Control: An Everyday Heroes Novella Read online

  We stare at each other for the briefest of seconds, each gauging if the other is being serious or if a quick relapse into each other would be worth it. It’s been five months since I’ve had sex—with him no less—but I don’t think need should dictate this decision.

  This woman wouldn’t complain about a good orgasm or three...but Jeff comes with ties—the kind of ties where he wanted more—and I don’t like anything that binds me unless it’s to my headboard in the pursuit of hot sex.

  “I haven’t seen you around lately. You hiding? You have a hot man you’re using as a sex slave I should be worried about?”

  “You applying for the job?” I laugh as his eyes darken and lips quirk up in a smile, and I realize the opening I just gave him. “I’ve been busy is all.”

  “Busy? Since when does busy stop you from letting loose? You’re going to turn into a crazy cat lady pretty soon if you keep hibernating the way you are.”

  “I’m already the crazy dog lady, so does it really matter?” I ask to try and avert what he’s really asking: Are you okay? Are you worried you’re going to run into him on the streets so you’re hiding here instead?

  “Cats, dogs… The town of Sunnyville misses you.” He chuckles. “Karaoke night down at The Tavern is boring without you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave a hand at him like he’s crazy.

  “I’m serious.” He takes a step forward and puts a hand on the side of my waist. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

  “Am I interrupting something here?”

  We both jump back at the sound of Grant’s voice in the doorway. “Jesus. It’s like a cop convention in here all of a sudden,” I say and take a step back from Jeff to look over his shoulder at my best friend’s husband.

  Grant is six foot plus, with dark hair and a great body. He’s more than easy on the eyes and definitely smitten with my best friend, Emerson. But that little lift to his eyebrows, and glance from Jeff to me and back, is a simple question of is something going on between you two?

  Leave it to a man to notice the obvious five months too late.

  “Jeff was just dropping off Disco,” I say, lifting the dog in my hands for emphasis.

  “I was,” he says, lips twisting and feet shifting. “Pick him up about what time?”

  “Four-ish works. And if something happens and you get called to shift, he’s more than welcome to stay till tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” Jeff takes a few steps back with a smile on his lips to me and a soft nod and the word “Sir” on his lips to Grant.

  We both stand in silence as Jeff’s footsteps retreat and the front door shuts.

  “Did you have to scare him off?”

  “I’m his superior.”

  “I didn’t see either of you in uniform, and I really don’t need the big-brother routine.”

  “I don’t have to wear a uniform anymore when I’m on the job.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Grant fights a smile and shakes his head as we fall into our typical sibling-ish banter. He looks over his shoulder and then back to me. “He’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”

  He might be young, but the boy has skills in the sack.

  “And your point is…”

  “Maybe that’s why you never have a guy around for more than a few weeks.”

  “Maybe I like it that way.” I curtsy and roll my eyes as we repeat the same conversation we’ve had a hundred times. “Not everyone wants what you and Em have.”

  “Uh-huh.” He reaches out and pets Disco. “He’s still too young for you.”

  “And young means he has stamina.”

  “Stamina is one thing, Des. Experience is another.” His grin is wide and crooked, and there’s that sex appeal Emerson fell in love with.

  “Let me guess, this is where you inform me that you have experience in spades.”

  “I’ll let Emerson tell you what I do or don’t have because this is an odd conversation to have with you,” he says through a laugh, cheeks flushing pink, discomfort all around. “What was he doing here?”

  “Back to Jeff already? He was dropping Disco off. You’re the one who sent him here in the first place, so if we were to accidentally fall into bed with each other—again—it’d be all your fault.”

  “Again?” He laughs. “Christ. TMI.”

  “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Officer Sexy,” I say, referring to my immediate thoughts, and the nickname I gave him the first time we met a few years back.

  “And I didn’t send Jeff here.”

  “No? What about the twenty other cops who have shown up in the past few weeks, who never took an interest in getting their pets groomed before?” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “I’m supposed to buy that it’s just a coincidence that suddenly they need Fido clipped and washed?”

  “What can I say? You’re building a reputation around town.”

  “And you’re lying through your teeth. You know cops are too straight-laced for my liking.” He just widens his smile while I glare. “You’re frustrating.”

  “Thank you. I’m told that often.”

  “How’s Em doing?” I know damn well she’s the one who tells him that.

  “She’s good. You’ve probably talked to her more recently today than I have.” He chuckles and is most likely right, but asking benign questions is better than having him look too closely.

  Shit. He’s looking too closely.

  Turning my back to him, I set Disco on the floor before moving toward the washing station. I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want him to see through the false pretense of fine that’s hidden me for a while now.

  “You’re still not sleeping are you, Des?” His voice is right behind me when he speaks. He’s not going to let me get away with putting him off.

  “I sleep like a baby.”

  “Which means like shit. Did you forget the kids don’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time?”

  “It’s an expression, Grant.”

  “Yeah...well...if the shoe fits?” His tight smile tells me he’s not going to let this go like I want him to.

