Bad Friends

1

George

N eed backup at residence. I wait, listening to the crackle from dispatch over my radio as I watch, with what little light the November setting sun is providing, the two yahoos—probably geeky frat boys who’ve had too much to drink and not enough to worry about—ominously circle each other in an otherwise quiet neighborhood. It’s the very day the university breaks for Thanksgiving. This season, from this day until the second day of January, is hell for cops, since people not only eat too much but usually drink too much, too. I want to wait one more second before I get out of the car to do my thing. The two young men, yelling obscenities and weaving like sailors fresh off a boat, are threatening each other. This might be all for show. They might not fight.

The smaller of the two lunges forward and completely misses a blow at his opponent. By more than a foot misses.

Shit, I whisper.

Hon Whitetail, my ride-along partner and the man who happens to be my best friend, laughs. George, they’re so drunk. I’m not sure if they can really hurt each other.

My full name is Georgiana O’Malley. But I’m either called George or O’Malley. Not even my mother calls me Georgiana. Not even when I’m in trouble. I guess the feminine name doesn’t fit me.

As I open my car door, I scowl at Hon and his way-too handsome face and bright white teeth with his wide grin, vaguely remembering he was nervously asking me something before I got this call. They can hurt Mrs. Pool’s yard, stupid idiots.

I get out of my car in time to see the taller of the two, who’s almost scary thin, try to kick the shorter one, yelling, Motherffffff…

This is cop work. It’s not pretty. I deal with drunks more than the average bouncer, and I’m the one who’s going to make the two spoiled brats stop fighting.

Officer! Officer! A woman in curlers and a housecoat, a little dog beside her that keeps yapping, screams from behind her screen door. She’s the one who made the 911 call about two strange boys yelling at each other in her yard. We’re not far from the college. Less than a block. Oh, and yes, Mrs. Pool is how she identified herself on the call, dispatch relaying the info while trying not to snicker at the formality.

But I get it. People are weird when the unusual happens, like when two strangers want to fight each other on your lawn. I don’t know what I’d say to dispatch if it were me.

The skinny guy thinks he’s a kickboxer. He keeps flinging his big feet at the smaller one. A shoe flies off and smacks his opponent in the chest.

The little guy flinches and reels a step back. Oh, you’re going to get it now, Jason.

You couldn’t even if you tried. That’s the snappy comeback from skinny Jason. They are a witty bunch.

Officer! Mrs. Pool screams again, pointing at the two men close to a bronzed statue of a sea turtle that has frost growing on its head. There’s a plastic dolphin that’s already white from the chill of the evening. It’s Wyoming, so the cold is usual. The only abnormality is our lack of snow this time of year. Get those boys off my lawn! They might hurt Randolph!

I’m guessing Randolph is the turtle, but who knows. I nod at her and weave my way around other sea creatures frolicking in Mrs. Pool’s yard.

Boys, I yell, sounding like my German mother, who could scare the devil from his life’s work.

Jassssson, you fucker.

You sssssshouldn’t have d-done it, B-B-Brad.

Hey! I yell a little louder.

The young men startle and glance at me, Jason weaving in his stance. He doesn’t look so good. I might have to call an EMT too, see if he needs a little emergency room trip and some charcoal to temper his alcohol poisoning. He gags.

Their eyes widen when they check me out. I’m in my winter gear—bulky blue coat over my bulky bullet proof vest over my bulky big body. I’m big for a woman. Almost six feet, towering over Jason and Brad. Well, Brad. I’m as tall as skinny Jason. And in this light, they might know that I’m a woman. Thanks to the bulletproof vest and not being endowed with much in the chest area anyway, most people assume I’m a dude, which, you know, does crazy things for my ego. But whatever. I’m used to being one of the guys.

I have my hand over my pepper spray and my other unhitching my Taser gun as I stand my ground about fifteen feet away from Jason and Brad. What the fuck do you two think you’re doing?

Jason points a finger at Brad. He stole Ur-Ursula.

Is Ursula your girlfriend?

No. Jason sniffs. She’s not a…real person.

