The Corner House: A Reverse Harem Read online

  “I live around the corner, on Stallion,” he nods, and I can’t help but smirk, because of course he lives on Stallion.

  And I think a bit of pink appears under his tan, nearly russet cheeks.

  “The tow is here,” he throws a nod across my shoulder and I turn to see my car being secured to the flatbed of a tow truck. Jesus, I really am going numb to the world when I get panicked about headaches. Not only did I not hear the truck but I didn’t hear them putting it on the bed, either. Nodding, I realize now why he was a bit judgmental earlier. I pretty much could have been murdered with how aware I was.

  “I can drive you,” he says quickly, “if you want to call your friend back, I can drive you.”

  I wish I could say I tried to refuse. That I kindly and shyly hesitated, attempting to draw him into me with gentle rejection. Make him really work for it.

  But I’m not the girl that gets the hot guy. I'm a plain, girl-next-door that gets the friend of the brother of the hot guy. I’m not the love-interest that all the girls wish they were. I’m her second cousin.

  And this isn’t a date, I will never see Clark Kent again, I’m sure, and so I agree far too fast to be even an ounce of coy, and call Brynn immediately.

  “Brynn,” I state, saying all the freaking silent prayers that she is still convincing Emerson to stay, and then feeling bad that I’m wishing that on her. Officer Fuck Me lets his steely eyes roam over my body and I just want that. I want that for me. Is that so bad?

  It’s all felt so hard lately.

  I just want this. Even if it’s just a fucking car ride. I want it.

  Chapter 2

  “The Officer,” I say slowly, feeling unable to repeat his name under his gaze, “will give me a ride,” I finish, making sure to control my pace so as to not sound overly eager, which is clearly just code for desperate.

  “Good,” she says back, “because Emerson just agreed she’d stay. I’ll tell her the Hot Cop is bringing you back, that will shut her up for a bit.”

  “Wait, I didn’t say he… I didn’t say that, you know, about him.” I look up awkwardly through my furrowed brow at Officer Cute, knowing that my coded conversation is about as hard to see through as glass. My face grows hot, I tuck another strand of hair behind my ear as a gust of warm wind rolls up against my back, tossing the ends of my ponytail everywhere.

  “She told us,” Brynn says, her voice going up with humor, as if she’s about to tease me about the hot cop. Because she knows I’m standing two feet from him and moreover, she loves embarrassing me because I am easy to embarrass. “Emerson says to hurry.”

  Emerson says to hurry. I was just in a car accident. God, her husband must be a saint to tolerate a woman so self-involved. It takes a special type of man to love a woman like that.

  “Okay,” is all I can seem to croak out as my mouth goes dry. “See you soon.”

  Office Cute was already looking at me when I ended the call and looked back to him. Our eyes idled on one another and my skin felt fiery again.

  His hand rests at the base of my spine as he guides me through the terrain to the cruiser. Opening my door for me, he then pulls and latches the safety belt, too. “Okay?” he asks, his head barely dipping into the cab from the outside of the car. He’s leaning down and sunlight pours through the gap between his arm and face. His silhouette is a sharp jaw and a swoop of hair and my sleeping lady parts come alive.

  “Yes,” I say, heavy-breathed.

  “Alright,” he says, after pacing the front of the cab and settling into the driver’s seat next to me. “Let’s get you to this Emerson woman.”

  I smile, and tell him the location of Salon Six, where I work. Gazing at his profile then back out at the road in front of us, I say, “I think Emerson is married to one of your colleagues.”

  He snorts. “Colleagues?”

  My head swivels back, indignant. “How else was I supposed to say it?”

  He laughs and pulls a palm down his chin. “I think someone else in the police department or another cop would’ve worked just fine.”

  Smiling, I agree. “Any guys down at the precinct bragging about their muscular and very smart wife named Emerson?”

  He snorts again. “Precinct, huh?” his eyebrow raises like The Rock as he side-eyes me across the cab.

  “Station?” I offer, feeling like I’m saying all the wrong things and he’s loving every minute of it. “So, know anyone married to Emerson?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know,” he shrugs, lips rolling down.