  I hang my head in the silence that ensues. “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Fine as in you never think twice about what happened or fine as in it’s all you think about and you don’t want anyone to know?”

  I take a deep breath, hating that his question is hitting too close to home. “Fine as in fine.”

  “I don’t buy—”

  “You know what? I’m sick of looking over my shoulder. Of being afraid of the dark. Of jumping when a customer comes into my business.”

  He gives me the second I need before he rounds to the other side of the wash station with Disco in his arms, licking the underside of his neck.

  “It’s going to take time.”

  Anger bubbles up inside me. “Time? Is that all it is, Grant? Time to get over the petrifying fear of waking up to a man standing over my bed? Because I don’t know about you, but it feels like it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make it go away.” Tears threaten—when I don’t ever cry—and my teeth grind together as I try to shove unwelcome dark emotions and fear behind the façade of cheer I’ve been projecting these past few weeks.

  “It’s normal. What you’re feeling is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Fucking great. Thanks for the psych eval.”

  “What’s your problem, Des? Why is it so hard for you to admit that this has you rattled? It’s perfectly okay to—”

  “Perfectly okay to what?” I counter as I turn the water on and then off. I drop the sprayer in the sink, brace my hands on the side of the tub, and hang my head for a beat. I don’t show emotion. I don’t break down. I don’t admit to anyone I’m scared...so why do I want to tell Grant when I haven’t even admitted it outright to his wife?

  It’s because I’m sick of being tough and want things back to the way they were.

  “Does it make you feel better to hear me admi
t I’m scared most nights? Is that what you want to hear me say?” I bite back my anger with the rising bile in my throat, hating that he’s the only person who can get me to admit something like this out loud.

  “No. It doesn’t.” His sigh is heavy, weighing down the space between us, despite the adorable puppy I should be cooing over.

  “Any news on who it was or where he is?” I choke on the simple thought that he could come back.

  “No.” His eyes are serious as he sets Disco down and stares at me.

  “I’m so stupid.” I laugh, but there isn’t an ounce of humor in the sound.

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that to me. Obviously I did something to someone and they...I don’t know what they did.” My voice wavers. Hating hearing the sound, I add a touch of my typical sass to cover it up. “I mean, I get that most people are in love with me, but stalking takes it to a whole new level.”

  “It’s not funny, Des. Nothing about this situation is.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. But how do I know this isn’t on me? Have I met him at Hooligan’s and accidentally led him on...so he’s hurt?” Would that justify why some stranger broke into my house and watched me sleep? “Let’s hope whoever it was got his rocks off and has now moved on to the next person.” If I keep saying it, then maybe I’ll believe it.

  “We don’t know enough to even say that, and regardless, Des, this isn’t on you. He broke the law and is definitely high up there on the creep-factor record so...quit saying that, because it’s not funny.”

  I pick up Disco and set him in the basin. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve sworn off men from here on out.”

  “That’s funny,” he says and turns the water on for me.

  “You doubt me?”

  “I doubt a lot of things about you right now, but mostly that this isn’t bugging you.”

  “It’s not. I’m fine.”

  “I could get you a security guard if that would let you sleep better at night.”

  And draw more attention and more town gossip and more just everything I don’t want?

  “I started taking self-defense classes. Does that make you feel better and get you off my back?”

  “You did? I know a guy who—”

  “I did. Can we now get back to normal life where we don’t have to talk about this every time I see you?”

  He falls silent, and I hate that its return has me looking up to meet his eyes. “Desi.” The compassion in his voice...so goddamn sick of it. My vulnerability turns into anger.

  “Drop it, Malone.” We wage a visual war of wills—where he wants to do his job to protect and serve, and I want to forget it ever happened. “Thank you for looking out for me, but he’s long gone.”

  I hope.

  Chapter Five

  Reznor

  “Oh my God. Logan is going to be here any minute and Pussy is soaking wet.”

  Well fuck if those words didn’t grab my attention and snap me wide awake from where I was dozing off on the backyard porch swing.

  Was I dreaming?

  Desi Whitman.

  Yes, Whitman because I looked on the roster to get her full name after thinking about her way more than I wanted to.

  The voice sounded just like hers.

  I must be dreaming.

  “Of course. I never take care of Pussy, and the one time I do, she gets wet and messy before he gets here to take her home to play.”

  Now that? That definitely got my attention.

  The damn swing creaks as I get up from it and head toward the side of the house to the left of me. The clapboard house where dogs are always barking and the sign that says Doggy Style over the garage door has frequently drawn my curiosity.

  But I haven’t looked in the few days I’ve been here. I’m not here to be a nosy neighbor, and fuck if I haven’t been busy unpacking and cleaning up the place. Besides, I normally keep to myself, but when there’s talk of a wet pussy, no man is going to stand idly by and let it be.

  “I’ve stroked you”—groan—“and petted you”—sigh—“and trimmed all your fur to perfection, and this is how you repay me? By getting soaking wet and filthy before your daddy comes back to town?”

