Man Cuffed Page 10

  I’d laughed out loud. “Nobody wants to hear me sing.”

  “Not true!” she’d argued. “You could wear your uniform! It would be so cool for a cop to suddenly join in.”

  “Cool for people without ears, maybe. Besides, I gotta work.”

  She’d waved a hand, dismissing both arguments. “You sing. Why are you pretending you don’t?”

  “You’re high,” I’d argued. “Should I frisk you for the bong you’ve obviously been hitting?”

  That vixen only gave me a sexy smirk. “Frisk me already. And you’re lying.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She’d opened her dryer and pulled out the tiniest pair of pink underwear I’ve ever seen. My brain activity dropped in half as I tried to picture them against her smooth, coppery skin. “Thin walls,” she said.

  “Uh, what?”

  “Thin walls, Hot Cop. I’ve heard you singing in the shower. I’ve heard every noise you’ve made for the past six weeks. Especially when Nicole was staying with you.”

  This bit of insight blindsided me. And I was still staring at those panties. Meg could see it in my face, too. So she twirled them around on her finger. Then she took a step closer to me. All my warning bells started to ring. Warning! Retreat! No hooking up with your neighbor! Too risky. Too close. Too much trouble.

  But I didn’t budge. My brain was not the boss of me in that particular moment.

  Meg leaned in close and said, “You have a nice baritone, Copper. Good pipes.”

  Her lips were so close to mine. It’s been impossible to forget their softness. That fake kiss at the bridal shower is still burned into my consciousness.

  Now Meg was offering me a chance at a real kiss. All it would have taken was the slightest turn of my chin. I could finally taste her. Slow and deep.

  But we all know how that would play out. I’d probably hoist her up on the dryer, spread her legs, and go to town while the laundry shuddered under us.

  But no. I didn’t move. Discipline won, if only by a nose.

  Meg hovered there for a beat, waiting. Then she tucked that thong into my front pocket, patted it, scooped the rest of her laundry into a bag, and disappeared. I just stood there. Dick nice and hard. Big stupid grin forming on my face. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

  I can’t get that girl out of my system. She keeps popping up, tempting me with her snark and her long arms that I want to feel wrapped around me, or even better, her long legs wrapped around me while I…

  No, Maguire. Don’t go toward the light.

  It’s been a hot summer so far, just saying. And all week I haven’t done any singing in the shower, so she won’t try to recruit me again.

  Today’s her big day, though. Even though I’m not willing to make an ass of myself by singing in public, I’m too curious to stay away. I mean, Lance and I were already in the neighborhood, so I’m just being a gentleman in swinging by to watch.

  Lance is already halfway to the pastries, as I lock the car and approach the market. I can’t pick out Meg in the crowd, but I can already hear the music. At least a dozen people are playing instruments. They’re circling a smiling woman in the flower stall. She has her hands pressed to her face, and her eyes look shiny.

  There’s a nice feeling in the air right now. And I know that’s all Meg’s doing. She’s the kind of person who weaves magic around people. She’s like a firefly. She’s lighter and brighter than everyone else. I can’t help but smile a little whenever she’s nearby.

  And that woman in the flower stall? Now a man approaches her, hands thrust in his pockets. He’s wearing a Loon Lake Dairy apron and a proud smile. Lucky guy. He’s got all his shit figured out. He makes the world’s most expensive cheese for a living, and he’s made his girl tear up with music and attention.

  I can tell by looking at this man that I’m never gonna have him in the back of a cruiser. Sometimes you just know. Some people are just plain made of light. But most of us have a dark side. Or at least a side the light can’t reach.

  I’m too much inside my head, maybe. I try to focus on the music instead.

  The violins rise to a fevered pitch, and then another dozen people launch into song. And, wow. They’ve got some lungs. It’s stunning to hear so many voices at once. I feel myself get very quiet inside.

  When was the last time I heard live music? I’d forgotten what it felt like to be so close to a song that you can feel it in your chest. The fiddle has crawled down into my gut and given everything a tug.

