Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  “No I don’t. I only like your cock.”

  He snorts and opens one eye to stare at me at the same time he reaches a hand out to rest on the back of my knee. “You like my mouth, too.”

  His thumb brushes up and down the backside of my knee and sends shockwaves through my body. “It is a pretty damn good mouth.”

  “Then there are my hands . . .”

  “Mmm.”

  And within a second, he has pulled me down on top of him and his lips are on mine in a kiss to rival all kisses. It’s hot and sweet and sexy and all-consuming, and when he pulls back, it leaves me breathless to the point that my chest is heaving and my eyes can’t seem to break away from his.

  There’s a brief moment where I see something in his eyes—sadness, regret, I’m not sure—before it clears away. It makes me want to ask him what happened today that brought him to my doorstep.

  I’d like to think he’s here because he wants to see me. The kiss he just mesmerized me with says I’m at least part of the reason, but I’m also observant enough to know something is bugging him.

  “Officer, is that your baton or are you just happy to see me?” I murmur.

  His laugh rumbles through his chest and into me, and there is something about the moment—the ease of it—that makes me feel a bit better about whatever is bugging him.

  “I’m hungry,” he says, suddenly shifting our bodies so that he’s sitting up sideways on the couch with my ass between the V of his thighs.

  My laugh is instant. My desire well above a simmer. My body begging him to lie back down so that I can kiss him again. “You’re hungry?”

  “Yep. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “What? Where?”

  “You’re the one who said you wanted a change of scenery.”

  “I changed my mind.” I run my fingertip down the side of his jaw.

  “Unchange it. I’m hungry, and from what you’ve said, I can garner your cooking skills aren’t that great.”

  “Like I offered.” I scoff but smile.

  “So, it’s decided. We’re going to grab something to eat. I just need to change first.” And without another word, he shifts out from behind me and stands before he begins unbuckling his duty belt.

  Then unlacing his boots.

  Then unbuttoning his shirt.

  Next his bulletproof vest.

  When he’s standing in my flat in nothing but his unbuttoned pants with a delicious section of happy trail on display, I have no qualms about appreciating the view.

  Oh. My.

  Sure we’ve already seen each other naked, but there’s something different about watching someone undress when the taste of their kiss is still on your lips. There’s a sensuality to it, an intimacy I’m not used to, so I take the time to admire him. His hard lines and tan edges. His broad shoulders and cut biceps.

  With his eyes on mine and a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, Grant pushes his uniform pants down and then bends over to pick them up, giving me a very fine view of his boxer-brief clad ass when he does. So he’s in my apartment, in nothing but his underwear, fresh out of that hot uniform, and he seriously thinks I’m going to be caring about food right now?

  “Grant?”

  He looks over to me and stands to full height, every fabulous pack of the six he has rippling for added effect. “What?” he asks with feigned innocence. The man knows exactly what he’s doing as he makes a show of folding his uniform in some perfectionist way. Then he grabs the clump he dropped on the couch, which I now know are clothes.

  “Food?”

  “Yeah.” He slips a T-shirt over his head—some Back the Blue competition—and then pulls on his jeans. “I’m starving.” His grin appears again as he lifts his eyebrows while my tongue licks out to wet my lips. “You ready?”

  “Yes.” But I’m starving for a whole hell of a lot more than food.

  “Well, Mr. Malone, no one can say you don’t know how to charm the pants off a girl when you take her on a date.” I take a bite of what’s left of my French fries as I push against the sand, making my swing rock gently back and forth like his is.

  He glances over to me, eyebrows narrowing as he finishes his own bite of hamburger. “Take-out and the park isn’t where I normally take a lady on a date.” My back is up immediately, offended by his response. He notices, too. “They’re your rules, Emerson.”

  Those words snap me from the haze of my burgeoning temper. Me and my damn rule about no dates. Can’t be mad at the man for listening to me, or for pushing my buttons to get me to realize how dumb said rules are.

  “They are,” I murmur as I toss the empty fry container into the open bag at our feet before scooting back onto my swing and beginning to pump my legs. Anything to get out the frustration at myself for being upset by his comment when it was my doing.

  I lean my head back, close my eyes, tighten my hands on the chains as I swing higher and higher. The rush of the air against my cheeks, the feel of my hair flying behind me . . . there is something about being on a swing that’s liberating. I’m under my own power. I’m the one who controls how high or fast I go.

  There is no Travis and his to-do lists. There is no dread every time the phone rings over what Chris needs now or what proposition he has for me to assure that I’ll get approved. There are no thoughts at all.

  It’s just the wind, and the effort, and it’s just . . . juvenile.

  “You can’t outswing me, Reeves,” Grant says beside me, prompting me to look to my left and see that we are swinging in unison, side by side.

  I pump harder, for some reason needing to beat him, needing this release I don’t understand.

  Our laughter fills the empty park as we race each other. I’m so high now that as I reach the peak of the swing, the rubber seat beneath me falls lax for a second.

  I’m not sure how long we race each other or if Grant willingly lets me win, but by the time we stop trying, I’m winded and my cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.