  “Such a guy response,” I hear myself saying. It’s funny because though I’ve known Officer Cute less than an hour and I’ve made an ass out of myself in more ways than I’d like to admit, banter with him feels normal. It feels like talking to an old friend or even, a crush.

  He lifts his chin, exposing his neck. Bringing his hand to his throat, he taps his Adam’s apple twice, before giving me a quick wink. “I am a guy.”

  I have no idea why the first two words that pop into my mind are “prove it” but thank you baby Jesus I do not actually say them. I just smile.

  “So,” Officer Panty Tingle, eh, I mean, Officer Cute starts. “How long have you been doing hair?”

  My pulse quickens. I don’t know why I didn’t strike him to be a man that asks about a woman, maybe it’s the alpha role of police officer, protector. I haven’t had anyone ask me about myself in a while, let alone a man. Sigh.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had a boyfriend.

  I should be dating around, I know. And as my mother loves to remind me, “you’re only young once so don’t waste those years being a prude.” I know she didn’t want me to go out and bang every guy I had a coffee with, but sometimes I wondered if that wasn’t exactly her message. A bit of wisdom from her own life choices handed down to her only daughter in code.

  I was more of a relationship girl. Don’t get me wrong, a good fuck was wonderful. Vital, even. Always lifts my spirits for a day or two. But I don’t want just sex.

  I want everything I’d been told my entire life that I’d get.

  I want the Hallmark movie ending. I want my partner to have the sexual prowess of Christian Grey with the manners of Mr. Darcy. I want a man who weaves his fingers through my hair lovingly while he watches me suck his cock. I want a man who can’t keep his hands off of my body, wanting me so badly that my insecurities disappear. I want a man who writes me love notes and sends me sweet text messages. I want a man who teaches me new things and learns from me, too.

  And in return I’d give him me.

  All of me. I’d give him everything he needed, things he didn’t even ask for, I’d give it all. Because we’d be so consumed with each other. He would be the foundation of my happiness and I would be his. Traditional, old school, unrealistic; my dreams had many names. But still, you’re allowed to dream anything you want.

  “Uhh,” I so eloquently say, holding the Tupperware tight in my lap. I don’t even have to touch it; it’s sitting in my lap and yet my arms are wrapped around it like it’s made of glass and the footwell of the cruiser is concrete. My back feels sweaty. I lick my lips. “Eight years,” I admit, not liking how long it sounded when I said it aloud. It made me feel like life was passing me by. And what did I have to show for it?

  Migraines had taken almost everything in the last few years.

  Migraines had taken my social life, as drinking socially usually meant several drinks and several wasn’t an option. Too much alcohol was a trigger for a migraine because it dehydrated me.

  Migraines had taken my carefree spirit. Any day that I woke up feeling off, if my head buzzed or throbbed even a little—my body clawed and screamed its way through fight of flight for the entire day, worrying I was going to get a migraine.

  Migraines had taken my comfort. The money I’d saved for years—saved for what, I wasn’t sure, I just knew saving was important—was nearly gone now. I’d dipped into it after a few missed appointments turned into many, and I no longer earned a
thriving income.

  Migraines had taken that feminine mystique away from me, too. Before I was pushed blindly down this dark and seemingly endless road, I was dating some and even had a boyfriend for a year. I hadn’t met Mr. Right, but I’d met a Mr. At Least You’re Not Alone and that was something. Now that I feel unable to exercise, go out for drinks, watch movies in theaters, or do anything that that posed a risk of triggering a migraine, I didn’t feel like the woman who could flirt easily and laugh carelessly, like I used to be. I felt like the woman always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had been a year of this, of being alone, hiding out and hoping one day it would just go away.

  I am tired of letting migraines steal my life. I want to reclaim it, move on, live. I don’t know how but conversing with Officer Cute makes me feel more alive than I have in a long time.

  I know a hot guy isn’t a cure for migraines, but he feels a lot like a cure for my current bummer streak and I’d take a remedy over nothing, any day of the week.

