Quarantine and Cuffs Read online

  Quarantine and Cuffs: Alpha Isolation

  Love in the Time of Quarantine Series

  Regina Wade

  Contents

  End of the World Playlist, Vol 3.

  Join my list, never miss a kiss!

  1. Dahlia

  2. Miles

  3. Dahlia

  4. Miles

  5. Dahlia

  6. Miles

  7. Epilogue One:

  8. Epilogue Two:

  Thanks for reading, but before you go…

  Coming Soon:

  Quarantine and Chill: Alpha Isolation

  Quarantine and Cash: Alpha Isolation

  Also by Regina Wade

  About the Author

  End of the World Playlist, Vol 3.

  I Shot the Sheriff, Eric Clapton

  Bad boys, Inner Circle

  I Fought the Law, The Clash

  Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash

  Radar Gun, The Bottle Rockets

  Cop Car, Keith Urban

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  Sign up for my mailing list and never miss another release.

  1

  Dahlia

  Reflexes got the better of me. And what is to be is to be. — Eric Clapton, ‘I Shot the Sheriff’

  Rob Zombie? Nah, wrong kind of apocalypse.

  Bummer. I’m so much more prepared to deal with the undead than the living.

  REM? No. Not vibing it yet. Oh! David Bowie.

  Not that I’m not totally prepared for this, too. Prepared is my middle name. Well, it would be if my Dad hadn’t loved his aunt Kathleen so much.

  “Perfect!” I hold up the phone triumphantly, finally happy with the song selection.

  My voice echoes in the emptiness of the front seat. I slide my thumb along the bottom of my phone screen, bringing my third-favorite end-of-the-world playlist up. Honestly, now that I take a better look at it I might have to move it up to at least second. There are some seriously underrated albums on here.

  According to the dimly lit dashboard of my ancient Ford, it’s just past eleven-thirty. Later than I wanted to get on the road. Later than anyone should be headed out of Manhattan, considering the fact that a mandatory world-wide quarantine could go into effect any minute now. I’ve never seen the Henry Hudson Parkway this dark and empty.

  Something cold and uncomfortable slithers around in my stomach as I glance over at the passenger seat again. My phone blinks back at me. There’s an unread message, just above the control pad for my music app.

  I know I should give Dad a call, let him know that I’m going to be a little late.

  Another slight pang of guilt twinges in the pit of my stomach. My Dad— retired army sergeant Carl Cooper— and his well-stocked emergency bunker are already hunkered down. At home, where he told me to be at least two days ago.

  He’s expecting me in the driveway in twenty-four minutes. Which makes sense, considering that’s the estimated time of arrival I gave him when I was leaving.

  The first time.

  Unfortunately, it turns out the Go-Bag in the trunk of my car wasn’t stocked with deodorant. I doubt Dad and his two French bulldogs would be able to withstand being locked away in his upstate cabin with me for very long without it, no matter how much venison is in the deep freeze. It looks like I won’t be seeing him, the freezer, or the dogs for at least another hour.

  Early spring rain is falling hard and heavy on my windshield as I make my way out of town. I pull the hood of my black NYU sweatshirt up over my head, grateful that I remembered to snag it. The car’s heater stopped working a couple months back.

  It took much less time to get back on the road after returning a second time for the charger cable for my laptop. By the time I realized I also left any and all clean underwear back at my dorm room, I was already too far into this road trip to turn back a third time.

  Grrrgghhh.

  “What? Like you’ve never forgotten anything?” I ask the noisy engine.

  I don’t usually talk to my car in such a condescending tone. Then again, it doesn’t usually vocalize its disappointment in my life choices.

  There’s another gurgling sound a minute later. This time, it’s followed by an acrid, burnt smell.

  Ding!

  I look around, frantically searching for the source of the sound. It’s coming from the pinball board that is my fourth-hand Focus’ check engine display. Figuring out what is or might be going wrong with this pile of junk on wheels is a game of Bingo that I just don’t have the time for right now.

  “No. Nonono. Don’t do this to me, please. Fuck.”

  I look out the window, trying to find a single gas station light. The entire borough has been snuffed out; extinguished like a firefly under a kid’s clumsy thumb.

  Ding! DingDingDingDiiiiiing!

  “Work, you piece of crap.” I bang the heel of my hand against the steering wheel as I guide the car off the highway and cruise into the gently sloping ramp of the first driveway I come across. In a feat of actual luck, I find myself coasting to a stop beneath a massive Shell emblem, spinning languidly on a massive pole.

  Great. Now I’m going to die without ever getting to spin on a big pole of my own.

  Beneath me, the car sputters once more before going quiet. Only one light remains on: the image of an empty gas tank.

  “Fuck!”

  The pumps around me look still and dark, but there’s one light on inside the small convenience store. It’s worth a shot, in a ‘person who dies before the opening credits in a horror movie’ kind of way.

  A quick glance at the phone on my passenger seat blinks back two mocking screens in quick succession:

  Dad: Dahlia, traffic is getting bad. Drive safe. Don’t text me back if you're on the road.