Then report the theft to the cops, moron. I step closer, unhitching my pepper spray, not sure if the boys should get hit in the eyes or an electric jolt. Probably the spray, if they get out of hand. But first is negotiation. You don’t take your fight into Mrs. Pool’s yard.

Jason rocks back on his heels and looks like he’s going to cry. I can’t. You cops would laugh at me.

Why?

Because Ursula is his online unicorn. Brad informs me, sneering. He earned her in World Medieval Combat.

Great, these two idiots are fighting about online gaming. But I know this is a serious deal for them, so I turn to Brad.

Why the fuck would you steal Ursula?

The fact I’m swearing and getting closer and closer, my hand over my pepper spray but it looks like my hand is dangerously close to my gun, intimidates the sneering little guy. Which is the point. I know how to play bad cop.

Brad shrugs then looks at the ground, swaying a little. I-I-I…He hit on Rachel.

Is Rachel another unicorn?

Brad rolls his eyes like I’m an idiot. She’s real. She’s my TA.

Now it’s my turn to sneer. "You’re a professor?" I’m yelling even louder because this is completely moronic. But it’s my life. My cop’s life.

Brad’s shoulders slope. Yes. Shit, are you going to report this to the chancellor?

I straighten and let my hand fall by my side instead of threatening the—God, can you believe the kind of professors universities hire nowadays?—idiots.

I point at Jason. Do you work at the university too?

Jason shakes his head but looks like he wishes he hadn’t, considering how he’s trying not to gag again.

He’s visiting from MIT. Brad’s blinking slowly, like he might fall asleep standing now that all the fight in him is gone.

I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Jason slurs and wildly points in the general direction of Brad. I—he burps—"I thought…well, he can’t have her since she’s his TA."

What do you teach, Brad?

Computer science.

Of course, he does.

You won’t…you won’t tell the chancellor, will you? Brad asks again.

Don’t tell the chancellor. Jason’s weaving a lot, looking at me all squinty eyed.

I sigh. Get off the fucking lawn, you two.

Brad complies, and I’m the idiot who turns my back on Jason. I know better. I’ve been a patrol cop for seven years now. But come on. They’re such massive geeks, so I let my guard down while I’m thinking how to get them off Mrs. Pool’s lawn.

Skinny, long arms are flung around my neck. Don’t tell the chancellor. Don’t do it, cop, Jason yells as I’m wrestling him from his hold around my neck, angry I let myself get in this position, and trying to get a breath in as Jason strangles me. It’s my fault. All my fault. I knew he liked Rachel but I…I’m jealous. He’s so much better looking than I am. He can keep Ursula. He can keep her.

Suddenly, Jason is yanked free from his wiry hold on me and is down on the ground next to Randolph, the sea turtle, with my very best friend on top of the young, skinny professor. Oh God. Hon’s knee is in the middle of Jason’s back, and he’s got a hold of one of Jason’s arms, twisted behind him. Hon is no longer Hon. My friend is usually a big goofball with a handsome, flashy smile that would melt the pink toenail polish off a sorority chick.

But right now, he’s a snarling-faced warrior on top of poor Jason. Hon’s all fierce angles and muscles flaring, the usual light in his eyes a dull, dead thing.

Hon’s actually baring his teeth as he leans down into Jason’s ear and whispers, Don’t. Touch. My. Cop.

My cop? Weird slip of the tongue because I’m not Hon’s anything, other than a friend.

Then Jason, to top this motherfucking chaotic and moronic scene, vomits.

I close my eyes, wishing for a reset button, because my ride-along friend can’t touch people. It’s massively against the rules. He could get arrested for doing so. I let my guard down with these nerds and was strangled for a few seconds. And Mrs. Pool has been hollering something about Randolph this whole time. Oh, and my backup has yet to arrive. What a wonderful evening thus far.

Hon! I yell, sounding even more like my mother than ever before.

It snaps sense into my friend, making him look up at me with the sparkle in his eyes that I’m used to.

What the fuck are you doing, asshole?

