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1
EVE
“You are not wearing a Cutthroat Police shirt to my party,” Poppy told me, one eyebrow raised and a finger waggling up and down in my direction.
I looked at myself, at what I’d worn to work, the usual jeans and the navy, long-sleeved shirt with the police department logo embroidered on it.
Clearly she thought I’d wear the unexciting outfit to her party. She knew me too well. But I also knew her, knew I wasn’t going to get away with it—and had planned ahead. I raised my hands to stop her, as if she were the one who was the law enforcement officer instead of me. “I brought other clothes.”
I grabbed my bag and dropped it on her bed. I’d gone to her house directly from work.
“These clothes, were they given to you by the department?” she asked. “If it were in a different size, could a guy wear it?”
I huffed out a laugh as I unzipped the bag. “No. I’ve been working too many long hours with the Mills murder and the other cases I’ve got on my plate to think about what to wear. Or do laundry.”
“That’s fine and all for nine-to-five—”
“Try seven to ten,” I corrected.
“Whatever. Are there sequins on what you’ve brought? Ruffles? Bows? How about a color besides black or navy?”
I swung my gaze her way, gave her a death glare. “Poppy.” I never wore sequins or ruffles and she knew it.
She shrugged, making the bright pink angora sweater she wore shift down one shoulder. No one questioned her outfits. “I’m just saying, a guy only wants you putting him in handcuffs if you’re in bed together.”
I pictured that in my mind, getting a guy in restraints and at my mercy. In bed. The idea was hot, but what melted my butter was the opposite—a guy tying me up and having me at his mercy. To allow me to let go, to forget about everything. I wouldn’t have to be in charge, wouldn’t have to worry if I was doing it right.
That was never going to happen. No way would I be under a guy’s control like that. No way would I let a guy take my power from me. I’d done it once, and it had been a nightmare. Worse than that.
Never again. It was safer to be single, to be alone, than to be abused.
“You are insane,” I told her.
“You haven’t been with a guy since I met you. No dates. Nothing. How long has it been since you’ve gotten some?” she asked, her perfect arched brow rising.
Far too long since a man-induced orgasm. Well, ever, because I’d had to do it myself during sex. The guys I’d been with couldn’t get me there.
“You think a red sweater’s going to help me get laid?”
“The police shirt isn’t,” she countered.
To say we were complete opposites was an understatement. It was a wonder we were friends. I’d met Poppy Nickel in a yoga class at the recreation center when I first moved to town. We’d hit it off, strangely enough. She was petite, curvy and perky. I was tall, far from curvy and surly. She was high maintenance. I considered primping pulling my hair back in a ponytail.
Poppy tried to fix me up with hot guys—without any success—and I kept her out of speeding tickets. Not that she was wild and crazy, but she was definitely more adventurous than me.
And yet she didn’t have a man of her own either. For now she was single.
I took the handcuffs from the hook on my belt, dropped them into my bag. “No handcuffs.” I pulled out a sweater and held it up between my fingers. “It’s a turtleneck, but it’s red. Plus I’ve got a pair of blank skinny jeans to go with it. Will that work?”
She pursed her lips as she considered.