  A large Louis Vuitton bag is perched in Emerson’s lap when I come into the salon. We all knew I am late but still, she looks at her watch then up at me, over the top of her oversized tortoise shell sunglasses. Pulling them off, she flips the arms in on themselves and drops them into her designer bag, along with her phone.

  Brynn rushes up to me, leaning down, examining both of my legs as if she’d see some sign of the dislocation. I tug at the hem of my jean shorts, feeling self-conscious under the gazes of the room full of women.

  “It looks okay,” she says, wide eyed, standing back up and examining my face. “How’s your head?” she asks, in a volume only meant for my ears.

  It meant a lot to me that she asked, no matter what was going on. If we were annoyed with one another, if we were busy with clients, if she was on vacation with her fiancé—still, she always checked on me. A real friend, and probably my only real friend. As the headaches increased in frequency and I had to let go of social obligations and meetups, friends slowly slipped away. Not my core group.

  And certainly not Brynn.

  I also hate that she had to ask about that. I want her to ask how my hot date went. I want her to ask if I was going to trivia night. I want to be asked about things relevant to a normal twenty-six-year-old.

  “Officer Cute popped it back in, it’s okay now. Sore, but okay.” I wiggle it a little to prove it.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Why didn’t you shave your legs if you were wearing shorts?”

  My face grows hot, remembering Officer Swoon’s palms on my thigh, twisting and pushing, somehow with gentle torque. I’m sure he was wondering the same thing. Burying my face in my palms, shaking my head, I groan loudly.

  “What?” Brynn questions.

  Lifting my face, chewing on my bottom lip, I just shake my head. “This is the only time I’ll say this but Emerson was right. Officer Cute was freaking hot,” I shake my head at the memory, both wanting and not wanting to remember. “I wanted a bagel this morning,” I admit sheepishly. “The toaster over takes seven minutes so I skipped shaving my legs. I didn’t have time for both.”

  Brynn’s lips spread into a wide grin, enjoying my embarrassment. I think my cheeks are officially the color of her bright red hair.

  Reaching out, she rests her hand on my shoulder. “I need to talk with your mother. You don’t know the rule about leaving your house?”

  My brows pinch together.

  She rolls her eyes. “Always wear clean, nice underwear and have your legs shaved. In case you get in an accident and have to be like, cut out of your car and clothes and stuff.” She bobs her head slowly, lips pursed. “See? It makes sense.” She waves a hand down my legs. “Case in point.”

  Before I can respond, she adds “bagels aren’t good for you anyway, Sloane.”

  “I know,” I say, grabbing the Tupperware of muffins from my work station. “Muffins are much healthier,” I smile, rolling my eyes. These are bomb muffins and while they’re healthier than those cupcakes disguised as muffins at the grocery store, still, they are flour and butter at the core.

  “Damn straight,” she says, casting the lid aside, grabbing two muffins. She rips the top off one and takes overzealous bite of it, moaning and chewing, eyes rolling. I like baking, but I don’t like it enough to be a baker. I don’t do it because I love the process. I do it because I like giving people happiness. Brynn swallows her bites and drapes a palm across her chest.

  “You’re right, the hemp hearts are really good. I love the crunch.”

  “Right?” I ask, choosing to not divulge the fact that I ate a muffin for dinner last night. Brynn indulges in my baked goods but outside of that, she’s a meal prepping-health nut and hearing that I didn’t eat the spinach and arugula salad she brought for me yesterday, well, it’s better I keep it to myself.

  “Hey,” she says, tearing into the stump of the first muffin. “Let’s get back to the cop. How cute was he?”

  I flop down into the chair at the door. Our salon assistant is mixing Emerson’s color and Emerson is helping herself to a glass of cucumber and mint infused water, which we keep at the salon for clients, so I know I have a few minutes. All the rushing and there’s always waiting while the color is mixed and the tray is loaded with foils, clips and combs.

  My eyes go wide, and though Brynn doesn’t know it, my belly pulls tight at the remembrance of him. “He wasn’t cute, Brynn,” I tell her. Cute is how you describe a kitten or the way your junior high boyfriend holds your hand at a school dance. Cute is what you call a throw pillow from Target, cute is a top you bring on vacation, cute is doodles on a notepad.

