8. Libby
Libby
Entitlement
G round turkey is gross, and anyone who says differently can see me in the streets.
I bought chicken with my groceries, but compelled by our encounter in the store, I cooked the turkey, like having his blessing would make it better as though by magic. Perhaps my taste buds matured once I hit thirty, or maybe I’d learned a new recipe.
No, it still sucks, and my stomach now homes a gross concoction of ground turkey, salts and garlic, and a bunch of different sauces in an attempt to make it palatable. Basically, I blew through my calorie count in condiments alone.
Not a good first impression for the tech mogul who thinks I’m going to jump into his bed simply because he asked.
I mean, had he said it in a less demanding way, I might relent.
It’s not that I don’t think he’s handsome.
It’s not that I don’t consider him sexy, dark, intriguing as hell, and almost as tempting as a sweet treat.
And it’s not like I’m a prude; had we met and simply chatted for three seconds without the weird staring or demands, I’d have fallen into bed with him with the provision nobody gets attached.
But now this is where we are; I have the invitation into his bed, but I also have an invite for Drake’s. I know Drake can deliver, and he never gets weird about it afterwards.
I’m just saying, there are not enough calories in the world to fit Theo Griffin in my life.
Selecting lacy black underwear – my only non-tomboyish crutch – I slide into them and smile at the feel of lace against freshly shaved legs.
I’ve showered, shaved, exfoliated, perfumed, painted and blown out my hair.
Drake and I are only casual lovers, but I’m not sleeping with any man without taking care of myself at home beforehand.
Drake’s home is only two towns over, forty or so minutes doing the speed limit, so I slide into a pair of jeans from my top shelf, a pair of heels that annoyingly make me think of Theo and his comments on my height, and a loose top of soft, cottony fabric to combat the feel of being squished into jeans.
The sleeve hangs off one shoulder, leaving bare skin behind to tempt a man to kiss.
To bite.
My jeans fit like a second skin and support me more than any therapist ever has before, and my hair is soft and perfect.
I won’t even have to wash or style it again for work tomorrow.
I make a half-assed search for my diamond earrings, but give up after a minute when I check my watch and realize if I don’t move now, I’m going to be late.
Drake won’t care that I’m running behind, but the longer I take, the longer it’ll be before I get home and into bed.
I’m back on day shift with Oz tomorrow, and he’s going to push my buttons the way only he can, and after a week of nights, topped by two nights of weird dreams, I’m not exactly working on all cylinders.
I need to get my sleep under control, then I need to report to work tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred.
Awesome.
Grabbing my clutch and stuffing my gun and phone inside, because I never leave home without either, I rush from my bedroom and pass my couch on my way to the door, but then I skid to a stop when something isn’t right.
My woman brain fights against the cop brain that tries to slide in and solve the mystery.
My body turns toward the door; I want to leave, but my heart refuses to release me, until finally, it clicks.
The sweater ?
I look over my shoulder, as though expecting it to be right there, then back to the couch where I’m certain I saw it last.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, I met a boy who told me about his favorite sweater, and how mad he was that he forgot it at home. He was cold, so we huddled together in the breeze and shared my coat, and when my bare legs were cold, he tucked them beneath his and returned the favor.
For an hour, I got to snuggle with that boy and talk about all of the plans we had for our futures.
When you’re only nine, your future is usually some grand, far-fetched career – there was a short period there that I wanted to be a marine biologist. Why?
I have no clue, but it sounded cool. That day, while we sat outside and our parents conducted what they called business, Gunner and I discussed our mutual goals to become police officers.
I wanted to make things safe, and I think he just wanted to call himself a Texas Ranger.
I suspect he’d have been just as happy had Chuck Norris walked through the parking lot.
Though in the end, of course, neither happened.
My father killed that boy, and two days later, we went for a long drive and visited the apartment Gunner spoke of.
It was on the poor side of town hidden by overflowing dumpsters and people sitting in the street all day long.
I saw his living room, tidy, but bugs skittered once we entered.
I saw his kitchen, his empty fridge. I happened across pencils and paper beneath the couch, and above that, the red sweater I was certain was the sweater.
In the last moments I ever spoke to Gunner, he told me that he liked to steal things sometimes. He said it made him happy to take something that wasn’t his, if that something helped make his and his mom’s life easier.
The sweater was certain to make my life easier, if only to help me grieve the only true friend I had, so I dragged in a breath for bravery, swiped the sweater, and stuffed it inside my coat, then I snuck out to the car and stuffed it in the spare wheel well in the trunk.
It stayed there until late that night. Once we got home and my father was asleep, I snuck outside and stole it again.
I took it back with me to school, and the one time a bully tried to steal it from me just for the sake of being a jerk, I earned my reputation around school – I would bust a bitch’s face if she wanted to mess with me.
I had something worth defending, something I would die protecting.
It’s become a part of me now, something I’ve kept around like a safety blanket.
The white dinosaurs that once decorated the front have mostly worn away.
The zipper is broken from the billions of times I’ve done it up and undid it.
The string that goes inside the hood is gone, the bottom hem is tattered.
That red sweater was well loved by the boy, and well used by me for two decades longer, and though I tend to sit with it most days and run my fingers over the fabric, I don’t often think of its origins anymore. It’s a part of me, so its absence now is startling.
