The Corner House: A Reverse Harem Read online

  Still, I can’t help but wonder how awful I really look in front of this man.

  “Fine,” I nod, madder at myself now because I can feel the heat of his dreaminess creep up my neck and flood my cheeks. “Thanks for, you know, popping me in.” And then I do an invisible grab followed by a hearty invisible pop-in of said thigh and immediately, I want to melt.

  He laughs, something wicked, and for an amount of time that really makes me want to slither away. When he stops, his mouth forms a sort of serious smile and my chest tightens, humiliation lodging itself inside my throat. I swallow hard but the lump remains.

  “You’re funny,” he says and then we just stare at each other. I know why I’m studying him but he studies me in a way that makes me self-conscious and… warm. The gravel behind us crunches and moves as another cop car arrives on the scene.

  “Responding to the 11-83?” He pushes off the curb and the distance he puts between us as he paces to the other officer disappoints me. I don’t know why- it’s not like we were about to have some post car-crash leg dislocation sex, but still, I didn’t get enough of him.

  Gathering my stuff from my car, which is on the shoulder of the busy road, I smooth the eye makeup from my face, tucking stray hairs back into my messy ponytail. When I turn back to them, the other officer is leaving and I am left with Officer…

  Narrowing my eyes on the gold rectangle, I see his name is CUTE. I know he told me when he first came on the scene but the whole leg-out-of-socket-thing kind of had my attention.

  “Officer Cute,” I say before I shove my hand out for a… handshake? I’m initiating a fucking handshake? Oh my god, Sloane, what is happening right now? Are you like, having a stroke that is manifesting itself in the form of horrible social behavior? The one time you’ve been around a man that looks like an actual superhero, you have absolutely zero chill. I mean, he is wearing a damn hero uniform.

  He shakes my hand and that delighted little grin is back on his perfect lips, framing his white teeth. We’re encroaching on familiar banter, I can see, as he rocks on his feet a moment, inked arms down by his side.

  “I prefer handsome but,” he shrugs slowly, a pleased grin on his lips. His charm infects me and I find myself grinning back at him.

  “How often do you use that line?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, imagining this man has gotten some mileage from a name like that.

  “Plenty,” he smiles, then the adorable satisfaction on his face fades. He changes the subject. “Everyone has that reaction when they get things popped back in.” He motions to both shoulders, confirming his own words. “I do.”

  “Do? As in, getting stuff dislocated is an ongoing thing, like it happens often?” I ask, not wanting to imagine all the horrendous situations this man is in for his job. I wince at the thought that dislocation, to him, is a level of normalcy.

  He nods, those ocean eyes twinkling at me in a way that makes my hip pain all but disappear.

  “Four times so far,” he shrugs, coolly. “I scream like an insane person every time.”

  We both laugh at that though part of me doesn’t think he was joking, and that makes me like Officer Cute, just a little bit.

  “But see, it hurts worse when it’s out, right?”

  I nod. “Right. It really doesn’t hurt much anymore,” I say, giving my leg a gentle shake. It’s sore but I’m no longer in pain. Truth be told, I think the idea of something being out of its socket freaked me out more than the actual pain.

  “Can you get a ride to work? That’s where you’re headed, right?”

  I nod, knowing I can call my best friend Brynn. Actually, I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t called me already. She’s that type of friend. The kind that holds you accountable. And also, she wants the homemade banana and hemp heart muffins I promised her. The ones that are sitting in my partially crunched car.

  “Well, like I said, I’ll wait with your car then I’ll call you later to let you know what happens with that,” he throws a thumb over his shoulder at the truck behind me, where the other officer stands with the driver, who appears to have a gash on his arm.

  The other driver looks panicked, but more for himself than the fact he hit me. I had looked at him once or twice while speaking with Officer Cute but I don’t think the other driver even knew I was there. Holding his arm, crying. A grown man crying from a two-inch scrape on his arm. His truck was pretty much unscathed and now that I thought about it, I had no clue how he even got that scratch on his arm.

