11

Smooth Operator - Sad e

I stand in front of Amelia, fuming at that prick who thought he could just lay a hand on her. Fucking idiots like that really piss me off. I watch as the guy scurries away, disappearing into the crowd, and turn my attention back to Amelia.

"You sure you're okay?" I repeat my question. She said yes before, why are you asking again?

Amelia's movements are a bit stiff as she nods, looking flustered, her cheeks tinged with pink. Despite the alcohol, her smile remains, unwavering as ever. Even in her frilly blue dress and white sneakers, she has this glow about her.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks to you," she replies, her voice shaky.

I study her for a moment, taking in the way her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, the way her eyes dart nervously around the room. She looks so vulnerable, and it pisses me off that someone would dare make her feel uncomfortable.

But I keep my thoughts to myself, simply nodding in response. "Anytime."

Anytime? Really, Brad ?

To my left, a group of girls come barreling toward us at the bar. A red-headed girl leads the charge, exclaiming, "We just saw your texts!!"

Her enthusiasm is matched by the blonde-haired girl beside her, who adds, "Why the urgency? I mean, we'll never say no to shots!"

I stay silent, just watching as they gather around Amelia, completely oblivious to my presence. An older woman stands behind them, and I wonder if these are her friends, or maybe work colleagues.

The girls continue chatting, animated and unaware of me, until I clear my throat. They turn, finally noticing me standing behind Amelia. The blonde's mouth falls open in surprise, and the older woman lets out a soft whistle.

The clearing of my throat snaps Amelia out of her daze. "Oh, gosh! Guys, this is Officer Bradley... Mitchell," she says, hesitating on my last name. Odd. And why such a formal introduction?

"Bradley's just fine," I murmur, keeping my eyes on Amelia.

"Wait. Bradley as in…" The redhead's voice trails off.

"Oh, shit!" This comes from the blonde, followed by another, "Oh… Holy shit!"

Amelia smacks her forehead, and it makes me smirk. I love seeing her all flustered like this.

"Oh, move out of my way, you foolish girls." This comes from the older woman behind them. She pushes the girls aside and steps in front of me, offering up her hand.

"Bradley, it's nice to meet you, son. I'm Amanda, Mills here has told us all about you," she adds with a wink. Mills. I like that.

So, Amelia's been talking about me, huh? Can't help but wonder what she's been saying. It's strange hearing that from her friend. Makes me feel... something. Protective, maybe. Or just curious about what's going on in that head of hers.

Either way, I like knowing she thinks about me enough to mention me to her friends.

"Has she, now?" I ask, my voice low.

"No!" she says way too quickly, almost mortified. "I mean, good things, yes, just…" She trails off, before the blonde woman cuts in.

"What she means to say is yes, your name has come up once or twice in conversation about Olivia. You're her brother, right? The police officer?"

Olivia. Of course, because why else would she be mentioning my name, other than when talking about my sister.

"I am. Yes." My tone is clipped.

"Well, it's nice to officially meet one of our officers. I'm Jamie."

I shake her hand, which is light and delicate. Jamie turns to the other two women behind her. "This is Stella," she says, pointing to the redhead, before moving to the other woman next to her. "And this is Kristie. We all work together at Koala Creek Primary."

"Nice to meet you, ladies," I murmur, making a mental note of all their names. Not that I'll likely talk to them again, but it's just a habit—observing others, remembering names. "Sorry, I didn't mean to crash whatever this is. I just, uh, saw Amelia at the bar, looking for an out, so I offered some help."

"An out? What does he mean?" Jamie exclaims.

"Was someone bothering you?" Kristie interjects with furrowed brows.

Amelia hesitates, her voice carrying the weight of discomfort. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just some creep making me feel uncomfortable."

"Who do we need to bash?" Kristie says.

"Now, now, ladies. It's all good," I say, huffing a laugh. "I think I scared him off," I add, winking at Amelia.

"Are you okay?" Stella asks, with concern evident in her eyes.

"Y-yeah, I'm all good now."

As the girls launch into a flurry of colourful language, expressing their disdain for the man who harassed Amelia, I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

They're like a protective shield, fierce and loyal, ready to defend their own at a moment's notice.

"Seriously, what a jerk," Jamie exclaims, her voice filled with righteous anger.

"Yeah, who does he think he is?" Kristie adds, shaking her head in disbelief.

Amelia turns to me, her eyes sincere as she speaks. "Thank you again, Bradley. I really appreciate you stepping in."

I feel my rigid posture soften at her words, a warmth spreading through me. "It was my pleasure."

Jamie chimes in, her tone softened, "Yes! Thank you for saving our friend, Bradley."