  This man was not cute.

  “No?” she asks, confusion on her face as she finishes the first muffin in under one minute. Slow for her, actually.

  “No,” I shake my head vehemently again. “He makes Channing Tatum look just okay.”

  She punches me in the shoulder, hard, and I rub my arm. “We don’t talk about Channing that way,” she warns, digging into the second muffin.

  “Okay first, somehow you are weirdly strong because that really hurt.”

  Mouth full, she grins, lifting her arm, flexing her little bubble of bicep. Through the banana and hemp, she says, “I’m working out with Bryan now.” Bryan, her fiancé, jumped head-on into fitness when they first started dating a year ago. He’d always been solid but now he was full-on muscular, complete with abs and traps, too.

  “Second,” I say, bypassing the sickening cuteness that is Brynn and Bryan working out together. “I’m serious. I would not disparage Sir Channing in that way if I didn’t mean it.” I look over my shoulder to see Emerson fishing out her favorite color Skittles from the collective dish and swallow down the disgust in my throat. Who touches something that’s for everyone? But Emerson is on the hunt for grape Skittles, and I know I have another minute. “He’s like movie dreamy, Brynn. Swoopy Gucci ad hair, the entire Clark Kent jaw and build, and tattoos.”

  Brynn stops mid-bite, a chunk of muffin stuck on her bottom lip. “Tattoos?” she says, the chunk tumbling to the floor.

  We love tattoos. And when I say we, I mean we, collectively, as women. Take a corded torso and a head of good hair and, yep, he’s hot. Add sleeves of vibrant ink and personal art choices? I blot at my forehead with the back of my wrist, feeling the heat rise up from my cheeks. Just remembering him has me hot.

  “Full sleeves, both arms, bright colors, I saw some flowers, I saw a really beautiful woman, there was a snake, I don’t know remember it all,” I say, tugging my blouse from my chest.

  “You are physically getting hot right now,” Brynn says, “you little slut!”

  “Shh!” I hiss, “I am getting hot. He was that hot, Brynn, I’m telling you. Like, I didn’t know these types of guys existed anywhere but Instagram and Romance novels.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, but the guys on Instagram are real guys, too.”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Yeah, but not really. We’re never going to see them
or meet them.”

  She nods, like she accepts this loose reasoning. “So,” she nudges me with her elbow as she devours the second muffin, “did he have a ring on?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, “I was pretty mortified the whole time. I mean, his hands were all over me and—”

  “You didn’t shave your legs,” she shakes her head slow and sad, as if her favorite book just surprised her with a bad ending. “Damn, Sloane.”

  “And when he put my leg back in, I did my crazy maniac scream. Remember the time we were going down the river on inner tubes and mine flipped and I screamed so loud you flipped your tube too?”

  She narrows her eyes, as if she isn’t yet over the incident that took place two years ago. “I remember, of course, because my discontinued vintage Quay sunglasses fell off my head into the river when you screamed bloody murder.”

  “I’m sorry, for like, the millionth time,” I say, exacerbated.

  She lifts her chin, bravely moving on from the poor, lost sunglasses. “You did that scream, huh?”

  I nod.

  “Eek.”

  “I know,” I add, “and just, in general, made an asshole out of myself.”

  She rubs her palm up the side of my arm, smiling. “It’s okay, asshole. I still love you.”

  “Sloane would you like to grace my roots with your presence now?” Emerson’s voice makes something behind my eyeball throb instantly.

  “Yes, Emerson,” I say, my tone more fake than aspartame. I give Brynn the eyes that girlfriends give each other. As I’m headed to my chair, our assistant rolling up the tray of supplies, Brynn says, “let’s Google him tonight at girl’s night.”

  My belly flutters at the idea of researching Officer Cute online. Just to see him one more time would be good enough for me.

  Chapter 3

  Girls’ night. I think it’s quite possibly one of the only things I look forward to every other week. Brynn, her sister Abbie, and Abbie’s best friend Kayla and I are the core members. We’ve had some of the other stylists at the salon come and go, but no one is as dedicated to bi-weekly girls’ night as the Core Four.