  “Thank you,” I say, not knowing what else to say in the situation. And all things considered, it’s probably best I don’t prolong this. It would only give me more time to embarrass myself. I've been doing that pretty well so far.

  I hold up my phone, reminding myself I don’t have spare time anyway. That even if Officer Fuck Me wanted to talk and tell me he loves me (okay, maybe not that part), I needed to get to work.

  “Well, better call my ride.” I smile, somewhat shyly, unable to stop myself. He brings that girlish, immature reaction out of me. The part of me that wants to burn him a CD and spray his cologne on my pillow case. Wear his t-shirt and give him a blowjob in a Honda Civic. That young, primal reaction to have him, with no thought of who he really is or what we'd actually be like together.

  “I’ll be in touch soon. Take care Miss Bowers.”

  “Thanks again, for the,” I point to my hips as I pace back from him, phone already dialing in my hand. Brynn was the last call in my recent calls, so I tapped from memory. Turning away, I cup my hand around my mouth, trying to block out any street noise and wind. It is a little windy out here.

  “Girl, where are you? I want my freaking muffin. And also,” Brynn's happy tone drops to a whisper, “Emerson is here and she’s coming unhinged, I swear.”

  Dragging the toe of my sienna-colored bootie through the gravel, I gnaw my bottom lip. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been in an accident because the previous appointment Emerson had with me, I had to cancel at the last minute. A migraine hit me as soon as I stepped foot into the salon and with partial vision and full nausea, I couldn’t work. To say she was displeased (and, by the way, not at all worried about me) would be an understatement. Being late this time? She’d surely switch colorists. I knew she would.

  She wouldn’t be the first to do it, either.

  I couldn’t blame my clients, not really. One late appointment here, a cancellation there—that was tolerable. But my migraines had gotten so bad lately that I’d cancelled and rearranged more appointments than I actually showed up for—and that was the problem.

  I’d lost a handful of women in the last few weeks and the worst part is that I didn’t blame them. I blamed myself. Or, more specifically, my broken, hurting, perma-aching brain. Always surprising me with a three-day flood of unrelenting pain at the worst time.

  “I got t-boned on Geer Road,” I say to Brynn, trying to steady my nervous breathing. I don’t want to lose Emerson. She’s a high-maintenance person but in my business, that means more business. Because the woman will not let her roots go more than four weeks without a touch up.

  “Oh my gosh,” Brynn worries through the phone, repeating the information for the rest of the salon. “I don’t know,” she responds to them when someone asks if I’m okay. “Are you okay?”

  “My car is basically totaled. Undriveable. But yeah, I mean, I’m okay.”

  She lets out a sigh of relief before reporting back to the salon. “Totaled car and you’re not hurt at all?”

  “Well,” I say, wondering how honest I should be because if I tell her the truth, she’ll tell everyone in the salon and chances are, they’ll force me to take the day off. But I cannot afford it. I’m thisclose to paying my rent with a cash advance from my damn credit card. I cannot miss another coloring. Equally, I don’t like lying. “My leg got a tiny bit dislocated but the Officer on scene popped it back in and I’m all good now.”

  “A tiny bit dislocated?” she repeats, both ironically and lowkey skeeved out.
“I’m no doctor but I know that something can’t be just a tiny bit dislocated.”

  Then she’s talking to Emerson, whose tone I can only slightly hear but what I do hear is annoyance. It’s what I expected from her but nonetheless, her annoyance grows the knot of unease that is building in my belly. Please don’t leave, my brain whispers, hoping that somehow my unbelievable need for her to stay will be transferred through the ether and that she will remain in the chair, waiting for me.

  “I’m fine, trust me, Brynn. Listen, please, don’t let Emerson leave.” My voice sounds desperate because I am desperate. I am not too big to admit freely that I need her to stay. Emerson is friends with a handful of other women who come to me for their coloring needs and I would really hate for a misfortunate t-bone to clear my books and ruin my reputation. “And also, I need a ride.”

  She sighs heavily, like I’m asking her for an impossible feat like lifting a car. Brynn covers the phone and though she’s muffled I can still hear her. Without too much pleading, she asks Emerson to stay and I hate that I asked her to reduce herself for me in this way.