I nod gratefully, acknowledging their gratitude, though my attention shifts subtly back to Amelia. I notice a faint blush creeping up her cheeks, and I can't help but feel a surge of protective satisfaction. Seeing her relieved and grateful stirs a quiet sense of pride within me, knowing I could make a difference for her.

As she turns back to the bar to grab the shots, handing them out to the girls, she turns to me, "Would you like one, too?"

I tsk with a shake of my head. "No, thanks. I'm taking it easy tonight."

She smiles and nods before the girls take their shots in unison. With that, her friends beckon for me to follow them back to their table.

I hesitate. "Nah, it's alright, thank you. I don't mean to intrude on your night." I glance out into the crowd, spotting the boys at a large booth, drinks in hand, laughing loudly.

Then, a thought occurs to me. "Wait. Why don't you ladies come join us?"

Smooth move, Bradley. Trying to keep your distance, remember? I steal a quick glance at Amelia, hoping she didn't catch on to my momentary lapse in judgement, but it's a silly thought.

"Us?" Amelia says with a curious look.

"Yeah, my colleagues are here," I explain.

Jamie's head perks up. "You mean there are more of you ? Here?"

" More police officers? Where?" Kristie asks.

Amelia just laughs, and Amanda rolls her eyes, but a broad smile spreads across her face. As the girls show interest in joining me, I lead the way to the booth where the boys are seated. They notice our approach and greet us with welcoming smiles.

Here we go.

"Bradley! My man," Reynolds exclaims, raising his glass in greeting.

Daniels chimes in, "Ah, so this is where you disappeared off to, huh?"

I roll my eyes. Truth be told, I spotted Amelia at the bar, saw that jerk making her uncomfortable, and before I knew it, my legs were moving on their own—told them I needed to take a piss.

"Who are your friends?" Reynolds asks.

"Yes, who are these beautiful ladies?" Stokes comments, earning a round of giggles from the group. His full name is Tom Wilson, but his overuse of the word ‘stoked' has about done our heads in, so now we just call him ‘Stokes.'

Ignoring their remarks, I begin the introductions. "This is Amelia, Stella, Kristie, Jamie, and Amanda." The girls wave in acknowledgment. Then, pointing to the guys, I continue, "And these idiots are Daniels, Reynolds, and Wilson."

Daniels interrupts with a sudden recognition. "Wait. I know your face," he says, studying Amelia closely. I raise my brow at him, waiting for him to continue.

"You were at the shop that day, a few weeks back, right?" Amelia shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"I was. Yes," she admits reluctantly.

"Thought so."

Clearing my throat, I decide to steer the conversation elsewhere. " Right, now that that's out of the way, girls, now's your chance to bail, and trust me, I don't blame you if you want to," I say, my tone clipped, hoping to spare Amelia any further discomfort. Memories of that incident at the shop flicker through my mind—I don't want her to feel uneasy about it.

The guys chuckle at my attempt to lighten the mood. I mentally kick myself for bringing them here. Spending more time with her means those damn thoughts that have been plaguing me will only get worse.

"Oh, don't be silly, we'd love the company," Jamie says, and the girls all nod in agreement. Amelia just looks at me with a small smile. Her smile unexpectedly puts me at ease, and for a moment, any slight worry dissipates.

It's been a few hours, and we're all crammed into the large booth. The girls are huddled together, surrounded by the guys who are really hitting it off. Amelia's on my left, and I'm at the end of the booth, with Daniels sitting opposite me.

Jamie and Kristie are shouting over the loud music, their voices barely audible above the din. Amanda signals her departure, claiming it's past her bedtime and that her Gerry is waiting for her at home, presumably her husband .

As the girls sing their goodbyes, Amelia accidentally knocks over her glass, spilling it all over the table.

"I think that's enough drinking for you, missy," Kristie says, and Amelia just giggles.

"I think I'm gonna be a be'sick," she slurs, her words blending together in a drunken mumble.

Yeah, that's my cue.

I rise from the booth, helping her stand up.

"Let's get you home, then," I say, my tone firm. "You didn't drive here, did you?"

She looks up at me, her eyes glassed over. "No, I did not. We caught a taxi."

"I'm gonna take you home, is that alright?" I ask.

"Yess'sir," she slurs in response. Her calling me ‘sir' sends a rush straight down to my cock; a response I shouldn't be entertaining. I glance at the girls, silently extending the offer of a lift. They beam, their smiles widening as if they know something I don't want to admit.

"Nah, we're all good, champ. You get her home safe," one of them says, their confidence in me oddly reassuring.

