Man Cuffed: A Man Hands Novel

  Man Cuffed

  A Man Hands Novel

  Sarina Bowen

  Tanya Eby

  Contents

  1. Renaissance Strippers

  2. Never, Basically

  3. She Middle-Named Me

  4. That’s Not a Leg

  5. Too Abrupt

  6. Boxers, Cufflinks, and a Little B&E

  7. Is That a Euphemism?

  8. All those Training Bras

  9. No Cake This Time

  10. Pasty vs. Pasties

  11. Good Pipes

  12. The Erotic Version of the Star Wars Trash Compactor Scene

  13. Use Your Glue Stick

  14. People in Pairs

  15. Moanies

  16. Code 415

  17. Hard-boiled

  18. A Five-Alarm Fire

  19. Mmm Bacon

  20. Really Profound

  21. That Only Happens on Netflix

  22. Is Someone Cutting an Onion?

  23. Weird Silence

  24. First Responder

  25. The Best Theatrical Performance Ever

  26. Danny Boy

  27. A Two and a Half Hour Drive

  28. Not a Picky Man

  29. I’d Know That Thud Anywhere

  30. Two Months Later

  Also by Sarina Bowen & Tanya Eby

  Acknowledgments

  1 Renaissance Strippers

  “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

  Ernest Hemingway

  Meg

  My long skirts swish around my legs as I stride toward the king’s throne, a bottle of wine in one hand, a silver chalice in the other.

  I’ve wanted to be an actor since I was four years old. I love shiny lights, passion, and costumes. So you’d think that the Renaissance era wench’s costume I’m wearing—with my boobs hiked up to my chin—might possibly be a highlight of my career.

  But no. I’m not dressed like this to meet a knight, or wrestle dragons. This isn’t a low-budget Outlander knockoff. This is my day job. I’m a serving wench at Ye Olde Tavern.

  Five nights a week, I lace the tight bodice up over my puffy-sleeved blouse and sell tankards of beer. Some days it’s fun. When I’m in the right mood to play the bar wench, I bring out my English accent. Or Scottish when I’m feeling extra feisty.

  Tonight, though, it’s just a chore.

  My thirtieth birthday has just come and gone, and I’m still waiting for my big break. Acting is a hard profession, and I’ll admit that I’m a little depressed. My agent called today to let me know that I was passed up for another role.

  At least this job pays well. Ye Olde Paycheck has bought me some time to figure out what I’m going to do with the next act of my life. I’m in the midst of a wicked midlife crisis. Pre-midlife crisis? Let’s just say, a crisis. And it doesn’t help that my sister suddenly has her entire life figured out. She’s married to a knight in shining armor. Am I jealous?

  Hell, yes.

  I’m also a little sick of rejection. I’ve been this close to landing role after role for a decade now. I’m starting to take that shit personally. And that’s no way to approach a career that you love.

  “Wench!” calls an aggravated voice from the private room.

  I’m a little sick of that, too. Ye Olde Tavern is particularly rowdy tonight. And not the good kind of rowdy. It’s the bad kind, where the kitchen is slow, the bartenders are in the weeds, and chaos reigns freely. There’s a bachelorette party going on in the private room, where a dozen young women are getting drunk and crabby in equal measure.

  I grab some Ye Olde Pretzel snacks and a couple more pitchers of beer. Then I gird my loins and head back there.

  The bride-to-be is your basic definition of a bridezilla. I can easily picture her stomping on all the tiny townspeople around her. She zeroes in on me right away. Here we go. Smile, Meg. You’re an actress. Pretend you give a shit.

  “This is a disaster,” she sneers, getting up close and personal. I set the beer and pretzels on a table and prepare to take whatever she’s about to throw at me. I’m hoping it’s not a punch. “We’re starving and we’re supposed to have turkey legs and all we’ve got is pretzels and bar cheese and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have that in the Renaissance. And my strippers are late!”

  It’s time to whip out the British accent.

  “Oh! Don’t play the daft cow! Pretzels pre-date Christianity,” I say with a giant smile, so she won’t realize I just insulted her. “And I know those skivers will turn up before you know it!”

  The truth is that the strippers are usually late. They like to get baked before they turn up with their old-fashioned boom box and cheap costumes.

  A half hour from now, Bridezilla won’t care, though. All will be forgiven as soon as they rip those costumes off and gyrate their backsides.

  Also? I’m pretty sure they didn’t have male strippers in the Renaissance. Not that I’m going to point that out.

  “There’s an event at the arena,” I point out. “Your gents are likely stuck in traffic. And your turkey legs have just arrived.” Thank goodness. My coworker has just entered the room with the platter. He’s quickly swarmed by the bride’s drunk and starving girlfriends. Legs are grabbed, and elbows are thrown. It’s Ye Olde Feeding Frenzy.

  As I watch one of the women rip into a turkey leg, I have a brief flashback to working as an extra on a popular zombie TV show. I was a highlighted extra. And I can still taste the intestines.

  “Finally,” Bridezilla growls. “You ought to at least comp those legs for me.”

  “I’ll give you a free dessert,” I counter, sans accent this time. “And the bar cheese.”