  My smile is wide and I’m not gonna lie, my dick is stirring to life as I walk around the front of the house and peer down the side yard to see a woman’s backside. She’s on her hands and knees on the sodden grass, with mud coating her calves and hands. One mighty fine ass is pointing in my direction.

  “You dirty girl, you,” she mutters and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve seen a lot of shit in the line of duty, but hell if I can remember hearing a woman talking to herself like this before.

  “Excuse me? Is everything okay?” I ask, part caution, part curiosity in my voice, but I’m sure as shit not prepared for what I see when the woman sits up on her knees and faces me.

  Desi Whitman.

  A soaking-wet Desi with a white T-shirt smeared with mud and the dark pink of her nipples hinting beneath the fabric.

  Nothing like a wet pussy and hard nipples.

  “Oh my God. It’s you.” She sneers with disdain as she jabs a finger my way and rises to her feet—irritation etched on her gorgeous face.

  “Yep, last time I checked, I was me.”

  “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands on her hips, not caring that she has now dirtied the sides of her shirt.

  “I’d like to ask you the same question.”

  “I live here.”

  “Well...so do I.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder toward the other side of the fence and watch as her eyes widen and her back straightens.

  Why does it not surprise me that she’s going to fight me even now? And why do I already know that this—she—is going to be a problem in more ways than one? I haven’t forgotten what it felt like to have my hands on her for those eighty minutes last Thursday.

  Or how sharp that tongue of hers is.

  It’s as though I have to goad her. Have to get a rise out of her.

  She starts to speak several times and then thinks better of whatever venom she has on her tongue before starting again, only to fall into the same trap and then stopping herself, so instead I get her blank stare and unmistakable anger.

  She’s tall. At least five foot eight, with legs for days that paint a picture in my head of exactly what they should be wrapped around. She’s pretty in a nonconventional way. A mixture of quirky and sexy instead of your classic beauty. Her blue eyes are big, her lashes long, and her lips are full and wide.

  It takes me a second to remember the presence of mud and water everywhere, because her tits are right there, and hell if it isn’t a damn fine sight.

  And then I remember the wet pussy.

  “Looks like you could use some help here,” I finally say when I trust myself and take a step toward her.

  “With what?” She lifts her chin in a show of defiance.

  “I don’t know. Either the mud since it looks like you might have a sprinkler leaking”—another bristling of her shoulders—“or I could always help you take care of that wet pussy of yours.”

  She clenches her fists. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  I chuckle to irritate her further. “And you’re the woman going on and on about how you never take care of your pussy, and now it’s trimmed and wet”—I shrug—“and since you went to all that trouble, don’t you think someone might as well reward you?”

  I dodge as she throws the rag in her hand my way. “Figures you’d think that way.”

  “I take that as a no, then?”

  “No.”

  “Hey, I’m only going off what I heard. Only crazy people talk to themselves like that.”

  “Pussy is Logan St. Claire’s precious cat. And Logan Sinclair is one of the assholiest people out there—”

  “Is that even a word?”

  “Even more so than you.”

  “Probably not,” I say just to push
her buttons.

  My words stop her—surprise her—and she looks at me with a tilt to her head. Pieces of brown hair that have fallen out of her ponytail rest against her cheek.

  “Yeah. You’re right. You take the cake.”

  “Says the woman who insulted me in the first two minutes of our initial conversation.”

  “Glad I could leave a great first impression. Maybe you should have taken the hint and left me alone,” she says, finding her footing beneath her again and letting that temper reignite.

  “You only get one chance to make a first one…”

  She huffs in response and out of the corner of my eye I see a mass of white fluff—or perhaps it used to be white fluff because now it’s spotted in brown mud—skirt across the grass and into the open back door.

  Pussy.

  “Remind me not to like him.”

  “Like who?” she asks.

  Gotta keep her on her toes.

  “Logan St. Asshole,” I say. “Guys who have cats—correction, guys who name their cat Pussy—either aren’t getting any or are using the name as a way to state they’re not gay when everyone already knows they are.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. Why be ashamed of who you are and hide behind a cat? Just live the best life.”

  There’s something I say that has her head tilting to the side again. She takes me in a little longer than expected. “It’s the former,” she finally admits.

  I shrug. “Why is he an asshole?”

  “The bigger question is how is he not an asshole?” For the briefest of moments I see a ghost of a smile on her lips, and it reminds me of how pretty she was the other day before the defense class began when she was chatting me up.

  “Doggy Style?” I ask.

  “That’s the name.”

  “But Pussy is a cat.”

  “You’re quite observant…”

  “I can imagine you attract all kinds of interesting folks with that name,” I say, dismissing her sarcasm.

  For the briefest of moments something flickers through her eyes and before I can put a finger on it, the emotion is gone, but it reminds me of what I saw in them the other day after class.

  “Just as I’m sure you do working with SWAT.”