Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

All right. My head is back on straight. Whatever weirdness I vibed from Ever was a hallucination. Just like that time I drank too many Red Bulls at a Miike Snow concert and swore I was levitating. I’m going to have proof on my side in mere minutes, because I’m climbing Ever’s stairs, my chest expanding as I suck in the citrus aromas dangling in the air like ripe fruit. She’s going to answer the door, we’re going to screw like a meteor is headed for Earth, and this weird, shaky feeling in my stomach will bounce.

So why does my hand pause on the way to knocking? I can hear her soft humming through the door, the gentle scrapes of kitchen utensils. Homey sounds I’m not accustomed to. Ones I don’t normally absorb. And I shouldn’t. I don’t have time. When my brother, Greer, was a recruit, he slept in the locker room between sessions. When he’d found the NYPD drills to be unchallenging, he’d designed new ones. They’re not going to name a sweaty gym mat after me unless I raise my game. A lot.

I will, too. As soon as I get Ever out of my system for the day, I’ll be able to focus. Ignoring the way her hums seem to swim lazy laps in my stomach, I knock. Harder than usual. There won’t be any games played today. No flirting through the door crack. I’m going to make short work of whatever sexy outfit she’s concocted to make me insane, then ride her on my dick until she loses count of her orgasms.

She takes way too long to answer the door. The longer it takes, the more my chest feels like it’s caving in. There’s no more humming. It’s complete silence, and I’m contemplating the merits of knocking again—or breaking down the door—when she finally opens.

Immediately, I know yesterday wasn’t some fluke. Everything has changed.

“Hey, Ever.”

“Charlie.” She smiles, but it dips at the edges. “Hey.”

In red jean shorts and a tight, white, see-through T-shirt, she looks phenomenal, but for the first time, my lust is cut with desperation. There’s nothing more dangerous. A no-fly zone. A vision of Ever wrapped in yellow caution tape flashes in my mind, but I shake the image loose and focus. I see the writing on the wall here. The fun is over. But I can’t get my feet to move. Going into her apartment is the absolute worst idea, but I can’t stop myself from making it, because goddammit. This is Ever. A unicorn. I’m not just going to walk away and be left wondering what got her horn stuck in the mud. That would be rude, wouldn’t it? Not to mention unprofessional. Cops aren’t supposed to leave stones unturned.

“Can I come in?”

She nods and steps back, clearly putting distance between our bodies when normally I would be ripping off those tiny shorts by now, my cock in her hands. Fuck, I’m so hot for her. No matter what’s going on here, I don’t think that will ever change.

That’s definitely not panic making me winded and edgy. I’m just very aware that my schedule only gives me twenty minutes before I need to be back uptown.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Whoa. She’s offering me refreshments? “Um . . . no, thanks. I chugged a Gatorade on the subway.”

“Gatorade.” There is none of the usual seduction in her walk as she moves to the kitchen, sliding orange debris from a cutting board into the trash can. “I guess my lavender-flavored water wouldn’t have been a hit, huh?”

“Flowers in your water?” I shake my head. “Why?”

“The floral notes are supposed to be calming.” She closes her eyes and laughs. “It tastes like shit. I don’t get it, either. Pretty sure everyone just drinks it because they think they should. In high school, the peer pressure is over cigarettes. As grownups . . .” She flips on the sink tap. “We’re pressured to drink flower water and tolerate quinoa.”

“Tell me quinoa hasn’t invaded your repertoire.”

“It’s invaded everything,” she whispers. “It’s here right now.”

Crazy as it sounds, this is the most conversation we’ve had since meeting in the bar that afternoon a month ago. Is this why I’ve had a ball of fire in my stomach since yesterday? Had staying just this side of personal started to bother me?

Nah. Couldn’t be. We drew the line at personal for a reason. It’s what made this arrangement so ideal. So . . .

“What’s going on here, Ever?”

Slowly, she removes her hands from the sink and wipes them on a dishtowel, her eyes landing everywhere but me. “I have to end this, Charlie.”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, I picked up on that.” Although hearing it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a glass full of rusty nails. We’re a casual hookup. No pressure. Now she’s ended it, so I should give her a kiss on the cheek and walk. Right? Yeah . . . “I want to know why, Ever.” Sauntering toward the kitchen, I seesaw a hand between us. “I thought this thing we had going was pretty fucking perfect.”

Her expression is one of shock. Really? I mean, she’s acting like a man wouldn’t be even remotely miffed over giving her up. This girl is dynamite, wrapped in Please Santa, I’ve Been a Good Boy. Hadn’t someone told her that before? I could have, if my mouth hadn’t been so busy elsewhere. Or if I hadn’t been afraid she would read something into it.

“Charlie, I told you I didn’t want anything serious. I’m tapping out.” Her hands slip into the back pockets of her shorts. “It was perfect for a while. But I . . .”

Don’t ask. “You what?”

Ever squares her shoulders. “I’m going to be straight with you.” She blows out a breath and rolls her neck, like a boxer getting ready to enter the ring. “I’ve decided to give serious relationships a try.”

Even as a two-by-four smacks into my middle, clarity descends. For once, Jack had been right. She was doing the relationship dance. I’d walked right into the trap.





Ever


You could have heard one of my mother’s Hermès scarves drop.

I can’t tell what Charlie is thinking, but I assume there’s horror involved. Take a fucking number, bro. I’m not exactly turning pirouettes at the idea of throwing my hat into the bizarre Manhattan dating ring, either. But hours later I’m still thrown from my mother’s visit. In addition to having my belief system turned upside down, the woman sort of put the fear of God into me.

The moment she’d left, I’d opened my Mac and created a dating profile on the site with the least obnoxious questions, DateMate.com. Already I had a few dudes interested. They all looked and sounded the very definition of assholes, but it was still early days. Maybe Nina’s boyfriend knows someone who is looking to engage me in an awkward conversation where a bill arrives at the end.

Shoot me now.

It’s extremely difficult to conjure faceless date candidates when Charlie is only a few yards away looking delicious. The crisp, navy uniform pants and gray T-shirt do endless favors for his body. Biceps, thighs and throat muscles vie for attention. His blue eyes are a little deeper set than usual, black rings beneath, like he didn’t get a good night of sleep. Which makes me think of naps. How he would look with his shirt off, in some freshly laundered sweatpants, burying his face into a pillow. A pillow right next to mine. Really, really good. That’s how he’d look.