Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  “Exactly. He’s my friend now, too. That means I was allowed to invite him.” Her smile is smug as she expertly maneuvers me into a baseless argument.

  “You’re exhausting.”

  “And you love me,” she says, refilling my glass of wine.

  “Most days.” I take a sip but my eyes are still fixated on Grant Malone, and my mind is still on the confusion seeing him again has created.

  “All days.”

  I shrug and agree. “All days.”

  “Okay, well, I need to get back out there. You coming?”

  “In a minute.”

  “No way in hell.” Grant laughs, and I hate that everything about the sound pulls on me to pay attention when I don’t want to.

  “C’mon. A bunch of us jump. We could teach you,” Leo says with more slur than conviction after whatever round of drink he’s on.

  “I don’t trust anyone enough, let alone myself, to jump out of an airplane and rely on them to know the parachute is for sure going to deploy.”

  Chicken.

  I don’t say the word aloud, but I think it, and for some reason reverting back to sounding like a kid makes me feel a smidgen better.

  “Sounds like you have trust issues,” Leo says.

  “Yeah, how is that, Grant?” Desi pipes in while I just keep my head down and focus on picking at my nail polish. “You can risk your life every day doing your job, but you’re scared to skydive?”

  “My partner has my back,” he states.

  “So, you trust your partner, but you wouldn’t trust a skilled instructor to tandem jump with you? They control the jump, pull the chute, and make sure you land safely.”

  Goddamnit, Desi.

  I see the maneuvering going on here, and I don’t want any part of the set up. I shift in my seat and try to find an out that won’t be so obvious.

  “Tell me something, Desi,” Grant says as he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “When was the last time you jumped?”

  “Me?” She laughs. “You’re all out of your minds. There’s no way I would trust someone with my life.”

  “And you just proved my point,” he says, and Desi just laughs harder. But that charming chuckle she has, which typically has all the men sidling up next to her, doesn’t seem to affect Grant.

  Talk quiets some as we finish our dessert and Leo brings another round of drinks for those who are ready.

  “I swear every time Desi invites me over, I leave having gained ten pounds,” Cassy groans as she adjusts the waistband of her pants and then points an accusing finger my way. “And, of course, you’re going to have another helping and grin the whole time you’re eating it.”

  My hand stops mid-cut into another slice of cheesecake, but the guilt is only momentary. It’s too damn irresistible to pass up.

  “Bitch,” Desi playfully comments.

  “You always did love dessert.” It’s Grant’s quiet statement that has our friends turning their heads in his direction, the slow realization that he’s from the past I never talk about settling over them.

  But he isn’t looking at any of them. When I glance up, his gaze is on me. Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder what it is he sees when he looks at me. His soft smile exudes warmth, but it’s his eyes that draw me into places and times and thoughts that don’t belong in this lifetime.

  There’s a stirring in my belly that shouldn’t be there. The same one that has resurfaced each time the two of us have interacted in some way or another over the past few hours.

  I need to stop thinking about the gold flecks in his brown eyes and how he still has the hint of a scar on his chin from when he tried to jump his BMX off a homemade ramp.

  Familiarity.

  That’s what he is, and it’s something I’m not used to outside the world I’ve created.

  It’s too much. Too unexpected. Too close.

  “You’re right. I don’t need this extra piece,” I say as I stand abruptly and begin to clear the dirtied forks that were discarded when the paper plates were tossed into the fire. My avoidance of eye contact only serves to compound the awkwardness and reinforce that I’m not acting anything like my normal self.

  Once in the kitchen, I do things to busy myself. Wipe down the counters that have already been cleaned. Restack the dishwasher. Anything to settle the discord I feel.

  “Emerson.” The deep rumble of Grant’s voice cuts through my thoughts. My hands still. My heart races. My feet turn to face him. “Is everything okay?”

  Yes. No. I don’t know.

  I meet his eyes and struggle with how to respond. “I worked a long time to make this life, Grant.” My voice is shaky, and I hate that it is, but there’s no way I can disguise the emotion.

  “Okay.” He draws the word out as he cocks his head to the side, brows narrowing as if he’s trying to understand. “I wasn’t trying to interfere.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “To get to know you again. To be friends. I don’t know, you’re my Emmy . . .”

  The endearment from our childhood tears into parts of me I didn’t know existed anymore. “You being here . . .” I struggle to explain feelings I’m not even sure I understand. “You’re from another place and time I’ve tried to forget.”

  He takes a step closer and leans against the counter, but his eyes never leave mine as laughter from outside floats in. He nods slowly, saying, “I didn’t know that my being here would upset you. I’m sorry. It’s just that since I saw you the other day, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I thought maybe we could be friends again. That’s all, Emerson. Nothing more.”

  “I can’t be who you want me to be.” My thoughts explode into words I can’t believe I’ve said and want to take back immediately. For some reason, this conversation . . . he makes me nervous.

  “Who’s that? I don’t want you to be anything.”

  “A victim,” I whisper.

  Those two words knock the wind from his sails. His shoulders sag, and he roughs a hand through his hair before releasing an audible sigh. “Em . . .”