  Low Battery: 3%

  Ok, so in hindsight, maybe choosing the perfect playlist wasn’t quite the priority I thought it was.

  Fuuuuuck.

  Resigned to my new fate as the first zombie of the new apocalypse, I set out.

  At least I intend to set out.

  I’m still internally debating with myself over whether to leave the door open so I can dive roll back inside it if need be or lock it up so nobody can abscond with my stuff when the first of the undead army attacks.

  I’m totally not prepared for zombies to smell like Four Loco and Virginia Slims menthols.

  “‘Scuse me miss, do you have any change? I missed the last bus after work and I was just— hey is that hand sanitizer?”

  For one terrifying instant, my heart threatens to climb up into my throat. I didn’t even hear the man approach. I whirl all the way around now, my back to the open driver door of my stupid car.

  His hair is greasy, splattered to the top of his head by the lightly falling rain. His beady eyes dart over my shoulder to the economy-sized sanitizer I always keep in my cup holder. The day may have finally come when it’s worth more than the car surrounding it. My roommate will get a laugh out of this whenever they find my body. The man takes another step towards me, this one much more purposeful.

  “Listen—” I pull myself up to my full, imposing five-foot-three.

  Five three and a quarter, thank you very much.

  Suddenly, the man’s eyes go wide, his palms come up in a submissive gesture.

  Huh. Well, maybe I’m a little more imposing than I thought.

  The thought doesn’t even fully form before a bright white light shines over my shoulder. It’s a flashlight— a real one, not the kind that comes on a cellphone.

  There’s the sound of sneakers on wet pavement, followed by a hasty—

  “Sorry officer. Have a good night.”

  Officer? The confusion processes quickly.

 
I turn around just as a greek god masquerading as a cop lowers the flashlight and steps into view.

  Even in the dim circle of light cast between my rapidly dying car and the distant highway, I can see he’s gorgeous. The kind of hot that makes fake stripper cops look sad by comparison. The black short sleeve shirt he’s wearing clings to his chest the same exact way I’m picturing myself doing right now. Hopefully, the rain and mist are enough to hide the way I am gawking up at Officer Hotty.

  “Is everything ok, Miss?”

  He looks at me like he can’t tell if I really am a ‘Miss’. Which is fair, considering the fact that I’m wearing a pair of soggy sweats with the hood still pulled up and a layer of road snack crumbs— also soggy at this point. I shove the hood back without really thinking, running a hand through my short mop of black hair. All I really succeed in doing is dragging rain through it and down into my own eyes.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Everything’s under control!” The answer is instinctual and probably infused with far too much pep, considering my current situation.

  The corner of his mouth twitches, somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

  God, I want to lick cream out of the dip in his chin like a cat.

  Officer— I glance at the silver nametag on his shirt— Turner looks sceptically from me to the pitiful lump of my rapidly dying car.

  From somewhere inside his blue upholstered interior, the traitorous bastard Focus gives one last forlorn Di-Ng! before shuddering all over.

  2

  Miles

  Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? Inner Circle, ‘Bad Boys’

  “Wait, wait.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t have any deodorant in your what, now?”

  This day is never going to end.

  “In my go-bag.” The woman, Dahlia, says it again. Slower this time, as if that’s going to be enough to get me to understand what the hell she’s talking about.

  Fideles ad Mortem, the NYPD motto repeats in my head for the thousandth time today.

  If I don’t get some sleep tonight, the faithful end to my NYPD career is going to come sooner rather than later.

  “Anyway, I didn’t get on the road on time and now my car is having a total crap attack, so if you wouldn’t mind just giving me a lift or at least pointing me in the direction of the nearest open gas station, I can get on the road.”

  Her accent— Brooklyn or Queens, even after nearly a decade in the city I still can’t keep them straight— gets thicker as she picks up speed. Behind my eyes, the headache that’s been brewing all day threatens to explode into all-out misery.

  “I mean,” she goes on again with a dismissive wave in her smoldering car’s general direction. “I have roadside assistance, so I can just stay here and wait for a tow truck if you need to go. I was just hoping—”

  “Miss Turner,” I interrupt with as much patience as I can muster at this hour after the last four back-to-back shifts.

  “Dahlia, please.”

  In the darkness of the gas station parking lot, it’s hard to make out much more than shapeless sweats and the blur of rain. But Dahlia’s eyes are huge. Bright blue saucers drinking up the moonlight. It’s hard to look away from them. They’d almost overwhelm her face, if not for the wide, easy smile she has to go with them.

  “Dahlia,” I go on with a small smile of my own. “There’s a quarantine going into effect. There isn’t a single thing open for miles. Everyone is home, which is exactly where you should be.”

  She looks at me like I just kicked her puppy.

  I’m not prepared for how much of an effect it has on me. Luckily, it doesn’t last, the quick flash replaced by a look of fiery indignation that stirs an entirely different reaction.

