Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

There is a sliver of time between four fifty and five p.m. in Manhattan that signals the yellow cab shift change. Day shift ends, meaning those drivers are no longer taking fares. And the night shifters are coming on, but they’re all being swallowed up by people dipping out of work and beginning the daily rush hour hustle. Uber hasn’t solved the lack of available hired transportation, either, because there are literally eight million people trying to get home at once, while service industry folks—like me and Nina—are moving our asses, trying to make it to dinner shifts in bars and restaurants.

We tried to get a cab and failed. Uber wanted to charge triple the fare, and it wasn’t in our budget for the night. Not to mention, traffic is gridlocked and cabs can’t fly, anyway. So Nina and I are currently on the rush hour 5 train, holding four refrigerated bags full of pies, trying to get uptown and deliver them on time. To a cigar and pies rooftop party. Because why not?

Ask me if I’m in the mood for this. Go ahead.

Realizing that I’m glaring at innocent people on the train, I let my eyelids drop.

Well. I’m not in the mood. My skin is itchy under the straps of my overall skirt. I’m running on about eight cups of coffee because I slept past my alarm, then baked a trillion pies, two of them with kale, three with cardamom—by request—and I have no patience for another passenger’s armpit in my face. I think . . . I think I’m overwrought. That’s what this urge to cry and scream and bite a stranger is defined as, right?

Worse, I’ve had this awful knot in my stomach since I woke up alone Wednesday morning. No trace of Charlie, apart from the scent he’d left behind on the pillow. The smell is fading, though. Fading fast. I had to battle the urge to crawl into one of the refrigerated bags earlier and zip it shut. Sunlight is bothering me. Silence, too. All the things I used to love are missing an ingredient. Charlie. His smile. That endearing mixture of cockiness and vulnerability. The way he rests his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip when I’m talking. He does it when he’s dancing, too, so I know it’s a sign of concentration, and I miss that little gesture so much. So much. And I know I’ll move on to something else about him soon, missing it just as bad. Like the bump on his nose. Or the fact that sometimes he wears old-school white undershirts.

Tonight is my date with Reve S. Guy. I have no idea how I’m going to manage it. After spending the night with Charlie, feeling him kiss my hair and neck when he thought I was sleeping, seeing another man feels wrong. Horribly wrong. I keep expecting him to text me or show up unannounced, admitting he misses me too, but he doesn’t. He won’t. Every minute that goes by feels like a bad dream.

“Why don’t you blow off the date tonight?” Nina suggests quietly, leaning against the silver pole we’re both wedged against. “I don’t see it going well when you’re still—”

“I’m going.” I give her an apologetic look for being short. For every time I’ve been short with her all day, really. “If I cancel this one, I’ll cancel the next one. And . . . it’s over with Charlie.” Swallowing is a feat. “I don’t know why I asked him to stay over. It just made everything harder, you know?”

Nina sighs when someone bumps her from behind. “You asked him, because it was natural. He should have been staying every night. From the start.” She shakes her head. “I’d never really seen you two together until the night we went to Webster Hall and . . . wow. I don’t think you realize the way you behave together.”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t ask. “What way is that?”

Nina’s mouth turns down at the corners, her eyes sad. “Like you’re each waiting for the other to say goodbye, so you can fall apart. And that’s a damn good indication you shouldn’t say goodbye at all.” The loud speaker comes on, announcing the next stop, static and squealing breaks making the audio impossible to hear. “I mean, I had my doubts about him after . . .”

When Nina trails off, I give her a curious look. “After what?”

She chews her lip a moment. “There’s something I have to tell you, Ever. I really hope it doesn’t make everything worse, but it’s been killing me—”

The train jolts to a halt, flinging us back a few steps. Having no choice but to postpone the odd conversation or risk missing our stop, Nina and I heave the refrigerated bags onto our shoulders and push through the sea of grumbling passengers, dodging new riders already trying to wade into the train. As we lug the heavy bags up the steps, my muscles groan, but I’m distracted by what Nina needs to tell me. God, I really can’t take any more bad news right now. I just want to deliver these pies, go home, get ready for my date and face it head-on. As long as I keep my head down and move, maybe there’s a chance tomorrow I’ll miss Charlie a smidgen less.

Not likely. Especially considering I start looking for him the moment we step above ground onto the sidewalk. Didn’t I run into him in this neighborhood after speed dating a few weeks ago? Maybe . . .

My phone buzzes in my pocket. No way am I answering it right now. We’re mere blocks from the drop-off site, and I’m loaded down like a freaking pack mule. But as Nina and I cross the busy intersection, pedestrians bottlenecking around us, my cell vibrates again. And again.

I stop outside the address, carefully setting down the bags and massaging my aching shoulders, Nina doing the same. “Someone keeps calling me,” I say, while at the same time, Nina mutters, “About what I was saying on the train . . .”

A quick check of my phone, though, and my pulse drowns out everything but the vicious hammering in my blood. “Charlie. Charlie is calling me.”

Nina cocks an eyebrow. “Are you going to answer it?”

“He’s called me six times,” I say, mostly to myself, hitting the green button. “Hello?”

“Ever.” His voice is like churning gravel and I’m immediately on alert, my fingers going icy around the phone. “I’m sorry to call you like this. I know I shouldn’t.”

The street traffic is so loud, I cup my hand over the receiver and move into the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“My father is in intensive care.” A door slams on the other end of the line, voices follow. “He had a heart attack. During a media briefing. And . . . fuck, can you come to me?” There’s a short pause during which I think my heart explodes into a million pieces, with worry, relief, urgency. “I need you. Christ, I need to see your face so bad.” My breath rockets out of my lungs, leaving them depleted, my knees turning to vapor. “Lenox Hill, Ever. Will you come?”





Charlie