  “I don’t need a hero,” I explain, thinking of all the times he had talked about someday being like his dad, a hero who saves everyone from everything.

  “No one said you did.” The gold in his eyes burns bright as his temper surfaces. “I’m confused. Did I do something to offend you? Did I . . . Christ, never mind. Nothing’s worth it if it’s this much work. Nice seeing you again, Em. Have a nice life.”

  “No. Wait,” I say against my better judgment, causing him to stop in the doorway and face me.

  Sadness fuses with the anger in his eyes, and the expression on his face mirrors everything I feel but can’t express.

  “Am I staying or going, Em? You decide.”

  Words don’t come, and we stare at each other for a few moments before he nods in resignation and leaves.

  The front door shuts. Leo turns the music louder outside as Desi begins swinging her hips, but I remain in the kitchen with my chest hurting and my perfectly crafted world spinning off its axis. Even the half eaten cheesecake on the counter holds no appeal to me.

  A part of me wants to chase after him and apologize. I was more than rude, and he deserves better. The other part of me has finally recognized the emotion I was feeling but couldn’t put a finger on. It’s fear.

  I’m scared to death.

  Grant scares me.

  Out of habit, I run a hand over the inside of my arm and feel the ridges there. The reminders that fear can be overcome.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, I debate whether I should go back outside, drink some more wine, and waste the rest of the night away.

  Something tells me that just might exacerbate the traitorous feelings I’m having. Alcohol, Grant, and fear are a dangerous combination that just might jostle things I’ve long forgotten and never want to remember again.

  I’ve spent the last twenty years shutting myself off from all emotion—all f
eelings when it comes to anyone of the opposite sex—and in a span of one week’s time, I’ve let Grant change that.

  My black-and-white world has color seeping into its edges.

  I love and hate it all at the same time.

  It makes me feel alive inside when, until now, I hadn’t realized I had been dead.

  “None for me. Thank you, though.” I put my hand up to cover my glass as Chris tries to pour wine into it. Again.

  “C’mon, Em. Just because we’re working, doesn’t mean we can’t relax some and have a drink.”

  His cologne overpowers the scent of food in the restaurant, and there’s a soft whistle in his nose every time he inhales. I try not to focus on it, but now that I’ve heard it, I can’t unhear it.

  “Where were we?” I clear my throat and lift the profit and loss statement we were talking about before the waiter came with the bottle of wine. This, of course, came after the three glasses he had already had.

  “I forget. Where exactly were we?” he says in a playful voice as he scoots closer so we’re shoulder to shoulder. Again.

  Trying the same move I’ve done several times tonight already, I shift in my seat to put some distance between us. When I do, Chris reaches out and puts his hand over mine.

  Alarm bells sound off in my head, but I do my best to appear unaffected. It isn’t the first time a man has tried to flirt with me when I didn’t encourage it.

  I nonchalantly pull my hand out from under his to pick up the income statement. “We were talking about last year’s net income of Blue Skies compared to the proposed loan amount.”

  “Yes, we were.” He reaches across me to pick up an untouched glass of water, his elbow grazes against my breasts. I chock it up to being an accident, but I don’t like it one bit. “But I think it’s better suited if we talk about you and me.”

  “What about you and me?” I ask, befuddled where this conversation is going.

  “You know I’m the only loan officer in town who would take a chance on you, right?” His voice is low, and he’s so close that I can smell the wine on his breath.

  “Yes, and as I’ve said before, I appreciate that.”

  “Nothing is guaranteed though.”

  “I know.” I nod and shift my body again when he leans in closer. “Oh, you know what I forgot to ask about? What’s it called? Crap. I forgot. Can you get the other papers off the seat?” I feign stupidity to try to get him to go back to his side of the booth. His excuse that he needed to explain a calculation in order to sit beside me was clearly a ruse.

  “Forget the questions, Emerson. I know one surefire way to make certain you get that loan.”

  “Hmm? What’s that?” I ask without looking at him, even though I’m pretty damn sure what he’s going to suggest next.

  “C’mon.” He chuckles and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. “I’m always up for a little game of hard to get, but don’t you think we’re past that point?”

  I choose my next words wisely because I’m in a precarious position. Do I tell him to back the hell off and piss off the only banker who would take a chance on me? Do I do that and risk losing my loan? Or do I just bite my tongue, politely refuse him, and bide my time?

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. ” I decide to pick the second option and hope it works when every part of me begs to do the first one.

  “This loan process would go much smoother and be a little more certain, if you’d just give into our chemistry.”

  I turn to look at him and startle when I find his face within inches of mine. His eyebrows are raised and his stare is unwavering.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that, if I sleep with you, my loan will get approved?” I try to hide the disgust I feel and wonder if he senses it. Then again, it seems he’s in an alternative universe if he’s interpreted my indifference to his advances as my being interested.

  His chuckle rumbles in the small space around us. “Now, now, I didn’t say that, did I?” The smirk on his face and suggestion in his eyes says he meant exactly that. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”

  “And if I don’t give into our chemistry . . .?” His shrug is the only answer he gives. “I have a preapproval letter, Chris. The lender has already told me that so long as I get them the information they need and it’s accurate, they’ll give me the loan.”