  Any part of me that wants to claim irritation—that Emerson should give me the benefit of the doubt because she’s been late plenty of times—gets pushed to the backseat of my brain because, I remind myself, I am only responsible for my actions, not hers. Being late is not professional and cancelling is not professional. No matter how often Emerson saunters in late with a Venti Chai Tea latte with nonfat milk and light ice and two extra shots of espresso, I smile and take her. Because that's me. And she’s her, and even though I agree that this is not professional and less than ideal, apparently, she gives less grace than I do.

  Brynn’s voice becomes more muffled as she attempts to shelter me from Emerson’s rising volume.

  When she comes back, she speaks in a hushed whisper. “Who put your leg back in?”

  My mouth curls up on the end and I’d roll my eyes but no one is there to see it and sometimes, a harsh eye roll can start a numbing feeling in my head, which can evolve into a headache. Dramatics are not worth the risk.

  “Is she really asking those details?” I breathe-hiss, realizing mid-whisper that I in fact am about to embark on a degrading game of ‘prove it’ with Emerson. “The cop that came to the accident, I told you.”

  “What’s his name?” Brynn isn’t whispering anymore either. That is concerning because it makes me think she’s not asking these questions to keep Emerson there, anymore. Instead, Emerson is asking the questions now.

  “What? Why?” I ask, walking back to my Prius, which looks more like a crumpled piece of paper than an earth-friendly vehicle. I pop the passenger door open and reach for the Tupperware of muffins. This morning won’t be a complete loss. Those are damn good muffins. The hemp hearts give them such a rich flavor, not to mention the health benefits.

  “Emerson’s husband is a police officer, remember?” she states, though it technically is a question.

  I honestly can’t remember Emerson ever even talking about having a husband.

  I’ve heard about how the other women at the gym are jealous of how easily she gains muscle (where she’s hiding that muscle, I don’t know), I’ve heard about how she’s just naturally good at most things (who even says that out loud?), and I know I’ve heard about the gossip on her street. In fact, I think I knew the names of all her neighbors and their husbands.

  But not Emerson’s.

  “She’s married?” I can’t help the words from tumbling out and I keep my fingers crossed she didn’t do anything stupid like put me on speakerphone. I’ll be fucked if that’s the case.

  “Yes, Sloane,” Brynn whispers, and I can almost hear the bulge in her eyes, she’s straining her voice so freaking hard. “What was the officer’s name?”

  “Cute,” I say, the name sounding even less believable without his gorgeous freaking face right in front of me. I swear my chest hollowed a bit just remembering the man. Truly beautiful and again, I did not shave my legs.

  “Cute?” she questions with a shortness that tells me she’s just about done being caught between Emerson and I. Brynn talks across the salon for a moment before asking me “Bastian Cute?”

  “I mean, I guess? I didn’t ask his first name. It wasn’t a blind date.”

  “She knows him.”

  “Um, okay?” I ask or say, I’m not sure which. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.”

  Brynn sighs. “Just a second,” she says aloud and then after some huffy, pissy walking and grumbling, I know we are alone. “I think she’s implying you are lying and she’s going to check with Officer Cute... if there was an accident.” She’s still saying his name like I made it up.

  “That’s really his name! Even Emerson told you!” I scream back as pain runs through the base of my skull, spreading like sand through the top of my head. “Shit,” I pale, exhaling hard and immediately dropping to my knees, the gravel embedding itself into my skin. My heart climbs to an unimaginable speed, a ring of darkness grabbing hold of my brain.

  Brynn recognizes my quickly fading breath. “Your head?” she asks in a sudden panic, knowing what could be coming if it is.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, inhaling slowly and intentionally, trying to fill my lungs with as much air and time as possible. Slow down the breathing. That’s important to calm my panic. The mere momentary idea of getting a headache had given me a rush of panic. “Just overwhelmed.”