  We slowly allow the pendulum of our swings to slow until our shoes are dragging ever so lightly on the sand beneath our feet. And when we come to a complete stop, I rest my head against my hand still holding on to the chain and look over to him.

  His hair is mussed, and his eyes are as alive as his smile, but there is something else there that I wait for.

  “You want to know why I brought you here?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the swing set was the last place I remember you before you weren’t happy anymore.”

  My lips part as I stare at him, all the vigor we just used to beat each other gone. I think of that day. Of swinging with him on the playground. Of lining up after recess. Of the intercom call. Of telling him I hate him and that I never wanted to see him again.

  My throat’s dry, and I’m not sure whether it’s because of the exertion or because of what he just said. The one thing I know for sure is that it’s the first time that I don’t want to run away when he brings up the past.

  His reason is actually very sweet. And painful.

  And just as quickly, the feeling of betrayal, I don’t expect or know how to handle, comes back with a vengeance

  “You lied to me,” I say in a barely audible whisper.

  His eyes fall, as does my heart. “I did.” He nods, and the look on his face says he’d do it again in a heartbeat if he had to.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “It’s hard for me to trust you because of that.”

  He laughs, but it’s a short, gruff sound that dies almost as quickly as it begins. “I think your lack of trust has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what you’ve been through, Emerson.”

  “How do you know what I’ve been through, Grant?”

  His head startles in confusion. At least I hope it’s confusion. “I don’t.”

  I don’t relent on my stare because the sudden racing of my pulse has me doubting myself and if I should trust him now.

  H
ating this sudden unfounded uncertainty, I stand from the swing and jog over to the Merry-go-round. I grab hold of a bar and begin pushing it so that it starts to spin. When I think I have it as fast as it will go, I take a chance and jump onto the rusting heap of metal.

  It’s moving quickly and spinning out of control, but when I get on, I lie down. With one foot hooked on one side of the bars and my hands holding on to another over my head, I close my eyes and let the centrifugal force commandeer my thoughts from where our conversation brought them. I let the world spin out of control around me while I hold on for what feels like dear life.

  There’s a boost to the spin, and I know that Grant is there. He’s pushing me now. I can feel the platform flex as he climbs on and the heat of his body as he lies beside me. I know that when he closes his hand over mine where it holds on to the bar, he’s making sure not to let go for the both of us.

  He brings calm to the chaos spinning out of control around me and within me.

  For the first time in a very, very long time, I allow myself to accept that.

  To accept him.

  To welcome it rather than push it away.

  “Do you ever not have that thing on?”

  “What? The scanner?” he asks as he turns onto the highway.

  “Yes.”

  He shrugs. “Does it bug you?”

  “Not really. I just don’t understand why you still listen to calls if you’re off duty.” I rub my feet together, and more sand from the playground comes off the soles of my shoes and dusts the floor mat.

  “I have a few situations I like to keep an eye on. If a call goes out on one of those, sometimes I like to go so I can make sure what’s going on.”

  “Hm.”

  “Hm?”

  “Sounds to me like someone is attached to—”

  “Possible 10-16. 12662 Serenity Court. Officers responding.” The scanner interrupts.

  “Son of a bitch,” Grant says as he slams the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

  “What’s a 10-16?” Whatever it is, it obviously isn’t good.

  “I jinxed it by saying it,” he mutters to himself.

  “Grant? Are you okay?” I stare at his profile and can see the disconcert in his posture.

  “No. Yes. Fuck. This is the one case I’m worried about.” He glances my way, and I can see the hesitation in his body language. “I need to . . . shit. My cruiser.”

  “If you’re worried, just drive there now. I can sit and wait out whatever you need to do. Don’t waste the time taking me back,” I ramble, hating that he is so upset about this call.

  “You sure?” He eyes me in a way that says he knows more than I do, which is obvious, and yet, I’m not sure why he feels the need to relay it.

  “Yes. Positive. Go.”

  He grabs his cell, punches a few numbers, and then holds it to his ear, waiting. “Dispatch, I’m an off-duty officer responding to the call for 12662 Serenity Court,” he says. “Yes. Grant Malone . . . I’m in civilian clothes but want it known to the guys on scene that I’m responding . . . No. It’s an ongoing situation. I’ve been monitoring every call you have listed there . . . Yeah . . . I know, but I’m on my way. 10-4.”

  It doesn’t take long to make it to the address, but that could be because Grant may or may not have completely demolished the speed limit.

  When we pull onto the street and park beside two other cruisers, trepidation takes hold. I’m sure it will be cool seeing Grant in action, but at the same time, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.

  As if I’m violating their privacy by being here.

  “Goddamnit,” he mutters as he slams the truck into park, flings the door open, and jogs up the front walkway.

  Then I see her.

  The little girl sits on a rock in the middle of a planter in the front yard with a teddy bear hugged tight to her chest. She’s looking down at her bear’s face, fingers picking at its eyes, as a big, burly police officer awkwardly tries to talk to her.

  “Keely.” I hear Grant say the name, and the minute it is out of his mouth, she looks up. A ghost of a smile turns up the corners of her lips, but something about her face expresses a sadness so strong I can feel it deep in my bones.

