys in line.
What am I doing here?
I glance up at the sign that reads: Doggy Style, and I know this is a mistake right off the bat. I knew she seemed quirky, but this already sounds like a bad episode of COPS. Police officer stumbles unknowingly into a prostitute parlor.
Walk away.
I take another step up the stairs.
This is a mistake.
I knock on the door and am greeted with the baying of dogs and nothing else. No sound of a normally functioning business. No phones ringing. No customers talking. Just a yellow clapboard house I’ve probably driven past a hundred times and never noticed before.
Good. She’s not here. Curiosity satisfied. Time to go.
And just as I begin to walk away, I hear the pad of footsteps on the raised floorboards followed by the sound of a woman’s voice shushing the dogs.
“Officer Sexy,” Desi says, giving me a wide smile when she opens the door.
“Ms. Whitman.” I nod.
“To what do I owe this pleasure? Let me guess. You came here to convince me that beards and tattoos are out and clean cut and uniforms are in and that we’re running away and eloping. Screw our parents and friends, because all we need is each other and the clothes on our backs because love is the currency of life. Is that right?”
I stare dumfounded, trying to process all she just said before laughing and shaking my head. “I was going to say hello, but I think your story is much more entertaining.”
“So, you’re telling me I can still like tattoos and beards?”
“You can like whatever you want.” I turn down my patrol radio as dispatch talks. “Hello, Desi Whitman.”
“Hello, Grant Malone. What can I do for you? I know I’m a law-abiding citizen, so I’m not in any trouble, unless you like to use those handcuffs for other purposes.” She waggles her eyebrows.
The woman is hilarious. “A real man never kisses and tells,” I say with a wink.
“But he does spank and flog,” she comes right back without batting an eyelash, making me choke on air.
“Jesus.”
“Would you like to come in? I promise all of my clients are locked up tight.”
“Should I be worried about that statement?”
“Didn’t you know I’m a Dominatrix? Wanna come check out my dungeon?” I just stare at her until she cracks a smile and laughs. “Dogs. They’re all dogs. I’m a groomer and pet sitter.”
“Ahh, and now the company name makes sense.”
“I love a little tongue-in-cheek mixed with innuendo.” She shrugs. “It gets clients to call, and why be serious? Life’s too short not to laugh.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
“In all seriousness, what’s up? Although, I seem to think I already know.” She motions for me to come in, and I shake my head.
“I can’t. Thank you, though, I’m about to start my shift.” We fall silent as she stares and waits for me to say whatever I’ve come to say. “It’s about Emerson.”
“I assumed.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans her shoulder against the doorjamb.
“Is there any way I can get her number or you can contact her and give her mine? I’d really like to see her again.”
“Why?”
“To catch up.”
“To catch up, or to pry?” she asks.
“Look, all I want to do is see for myself that she’s happy.”
“I already told you she is. Why would you think differently?”
“You should be a police interrogator,” I deflect.
“Danger and I don’t mix unless you consider the jaws of a Rottweiler hazardous.”
“Sounds hazardous to me.” The woman has a way of changing the topic like no one I’ve ever met before.
“I’m sorry, Officer Malone, but I can’t give you Emerson’s phone number without asking her. For some reason, I think if I ask her, she would say no.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I saw how she reacted to you the other day. Then, when I asked about who you were, she wouldn’t tell me, so now the onus is on you to explain. Who are you to her?”
“I told you the other day. I used to know her back in grade school. Anything else would betray her confidence,” I say with a smile to ease suspicion. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“Are you sure that’s how you want to play this?”
“I’m not playing anything, just stating the facts, ma’am.”
“Smooth one, Malone.” She shifts to put her hands on her hips. “My money’s on you being her first kiss or first love. Something like that.”
“Not quite, but you’re getting warmer.” My radio crackles to life again, prompting me to look at my watch to see I have a few minutes left until I’m on-call. “Thanks for your time, Desi, but I have to get to work. Sorry to bug you.”
“I can’t give you her number without asking her, but I could invite you to a little barbecue I’m having tomorrow night. And I might be able to tell you that a certain someone will be there . . . if, you know, you’d like to stop by and say hi or something.”
“Or something.” After Em’s warmth toward me the other day, I can only imagine how thrilled she’d be if I showed up out of the blue.
“She could use a nice guy like you around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, now curious about the company Emerson keeps.
“Nothing. Oh, make sure you take that uniform”—she gestures up and down my body—“off before you come,” Desi says, completely sidestepping my question. “My friends might get a little freaked if you show up in it. They’re a little free-spirited, if you catch my drift.”