I nod in acknowledgment, then turn to the guys. Daniels just winks at me, his mischief evident.

"Night, boys. Stay sharp," I say.

They reply in a chorus of "Yes, sir's," and I can't help but shake my head as I guide Amelia to the doors. With a hand at her back, I lead her out, determined to get her home safe and sound .

As we step outside, the brisk air sweeps around us, causing Amelia to shiver slightly. I guide her to my Navarra, parked just down the road.

"You don't have to take me home," she says.

"I want to. I'd feel better knowing you got home safely."

"Always such a gentleman." Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but I catch every word. It brings a smile to my face, even though she doesn't see it.

She passes on her address, and I navigate the streets until we reach her small brick apartment, not too far from the town square. It's a familiar area—relatively safe and quiet. Not much happens around these streets, which also relieves me. The whole block is surrounded by similar small apartment buildings, giving the neighbourhood a snug, communal feel.

Amelia's place is compact. The living room is snug, with a grey couch and a small TV in the corner. A small kitchenette sits nearby, cluttered with dishes and empty bottles. There are two doors leading off from the main area, probably her bedroom and bathroom. Standing in her personal space, a surge of warmth radiates through me. It feels intimate, but at the same time, like I shouldn't be here. Like it's forbidden.

Probably because it is.

I should get out of here before I lose control and say something I'll regret, like how much I want her, how her being this close is driving me insane. Yet, I can't bring myself to leave.

"Nice place," I mutter, my tone clipped as I try to keep my distance.

Amelia takes off her shoes, leaning against the kitchen counter, all wobbly and uncoordinated from the alcohol.

"Thank you!" she says, stumbling forward, I move instinctively to catch her before she can fall.

"Do you always drink this much?" I ask, furrowing my brows.

"N-no. Never," she says, and I believe her. I fight the urge to smirk at her.

I move to her sink, finding a glass against a rack and filling it up with water.

"Drink," is all I say. She gulps it all down without a word. Amelia then sways slightly, her hand reaching out to steady herself against the kitchen counter.

I fill up her cup again and hand it to her. She drinks it, then fills it up herself, finishing another cup before excusing herself to the bathroom.

What the fuck am I still doing there?

She should be fine. I should leave. But I watch her regardless, concern evident in my expression.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," I say, taking her arm to guide her. "Which door?"

She points to the door on my right. Walking inside, I'm hesitant to invade her personal space, but she moves inside and sits down on the edge of the bed, turning a small lamp on. As she does, I take in the surroundings. A double bed covered in a colourful quilt. The scent of florals envelops me, likely from the fresh bunch of lilies on her bedside table. There is also a hint of something sweet. Cherry maybe?

I wonder if they're her favourite flower. I keep my distance and remain at the doorway, watching her closely.

"You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah," she mumbles, nodding slowly.

I turn to leave, but her voice stops me in my tracks. "Bradley," she says, her voice pulling at something deep inside me. "Can you—can you stay? Just for a bit?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I grit my teeth, feeling a mix of frustration and something else I can't name.

I shouldn't stay. It's not smart. But fuck it, I can't bring myself to leave her like this.

Part of me feels a sense of responsibility for her, especially in her intoxicated state, but I'm not sure if that's just the police officer in me, or if it's something more.

Maybe a bit of both? No. It's just me .

Fuck. Now I'm feeling a bit out of sorts, which is unusual for me. I'm a grown man, accustomed to private moments with women without any fuss. Yet, Amelia's presence ignites an unexpected nervousness within me, akin to a teenager stepping into uncharted territory on his first date.

"Sure. I can stay for a bit."

I step further into the room, closing the door behind me, and take a seat on the edge of the bed beside her. A wide grin spreads across her face .

"Thanks, captain grumps."

"Captain Grumps?" I echo.

"Yeah. Because you're always so serious. Grumpy," she explains with a giggle.

Am I? Yeah, I guess I am. It's not just a mood, it's a constant state of being. Everything and everyone tends to annoy or bore me.

But her? She's different.

She cuts through the noise, makes me feel something real. I want to tell her that, let her know she's the exception. But I keep it to myself.

"Right," I respond, my tone curt, unintentionally proving her point.

This earns a giggle from her, and despite my efforts to maintain composure, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

"You're not so bad," she says with a yawn, her words slightly muffled.

"Pardon?" I ask, leaning in to catch her words again.

She takes off her gold hoop earrings, placing them on the bedside table. "I guess you're not so bad," she finally concedes.

I watch her, marvelling at how she manages to stay so sincere, even with the haze of alcohol. Some might argue that alcohol often leads to saying things you don't mean, clouding your judgement. But with her, it seems different—her words remain genuine.

