Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“Thanks for the clarification,” Danika says dryly. “Do you want to give me the birds and the bees talk, too?”

Jack goes up on an elbow, beaming that 40-watt pirate smile. “Well, you see, honey. When a man and a woman have established a mutual respect for one another—”

“Stop.” Danika is laughing as she claps both hands over her ears. “Make it stop.”

Two things happen next that start my cop sense tingling. Jack begins tickling Danika, which isn’t unusual. It’s clearly nothing more than two childhood friends playing around and mild compared to the roughhousing that goes on in the gym every day. But when my brother, Greer, walks in, he takes in the scene and stiffens, eyes flaring.

“Keep your damn hands to yourself, Garrett,” my brother snaps.

Danika shoots to her feet and stands like we’re getting ready for daily inspection, although she looks irritated at herself for reacting that way. Jack doesn’t budge, but the smile he sends Greer is lazy and patronizing as hell.

That smile vanishes a second later when a redheaded girl walks into the gym behind my brother, carrying a clipboard. Jack sits up slowly, following her progress around the room with nothing short of fascination. And maybe . . . yeah, even a glimmer of recognition. Like he’s seen her somewhere before.

“Listen up, recruits,” Greer shouts, his annoyance still written on his features, especially when he slants a glance at Danika. “This is your new arms instructor, Katie McCoy.”

Jack’s mouth drops open. “Fuck. Me.”





Acknowledgments




I never thought I would have one of those dreams that inspires a book—but it actually happened! Disorderly Conduct started as a movie reel that played in my head while I was unconscious. A young man on his way to a lover’s apartment, thinking their no-strings “arrangement” couldn’t possibly get any better. Completely clueless that he’s already in love—and about to get a hard lesson. In my dream, the young man was in a suit, so I fixed that tiny glitch when I woke up, putting him in a uniform instead. And thus, Charlie Burns was born.

So thank you, too much wine before bed, for giving me interesting dreams.

Thank you Nicole Fischer, my editor at Avon, for wanting this series, getting excited when I turn in my work, and typing loads of LOLs in the margins of the manuscript. You turn work into a total pleasure.

Thank you Patrick and Mackenzie, loves of my life, for supporting me every day.

Thank you Laura Bradford, my agent, for making this series a reality.

Thank you to the readers who I hope are about to fall in love with Charlie and Ever.


“In all the wild world, there is no more desperate a creature than a human being on the verge of losing love.”

—Atticus





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Chapter 1





Jack


Growing up in the brothel where my mother worked had a couple of drawbacks. Here is the main one: I know way more about women than any man should.

For instance, sometimes when they say they’re fine? They’re actually fine and you should stop asking and shut the fuck up. I learned my lesson the hard way, as one does when sharing a bathroom with a rotating door of females, not to mention a best friend with the almighty X chromosome. Those lessons have served me well, though, haven’t they? Knowing when to retreat carefully, push forward, or backpedal like a motherfucker during a conversation with a girl means I never go home alone.

Alone is a funny word, though, isn’t it?

Sometimes I’m the most alone when surrounded by women. And that situation happens a lot more often for ol’ Jack than it does for most guys. Is that a brag? Damn right. When women see me coming, their hormones whisper my name. I’m a demon in the sack. And most importantly, I treat girls with respect. Why shouldn’t they want to go home with me at the end of the night? A couple hours in my bed means laughs, some patented sweet talk, a few orgasms, and cab fare. They could definitely do worse.

It’s not their fault that I’m barely there when it’s happening. That I’m watching myself touch them from above like a creepy, naked angel and wondering how long the mild queasiness will last. But like I said, that’s not the girl’s fault, is it? Women get blamed for enough without me adding to their plate. I’m there to give them a safe, shameless, satisfying ride and send them off with a smile.

Jack Garrett. Superhero. Protecting New York City’s women from two-pump chumps one night at a time.

Look. I’ve witnessed the way men can disregard women as garbage once they’ve had their fun, so this calling of mine is not such a joke. Am I arrogant to think my dick is making a difference in the world of women? Yes. Am I apologizing? Hell no. Did I mention the orgasms and cab fare?

I’ve just come from a visit with my mother, who now works as a pet groomer’s receptionist—thank Christ—and, as always, I marvel over how my old neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen has changed. They’re calling it Clinton now but I don’t have time for that nonsense. It’s the Kitchen to me and it always will be. Doesn’t matter how many gastropubs and yoga studios pop up, I can still see the grit beneath the glitter. I pass the doorway where I finally got a hand up Melissa Sizemore’s shirt when I was thirteen, only to find out she’d been wearing a Wonder bra the whole time we’d been dating—and that’s when I spot the redhead.

There is a lot of new blood in the Kitchen. Mid-twenties millennials, like myself, trying to make it in the city, while crammed into an apartment with three roommates. Right now I’m calling the East Side neighborhood of Kips Bay my home while I train to be a cop under the annoyingly watchful eyes of my NYPD instructors, but someday I’ll come back to the Kitchen.

And if this sexy redhead is an indication of what awaits me, it’ll be sooner rather than later.