Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“Hi, there,” he said eventually. His confidence melts before my eyes, probably because he’s not surrounded by his posse. “Ever.” He reads the name off my tag. “That’s a cool name.”

“Thanks.” I set down my glass and lean forward. Trying. You must try. “My mother told the nurse to write Esther on the birth certificate, but she was still floating down on pain meds, so it came out garbled.”

He laughs before seeming to catch himself and sobering. Weird. “Uh. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m the co-owner of a catering company.”

“Well, I love to eat. It’s a match.” Again, he visibly reins himself in. Which is the opposite of the point of this exercise, right? “I mean, that seems all right.”

“Yeah . . .” I send the timer a discreet glance. “What about you?”

“Unemployed,” he answers quickly. “I’m in the process of finding something, though. It’s been difficult.” He shoots the table beside us a discreet look. “I’m in a prison work release program, so my options aren’t exactly incredible.”

“Wow. I didn’t expect you to say that.” Don’t look now, folks, but tonight just got interesting. “Do you mind me asking what you were in for?”

His fingers drum on the table. “I robbed a jewelry store. I bet that’s a deal breaker, right?”

God, he looks almost hopeful. Which, ironically, almost makes me want to try harder. “Well, I don’t know.” I fall back in my seat, trying to picture this clean-cut guy in horizontal stripes. “If you tell me you were stealing an engagement ring for your sweetheart, I could be understanding. Or if you tied up the store owners and were really apologetic while you were doing it. Maybe held a paper cup of water to their lips?”

I don’t realize he’s still wearing his sunglasses until his eyebrows lift behind them. “Man, I totally get it now.”

“Get what?”

The buzzer goes off, but he doesn’t move right away. Actually, he looks as though he wants to say more, but eventually he stands. And another set of aviators takes his place. “Hi, there.”

Is that the standard issue, speed dating greeting?

“Hi,” I say back, wondering when and if they are going to refill the wine. Five minutes isn’t really enough time to learn the important things about someone, is it? I barely scratched the robber’s surface and now he’s talking to some other girl. Am I imagining it or is he still looking over at me? “Um. Are you also in the prison release work program?”

New guy chokes on a laugh. “Is that what he told you?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “You guys came together, so I just assumed . . .”

Aviators Number Two hooks an arm around the back of his seat. “That was a cover story.”

Oh boy. “What is he covering up?”

“We’re actually paranormal experts. We’re casing this place for a future investigation.” He tips his head back and scans the ceiling, apparently looking for Casper. “You might have seen us on YouTube. The Boo Squad? We get a lot of hits.”

“Was one of them in the head?” Realizing I said that out loud, I hold up a hand. “Look, I’m sorry. That was rude.”

Was he fighting a smile?

“Honestly, though, I think paranormal expert sounds slightly better than ex-con. You might want to tell him to just be honest next time.”

The buzzer goes off and I bury my face in a palm. This is getting ridiculous. I get the feeling these guys are just bullshitting everyone for a laugh, and the possibility prods my temper. As if strangers judging your personality isn’t hard enough, now we’re being mocked on top of everything else?

When a third guy sits down in a pair of aviators and says, “Hi, there,” I just stare back. He coughs, shifting in his seat. “In the interest of being upfront and honest, I’m here to inquire about your renter’s insurance needs.”

“Oh, screw this.” Humiliation and outrage building in my chest, I toss back the final sip of wine, grab my purse and gain my feet. Nina had warned me about speed dating, and she was right. She’d said it was equal to torture, but I doubt even my seasoned friend could have predicted this. I was probably being filmed for some Internet prank show the whole time, so I guess now I just sit back and wait for someone to send me the YouTube link. Unbelievable.

As I leave the room, I swear I hear high fives taking place behind my back. I whirl around and scan the room through narrowed eyes, but no one has moved.

Walking out onto Third Avenue, I feel like I’ve just escaped from an alternate universe. My skin is clammy and my heart rate is jumpy. There’s a lump in my throat. In desperate need of a place to crawl and lick my wounds, I promptly head in the direction of a Guinness sign in the distance. The international bat signal for cold beer and good music. Anything to take my mind off my first failed attempt to meet someone and start something meaningful. Next time, I’ll be smarter. And there will be a next time. The speed dating fiasco could deter me if I allow it to. Or I can internalize the embarrassment and let it make my resolve stronger.

Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

Chin raised, I weave through the evening sidewalk crowds. People are heading to hot yoga or piling into restaurants. Probably muttering prayers under their breath that the date they’ve arranged for the evening isn’t a felon. Or someone pretending to be a felon. How strange. One day on the dating scene and I’m seeing the world through new eyes.

So when I spy Charlie buying a can of soda from a street vendor, it takes me a moment to believe he’s really there. My feet falter on the hot concrete, goose bumps racing down my arms. A tiny man plays the harp with my intestines.

“Charlie?”

He turns, nearly knocking me over with those blue eyes. The glow from a restaurant sign lights them up brighter than a beach day sky. Wow. I’d forgotten how unique his appearance is compared to everyone else. Slightly crooked nose, that crease down the middle of his lower lip, all that energy. It crackles. There’s only one Charlie Burns. Intense, charming, sexy and capable, all at once.

“Ever.” The vendor nudges his elbow, reminding him to take the change, and he pockets it, turning back to me. Scanning my face. Stepping closer. So close, I suck in a lungful of hot, summer city air. “What are you doing this far uptown?” The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Not getting into trouble, I hope.”

I have this destructive urge to tell him how hard tonight sucked. That he was right, and I already miss the uncomplicated nature of our daily booty call. I want to spill everything, right there on the sidewalk, while foot traffic bottlenecks around us. Instead, everything catches up with me at once, the way things often do after one glass of wine, before the numbing effect of number two. My mother ending up lonely and unfulfilled. How broken she’d looked. How humiliated I am over the last twenty minutes. I’ve never witnessed a loving, functioning relationship, and I have this fear that I’ve done uncomplicated so long, I’m not equipped for serious. And only Charlie understands. That has to be why I’m kind of paralyzed, standing there, no idea what to say or do. But hoping he hugs me.

Stupid, destructive hope.





Charlie