  She glares at me. Her green eyes hot and angry. I have the sudden impulse to wrestle her to the ground, pin her arms behind her back, and make her cry for mercy. This costume is starting to affect my personality. And I’ve always been impulsive.

  But that has to end. I’m the new thirtyish Meg. The responsible Meg. The younger me would’ve tackled this bitch already.

  Thankfully, the beaded curtains part again, and three guys in cop uniforms step into the back room.

  Hooray! I’m saved by the strippers.

  And I must say they’re looking fine tonight. Holy shit. Rent a Gent has hired some new talent. These cops...they’re fucking hot.

  Especially the one in the middle. His blue shirt can barely contain his muscles, which I’m pretty sure are rippling. They’re either rippling or the collective lady-sighs are causing a warm breeze to drift over him. He’s got sandy hair, cool gray eyes, a strong jaw and shoulders that I could sit on.

  I’m not the only one who notices, either. Moments ago the room was a cacophony of drunken screams and turkey noshing, but a startled silence claims the room. The air is suddenly heavy with anticipation.

  Except for one big problem. The hottest stripper I’ve ever seen is apparently new at this gig. The newbies forgot their boom box. There’s not a bad 80s rap song in sight.

  But it’s all right. I got this. There’s something to be said for improv training.

  I make a beeline for the sound system and crank it up, then head over to the hunk of man and his two buddies. Clearly, Mr. Square Jaw is in charge. Alpha just rolls off him in waves.

  Leaning in close, I say, “You’re a little buttoned up for tonight, aren’t you?” Then I undo the top button of his shirt. I feel something hard against my leg. Hard enough to turn me on. But then I realize he’s got a walkie talkie radio strapped to his hip.

  I wonder what else he’s packing.

  “Can you guys dance to this?” I ask, demonstrating with a bump of my hips. Altho
ugh they don’t really need to dance. They just need to take their clothes off. Right now, preferably. “The woman in the white spandex unitard is the bride-to-be,” I add.

  His jaw clenches. Gosh, he is the strong and silent type, isn’t he? But he just isn’t moving. Neither are his buddies.

  This is going to get awkward fast if they don’t find their groove. So I decide to show them how it’s done. “All right ladies! Are you ready to get hot?” I scream.

  “Yeah!” they scream back.

  “Are you ready to get wet?” I call to them.

  “Yeah!” they say.

  “Who here is a bad girl?”

  They all raise their hands. It’s a fucking frenzy of estrogen. Someone in the back actually passes out.

  “Then check out these hard bodies!” I reach up to rip off Mr. Square Jaw’s pants. They’re velcroed up the sides, so they should come off really easy.

  Only they don’t. So I give another tug.

  Huh. That’s weird.

  And that belt he’s wearing? It looks awfully heavy. That must be the problem. I start to reach for the belt to undo it, and a realization starts to creep over me.

  This uniform is not a costume.

  This dude is not a stripper.

  This dude is an actual cop.

  And I’m about to be arrested.

  Luckily, I avoid arrest. I’m saved by two things. The first is the immediate arrival of the real strippers, striding in with “Baby Got Back” blaring and their sequined cop-pants sparkling under the disco lights of Ye Olde (Not Authentic At All) Tavern.

  The second is the debilitating laughter of the other two real cops, doubled over, struggling for breath. “Maguire? A stripper?” one of them gasps as if it’s the funniest thing on the planet.

  I realize my hand is still resting on his belt buckle. Oh, if only…

  “Knock it off,” Maguire snips. “I’m not a stripper.” Then he does something I’m not expecting. He leans close to my ear and whispers, “At least, not for hire. Only when I volunteer.”

  And now I’m frozen, in what I’m pretty sure is a spotlight, that declaration reverberating through my body.

  That’s when Officer Maguire and his buddies move into cop action. “All right! Everybody out! There’s a main gasline break down the block, and we need to clear the premises!”

  Bridezilla, who’s sitting in a chair, one turkey leg in each fist, surrounded by four gyrating sets of, um, junk, suddenly looks crazed. “I’m not leaving until this lap dance is done! I’m getting married and I earned a lap dance! And I demand that I get these turkey legs for FREE!”

  That’s when my patience for her finally dies. Did she not hear that our lives are in danger? I’m about to pounce on the bitch with: “I’ll give you a free turkey leg and put it right up your…”

  When Maguire squats down next to her and lifts her chair right into the air. Then he heads for the exit.

  Once again I’m not the only one who notices how incredibly impressive this guy is. There’s a frenzy of iPhone camera activity punctuated by the heavy breathing of drunk women swooning over a very sexy cop. Maguire’s muscles pop and strain as he strides outside carrying Bridezilla as if she weighed nothing more than a turkey leg.

  I hate Bridezilla.

  I want to be his turkey leg.

  These are my thoughts as I find myself standing alone in a room that was crowded only moments earlier. I’m still frozen in place, a little breathless from that show of pure manliness, and possibly experiencing an adrenaline crash from my close call with being thrown into the hoosegow for molesting a police officer.

  A deep, burly voice shakes me awake. “Hey, serving wench.”