“Seems like most people are these days.”
“Promise me this barbecue is not one of your elaborate ways to set me up with one of your friends.” I take a bite of the carrot dipped in ranch and fight the urge to gag. Nope, still don’t like vegetables. “Why do people eat this shit?”
“Because it’s good for you,” Desi says as she hums around her bright pink kitchen with a black-and-white checkered floor like she’s freaking Martha Stewart.
“No. Sex is good for you. Chocolate is good for you. Wine is even better for you. They feed the soul. This crap,” I say and hold up the carrot, “only serves to make you miserable.”
“Says the woman who could eat nonstop every day a
nd maintain her to-die-for figure.” She rolls her eyes as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel.
I reach for the dish of M&M’s and grab a handful with a grin. “Sucks to be me.” I finish chewing them as she mixes something in a bowl. It looks nasty now, but I know will taste like heaven when she’s done with it. It always does. “I’m serious, Des. You know I love your cooking, but it isn’t enough to keep me here if you play matchmaker again. You try, and I’m gonna bail.”
“Pfft. No you won’t. My cooking is ten times better than anything you could make on the hot plate at your place.”
She isn’t making eye contact with me. That in and of itself makes me question whether I believe this whole party isn’t a ruse to fix me up with one of the many people that come and go in her life. She’s done it so many times, and yet, still has no shame.
“I mean it. I have plenty of men I can call up if I want a good time. I don’t need your help in that department.”
“Yeah. I’m well aware.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I narrow my eyes and stare at her until she looks my way.
“It means you purposely pick men you don’t want to stick around.”
Here we go again.
“And there’s a problem with this . . . why?”
“Because, at some point in your life, you’re going to want a guy who is around longer than just a couple of orgasms, that’s why.” Her tone is serious when I want to be anything but.
“But damn, those orgasms feel incredible.”
“I’m serious, Em. What’s so wrong with settling with one man instead of having many?”
I sigh audibly to let her know I’m done with this conversation. “Many? You make it sound like I sleep around. It’s one man at a time . . . even I have standards. And nothing’s wrong with settling down; it just isn’t for me. You know me—no rings, no strings.”
“You sound like a guy.”
“I sound like me.” I shrug. “Promise me, Des.”
“Ah look, Leo’s here. I’ll get the door.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it, Cassy,” I say to one of Desi’s friends.
“There is no way in hell you’re going to get me to jump out of a plane. No way, no how. I’d have to have about fifteen more of these to even consider it,” she says as she raises her empty glass of wine and shakes her head.
“Drink up,” I tease. “The offer stands, though. You wouldn’t have to do anything other than enjoy the ride since you’d be strapped to me.”
“That sounds like a bad porno, but it still won’t get me to change my mind,” she says through a laugh.
I lean back in my chair as the conversation wears on. Leo talks about his most favorite dive in Machu Pichu. Desi flits between the twenty or so guests, making everyone feel at home with her easy charm. The fairy lights in the trees add a soft glow, there’s a welcome chill to the summer air, and the Carne Asada cooking on the grill smells like absolute heaven.
Even better, she’s kept her promise. I don’t see any unfamiliar faces she can try to set me up with. And while I don’t know most of them other than a casual hello, I’ve at least seen them before. It’s the perfect night.
“Don’t you think, Emerson?” Leo’s voice pulls my attention back from my thoughts, and I find eight pairs of eyes staring at me waiting for an answer.
“I’m sorry. I was in La-la Land. What am I supposed to be opining about?”
“We were talking about—”
I don’t hear another word he says because, just over his left shoulder, I see Grant Malone standing in the frame of the door. He’s wearing shorts and a cream-colored Henley, and his hands are shoved in his pockets while his eyes are trained on me.
I hate that the sight of him makes my breath catch and causes a flutter somewhere deep inside me. I despise that when I meet his eyes, I want to see the little boy I once knew instead of the achingly handsome man he’s become. More than anything, I hate that he needs to go when all I want him to do is stay.
There’s an awkward moment where everyone notices my blatant distraction and falls silent. They shift to look at Grant before, almost as one, they turn back to stare at me.
“Excuse me,” I murmur as I rise from my seat, a mixture of anger and confusion rioting through my veins.
Desi broke her promise. And not only did she break her promise but she did so with the one man who made the dreams I haven’t had in years come back. Last night, I woke in a blind panic: Pillow soaked with sweat, hands gripped in the sheets, and heartbeat out of control.
My rational self knows it isn’t his fault, and yet, I blame him for scraping up the past, which is better left dead and buried.