He smiles at me. Damn him. Then he shrugs. I don’t know. He gets off Jason and helps straighten him to almost standing, even though Jason probably should have remained down. Hon puts his arm around Jason’s thin shoulders, holding him up, a wide, almost silly grin on my friend’s face. You okay, little buddy?

What…what happened? Jason looks like he can’t quite remember the last few seconds, and I’m hoping he doesn’t. Otherwise, both Hon and I are in serious trouble.

You threw up, I say, glancing at Brad who’s fallen asleep on the sidewalk, curled in a little nerd ball. Adorable. Troublesome when awake, though.

And then, because tonight is tonight, the cavalry arrives. Not my backup. Heaven forbid I get another cop to help me out. But a giant firetruck comes barreling down the street. Well, the firefighters can see about Jason, if he needs to be hospitalized or not because he’s dry heaving now.

There’s general pandemonium for a few moments. Firemen check Brad and Jason. After making sure Mrs. Pool is fine and reassuring her all her yard’s sea creatures are okay while her little dog eats Jason’s vomit, I’m checking the drunkard’s IDs, running background checks, glaring at Hon for stepping out of the patrol car.

He knows better. He’s been my ride-along partner for the past two—almost three—years, the same time we became friends. He’s a crisis counselor, trained to advocate for physically abused and/or sexually assaulted children and women. He’s damned good at what he does. I know. I’ve watched him when he coaxed a twelve-year-old girl to press charges against her pedophile step-dad. I damned well enjoyed arresting that son of a bitch.

Hon and I work well together. Besides the drunks in Laramie, the other main calls I get are for abuse. It sucks, and before Hon, I was always flummoxed what to say to a battered woman. I mean, I know what I want to say. Take a sledgehammer and beat the shit out of him, honey. But I can’t say that. My captain doesn’t seem to like me and that would give him more ammunition against me. Yeah, ode to the life of a female cop.

But thanks to Hon, I’m more nurture now.

Hon and I became friends by hanging out with other cops after shifts. Soon it was just Hon and me. We’re always together. And I mean always. If we’re not working together, we work out or we eat or whatever. We just don’t sleep together. Except by accident.

Hon would never think of me in a romantic way. I’m too much one of the guys. I know it. And that’s okay. What’s not okay is how I feel about him, which after almost three years, I should have gotten my crush under control. I don’t think he knows that I’ve been secretly attracted to him for, you know, years. Kind of pathetic, huh? And I plan to eliminate these feelings because I know he’ll never feel the way about me. Further, I value our friendship, even if he did just totally fuck up by tackling Jason Hoffer, PhD, visiting professor from MIT.

Shit. Jason and Brad are for real, which makes me wonder if I should arrest them or just ship them back to the university to sleep off whatever the hell they’ve been drinking. Maybe a night in the clinker would serve them right.

I glance at Hon, who’s smiling at me as I’m still reading the info from my patrol car’s computer.

What? My tone’s not friendly.

His brown eyes sparkle and turn puppy-dog adorable. I’m sorry, George.

I purse my lips, not ready to forgive him. Okay, I already have. But I like making him beg. He’s so cute like that.

No, he’s more than cute. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He’s one of the few who’s taller than me. Actually quite a bit taller, which I like a little too much. And he’s seriously built. He trains for MMA—Mixed Martial Arts—fighting, which he does to help his non-profit crisis center, giving all the proceeds to his charity.

So, yeah, that’s just one of the reasons why I have an insane crush on him. He’s a good man. Really good. And he’s made me a better person just by being his friend.

I swear, I’ll get my feelings under control. One of these days.

I sigh at Hon.

He turns more toward me, my partner in my car, the one man I trust above all others. I fucked up.

Yeah, you did.

I fucked up big time.

Seriously big time.

I won’t do it again.

I scowl at him.

Promise.

I shake my head. What the hell got into you? You know you can’t do shit like that. I could get stuck behind a desk with you doing shit like that. And you…you could get kicked out, no longer invited to do these ride-alongs. And that doesn’t even cover the legalities, which I know you know very well. On top of everything else, Hon’s a lawyer. Yeah, one of the best in his class. Made law review and all that, but he’s real humble about it and doesn’t even tell people about that degree.