  My head swings toward the doorway, where Maguire is standing. “I don’t like being addressed that way,” I hear myself say. But it comes out breathy and weird.

  “Then maybe you should put something different on your name tag.”

  “Well, sure. If you want to be technical about it.” My hand covers the name tag in question. Moving home to Michigan was supposed to help me become a grown-up. Only I don’t feel like one right this second.

  “Come on,” he says in that gravelly voice. “It’s not safe here. You gotta vacate the premises too.”

  This probably means the Tavern will clock me out early, those bastards. But hearing the news from Maguire’s sexy lips, in that deep voice of his, makes me feel like it’s almost worth it.

  I follow him outside. No wonder I thought he was an entertainer. Ordinary people don’t have muscular asses and long legs like those. I’d be willing to follow him anywhere at this point.

  But this is real life, and not a movie set.

  So it’s another six months before I see him again.

  There’s an important thing I’ve learned through my years of acting. Comedy or drama, it doesn’t really matter...but the impact of a line depends on the perfect timing of delivery.

  My timing with men is already terrible.

  My timing with Maguire will prove to be even worse.

  2 Never, Basically

  Meg

  “Well, it doesn’t feel like home yet. But the kitchen is unpacked.” I close a white cabinet door and turn to face my friend Cassidy.

  “It’s…” She struggles to choose an adjective for my new, spartan apartment. “It’s so clean,” is what she goes with eventually.

  The giggle starts like a tickle in my belly and then erupts.

  “What? Clean is good, right?” Her pale, freckled brow wrinkles with uncertainty.

  “Yes!” I gasp. “But can you imagine us using that same standard for men? He’s boring, but he’s so clean.”

  “Oh.” Cassidy closes a drawer and then covers her mouth to laugh. “Fine, so it’s faint praise. But good hygiene in a man is important.”

  “Then we’re setting the bar pretty low.” I snicker.

  “I grew up with three brothers!” she protests. “Boys can be so gross and sweaty.”

  Because I’m me, the image of a sweaty man isn’t enough to scare me off. A strong, sweaty man—preferably one who’s just helped me set up my new futon bed—sounds pretty good right now.

  But I’m not sure Cassidy and I can agree on this point. She and I don’t have the same taste. Or the same personality. Or the same goals. I’m thirty. She’s still in her mid-twenties. I’m a drama queen; she’s analytical and practical and, fine, kind of a nerd.

  When I met her at a party for her brother Liam—who is now my brother-in-law—we hit it off immediately. And we have one big thing in common. We’re both at a crossroads in our lives. She’s just home from a fellowship abroad that didn’t go as she planned. And I’m trying to decide whether or not to give up acting.

  Actually, we have more in common than that. We both have pushy families with deep opinions about what we ought to be doing with our lives. Hers are a pair of slick lawyers. Mine are actual rocket scientists. No joke—my dad works for one of the new private launch companies who are changing the shape of space exploration. My mom teaches astrophysics at a college in Oregon.

  They worry about me. And so does my only sister.

  For example, my sister, Sadie, is worried that this new apartment costs too much. “You could find new roommates again and save a wad of cash,” she said only yesterday.

  But Cassidy understands, which is why she’s the one pulling my graphic novels out of the box and placing them carefully on the shelves. I know it’s a risk to spend money on this place. But thirty-year-olds don’t have roommates. I’m tired of living like a starving artist.

  Although I am a starving artist.

  And Cassidy is right about my new apartment. It is clean, and was recently constructed. The walls are painted white. The floorboards are pickled to a nearly white color. The countertops are a shade of dove gray chosen to never offend anyone. They are practically invisible.

  In other words, I’m moving into an apartment with all the warmth and character of a recently built mental institu
tion. But, hey. At least it’s my mental institution.

  And anyway, I’ll liven up the place soon. Paint isn’t very expensive. Groovy lamps will be sourced from secondhand shops. Fabric. Beads. I have ways of brightening up an interior that don’t cost much. Plus, my sister gave me a cast-off couch—the one she had in her guest room, which is now the baby’s room.

  I’ve already chosen fabric for the slipcover I’m making in bright orange. That ought to brighten things up. And then I’ll need pillows, though. Throw pillows make all the difference, and great fabrics aren’t cheap.

  Space isn’t an issue for me, luckily. This will do. There’s a tiny living room, separated from the kitchen area only by a countertop that serves as a preparation space and my only table.

  But there’s a bright bedroom and a (very clean!) bathroom that I don’t have to share with anyone. The not-sharing part is key. That’s why I moved here. To live like an adult.

  “You should see some of the dumps I rented in Atlanta and LA,” I tell Cassidy. “I’m ready for something clean and quiet, even if it is a little out of my budget.”

  “I totally understand,” she says, giving me a smile. “And this is a very safe neighborhood.”

  “Again, something we wouldn’t look for in a man.”

  “Safe? Why the heck not?”

  “Oh, honey.” I just shake my head. “Safe turns into boring, usually by the third date. If you don’t feel a little whiff of danger, what’s the point?”

  “Hmm.” She gives me a squinty, slightly confused look. “I’m not sure it all adds up.”