Danika
Nothing like baked goods to soothe the sting of humiliation.
Thank God none of my friends have mentioned the moan heard around the world. The moan that came from me, while beneath Lieutenant Greer Burns. I’m having a hard enough time wrapping my mind around what happened without having to explain. There is no explanation for the wicked click that took place inside me when Greer pressed me back into the mat. I can’t even chalk it up to my romantic dry spell, because I’ve been practicing moves with other male recruits for months. I’ve had their sweaty balls way too close to my face and smelled things no woman should have to smell. I’m convinced nasal fortitude is part of the training.
I’m not supposed to get turned on. Especially by a man I can’t stand.
Greer is like a pair of distressed leather boots in a shop window. I can admire them and hate them a little for drawing my eye, but I’m definitely not supposed to try them on. This afternoon, I was dragged from the street into the shop and pinned down on top of the cash register. Because cha-ching. I liked that show of strength way too much.
Galling is what it is. Especially because I’m a certified control freak. Ask my family. I’d rather run errands, until I’m in a stupor, than delegate. I love being the person my family relies on. It’s the reason I became a cop. That satisfaction I get from others relying on me, multiplied by a whole city? That’s what I want out of life.
That momentary theft of my control today? I didn’t like it. I . . . loved it. As soon as I got home from the academy, I buried myself under my comforter and used the highest setting on my LELO. Picturing Greer and those caveman thighs despite my brain’s protests. Should I be scared that the lieutenant inspired a need to explore something new and exciting I’ve never felt before? Probably. But is that going to stop me?
Greer hasn’t become the object of my scorn merely because he’s a world-class tool to the recruits. Or because he doles out positive reinforcement like it’s literally killing him. Oh no. I’ve got a long memory. Long enough to stretch back to the afternoon he showed his true colors, saying something awful about Jack. I overheard. Now, any time my admiration for his sterling police record makes me want to soften, I force myself to remember he claimed to have no respect for my best friend.
I’m not sure where my ability to carry long-standing grudges came from, because my mother is a forgiving Catholic to the bone and my father falls on the who-gives-a-shit end of the spectrum. But here I am. And I don’t forget. Thankfully, I make up for being a grudge holder in other ways. For my friends and family, I will march up into their business and straighten out whatever is broken, free of charge. Being the boss is my thing. If anyone looks at them sideways, I want to be the one on speed dial.
For both of these reasons, I still haven’t forgiven Lieutenant Greer Burns.
Getting him out of my head—especially after today—however, is proving annoyingly difficult.
My erstwhile thoughts are interrupted by the slamming of a steel oven door.
“Strap on your taste buds. It’s game time, kids!” Across the massive kitchen, Charlie’s girlfriend, Ever, executes a perfect pirouette, balancing a baking pan in each hand. She sets them down with a flourish, eliciting oohs and ahhs from the group, which also includes Jack and his newly minted girlfriend, Katie.
That’s right, I’m the fifth wheel. As soon as graduation from the police academy rolls around, I plan to fix the universe’s little oversight and find myself a man. Greer will be out of sight, out of mind, and I’ll go back to cruising sensitive dudes. With regular-sized thighs.
Charlie rubs his hands together, a wolfish smile on his face. “Tell us what we’ve got to choose from here, cutie.”
“My answer is already both,” Jack says, his arm wrapped around Katie. “You’re going to be feeding a bunch of recruits who’ve been living on pizza for months. You should probably worry less about flavors and more about inciting a riot for seconds.”
Ever’s start-up catering company, Hot Damn Caterers, has an off-site facility in Williamsburg, which is where we’ve come tonight to play taste testers. A privilege that totally makes up for having to be the fifth wheel. “Jack is right.” I pick up a knife and slice off a small portion of the carrot cake sitting in the center of the table, alongside a red velvet one. “You’re more likely to have your arm gnawed off while serving than to get any complaints.”
“Any gripes can be forwarded directly to me.” Charlie saws off a giant portion of the red velvet, throwing Ever a wink. “As if there will be any.”