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that."

"I mean it."

She yawns again, and a thought crosses my mind that maybe I should leave, let her rest. But alas, I remain seated, my gaze fixed downward, arms still resting on my knees.

"Do you think I'm too frigid?" she says abruptly, breaking the silence. I turn my head to her in surprise.

Did I hear her right?

She must see the look of sheer surprise on my face because she quickly adds, "OMG, forget I even asked that. Sorry."

Her and her sorry's. She has a habit of saying that too much.

"I shouldn't have asked. Never mind. That's a question for friends, I guess," she mumbles. "I'm not even sure why I said that. It just popped into my head, and I blurted it out without even thinking." She lets out a nervous laugh, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt as she rambles on.

"I'm not even sure if we're really friends, you know? I mean, apart from you being Olivia's brother, we don't know each other all that well. And even then, we've never really hung out one-on-one like this before, so…" She trails off, her uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.

Well, shit.

She's clearly flustered, her words spilling out in a nervous stream. It's endearing, in a way, how she rambles on, her face flushed with embarrassment. Despite her attempts to backtrack and apologise, I can't help but find her babbling strangely charming. It's like she's trying to make light of the situation, to ease the tension that has settled between us.

Her mention of not being sure if we're friends stings a little, though. It's true, we don't know each other well, apart from the fact that I'm Olivia's brother. That's how it should stay. But there's something about her vulnerability, her honesty in this moment, that makes me pause.

I want to be her friend.

Yet, her questioning our friendship makes me realise how little we've actually talked, how little I know about her. I've never been one to seek friendships easily, preferring solitude over idle chatter. Yet, with her, it's different. I should tread carefully. But right now, as she sits before me, vulnerable and uncertain, I realise I want to be more than just her best friend's brother.

"If you haven't already gathered, I'm a bit of a yappa. I ramble a lot! "

No kidding.

"My students tell me all the time. I mean, for a five-year-old child who never stops talking to tell a grown woman she talks too much…" Her words trail off, and she exhales. "Yikes. I just can't help it, I guess. It's like my brain is always on overdrive, and I just start talking before I can stop myself. Honestly, sometimes I think I should come with a warning label or something. Maybe ‘Warning: Prone to Excessive Rambling,'" she finishes, and I just study her, watching her expression, not knowing what to say.

"Oh, God, I did it again, didn't I? You probably think I'm the biggest weirdo."

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I nod. "Not at all. And I don't mind."

Oddly enough, I actually really like it when she yaps too much. I shouldn't, but I do.

She looks at me, her gaze intense yet searching, as if she's trying to decipher a hidden code in my expression. I meet her eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It's just her and me, locked in this strange, unspoken connection. Despite all this yapping , as she put it, however, it does not detract from the fact that she asked a question; a question that was evidently so out of the blue.

I need answers.

"Amelia?"

"Mm?"

"Why do you think you're frigid?" My tone is blunt, probing deeper. Instantly, I regret it.

Just drop it, Bradley. Leave. Go home.

"Sorry. I won't pry. If that's what you want," I say, standing to leave before she cuts me off.

"Wait." She releases a heavy sigh. "I dunno, I just... I feel like…" Her words trail off, leaving a weighty silence between us.

"Like?"

"I dunno, I-I…" She hesitates. "I don't know how to really act around guys." Her admission catches me off guard. She seems to be doing just fine talking to me.

"Well, there's no rule book on how to act," I reply, trying to keep my voice casual. "Just be yourself. Anyone worth being around will appreciate that." The words feel strange on my tongue, like they belong to someone else.

"So, why hasn't a guy ever kissed me?" she blurts out, followed by a nervous laugh. "Forget it. I'm asking you as if you'd have the answers ," she says softly, almost to herself, shaking her head.

The alcohol must be wearing off slowly, leaving her thoughts clear and raw. She's never been kissed? The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks.

"You've never been kissed?" I repeat, incredulous.

She simply shakes her head, and I'm at a loss for words. This revelation changes everything. How is it possible that someone as beautiful and kind-hearted as her has never been kissed?

It baffles me. It intrigues me. The first thing that comes to mind slips out, "When the right guy comes along, I'm sure he'll be too captivated by you to even think about waiting." She nods slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands in her lap.

"Yeah. Maybe," she whispers, almost as if to herself.

The thought of someone else being her first kiss pisses me the fuck off. If anyone is going to kiss her, it's going to be me. It's a raw, possessive thought, something I've got no right to claim, but it's there, stubborn as hell. I can't say it out loud, though.

So, I sit there, my mind racing with these selfish desires I shouldn't be having.