  “Preapproval letters aren’t a loan approval,” he states, eyes hardening.

  “I’m aware,” I say with confidence while hating that his veiled threat only serves to intensify my anxiety over getting my loan.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. I refuse to back down or be intimidated by him. The man clearly isn’t the type of person I thought he was.

  “Oh my. Is it already six o’clock? Where did the time go? I need to get going.” I begin putting the papers into a messy stack as a way to show him I’m serious about needing to leave. He doesn’t budge. “Excuse me, Chris, can you please let me get out of the booth?”

  He narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side as he studies me. “I need the rest of this information by tomorrow night.” His voice is cold when moments ago it was warmth laced with suggestion.

  “Tomorrow night?” I laugh as if he’s joking but then realize he’s not. Panic hits me. It’s going to take me all night to pull this together. “I don’t understand. You told me I had until next Friday.”

  “Yeah, well, plans changed. I need it by tomorrow night.”

  “You’re serious.” I state the obvious, still dumbfounded by the personality switch he just flicked over to the asshole side.

  “Deadly. Unless of course . . .” He leaves the words unspoken, but his fingertip trailing down my bicep says it all for him.

  I yank my arm away and start scooting myself out of the booth, my hips hitting his to try to push him along. He relents but makes sure to stand well within my personal space as I gather the rest of my paperwork. I hate the feeling of him watching me as I bend over to grab my purse and briefcase from the inside of the booth.

  All I want to do is get the hell out of here but I grit my teeth, force myself to face him, and sound cordial.

  “Thank you for the dinner and for answering my questions. I’ll do my best to get the documents to you by tomorrow night.”

  “Don’t try, Emerson. Make it happen.”

  With bile in my throat and a film of disgust coating my skin, I walk out of the restaurant as quickly as I can.

  How could I be so stupid?

  How could I have been so wrapped up in making sure I understood everything needed for my loan that I missed the signs Chris was giving off?

  I press the pedal down harder. The speedometer hits seventy miles per hour, but it isn’t fast enough.

  First Chris.

  Then the realization that I have no other options but to deal with him and his creep factor.

  The needle hits eighty.

  Nothing will ever be enough to outrun that feeling I get every time someone expects me to bend to their will. To be subservient. To play the victim.

  Never again.

  No way. No how. Screw that.

  The long road is stretched out before me. Just fields, grape vines, trees, and flat asphalt, making me feel as if I were the only person on the face of the earth.

  Hitting the outskirts of town, I push the envelope of safety, but when you jump out of airplanes for a living, that envelope is harder to breach than for most.

  With each mile I put between myself and the restaurant, I feel the stress begin to shed. The pressure of making sure all my documents are in order so I don’t lose the loan because of some stupid mistake eases. And with the clearing of my mind comes the clarity.

  Despite it being so much easier to pick up and move when people started asking too many questions about my past, I let Desi talk me into coming back to Sunnyville. My need to put away the gypsy life I have been living and settle down to plant roots for myself was just a thought back then, yet, I’d been will
ing to try.

  Then I found Blue Skies, which was in desperate need of some TLC, and decided that the girl, who liked to go where the wind blows her, suddenly wanted something permanent. A business. A fixture. Something to be proud of.

  My desire to own Blue Skies and make it one hundred percent mine had made me stay to fight for something.

  And fighting is what I’m doing.

  The sirens come out of nowhere. Blue and red lights flash to tell me my fun—my reprieve—has been compromised and is about to be shut down.

  “Shit.” I pound a fist against the wheel, knowing this will be my second ticket in six months. The monetary fine. Points on my driving record. The increase in my insurance. All the consequences ghost through my mind as I pull to a stop and wait for Officer Asshole to walk up to the driver side and read me the riot act. I may even pull up the hem of my shorts some so when he’s met with an eyeful of tanned and toned thighs, he might be distracted.

  It’s worth a shot.

  “License and registration, please.”

  I look up to the gravelly voice standing outside my window and am met with my own reflection in his mirrored lenses. “Hi, Officer. How is your day going?” I’ll try sweet-talking. I’m not good at it, but at least I’m not going down without a fight.

  “License and registration, please, ma’am.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “How about going ninety in a fifty mile an hour zone.”

  “Oh. Was I really going that fast?” I feign innocence.

  “Are you in a hurry?” I stare at him doe-eyed, unable to make my synapses fire so I can come up with some kind of brilliant excuse. “That’s considered reckless driving. Endangerment of others. Should I go on?”

  With each offense my eyes are seeing dollar signs that my wallet doesn’t have.

  The radio handset strapped to his shoulder sparks to life, and he responds in some kind of code that sounds like a foreign language. “No, Officer. The thing is I left my house in a hurry—”

  “I think we’ve established that fact.”

  I look in my rearview mirror as another police car pulls up behind his, and my palms grow sweaty. Am I that dangerous that they need two units to handle this call?