Picking up a wooden spoon, Ever leans in to kiss her boyfriend’s cheek before going back to the stove where other concoctions are bubbling and sizzling. “You heathens aren’t the only ones eating. Charlie’s father will be there, along with other NYPD brass. Parents. A bunch of New York One news anchors . . .”
Katie gasps. “I love New York One. Especially when they tell you what happened on this day in history. Last week, it was the mob execution of Blue Eyes Duffy.” She accepts the bite of carrot cake Jack pops into her mouth, chewing a moment. “They repeat the same hour of news all morning long, but I watch it anyway.”
“That’s because I won’t let you out of bed long enough to find the remote,” Jack drawls. “You have no choice.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Katie whispered in her melodic Irish accent, cheeks flushing red. “The repetition is soothing. And . . . I like knowing the weather.”
Jack shrugs a single shoulder. “Whatever the weather, it’s always warm in our bed.”
I ball up a napkin and toss it at Jack’s head. “Not if you keep torturing the poor girl.”
Okay, true story. I love Katie. Not only because she’s honest, hardworking and sweet—not to mention, a badass weapons trainer—but she saved my best friend when my help wasn’t enough. Jack is making progress every day in his battle with alcoholism. It’s his fight. But he never wanted to fight before Katie. So she has me in her corner for life.
Everyone in this kitchen is family now. Family is everything to me. My parents, aunts and cousins, all of whom still live in Hell’s Kitchen, rely on me for a lot. Not a day passes where my phone isn’t ringing, someone asking for a favor, advice or help out of a jam—be it with the landlord or an in-law. Does it stress me out sometimes, having so many balls up in the air? Having so much responsibility? Yes. But how will I know for sure a problem will be handled the right way, unless I see to it myself?
“My vote is for red velvet,” Charlie announces. “No, wait. Carrot. Wait . . .”
“I’m stuck, too,” Katie says. “They’re both lovely.”
Jack puts up both hands in surrender. “I’m a hung . . . jury.”
My sigh is exaggerated. It usually is. “Oh, fine, leave it up to me.” I tap the fork against my pursed lips. “I’ll go with—”
I don’t get chance to finish, because the rusted side door leading into the kitchen space opens slowly, revealing an outline I know too well after today’s training session. It fills up the frame a lot like it fills my mind. My pulse starts to hammer, remembering that rough grind of his hips down onto mine, those seconds where I couldn’t move, because his weight was an unmovable force on top of me. Stop thinking about it. What is he doing here?
“Hey, big brother,” Charlie calls, good-natured as usual. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”
It’s news to me that Charlie invited his brother, but it probably shouldn’t be. Charlie has been bending over backwards in the last month, trying to improve his relationship with Greer and his father, a big-time NYPD bureau chief. Their family is a law enforcement dynasty, heavy on work ethic, low on affection. Watching my roommate spin his wheels and get barely anything in return from Greer is yet another reason I’d like to deliver a right cross to his smug, all-knowing face. It’s not the main one, though.
My job isn’t to single out bright shiny stars. My job is to conform these men into team players. Groom them for something larger than themselves. Lone wolves get their fellow officers killed, the way my partner was killed, and that’s exactly what Jack Garrett is. A lone wolf with no respect. And I have no respect for him.
Before I walked in on that meeting between Greer and Katie last week, I already disliked the lieutenant, but those words effectively sealed the deal. Sure, Greer helped Katie out with the work visa that allowed her to remain in New York with Jack. He’s also taken an interest in Jack and stopped treating my childhood friend as if he’s a waste of space.
But like I said, I have a long memory. My mother would say to turn the other cheek, but when Lieutenant Burns saunters up to the table and surveys the two cakes like they’re some paltry offering being presented to a king, I turn both cheeks in his direction, tilting my head back to meet bored, flinty eyes.
“If I’d known you were coming,” I say for his ears alone, “I would have suggested a devil’s food cake.”