  I don’t even recognize myself right now. But I’m not sure I care.

  Then I finally spot Meg. She’s actually climbing a ladder that’s leaning against one of the beams holding up the metal roof. She’s being subtle about it, like she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. She’s wearing tight pants and Chuck T’s, and her face is one hundred percent concentration.

  When she reaches the top, she pauses up there, just watching the action. The expression on her face is pure joy. Just for a second I actually forget I’m me. I let the song pulse through my blood, and as I’m watching Meg, I hear myself sing along with the chorus.

  The girl was right, anyway. I do like to sing. It’s just that I haven’t done so in a long time.

  I’m not the only one watching Meg, though. I spot a security guard whose gaze is stuck on her like a tattoo. On her ass, specifically. But as she climbs even higher, he starts to frown. Like he’s just remembered why he’s here, and he can’t figure out why she’d climb that ladder.

  The little velvet box in her hand ought to be a clue, though. And there’s some kind of prop affixed to the ceiling above her.

  The security guy, though, is confused. And I’m sucked out of the music for a bit and straight into cop mode.

  He’s a young man, which is a red flag. An older security guard is usually a retired cop—a good guy with good instincts, who knows how to spot trouble brewing. But young guards are often hotheads who couldn’t get a real law enforcement job. They crave the power of the uniform, but they don’t have sufficient smarts or restraint. And sometimes they have a chip on their shoulder from not getting the job they think they deserve.

  It’s that chip I’m concerned about right now.

  Sure enough, just as Meg gets to the top step of the ladder, he touches her ankle. “Hey!” he calls. I can’t hear him over the music, but I can see his face. He’s pinched and red-faced. And about two seconds from being a complete asshole.

  She doesn’t look at him. She’s watching the action, and waiting for some kind of cue.

  “Hey!” He grabs the ladder.

  I’m already on the move, dodging bodies, trying to make it over there before he destabilizes that ladder and tips the whole thing over.

  By the time I reach them, Meg is looking down at him, eyes wide with fear.

  “Gotta ask you to step down,” the guy shouts, oblivious.

  “Sir,” I growl, causing the guard to whirl around. “Step away from the ladder.” I use my cop voice. Low. Quiet. And dead-as-fuck serious.

  “But—”

  I pull out my shield. He squints at it. “My badge is real. Now back off.”

  He sneers at me. “You gonna stop me from doing my job? I’m protecting the market from dangerous elements.”

  “You mean her?” I point up at Meg. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Well what’s she doing up there?”

  “No idea,” I admit. “But it’s part of this…” I wave my arms around. “And she has the proper permits,” I lie. Meg doesn’t strike me as a by-the-book kind of girl.

  “Gotta see that,” rent-a-cop says. He reaches for the ladder.

  I knock his hand away.

  “Hey!” He looks like he actually wants to punch a police officer.

  Knew he was dumb. And the glare I give him is the same one that terrifies all the recruits. “You don’t keep the peace by endangering someone on a ladder.” I take a step forward, forcing him to take a step back. “And why, when t
here are so many people here, did you follow her?”

  Meg looks about as threatening as a puppy wagging its tail. I look up and find her reaching over her head for a blue ribbon. And when she gives it a tug, a giant blue silk parachute unfurls, opening itself against the roofline. It’s like there’s a blue sky rippling above us. Now Meg is affixing the little velvet box to a silk bird, which she’s lowering with a pulley to the man in the apron.

  Mr. Loon Lake catches it, then drops to one knee just as the singers hit their last chord.

  As silence falls, he opens the box to reveal a ring. “Will you marry me, Gretchen?”

  Gretchen is already nodding and squealing. “Yes!” The crowd lets out a collective gasp. They were here to buy lettuce, and they accidentally witnessed a small miracle.

  Even I feel a twinge in my gut at this moment. I don’t even have a name for the way this whole scene makes me feel.

  Above me, Meg looks absolutely triumphant. And the applause is deafening. She climbs down a moment later, beaming. “Did you see the whole thing?” she squeals. “It was magic!”