  I start to go magic-eye on the phone call, focusing instead on the blur of my surroundings. The quiet roar of hurried cars, the smooth crushing of leaves into themselves, the occasional rustle in the weeds that peek out amidst the loose gravel. I can’t hear any of it precisely, rather, I hear it all at once, like a watercolor of noises bleeding effortlessly into each other. My head grows groggy and I know this release, the giving up of the adrenaline my brain was holding onto. The fear slips away and my body realizes it’s okay.

  The calm after the panic.

  “I’m okay. And yes, his actual name was Cute. I’m not messing with you because if I was, that would mean Emerson and I are in it together and I think you know that’s not possible.” Taking a steadying breath, I rise from my knees and tuck the stray strands of blonde hair behind my ear. “It’s been an absolutely awful morning. Please, ask Emerson not to leave. I need the money, Brynn.”

  “I know,” she says quietly. “I’ll get her to stay. I’ll come get you. Text me exactly where you are, I need to go work on Emerson, first, though.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, thoroughly tired of the fear of headaches having this massive grip on my life.

  Earlier, when I said I did the loudest and craziest scream I’d ever done? Let me update that to second loudest and craziest scream. Because as I tuck my phone back into my purse, Officer Cute makes his presence known behind me by tapping my shoulder.

  “What th—” I jerk back, my heart racing yet again. I may seriously be adding heart attack victim to my list of medical conditions. Hand slapped across my chest, I bend at the waist, exhaling hard.

  “Jesus, you scared me,” I say, jerking up, forcing myself to calibrate so as to not make a huge asshole out of myself. Well, any more than I already have, that is.

  “I honestly did not hear you,” I say, “you should be a ninja. Like if this doesn’t work out,” I wave my finger loosely in the vicinity of his badge, “ninja would be a good fit.”

  “Yeah?” he asks with a questioning lift of his brow. And for no reason other than HIM, my core goes all tingly. Jesus, am I a desperate badge bunny, foolishly thinking I’m sharing this adoration? I’m sure every woman he comes into contact with behaves just how I’m behaving.

  And yet, I cannot stop.

  So help me god, this man is gorgeous and he can scare me until I pee my pants and I will still fall all over myself like an anti-feminist asshole.

  I really can’t help it. If you were me, you’d do the same. Don’t lie to yourself.

  “Yeah,
I really did not hear you come back.” My toe drags itself through the gravel. “Clearly.”

  His brows pinch together but his forehead remains smooth, as if his confusion stops at his eyes. “I never left,” he says, shocked. “You really should be more aware of your surroundings, Miss Bowers,” he says, a tinge of judgement in his tone.

  “We said goodbye,” I counter, not feeling wrong and not liking feeling judged. Being hot doesn’t give you access to being judgmental. “Goodbye means you’re leaving my area.”

  “I was giving you space to call Brynn about Emerson,” he says nonchalantly, and my mouth drops open.

  “You were standing back here listening to me?!” I gasp, hating myself but quickly trying to replay the entire conversation in my head, trying to remember if I said anything embarrassing.

  “You get headaches?” he asks, his dark eyes trained on me, studying my face. I tug at the collar of my V-neck dress, inviting fresh, cool air down my top.

  “Yeah, but, umm,” I think aloud, “did I say that?”

  Superman looks embarrassed for a moment but before I can dissect it, he grows serious and replies. “I inferred, based on your side of it and your behavior.” He nods to where I had been kneeling before. I guess that was kind of dramatic.

  “You live in Saddle Creek, don’t you?” he asks, his tone caressing that insecurity running rampant inside me.

  “Yeah, did you get that from running my plate?” I ask, tucking loose strands of my wild blonde hair behind my ears. I feel windswept in his presence. Jesus, listen to me. Is it 1853? But still, I tuck away the invisible out of place hairs, my movements work against his gaze, the one that pins me down.

  “I live in Saddle Creek,” he says, drawing it out a bit, narrowing his eyes on me. “Yeah, you live back on Sal’s Mare, don’t you?”

  Years later, I still cringe at the street name. But I live in a cowboy town and all the streets in my housing development pertain to horses and horse culture. Yes, horse culture is a thing. See: rodeo weekend.