Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“In a way, I did.” Her head tips forward, and she peers up at me through her eyelashes. “I knew when I first saw you, Charlie, you were married to a job. Now I know that job is the academy.” She’s starting to look as uncomfortable as I feel. “You were checking your watch. Drinking nonalcoholic beer. You held yourself like . . . you were being held up on your way to something more important. I—”

“That’s why you met me halfway?” What is this discomfort in my stomach? Am I offended for the first time in my life? I’m going with offended. Because I can’t admit I’m feeling cheapened and still keep my man card. I’m not the only one feeling cheap, though (if I was admitting it). I thought this whole thing with Ever started because we were drawn together. Two souls with the united goal of remaining single. Noncommitment aside, I do not like knowing she’s been equating us to something seedy. “This whole time you’ve been thinking of yourself as my mistress? Jesus, Ever.”

It was her turn to be annoyed, apparently. “If you make me apologize for no-strings sex again, lasers are going to shoot out of my eyes.”

How dare she be so funny. “I’m not asking for an apology,” I mutter, mopping a ring of moisture off the bar with a napkin. “I’m asking . . .”

“For what?”

I don’t know. I’m just certain that, in addition to getting Ever back into bed, I’m now determined as fuck to make her feel like more than just a diversion. A mistress. God, she is right, though. That’s how I treated her. My magnanimous gesture had been offering to fix any leaky pipes. I fail. I fail so hard at life.

I walked into the bar with a plan. To become Ever’s friend, so I could maneuver her back in my direction without anyone being the wiser. Back to normal. I can see now that our past normal wouldn’t work for current Ever and Charlie. Because . . . I like this girl. Her personality, her humor, the way she leveled with me without a film of bullshit on top. Friends with benefits might have been the original idea, but I want to put my money where my mouth is. Make it more than just polite words for a painless hookup.

“What do you want, Charlie?”

“I want to be your friend.” I mean it, too. Wanting to sleep with her is a humongous given, but I want to know Ever better. I know about her mother’s wish now, though. It’s important to Ever that she fulfill it. I will solve that problem . . . I just have no fucking clue how. Yet.

My plan needs fine-tuning.

That’s the thing about plans, though. Bad ones usually mean several equally shitty ideas will follow.

That voice is screeching in my head again, but I give it the mental finger and focus on Ever. “What do you say?” I held out my right hand. “Friends?”

Her right eyebrow dips and she gives me a once over, like a human bar code scanner. Suspicious and beautiful and red-hot sex, inches away from me, and I’m trying to be her pal. God, please don’t let me regret this.

When she slips her hand into mine and smiles, though, regret is the furthest thing from my mind. I just bought myself more time with Ever. I’m going to be her friend, protecting her from inside the friendzone, even if it kills me. Because when she gets tired of dating a parade of douchebags, I’ll be there. The better option.

“Friends,” she breathes.





Chapter 8





Charlie


The Internet is mocking me.

For the last hour, I’ve been pacing my room, eyeballing the DateMate.com homepage. Sign up? It asks me. So casual, like it’s offering me a stick of gum. The blinking cursor might as well be a box tied to a string. Soon as I lunge for the waiting carrot, I’m going to be trapped.

Okay, it’s time to weigh the pros and cons.

Con: If I sign up to the dating site, I’m going to find Ever’s profile within minutes and drive myself fucking crazy. There will be pictures of her. Words typed by her fingers. And I will know what every other man is looking at when they click on her name. Hello, mind fuck.

Pro: I’m already fucking crazy, so what’s a little more fuel on the fire?

I crack my knuckles and sit down in front of my laptop. It’s easy enough to enter my name and e-mail address, then I’m taken to a short questionnaire. I have so much resentment for this bullshit site that my inclination is to make my profile name Magilla Gorilla and mock the system like a good little troll. But my cop blood gets the better of me. I’m already doing something pretty unethical by checking up on Ever, might as well be honest as possible to balance the scales.

Name: Reve S. Guy

(Reve spelled backward is Ever. Ever S. Guy.)

Clever, right? No. Not really. Because seeing the words on the screen makes my windpipe feel strained. I hurry through the rest of the questions, inputting my actual age, location, favorite music—James Brown—and a long list of physical stats. For a profile picture, I hastily upload one of me in a Jets ball cap, the brim partially obscuring my face. But when I reach the question about my profession, I hesitate. Combined with all my other answers, someone would definitely know my real identity if I input police academy recruit. What’s the closest possible answer without revealing myself? Fire academy recruit? Fine. It’ll do.

It’s not like I plan on interacting with anyone.

Or I don’t plan on interacting, until I see there’s a catch. I can’t just search for Ever. The only profiles I can view are my matches. A sea of smiling female faces greets me as I scroll down impatiently. Christ almighty, our society needs to find a better way to pair people. This is why—luckily—no one approached Ever in the bar the day we met, while I got my shit together. The Internet is making it too easy. Poor ladies. They should all delete their profiles in protest of modern men being so dickless and force us to do better. In real life.

My rambling inner monologue screeches to a halt when I get to the very bottom of the first page. And there she is. Ever.

They matched us.

I take back every bad thing I said about this website.

My nose is pressed to the screen, I realize, so I make myself back up. I have a finger hovering over the mouse, ready to click, and my pulse is booming. Did she really have to pick the sweetest photograph of all time to lead off with? No wonder she was setting a record for hits. Who could resist a girl hanging from a tree branch in a Wonder Woman T-shirt? Central Park is spread out behind her in the background, a blanket and Frisbee lying haphazardly off in the distance. Who was she with that day? Does she go to the park a lot?

Did I think she spent all her time waiting for me in her apartment? Yes. I kind of did. Because I’m a stupid, self-centered idiot.

I click. Right on top of her nose, pretending I’m tapping it with my finger. After that, I’m just fucked. There are around nine more pictures of Ever in various scenes that I am definitely not a part of. Carrying trays in a giant kitchen, a white apron tied around her neck, determination in her hazel eyes. Huddled under a blanket on her couch, making a squish face and a peace sign. Total joy bursting from her in rainbow waves as a sea lion kisses her cheek, a sign for the Bronx Zoo in the background. She’s so beautiful, I put a hand over the screen for a few seconds to collect myself, then drop it once again.

That’s when I see the bikini shot.

And my cock sits up for a better look.