  “Saw some,” I tell her. And the security guard has finally wised up and moved on. That fool is probably looking for someone else to bother.

  Meg leaps to the ground and grabs me into a hug.

  Goddammit, her hugs are gonna kill me. Today she smells like strawberries, roses, and every lustful thought I’ve ever had in my whole life. I step back, trying to keep my hunger off my face. “The music sounded great,” I say, just to keep things normal.

  “I know!” She claps her hands. “But it was more than just a performance. It was a big moment in somebody’s life. And I made that. I’m hooked, Copper. I’m going to see if Aubrey wants to do more of these.”

  “Lookout, world,” I say with an uneasy laugh. If she does more of these, we’re going to have to have a chat about warning the security personnel. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” she thinks to ask.

  “Just in the neighborhood.”

  “Great to see you.” She gives me a flirty smile and darts away.

  Just in the neighborhood. That’s my general issue with Meg. She is literally my closest neighbor. I can’t get away from her.

  And I really don’t want to.

  12 The Erotic Version of the Star Wars Trash Compactor Scene

  Meg

  “Oh, can’t you stay just a bit longer?” I whine. I’m drinking wine and whining at the same time, so everything is sorta rhyming and in perfect balance.

  “I have to go,” Cassidy sighs. “My Lyft is one minute away, and I have a plan to surprise Greg by dropping by tonight.”

  “But what about my needs?”

  For the past hour, we’ve been celebrating on my little deck. By celebrating, I mean drinking cheap champagne and watching the moon rise. The moon is perfect tonight—full and golden. And although champagne gives me a headache, it tastes celebratory. Here’s to making a hefty sack of change! Here’s to flash mobs! Here’s to my new business ideas!

  “We’ve toasted everything but world peace, and it’s barely eight o’clock,” she says. “And this is my last chance to see Greg before he goes out of town.”

  “Wait.” I grab Cassidy’s knee. “Is tonight The Night?”

  “I dunno.” She stands up and shakes off my hand, which I was basically using to hold her down. “Maybe.”

  “Did you wear sexy underwear?” I pry.

  She bites her lip. “So what if I did?”

  “Oh, honey. Don’t sleep with him just because you’re wearing lingerie that has to be hand-washed. Make sure he’s worth it.”

  “Get out of my brain,” she complains. “I hate hand-washing silk. And we’ve already been on three dates.”

  I laugh out loud. “But you seem about as physically drawn to him as you are in fucking your tax return.”

  “Well, that’s apropos because he is an accountant,” she says. “I mean on paper he’s perfect. Handsome. Educated. Good family. Rich…”

  “And…?” I wait for her to admit the truth.

  “Fine—incredibly boring. There’s no passion there. We’ve kissed and his lips were cold. Actually cold! Like a pickled fish.”

  “See?” I bellow, maybe a little loudly. Hello, champagne. “Do not sleep with him! Tonight is not the night to say, make dirty love to me. Because I don’t think he’s capable of it. Tonight is the night you say ta ta for now, pickle.”

  “You’re drunk,” she says, laughing. “At least I’m out there looking.”

  “Oh, I’m looking. I’m just not finding. And you aren’t either. Seriously, Cassidy, wait for the guy that you just can’t keep your hands off of. The one who wakes you up at night. The one you imagine tasting. The one who you just want to unzip and crawl inside.”

  She stares at me. “I was with you until that last bit.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m a little…”

  “Drunk?”

  “Happy,” I say. Because it’s true.

  “Gotta go. I’ll figure it out.” She makes a move toward my kitchen. “I’ll let myself out. And don’t worry! I’ll call you if I need you, or text you from the bathroom if I need you to rescue me.”

  “Okay. Deal.”

  She steps back toward me, refills my glass one more time, and then heads out.

  Ten bucks says that Greg wears tighty whities to bed. But at least Cassidy is having sex tonight. That makes one of us.