I do a full three-sixty in my living room, thinking I may have tossed it somewhere, but I’m certain I had it on the couch. That’s where I always have it.
Frowning and making a plan to search when I get home, I force myself away or risk losing my chance to let off steam with Drake.
Moving past my couch and galley kitchen, I swing the door wide and jolt back with a scream.
It’s like electricity runs through my veins, shocking me and making my body spasm.
My hand snaps my clutch open and takes hold of my SIG P229 service-issued gun while Theo-effing-Griffin stands in my hall with his hands on the doorframe and his eyes on the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My heart races so fast, it hurts my chest. “Are you insane? I could have shot you.”
Head down, bowed almost in a show of weakness, he leaves his hands exactly where they are, but brings his head up a fraction and looks at me through his lashes. “Don’t go wherever you’re going, Libby. Don’t go to your fuck buddy.”
“What are you– Why are you here?” My words are shouted, and because I’m the police, my neighbors duck their heads into the hall to get firsthand gossip. “How do you know where I live? This isn’t publicly available information, creep!”
He watches me with eyes that shift between sadness and flippancy. “This is a tiny town. Everyone knows where everyone lives.”
“I don’t know where you–” I cut my words off and press a hand to my aching chest. I don’t want him to think I want to know where he’s staying.
“You cannot be here! This is a massive violation of my privacy. I should take you down to the station and leave you there overnight. Jesus, Theo! You can’t just turn up on my doorstep like we’re friends! ”
“We can be friends,” he murmurs. His voice is so quiet, so deep, it’s like he’s speaking only for me, and not the twelve people who’ve found their way to my hall. “Don’t go out looking like that, Lib. Don’t visit a man and give yourself to him.”
I slam my shoulder against his chest and push into the hall.
I will not become a hostage in my own home.
I will not let a man dictate where I can go and with whom.
“You’ve lost your damn mind, guy. We met for two seconds in a gym, then again for two seconds in a grocery store.
You’ve straight up lost your marbles thinking you can come to my home and demand anything.
This is your one and only warning.” I turn to him when I pull the door closed with a slam.
“Stay away from my home. You do not have permission to be here.” I push away from him and ignore the glint of anger in his eyes.
I make it no more than two feet before his hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls me back. Our chests slam together so hard, every last scrap of oxygen escapes my body and leaves me weak.
“And this is your one and only warning; do not go there. Do not get mad at me and go to another man as revenge. Don’t do that, Elizabeth. Don’t punish me when all you have to do is agree to a date.”
“I will not date you!” I rip my arm from his grasp and stand taller.
I have heels on now, so my forehead stops at his chin level.
“I will spend my time with whoever I want. Wherever I want. With as many men, in as many holes as I want to offer.” Who am I ?
“I have no clue who you think you are, Theo Griffin. Maybe you buy women with your kazillions, but I won’t be one of them.
I cannot be bought. Move along and stay the hell out of my way.
” I turn away with a flourish and throw my hair over my shoulder for good measure.
I should have already flattened him. I should have cuffed him and sent him to the tank for the night to give him time to think about the consequences of stalking a cop’s home. But there’s that magnet inside me, pulling me closer even as my feet pull me away.
I pass my neighbors and shoot them filthy glares.
“Get back inside and close the damn door. No loitering in the hall.” Doors slam shut, some with grumbled cussing, and some with wide eyes.
I live in the lower socioeconomic side of town.
Most folks over here are earning minimum wage or government benefits, and though they’re usually inclined to give my colleagues trouble, they leave me be so long as I don’t pick at them for noise.
It’s a decent tradeoff. I get to be in with the locals who often know of dealings that, as a law enforcement officer, I’d like to know about, and they behave and don’t give me trouble, because as their neighbor, I’m vouched for, in a way.
I push out of the hall with an angry huff, and skip down the stairs on sure feet.
I don’t wear heels often, but my time in the gym means I have good balance, my core keeps me upright.
I move down one flight, then another. I know Theo is close behind, because with every click of my heels on the stairs, I hear the soft thud of his shoes.
I move faster and faster, barely short of running, and that’s only because I don’t want him to think he’s spooked me.
I turn at the next landing and think of Switzerland. Just for a brief second, the word flashes through my mind, but I push it away and clear the next flight and push into the outside chill. The snow is gone for now, but the wind bites and makes me think fashionable jeans aren’t always sensible.
My car is always parked in the street, always in the same spot, as though my neighbors keep the space open for me, so I slide into the front seat with a pounding heart and stare through the darkness until Theo races out the front doors.
He’s so broad, so strong.
So insanely angry.
I don’t understand this turn my life has taken. We didn’t know each other just a few days ago. We still don’t know each other, but he claims ownership like I’m a mutt he can pick up from the shelter.
If he thinks helping me with my weights one time entitles him to some kind of hero status, he’s going to lose his balls in an extremely painful way. I didn’t need him, I don’t want him, and I wish my blood didn’t run faster because of him.
His eyes scan the road for a minute, and though I don’t move a single muscle, he finds me, his eyes lock onto mine, and after a beat, he starts forward.
I’m a cop! I should get out of the car and have him detained for the night. But underneath the cop, I’m also a woman.
Instead of squaring up, I start my car and pull out of my space with a squeal of my tires.