If looks could kill, the one I shoot Desi would put her six feet under. The other guests murmur about who the stranger is as I make my way toward him.
“What are you doing here?” He smells incredible. Like soap and mint and why am I even noticing?
“Hi, Grant Malone. Nice to meet you.” Cool as can be, he ignores the irritation in my tone and holds his hand out for me to shake.
“Seriously?” I eye his hand and then look back to him.
“Oh, you’re going to remember that we know each other now? I’m sorry. I wasn’t quite sure if you were still playing the ‘I’m not Emmy, I don’t know you’ game like you were the other day.”
I grit my teeth because I deserve the dig, but hell if I’m going to let him know that. “What are you doing here?”
“Okay, so now we’re admitting we already know each other. That makes life much easier, don’t you think?” He drops his hand. “Desi invited me. She said she’s a good cook, and well, I like to eat.” The shrug he gives me is casual, as if there is no other explanation needed, and that smile of his never wavers from its boyish slant. I haven’t seen him in twenty years, and all the sudden, I cross paths with him twice in one week.
“In that case, she’s right over there.” I point to where Desi is sitting, cautiously staring our way. It’s only then that I realize most of the guests are also watching us.
“That, and I wanted to see you again.”
The words on my lips falter as I try to process why him being here has me so irritated, but it does. And just as bewilderingly, I can’t stop studying him. I can’t stop wondering about him and the man he’s become. Is he anything like the person my mind had conjured him to be on the odd occasion I thought about him?
I can feel the weight of everyone’s stares on my back and know they are wondering why I’m acting so bizarre. Normally, I’d hug whoever the new person was and welcome them into our transient circle without a second thought.
“Okay . . . well, then . . . beer is over there in the cooler and food is on the table. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the restroom.”
The kitchen is empty when I enter it, and I’m so very thankful for the silence to collect my thoughts. The irony is that the quiet doesn’t last long. Someone turns on the radio and music drifts in through the open french doors, along with my friends’ laughter and a voice that is unfamiliar yet familiar all at once.
I’ve come inside to get some distance from Grant so I can think, and yet I’m standing here studying him through the window. His dark hair and five o’clock shadow. How the sleeves of his Henley are pushed up to his elbows to showcase strong forearms. His natural ease talking with everyone and instinctual awareness of everything around him like his dad used to have when we were kids.
He’s just like the little boy I used to know and nothing like him at the same time.
That’s a brilliant thought, Em. He can’t be both of those at the same time . . . and yet, he is.
“Watcha looking at?”
I jump back at the sound of Desi’s voice and am shocked to find her standing beside me, admiring the same view I am. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed her come in.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” Needing something to do with my hands, I turn on the faucet and begin washing them.
/> “Uh-huh. That nothing you’re thinking of has a mighty fine ass, if I say so myself.”
It’s then that I realize I’m supposed to be mad at her. “You promised, Des.” I drag my eyes from my hands to meet hers. “I said I was going to bail if you did this, so I guess it’s time for me to leave.”
“Have I tried to fix you up with him?”
“No, but I know that’s only a matter of time.” I cross my arms over my chest and follow her gaze. He does have a fine ass.
Oh my God. What am I thinking? I can’t stare at his ass. Or notice how handsome he is. Or wonder if his hands are as strong as they appear. He was like a brother to me—my best friend—isn’t it creepy if I agree with her? He’s from memories I erased long ago.
And this is why I came into the house in the first place. All I wanted to do was have a few drinks and relax with my friends, but now my head’s all over the place—courtesy of Grant Malone.
“I swore I wouldn’t, and I intend to keep my promise.” She bumps her hip against mine. “Besides, I made your favorite for dessert, so you can’t leave yet.”
Dessert? My ears perk up at the same time I try to fight the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Which kind?”
Her laugh fills the small space. “You like all my desserts, so does it really matter?”
“No.” I laugh. And of course, now my mind is on whether she made a lemon tart or cheesecake or . . . crap, she’s right. I’m not going anywhere. Not when her dessert is involved.
“Look, we ran into each other again, and I thought it might be nice for you guys to reconnect. What’s the harm in that? He’s obviously someone from your past. He’s obviously interested in catching up. He’s obviously drop dead attractive. He’s—”
“You’re obviously losing your mind.”
“I meant no harm by it. I promise. I wasn’t even sure he was going to show. We’re typically surrounded by all my friends, so I thought it would be cool if you had your own friend here, too.”
I eye her, knowing I can’t argue since she invited him with nothing but good intentions in mind. “Your friends are my friends,” I say exasperated.