  I sit here a while longer, rocking gently in the nighttime air on the love-seat glider I bought today. It’s a gift to myself. It isn’t the hippest piece of outdoor furniture. But it was on sale for ninety-nine dollars. And that’s a good enough reason. Now I can sit out here on my deck in comfort, watching the rising moon.

  When I was younger I had dreams of becoming a rich, famous actress. But this year I can feel my goal starting to shift. I still want to live my life creatively. I’m not about to go to accountant school and change my name to Greg. But it’s just dawning on me that a creative life could take many forms. Today I put on a show in a way that pays the bills.

  Today was a good day.

  It’s peaceful out here. I anchor my foot against the deck boards and give my glider a little swing. I’ve got my bubbly, what’s left of the charcuterie board Cassidy brought, and two Pierson of Interest scripts in my lap. Cassidy was going to finish running lines with me, but we kept getting distracted. My audition is first thing Monday morning, so I really need to be prepared.

  I’ve already got the lines memorized. But every time I practice, it just feels like something is missing. One of the scenes is a hot flirtation between the character I’d play, Elsa, and a dirty cop. I don’t mean sexy dirty, but dirty dirty. He’ll end up getting my character killed four episodes later. (Bastard!) And while it’s a well-written scene, I just can’t seem to grab a hold of it. I can’t feel enough of Elsa in this scene. It’s just...hollow.

  Maybe I’m the hollow one, though. Maybe Sadie is right. I’ve been auditioning forever, and nothing’s stuck. Maybe I’m just afraid to invest myself one more time. I may have reached the breaking point with my career. How long am I going to do something that only makes me feel inadequate and hollow?

  I sure didn’t feel inadequate this morning when I pulled off that flash mob. It was so satisfying to be the one pulling the strings for once, instead of being the puppet.

  The script lays abandoned once again in my lap as I daydream about other flash mobs I could produce. I can’t wait to talk with Aubrey again. I want to know if she feels like taking on a partner and building something new.

  Speaking of partnering… I hear my neighbor’s door open and close next door. Then I hear him moving about in his apartment. He sighs, and even that is sexy. It’s a warm night, so naturally I hear him step outside to take in the breeze.

  “You peeping over here at me, Copper?” I call out.

  He peeks over the divider, all cute-like. “That depends. Are
you topless?” He asks this somewhat hopefully.

  “No, because I’m not in the mood to be arrested for indecent exposure.”

  “How do you feel about public drunkenness?” he asks. “I could bring over some beers.”

  I momentarily weigh the alcohol content of my blood and then decide a little more won’t matter. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  “Sure. Two seconds.”

  It takes him longer than two seconds. It takes him about ten minutes. I would’ve wondered why, but I hear the shower running. And now I’m picturing him naked in the hot stream of water, rubbing his soapy hands all over himself, and thinking how much I’d enjoy breaking into his apartment again to join him.

  But I don’t know if I could make it over the fence without killing myself right now.

  It’s the bubbly. It’s made me tipsy. And that sound you just heard was not a burp. That was the bubbles effervescing. Out of me.

  No fence jumping tonight. Or fence crawling. Both ideas are bad bad bad.

  Instead, I make the twenty-step trip through my apartment to unlock my own door. Then I return to my glider chair and my champagne and my forgotten scripts.

  The scripts. The scripts that could change my whole life and give me everything I want.

  Everything I thought I wanted.

  So why can’t I seem to want it enough to fucking rehearse the scenes?

  I pick one up again, like a good girl.

  I’m rereading the familiar lines when I can feel Mac come in through my apartment. His approach makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Not with fear, though. Excitement. Then he’s standing in front of me. And...

  He’s shirtless.

  Holy shit.

  He’s wearing khaki shorts and nothing else. His feet are bare and he’s holding a six-pack of beer to match the six-pack on his front. My brain freezes, and all I can really take in is how incredibly ripped he is. All those muscles I want to trace with my tongue. His chest isn’t barren. He has just enough pale hair to sift my fingers through. And that V leading down to the bulge of his jeans…