Page 333 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Like I figured. Is the asshole still in there?” Nate lifts his chin toward the conference room where Stetson and I sat on opposite ends of the table to take our tests.

“Yeah, he—”

“Ah, boys, that test was fucking cake,” Stetson says before emitting a whoop to his group of cronies—all of them newer beat cops not schooled in his knife-in-the-back-I’m-a-total-asshole ways yet—as he exits the conference room.

Nate makes the jacking-off motion and rolls his eyes at the sound of Stetson’s voice. “May be cake,” he mutters, “but Grant’s gonna be the one eating it while you tank at the interviews.”

“Thanks for the vote of support.”

“I have your back,” he says. It’s his mischievous smile that worries me more than anything.

“I know you do, and I appreciate whatever it is that sick, twisted mind of yours is conjuring as a payback, but don’t. I want this on my terms and because I earned it.”

“Of course you do, but he’s playing dirty. You know he’s going to throw everything but the goddamn sink in because—”

I put my hand up to stop him. Not here. Not in the precinct where anyone can hear. The last thing I need is for it to become daily gossip that runs rampant in the squad room. “My record is clean, unlike his. Even if we both pass the test and do decent in the interviews, I’ll beat him because I’ve kept my nose clean.” It’s the truth. Let’s just hope the powers that be think that, too.

“’Kay. But if you change your mind, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“I know you would,” I say, rising from my seat and patting him on the back before heading outside.

There are a few texts on my phone that I glance over as I move to find shade from the blinding sun. My dad asking how it went. Grady wishing me good luck. My mom’s simple text, asking how my day is so I won’t think she is fishing to see how I did instead of just outright asking. Grayson asking if I want to grab a beer after shift.

I shoot them all back quick responses to get them off my back, but I know I wouldn’t have it any other way. Family is everything. Even when it’s full of nosy fuckers like mine is.

And then I text the one person I want more than anyone. The woman who I’ve spent far too much time thinking of with my dick in my hand when I should have been studying. She definitely would have been a better diversion, but if I had gotten lost in her body, the only preparation I would have been thinking about would have been how to have her again.

So, instead, I shut her out for a few days. I temporarily gave into her asinine rules and treated us like she said she wanted—bang buddies, which we both know is bullshit. Plus, after the way we left it the other day, I knew she needed time to wrap her head around what I said as I left.

Me: I apologize for not calling this week but calling leads to thinking about you and thinking about you leads to your tits and your tits are one hell of a distraction when I couldn’t afford a distraction this week. But, guess what? I just finished my exam. Now, I can be distracted. Wanna meet up and distract me?

Sitting across the street in my cruiser, I stare at the house. The lights are on upstairs. I can see Keely’s shadow against the curtains as she stands on her bed and pretends to sing into a microphone, which is really a brush, and I breathe a little easier.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be stalking this family. I shouldn’t be wrapped around this little girl’s finger, but damn it to hell if something about her doesn’t remind me of Emerson and make me want to protect her.

It has to be the dream that had me driving this way without thought to where I’d end up. Even after a couple of days, I can’t seem to shake the heartbreak I’d felt in my chest reliving the moment when I told Mrs. Gellar about Em.

Of course the dream—the clarity of it all these years later—only made the file folder so much more tempting to pull into bed with me and go through.

I can’t do that to her.

Then again, wouldn’t it be easier to know what ghosts I have to combat?

Shit.

This woman is fucking with me. I don’t get fucked up by women. I date them. I have fun with them. I move on when shit gets too serious.

But Em is . . . Em is different. She always has been.

I scrub my hands over my face, and admit that Emerson is right when she teases me about having a hero complex. Is there something so wrong about that? Maybe if I can save Keely, then I can make up for not saving Emerson sooner?

Even I know that’s a whole lot of projecting.

Physical abuse is bad. Sexual abuse is horrid. A child shouldn’t have to endure either.

So, I will make sure she’s okay.

I pause and try to figure out which of the two females I’m referring to.