He twitches and won’t look at me. That skinny dude was choking you.

I roll my eyes. You know I could have gotten free. Hell, we’ve been working on that move at the gym.

He twitches again and looks out his passenger side window. I fucking hated seeing him choke you.

I take a breath, because he’s sounding a little off, a little sad maybe. Touching his shoulder, I say, Okay. Okay. I—I’m thinking of not telling anyone what happened and hoping Drs. Brad and Jason don’t recall it either.

He turns back to me and smiles.

In the hopes that Brad and Jason don’t recall anything, I’m going to drive them back to the university, if the EMT firemen sign off, that is.

Hon glances out the windshield. Is Chris here?

Here’s the embarrassing part of our friendship, like my insane crush on him isn’t enough. See, when I first met him, I happened to be in the last months of a dying relationship. It was the usual kind of relationship I’ve had since college, which is I meet a guy, think the world of him, he has sex with me, and never wants to see me again. And every time, it breaks my heart. Must be hilarious to make the tall girl cry.

So that relationship ended, as they all do. And I was thinking, since Hon and I were hanging out all the time, that he might…that we might… But, well, there’s reality to contend with. Hon’s a player. He’s been with so many women in the few years I’ve known him, I can’t even guess as to the number. It’s a lot, though.

And since he kept seeing women, and I wasn’t seeing anyone because I don’t get many dates, I, uh, lied to him. I made up a whole story about dating a fireman. I randomly picked this fireman I barely know, Chris Peters. He’s as tall as Hon, and that’s really the only reason why I picked him. I just…I didn’t want to sound pathetic to Hon, who kept seeing woman after woman after woman.

I ended it with Chris a few months ago. Actually, I told Hon I suspected that he was seeing someone, and that’s why I ended it. Hon told me he hadn’t wanted to tell me because he didn’t want me to get hurt, but he’d heard the same thing. That Chris was living with some woman. Hon was outraged for me. He’s so great that way, even if he was outraged over fiction.

I hadn’t even thought of Chris being here, but it doesn’t look like he is. I haven’t seen him.

Hon places a big warm brown hand on my too white and freckled one. If he’s here, and if he says anything to you—he’s struggling to find the right words, looking angry and concerned at once—I’m here.

I swallow and smile, warmed that my friend is so caring, but sickened I’ve been going along with this lie for so long. I nod and get out of the car, pulling my vest down. God, I hope Hon will forget the Chris thing.

I glance around and talk to some of the EMT firefighters. We only have two firewomen in Laramie, and neither are working tonight or at least aren’t here. We all wave at each other, we servicewomen. It’s not easy in a small town doing what’s considered men’s work. So, we stick together as best we can and are friendly.

Jason and Brad need to sleep, I’m informed. I take them into the back of my car. That’s when my backup arrives. Officer Stanley informs me he was held up on the other end of town. He doesn’t tell me what held him up. That’s fine. It’s not cool or good that I can’t get fucking backup. But I’m used to it, and sometimes I thank God that Hon is with me if anything got out of hand. Luckily, it never has.

Hon is silent as I’m driving the snoring drunks back to their house, which is on campus, and I remember our conversation before I got the call.

Hey, you were going to ask me something.

Hon glances at me nervously. Oh yeah. He’d been nervous before too. He’s probably going to ask me on a double date. He’s done that once. Asked me to go out with one of his dates’ brothers. That was as terrible as it sounds and twice as uncomfortable.

Yeah. He glances at the professors in the back, now leaning against each other like the best of friends. I watch the road but notice Hon rub his knees with his palms. He has to clear his throat a few times before he says, Yeah, I was.

Ask.

He keeps rubbing his palms down his legs, which is distracting because I’m very fond of his knees. That might sound weird to be so attracted to his knees, but I like how wide they are and muscular.

I, ah—he clears his throat again—See, my sister—

Which one? He has two.

Lona.

I nod, trying to coax him to say whatever it is.

So, ah, Lona’s getting married…

Yeah. That’s so awesome. Next week, right?

Yep. Yeah. So, yeah.

