Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

Oh my God, I’m so nervous. Dating is cannibalism. I’m sure of it and I’m not even in the building yet. There are people lined up waiting to get in, as if the original Hamilton cast reunited and they’re doing one show only. Everyone is eyeballing each other up and down, appreciating or discarding. I have a serious urge to turn tail and make for the closest drinking establishment. Where people meet naturally and aren’t trying to find their perfect match. They’re just trying to find one that’ll do for a good conversation and maybe a beer-flavored kiss or two.

All the women in line are dressed in business-casual attire, carefully concocted in an Ann Taylor LOFT dressing room. I’m wearing ripped jeans, a faded Wilco tank top and flip flops, because hello, it’s hot as hell. I have no time for single button blazers in this weather. I smell like cinnamon and chocolate, though, so I have that going for me, right?

“Shit,” I mutter, twisting my hair up so I can fan my neck. “This is going to be terrible, right?” I say to the girl in front of me, hoping for some commiseration.

“With that attitude, it will be,” she answers without turning around.

Great.

I breathe in the humidity and blow it back out. An NYPD vehicle rolls by through evening traffic on Third Avenue, and there I go again. I’m thinking about Charlie. What if he swaggered past right now? What would I do? Probably something bad. Very bad. I haven’t had sex in a week, which is by no means a long time. I’ve gone for stretches that lasted nearly a year. But when you’ve been getting it as good as Charlie gave it to me? A week is a century. A millennium. God, the way he used to go down on me, as if he’d been strategizing his tongue maneuvers all day . . . there’s no way to recreate that kind of ingenuity with a vibrator. I’ve been trying all damn week.

So yeah, if he walked past me right now on the sidewalk, I would be tested. Especially if he was wearing those uniform pants that made his package look like a Christmas present wrapped in a zipper. If I texted him right now, he would meet me. He would give me the Adam Levine sex and ask me no questions, tell me no lies.

Unfortunately, I miss his laugh and those adorable eyebrow waggles more than anything. So there will be no texting, because in that direction lies ruin. He’s probably already looking for someone to be his new acquaintance with benefits. Maybe he found her already.

That jarring thought forces my eye back on the prize. I’m here to give an effort. Like the girl in front of me. She obviously knows her shit.

Tomorrow morning, I might actually have a reason to call my mother. As long as I remember that, as long as I remember I might be doing something that could make her proud of me, or give us something in common, I can face anything.

Toward the front of the line, I hear a commotion and bend sideways to check it out. There is a group of young men my age in a tight-knit pack. Like me, they don’t look like they belong in line, either. The advertisement for this speed dating event mentioned young professionals, and I’m willing to bet these guys do not fit the bill. They’re all wearing aviators and chucks. Crew cuts and shaved heads. Serious expressions like they’re on some important mission from Ray-Ban. Maybe one of their little sisters is speed dating tonight, and they’ve come to keep tabs. If that’s the case, I’m rooting for them.

The line begins to move, and the Aviator Squad slowly elbows their way into the queue, glancing back over their shoulders, probably checking out the competition. Or merchandise, I amend, when a couple of them zero in on me. I frown at one who stares a little too long, and he smiles back, whispering something to his buddies.

What the hell is going on here?

I don’t have much time to think about Aviator Squad again, because once we’re inside, a harried woman ear tags us like cattle—in the form of a name tag—and gives the women table numbers. As I walk into the dimly lit room, I hear men complaining outside on the sidewalk through an open window. I can’t make out their exact words, but once I take a seat and watch the men file into the room, the nature of their complaints becomes obvious. The dudes who were here first, patiently waiting for their turn to impress the womenfolk, were muscled out by the new, hot-shot arrivals, although a decent number of the original line dwellers have made it through.

Someone passes by and clunks a glass of house red on my two-seater table and I gulp a few sips, hoping to round the edges of my nerves as quickly as possible. And I need the rounded edges, because there is literally a giant digital timer in the corner of the room, glaring at me like an electric vampire. It’s set to five minutes. Okay, I can do five minutes with each of these guys. No problem, right? I have to make small talk pretty frequently at catering events, especially if I need to step in and make tray passes, so this should be a walk in the park.

One of them could be great, Ever.

This is the part I need to understand. I’m not dating to get it over with, so I can go home and soak in a bath. I’m really looking for someone. I have to remember that when the urge to give a half-ass effort arises. An image of Charlie winking at me through the crack in my apartment door arises, accompanied by birds chirping, but I shove it away.

“Okay.” The woman who name-tagged us stands in the center of the room, beneath a dusty chandelier. She’s been doing this a while, and it holds no magic for her anymore—that much is clear. Absently, I wonder if she’d be open to jazzing these events up with some catering. It can’t hurt to leave her a business card. “The gentlemen have been given an order of numbers that correspond with each table. They will follow the order and have five minutes to visit with each of you. The clock will automatically reset and begin after the allotted time passes. Does everyone understand?” A low murmur of voices. “Splendid. I’ll be out back having a cigarette.”

On the way out, the woman smacks the timer and it begins counting down. It’s like someone stuck the room’s energy in a light socket. As soon as the supervision disappears, the men crisscross and plant themselves at tables, reaching across to shake their first victim’s hand. When no one sits at my table, my skin gets extra-tight. Oh God, my first experience dating and an error has occurred. I’m at the dud table.

But . . . no. Two men are arguing at the center of the room, quiet enough that I can’t overhear. One of them is wearing aviators. The exchange of words lasts about thirty seconds before Aviators wins the battle and the other man storms from the room. When Aviators slides into the seat across from me, I’m highly suspicious, but I say nothing. I just sip my wine and wait.