Page 100 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
ating this sudden unfounded uncertainty, I stand from the swing and jog over to the Merry-go-round. I grab hold of a bar and begin pushing it so that it starts to spin. When I think I have it as fast as it will go, I take a chance and jump onto the rusting heap of metal.
It’s moving quickly and spinning out of control, but when I get on, I lie down. With one foot hooked on one side of the bars and my hands holding on to another over my head, I close my eyes and let the centrifugal force commandeer my thoughts from where our conversation brought them. I let the world spin out of control around me while I hold on for what feels like dear life.
There’s a boost to the spin, and I know that Grant is there. He’s pushing me now. I can feel the platform flex as he climbs on and the heat of his body as he lies beside me. I know that when he closes his hand over mine where it holds on to the bar, he’s making sure not to let go for the both of us.
He brings calm to the chaos spinning out of control around me and within me.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I allow myself to accept that.
To accept him.
To welcome it rather than push it away.
“Do you ever not have that thing on?”
“What? The scanner?” he asks as he turns onto the highway.
“Yes.”
He shrugs. “Does it bug you?”
“Not really. I just don’t understand why you still listen to calls if you’re off duty.” I rub my feet together, and more sand from the playground comes off the soles of my shoes and dusts the floor mat.
“I have a few situations I like to keep an eye on. If a call goes out on one of those, sometimes I like to go so I can make sure what’s going on.”
“Hm.”
“Hm?”
“Sounds to me like someone is attached to—”
“Possible 10-16. 12662 Serenity Court. Officers responding.” The scanner interrupts.
“Son of a bitch,” Grant says as he slams the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.
“What’s a 10-16?” Whatever it is, it obviously isn’t good.
“I jinxed it by saying it,” he mutters to himself.
“Grant? Are you okay?” I stare at his profile and can see the disconcert in his posture.
“No. Yes. Fuck. This is the one case I’m worried about.” He glances my way, and I can see the hesitation in his body language. “I need to . . . shit. My cruiser.”
“If you’re worried, just drive there now. I can sit and wait out whatever you need to do. Don’t waste the time taking me back,” I ramble, hating that he is so upset about this call.
“You sure?” He eyes me in a way that says he knows more than I do, which is obvious, and yet, I’m not sure why he feels the need to relay it.
“Yes. Positive. Go.”
He grabs his cell, punches a few numbers, and then holds it to his ear, waiting. “Dispatch, I’m an off-duty officer responding to the call for 12662 Serenity Court,” he says. “Yes. Grant Malone . . . I’m in civilian clothes but want it known to the guys on scene that I’m responding . . . No. It’s an ongoing situation. I’ve been monitoring every call you have listed there . . . Yeah . . . I know, but I’m on my way. 10-4.”
It doesn’t take long to make it to the address, but that could be because Grant may or may not have completely demolished the speed limit.
When we pull onto the street and park beside two other cruisers, trepidation takes hold. I’m sure it will be cool seeing Grant in action, but at the same time, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.
As if I’m violating their privacy by being here.
“Goddamnit,” he mutters as he slams the truck into park, flings the door open, and jogs up the front walkway.