He hasn’t been this tongue tied since I caught him checking out a pretty blonde the last time we went to the movies.

So, Lona’s getting married…? I look at him with a smile, wanting him to get to the point.

He swallows. I, ah, was wondering if you wanted to go?

I smile and glance at him again. That’s so nice. Lona’s inviting me? Wow. That’s so nice.

I’m gliding into the campus, which is big and luckily my GPS is showing me how to get to the little professors’ house.

"She, ah, yeah. She did invite you. Months ago. I forgot to tell you. I just…I was thinking you’d go…I was thinking you’d go with me."

I check on Hon, wondering what he means. You didn’t get a date to your own sister’s wedding?

He’s looking out his window, swallowing.

Come on. You can get any girl you want. I’m not sure why he wants to go with me and not his own date.

No, I can’t…apparently.

Oh, some girl, some imbecile girl, turned him down. God, she has to be the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m the consolation prize. Yeah, it hurts. It hurts that Hon forgot to tell me I was invited to his sister’s wedding. All of it hurts. But that’s because something inside me wants to be more than his friend. Something dimwitted inside me hasn’t figured out that Hon doesn’t want me that way. Stupid girl parts.

As just his friend, I’m not supposed to be hurt like this, and I’ll lick my wounds later when he’s not around.

I take a breath. Sure. My voice sounds higher than I mean it to.

He turns to me, big bright smile. Really?

You bet. I try to smile back as I park in front of a really nice two-story home that the university rents out to professors. Meanwhile, I have a teeny studio apartment on my cop’s salary. Maybe I should go back to school, become a professor and have a nicer place to live. Maybe if I had a bigger place, I’d figure out a way to just be Hon’s friend and not get hurt when I’m his consolation prize. Ah, I’ve daydreamed many different scenarios to figure out if any of them would help me not have a broken heart from my friend.

Hon reaches over the console where I store ammunition, also where a radio’s protruding and our coffees are in their cups, to hug me. God, the man smells so good. I almost moan as I gulp his scent down. It’s a mix of clean male and something woodsy—real woodsy, it reminds me of hiking through a forested trail. Great combo. On him it’s near lethal. I almost swoon but catch myself.

He pulls away, his hands on his knees again, rubbing. Thanks. We’ll have fun at Lona’s wedding.

I nod. Sure, we will.

If not, we’ll get plastered.

I’m pretty sure I’ll have a lot to drink at his sister’s wedding. Fuck, it hurts the more I think about the fact that I’m my best friend’s backup. Best not to think about it.

I smile. Yeah, sounds great.

This is going to suck so much.

2

Hon

Y ou fucked it up, didn’t you? You messed up how you’re supposed to ask her to my wedding, my astute sister whispers. Kind of loudly whispers, which makes me worry George can hear her. We’re meeting Lona and her fiancée at a diner for breakfast after George and my shift ended.

George is talking to Bit, Lona’s betrothed—called Bit because Elizabeth doesn’t fit her or her tiny frame—about the coffee. Thank God. It doesn’t look like she heard my older sister’s reprimanding hiss. Lona is the only person on earth I’ve told my secret to: I’m in love with George, Georgiana, beautiful, red-haired, freckled woman. I think I’ve loved her since the first time I saw her.

I shouldn’t have told Lona. She’s not usually the person I would confess things to. That would be Asha, my twin. But we had a few years where we weren’t close but are now trying to regain our trust in each other. Well, I’m trying like hell to regain Asha’s trust. I fucked up with her too. That’s why, for the last almost three years, George has been my one and only confidante. She’s my best friend too. But how can I tell her that I’m secretly in love with her?

A week ago, my sister—Lona, not Asha—caught me after I drank a few too many, feeling lonely and sad in my apartment because George was working and I was missing her, and all of it came blurting out. I confessed everything, how I pine for my best friend who’s sitting beside me and is straightening and looking at Lona and me with a question in her eye.

I told Lona how you’re coming with me to her wedding.

You are? Bit asks enthusiastically. I’m pretty sure my sister told her fiancée about my feelings for George, which, again, reminds me not to share any more secrets