Cuffed Read online

  Cuffed

  By K. Bromberg

  Copyright 2017 K. Bromberg

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-08-9

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  Editing by AW Editing

  Cover Design by Helen Williams

  Cover Photography Wander Aguiar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  “A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”

  —#1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely

  “K Bromberg does it again! The Player is everything you want in a romance; sexy, sweet, and amazingly perfect.”

  —USA Today Bestselling author KL Grayson

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “K. Bromberg is the master of making hearts race and pulses pound.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jay Crownover

  “Sexy, heartwarming, and so much more.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Corinne Michaels

  “Super charged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  UnRaveled

  The Player

  The Catch

  Cuffed

  Combust

  Worth the Risk

  To my Mom . . .

  She is the one who showed me what strength is.

  She is the woman who lifts me up when insecurity weighs me down.

  She is my biggest cheerleader, my closest confidant, and my best friend all wrapped in to one.

  She is the woman I aspire to be some day.

  This book is for you, Mom.

  You’ll know why, once you read it.

  Head up. Wings out.

  My tummy feels icky, and if I look at Emmy, she’ll know I’ve been crying. She’ll know I told after I promised her I wouldn’t.

  We even pinky promised on it.

  So, I focus on it instead.

  The glue on my hand and how weird it feels. It’s crackly and tight and kind of cold. Kind of like what I imagine alien skin would feel like.

  She’s gonna be mad at me.

  Except their skin would be green. Or purple.

  She made me promise not to tell.

  Mine would be green. Emmy’s would be purple.

  She’s my bestest friend in the whole wide galaxy.

  Her and her yucky purple.

  How could I not say anything?

  Malone Family Rules: If someone is hurting, you help them.

  My dad’s temper if I break a rule is much worse than Emmy’s, though.

  I’m only trying to help her.

  The speaker in the room’s ceiling crackles, and we all look up. The rest of the class is hoping for an interruption—an announcement for the winners of spirit day, a surprise assembly, anything—but I don’t glance up. All I can do is hold my breath and focus on my alien skin.

  “Mrs. Gellar?” Principal Newman says through the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you please have Emerson Reeves gather her things and come to the front office please?”

  “Sure.”

  Ohhhhh. The whole class makes the collective sound, thinking Emmy’s in trouble.

  “Called to the principal’s office,” Cooper says.

  But I know the truth.

  I dare to look now. To see the worried look on Mrs. Gellar’s face as she watches Emmy get her Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox and cram it into her yucky purple backpack. Emmy keeps her head down, but she misses the first time she tries to grab the zipper to close it.

  Mrs. Gellar doesn’t speak. She doesn’t head to the whiteboard or ask us to pay attention like she normally does. Instead, she walks over to Emmy, puts her arm around her shoulders, and bends over to whisper something in her ear. Emmy nods but keeps looking down as Mrs. Gellar gives her a quick hug before standing back up.

  When Emmy heads toward the door, I forget all about my alien skin and stare at her from my seat in the last row.

  Look at me.

  C’mon, Em. Look at me.

  She stops right before she walks out the door and meets my eyes. There are tears in hers, kinda like how there are some in mine.

  “You pinky promised,” she whispers, her knuckles turning white as she clutches her backpack to her chest.

  “Em—”

  “I hate you. I never want to see you again.” She mouths the words and walks out the door.

  “10-4, Officer Malone.”
>
  Her voice, smooth as goddamn silk and full of suggestion comes through the radio. I’m ready for the ration of shit from Nate when I turn his way. His grin is wide as he just shakes his head and chuckles.

  “10-4, Officer Malone,” he mimics. “Can I give you a side of blow job with that all clear?”

  “Fuck off.” I sigh.

  “Dude, if she talked to all of us like that, the whole force would be walking around with permanent hard-ons.”

  “Liv does have a great voice,” I murmur as a cheer goes up in the crowd to the left of us, drawing my attention. Drunken guys in board shorts, who are all sporting fraternity tattoos, are taking note of a group of tipsy girls with a skin-to-clothing ratio that should be illegal.

