Page 3 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“Clever.”
“Exactly. I’m the smart one. You’re not, considering you’re the one who walked away from Liv. Just one question, though, why exactly?”
“Too many women, too little time.” I lift my eyebrows and grin. “To your right,” I say with a subtle lift of my chin as a shoving match erupts between two men outside Hooligan’s Bar. Alcohol. Testosterone. All day in the sun. Women to compete over for attention. It’s never a good mix.
We shift our attention and assess the situation. Friends take care of it, pulling the men apart before it escalates. “Gotta love the annual Fourth of July pub crawl.”
“It keeps us busy, doesn’t it? Besides,” I say as I glance at my watch, “we have about three more hours on shift in case you want to join them.”
“No thanks. Give me a beer in my backyard with the fireworks overhead and I’m good. While the women are nice to look at here, I don’t need the chaos of it. We get enough of that on shift.” We glance to the left as a woman screams, but then it turns to a high screech of laughter. “You heading over to your dad’s?”
“Yeah. Gray and Grady will be there. You’re welcome to come if you want.”
“Help me, please,” sounds off to my left and grabs my attention immediately. It’s followed by what sounds like a laugh but is drowned out by the chaos of the crowded street. Hesitant that someone might actually need assistance, Nate and I move toward a group of women in a huddle about fifty feet away.
“Can we help you ladies with anything?” I say and remove my sunglasses as we approach to a hum of giggles.
“My friend here needs help, Officer Sexy,” the tallest of the women says, a brunette with a coy smile and legs for days. “She has a real thing for a man in uniform.”
Nate snickers beside me as my sense of duty fades when I realize there is no need for help. These are just some women out to have a bit of fun. I stop before them, my thumbs hooked in my duty belt, and pretend like I didn’t hear the comment that I sure as hell did. “So, everything is good here, then?”
“That depends,” says a voice of the only woman whose back is still to me, “if you’re going to give me mouth to mouth and resuscitate me . . .” her voice fades off when our eyes meet.
Holy mother fucking shit. It can’t be her.
Can it?
“Emmy?”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part. And for that split second, I see the little girl from my memories. The one with the mess of strawberry blonde tangles and emerald eyes. The one who made pinky promises, mud pies, and agreed with me that Batman was far superior to Iron Man when it came to superheroes.
My best friend who told me she never wanted to see me again.
All the emotions come flooding back unexpectedly as I watch the familiarity flashing across her face vanish. Visibly flustered, she shakes her head and takes an abrupt step back, bumping into her friend behind her.
“No. I’m not her. She’s not me,” she denies.
“Emerson?” It’s the brunette again, and hearing that name—her name—after all this time is like being sucker punched with a battering ram.
“I’m fine.” She shrugs off the hand her other friend has put on her shoulder. Gone is the fun, flirty demeanor she had before turning to see me, Grant Malone—the boy she said she hated. Panic I can’t understand, but desperately want to, has replaced it.
“Emmy—”
“It’s Emerson,” she snaps with a resolute nod before breaking our eye contact and looking at her friends. “I have to go . . .”
“What are you doing here?” I ask a question, but it’s so much more than what it sounds like. How are you? Where have you been? Why are you back? Tell me you’re staying around. But she just stands in front of me and stares as if she can’t believe it’s really me and, at the same time, frightened that it is me.
“Em?” I reach out, needing to touch her to make sure she’s real, but the minute my hand touches her bicep, she jerks her arm back.
“I can’t . . . I didn’t want . . .” She shakes her head and then looks to the tall brunette before turning back to me with wide eyes as the color slowly drains from her cheeks. “Travis just texted. He needs me to help. I . . . have to go.”
Travis? Who’s Travis?
And with that, Emmy Reeves—the girl I haven’t thought about in years—turns on her heel and walks away.
“No. Wait!” I call after her as she makes her way through the crowd, her mane of strawberry blonde hair the last thing I see of her.
Just like before.