  “Right. That’s exactly what I was trying to do? Look, it’s fine.” She juts her chin out, the shimmering look in her eyes letting me know that it is not, in fact, fine. “I’ll just…”

  Before Dahlia can think of what she’ll just, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. From somewhere inside the dim recesses of her car, there’s a bright chirping sound. I suspect it’s a matching national alert to the one I just received.

  “I’ll just go check that message,” she says quickly.

  “Don’t bother.” I sigh, turning my own screen around to face her. “It’s the same as this one. Grab your stuff, Dahlia. You’re coming home with me.”

  My week off of work started forty-four minutes ago.

  By my calculations, I should be on my couch, a sausage and pepper pizza ordered, a beer in hand, and the rest of the world long-forgotten. Instead, I’m just now pulling off the expressway.

  It took Dahlia nearly ten minutes just to gather her essentials from the trunk of her former Ford. A go-bag, as it turns out, is nothing more than an overstuffed army surplus backpack. One that she’s currently cradling on her lap as though it contains the crown jewels and her last roll of Charmin. She assured me there were no drugs in there. She doesn’t seem the type to smuggle her hash stash back to a cop’s house anyway, so I figure it’s got to be something better.

  Vibrator, maybe?

  I cast a sidelong look at the enigma currently riding shotgun.

  It’s still hard to get a read on my questionable new quarantine buddy. She’s rain-drenched, with short layers of blue-black hair wisping around her cheekbones in the warm air of the cruiser’s heater.

  “This is us.” I pull up to the brownstone. Nothing fancy, but it’s home.

  Dahlia reaches for the door handle and then stops.

  “Hey? Thanks.” She says it without turning around. “I’ll figure something out and get out of your hair as soon as it’s possible. I really appreciate your help tonight.”

  The quiet softness of her voice is almost musical against the sound of the rain on the hood of the car. I smile, even though she can’t see me.

  “But just know that if you get bitten by a zombie, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

  She’s out of the car and on her way to the building’s front door before I can react.

  I’ve mostly stopped chuckling by the time I let us both into my cramped one-bedroom apartment.

  Dahlia makes quick work of inspecting the place, though I’m not entirely sure what she’s looking for. Still, it’s nice to watch her opening closet doors and peering out the windows with purpose. It’s been a long time since there’s been anyone but me here.

  Beneath the harsh overhead lights of my kitchen and living room, it’s easier to get a better look at Dahlia as she bustles around. Beneath the baggy black sweatpants, she is packing some serious curves. I find myself tracing them through her clothes as she paces, picturing the way her round hips and full tits will feel in my hands.

  “We’ve got to get out of these clothes.”

  Dahlia’s voice cuts through my thoughts like an X-ray.

  “Yes. Wait. What?” It takes a second for my big head to catch up to the slightly smaller one below my utility belt, but it gets there in the end.

  “Our clothes.” She pinches the shoulders of her NYU sweatshirt between the fingers of either hand. The motion reveals a slight strip of creamy flesh at her waistline, and I feel my cock respond in my pants.

  “What about them?” I ask after a second when it becomes apparent that I should already know the answer.

  “They need to be burned. I mean I guess we could chemically disinfect them? But burning would probably be safest.” Dahlia nods solemnly, still clutching the backpack to her chest.

  I narrow my eyes at her and close the space between us in two steps. I’m starting to wonder if my sanity is going to survive the night intact, much less an entire quarantine.

  “Dahlia? What’s in your backpack?” I ask patiently.

  “Go bag,” she corrects me.

  “What’s. In. Your. Go. Bag.” I manage to get out through a clenched jaw.

  “Essentials. I’ve been preparing for something li
ke this for a long time now.”

  Of course she has.

  “What kind of essentials?” I look from her to the bulging bag with a sigh. My fleeting hopes of a sex toy collection go right out the window. Hopefully, though, the hot nut-job with the bangin’ body has some canned tuna in her bag. Or jerky? My stomach growls at the thought. Grocery shopping has not exactly been a top priority for me the last few weeks.

  Dahlia plops her bag down on the scrap of Formica that passes for my kitchen countertop and unzips it with a flourish. The way she brushes her ass against the front of my pants in the small space as she goes by almost makes me growl instead of my gut.

  I pull out the suburban-mall Bowie knife and raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Blades never need reloading,” she says with a straight face.

  Shaking my head, I continue exploring. A few blankets that are far too thin, a can opener, a half a bag of flour tortillas.

  Aha!

  A massive stack of ramen noodle packets. Well, it isn’t tuna, but it’ll do. I pull one out.

  “Does this say Flaming Hot Cheeto flavor?” I look from the bag to the brunette in front of me.

  Dahlia has the audacity to shrug one shoulder nonchalantly.

  “They were on sale at Dollar Tree.” There’s genuine amusement sparkling behind her blue eyes now. Along with the ghost of a smile whispering at that full mouth.

  “Besides,” she goes on, “we don’t even have to use the packet. That’s what’s great about ramen. It’s super versatile. We’ll use it to stretch out all the food you already have.”