  “A great voice. Yeah. Right. I’m sure that was exactly what you were focusing on . . . because hell if that body of hers isn’t a fifteen on a scale of one to ten.”

  “I’d give it a twenty.” I shrug, remembering all too well what she looked like as she straddled me. Goddamn perfection. “You’re just a jealous fucker because I won’t give you any details.”

  “You won’t give me anything, Malone. For all I know, you’re full of shit,” he says as he adjusts his bulletproof vest beneath his uniform, both of us constantly scanning the crowd.

  “We both know I’m not full of shit.”

  “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, and I chuckle in response. This is the same conversation we seem to have every time Liv and I interact on the radio.

  “I think the hotline tip was wrong. I don’t see any of Donnely’s gang here.”

  “Neither do I. Just a whole lotta hot women in teeny, tiny bikinis, and I’m not complaining one bit.”

  “Pig.”

  “Well.” He shrugs as he points to his uniform.

  “Clever.”

  “Exactly. I’m the smart one. You’re not, considering you’re the one who walked away from Liv. Just one question, though, why exactly?”

  “Too many women, too little time.” I lift my eyebrows and grin. “To your right,” I say with a subtle lift of my chin as a shoving match erupts between two men outside Hooligan’s Bar. Alcohol. Testosterone. All day in the sun. Women to compete over for attention. It’s never a good mix.

  We shift our attention and assess the situation. Friends take care of it, pulling the men apart before it escalates. “Gotta love the annual Fourth of July pub crawl.”

  “It keeps us busy, doesn’t it? Besides,” I say as I glance at my watch, “we have about three more hours on shift in case you want to join them.”

  “No thanks. Give me a beer in my backyard with the fireworks overhead and I’m good. While the women are nice to look at here, I don’t need the chaos of it. We get enough of that on shift.” We glance to the left as a woman screams, but then it turns to a high screech of laughter. “You heading over to your dad’s?”

  “Yeah. Gray and Grady will be there. You’re welcome to come if you want.”

  “Help me, please,” sounds off to my left and grabs my attention immediately. It’s followed by what sounds like a laugh but is drowned out by the chaos of the crowded street. Hesitant that someone might actually need assistance, Nate and I move toward a group of women in a huddle about fifty feet away.

  “Can we help you ladies with anything?” I say and remove my sunglasses as we approach to a hum of giggles.

  “My friend here needs help, Officer Sexy,” the tallest of the women says, a brunette with a coy smile and legs for days. “She has a real thing for a man in uniform.”

  Nate snickers beside me as my sense of duty fades when I realize there is no need for help. These are just some women out to have a bit of fun. I stop before them, my thumbs hooked in my duty belt, and pretend like I didn’t hear the comment that I sure as hell did. “So, everything is good here, then?”

  “That depends,” says a voice of the only woman whose back is still to me, “if you’re going to give me mouth to mouth and resuscitate me . . .” her voice fades off when our eyes meet.

  Holy mother fucking shit. It can’t be her.

  Can it?

  “Emmy?”

  Her eyes widen, and her lips part. And for that split second, I see the little girl from my memories. The one with the mess of strawberry blonde tangles and emerald eyes. The one who made pinky promises, mud pies, and agreed with me that Batman was far superior to Iron Man when it came to superheroes.

  My best friend who told me she never wanted to see me again.

  All the emotions come flooding back unexpectedly as I watch the familiarity flashing across her face vanish. Visibly flustered, she shakes her head and takes an abrupt step back, bumping into her friend behind her.

  “No. I’m not her. She’s not me,” she denies.

  “Emerson?” It’s the brunette again, and hearing that name—her name—after all this time is like being sucker punched with a battering ram.

  “I’m fine.” She shrugs off the hand her other friend has put on her shoulder. Gone is the fun, flirty demeanor she had before turning to see me, Grant Malone—the boy she said she hated. Panic I can’t understand, but desperately want to, has replaced it.

  “Emmy—”

  “It’s Emerson,” she snaps with a resolute nod before breaking our eye contact and looking at her friends. “I have to go . . .”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask a question, but it’s so much more than what it sounds like. How are you? Where have you been? Why are you back? Tell me you’re staying around. But she just stands in front of me and stares as if she can’t believe it’s really me and, at the same time, frightened that it is me.