  Big, burly officer visibly relaxes and has no problem stepping back. Grant lowers himself to the ground and sits cross-legged beside her.

  “Oh.” My hand flies up to cover my mouth, and tears sting my eyes at the mere sight of them. There is a comfort between them, a gentleness to him I never expected to see. He talks to her, pointing to her bear and the rocks in the planter around her. It’s so obvious from the outside how hard he is working to make her smile and put her at ease.

  Curiosity has me glancing to the backs of the officers standing at the front door, but I can’t keep my eyes away from Grant and Keely for very long. There is something so precious and heartbreaking about their interaction. He dwarfs her, and yet, she seems completely at ease with him. They talk some, his expression so serious when she looks away and then warm when she comes back to him. He works for her smile, and when she grants it, there is a flicker of hope under all the shadows haunting her eyes.

  It kills me. In every sense of the word.

  Why does this little girl trust Grant so much? More so, why would a little girl know a police officer enough to trust him?

  And then I remember the code 10-16—domestic abuse. Grant told dispatch that he’d been to every one of the previous calls to this address.

  Every.

  One.

  How many times has he been here?

  I push the thoughts and scenarios from my mind. I don’t want to think or assume, but it doesn’t stop the sting of tears in my eyes as he reaches out and holds her little hand in his.

  Because it’s real. Grant’s hero complex and his need to save everyone is real, and I’m watching it firsthand.

  He and Keely are pointing to the smaller rocks around them, and after a bit, I hear her giggle. It’s the most adorable sound in the world. All I can do is stare. And wonder. And hope she’s outside because whatever happened inside doesn’t involve her.

  I’m not sure how long I sit and stare at the two of them, but it’s long enough that my feet are numb from their positioning and the sky has slowly faded to black. So lost in thought, I’m startled when Grant slides behind the wheel, starts the car, and pulls away from the curb.

  “The fucker’s lucky he wasn’t home,” he mutters under his breath but doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for more.

  I turn some in my seat so I can study him and try to wrap my head around how the man, who seemed so at ease moments ago with a little girl, now feels like a ticking time bomb. The lights from passing cars and streetlamps lighten and darken the features of his face, leaving me to wonder what’s going on in that mind of his. I’d also love to pepper him with questions about what the call was all about, but for a woman who doesn’t like to answer questions herself, the safe strategy is to keep my mouth shut.

  We drive for some time, winding up through the hills around Sunnyville until Grant pulls off the asphalt and onto a graded road. We continue for a ways, and it’s only when he pulls into a clearing that overlooks the city and all of its lights below that I know where we are: Grant’s place he goes to think.

  Our silence stretches, long and thick and heavy, but with the windows down, the sounds of the nightlife around us soften the tension in it. Every part of me wants to ease whatever is upsetting him but I have no clue how to even begin to do that.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask, hoping enough time has passed that he can think rationally about whatever happened.

  His sigh is heavy. “I’m not sure that I can.”

  “Because it’s a case?”

  Without answering, Grant opens the door and gets out of the truck. I watch him pace back and forth, the moonlight above accentuating the tension seizing his posture. I slip out of the cab and find a flat slope of rock near the front
of his truck and take a seat, cross my legs, and focus on the twinkling lights of the city. They almost look like embers burning in the bottom of a fire pit, and I wonder what each of those lights represent.

  Is one of them Keely’s?

  How many of them hide the horror happening beneath their cover?

  I shake the thought away. Too much thinking for tonight. Too much delving into a past I don’t want to delve into.

  “Remember the side of your house?” Everything inside me freezes. The minute I’m determined to get out of my own past, he brings me right back into it. “Remember how we used to go and sit there and play whatever the hell we used to play back then because you wanted to get outside? Sometimes, you’d paint those rocks of yours with silly pictures, other times I’d play Barbies with you. I hated it, but I played because you were always playing cops and robbers with me?”

  “No.” I whisper the word, not sure if it’s because I don’t want to remember or because I don’t want to talk about it.

  Either he doesn’t hear me or he doesn’t care, because he keeps talking. “After you left, I used to go there. I’d just sit there by myself because I missed you so much. I’d pretend that you were inside and you were going to come out to play any minute.”

  Every part of me wants to reject what he’s saying. I want to cover my ears like the little girl he remembers would have done and shut him out. I don’t want to know that he was hurt, too. It’s so much easier to think I was the only one who hurt. It’s so much easier to remember how much I hated him for pulling my world apart instead of looking at it like an adult and realizing he did the right thing.

  But I don’t lift my hands. I don’t turn to face him. I need to hear this. I need to listen to him. I need to face what I don’t want to know and am scared to death to remember.

  “I missed you, Em. You were my best friend. You were the one I told all my silly secrets to. You were part of my every day, and then you were gone . . .”

  I told him my secrets, too. But mine were far from any secret an eight-year-old should have.

  I push up from where I’m seated and walk a few feet away from him, hating the hurt in his voice that somehow I had a part in putting there. But at the same time, I’m angry at him for driving me up here where I can’t exactly escape the conversation.