  “Em?” I reach out, needing to touch her to make sure she’s real, but the minute my hand touches her bicep, she jerks her arm back.

  “I can’t . . . I didn’t want . . .” She shakes her head and then looks to the tall brunette before turning back to me with wide eyes as the color slowly drains from her cheeks. “Travis just texted. He needs me to help. I . . . have to go.”

  Travis? Who’s Travis?

  And with that, Emmy Reeves—the girl I haven’t thought about in years—turns on her heel and walks away.

  “No. Wait!” I call after her as she makes her way through the crowd, her mane of strawberry blonde hair the last thing I see of her.

  Just like before.

  “And you are?”

  There’s impatience in the voice that breaks through the cobwebs of memories suddenly spinning in my mind, but it takes an elbow from Nate to bring me back to the present.

  “An old friend of hers,” I murmur to the tall brunette, eyes glancing to the crowd Emmy melted into, as if she were a ghost I was trying to find again.

  “An old friend, huh?” She crosses her arms and juts a hip out as her eyes narrow and she decides if she wants to believe me or not.

  “From childhood.”

  “And your name is?” The other women lose interest in our conversation and begin chatting with Nate, but she’s laser focused on me.

  “Grant Malone.” I stick my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

  She stares at my hand for a moment before speaking, “Desi Whitman, and I’m still figuring out if it is indeed nice or not.”

  I look down to my hand and then back up to her with a lift of my brows, prompting her to reluctantly shake it.

  “So, tell me, Desi Whitman, why is it you automatically believe I’ve done something to hurt Emerson?”

  “First off, you called her Emmy. No one is allowed to call her Emmy. She hates it.”

  “First off?” I laugh. “It’s been less than five minutes, and you’re already suspicious enough that you’ve made a list?”

  “Not suspicious. Curious. There’s a difference,” she says as she shifts her feet. “And yes, I like to make lists.”

  “Okay.” I nod, fighting my smile. “Let’s continue with that list of yours then. Why else have you assumed I did something to Emmy, er, Emerson?” I glance over to the crowd passing us by, mak
ing sure I don’t see any signs of Donnely’s crew and the rumored trouble they were going to cause before looking back to Desi.

  “Because I’ve never seen her react like that to a man before.”

  “What do you mean?” Now I’m the one who’s curious.

  “Hmm.” She eyes me cautiously.

  “Look, there isn’t much eight year olds can do to hurt each other besides steal each other’s Legos,” I lie, damn well knowing what I did to Emmy was a whole lot worse than that.

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Steal her Legos.”

  “Jesus. Seriously?” I laugh, but it fades when I see that she is. “Perhaps. I don’t remember. Are you satisfied?” She purses her lips. “Now, are you going to tell me why you said you’ve never seen Emerson react to a man like that before, or are you just going to rake me over the Lego coals for no reason?”

  A slight smile curls up one corner of her mouth, and she looks over to her friends, making sure they’re preoccupied with my partner before meeting my eyes again. “Em’s a confident and in-your-face woman. A flirt. A female who takes no shit and can give as good as she gets. Strong. But when she saw you? It was as if she was a different person all together. Almost like she saw a ghost.”

  Funny, I felt the same way when I saw her.

  “We knew each other in grade school is all. A lifetime ago.” I shrug, hoping the explanation is enough for Desi when we were so much more than classroom acquaintances.

  “Okay.” She draws the word out, but her body language remains on the defensive.

  “That’s it. I swear.” She moves her hands to her hips but doesn’t speak, so I continue. “It’s been over twenty years since we last saw each other, so I’m sure she was taken by surprise.”

  “Well, you saw her. She ran away. It seems to me she gave you her own answer whether she wants to continue your little reunion or not.”

  I nod, wanting to say so much more. Questions. Comments. Memories. All three collide, making me think she had the same reaction and that was why she bolted.

  But my past is far different from her past.

  Leave it be. Leave her be.

  “You done chitchatting, Malone? We have a job to do.”