Do You Want Me?

by Winters, W.

  I was so wrapped up in it that I didn’t see the missed call from my mother. There’s not a chance in hell I’m calling her back until I talk to Cadence. They got into it again.

  If Cadence implied that she dates men who hit her because of what we saw when we were children, then my sister crossed a line. And that’s exactly what my mother said she told her. I’m not her psychiatrist, but I don’t understand why she’d say that. Mom said Cadence was drunk, but I just can’t see that and it was hard enough to decipher it all through my mother’s tears.

  Intent on getting a cup of coffee from Brew House down the block, I head off, checking my phone and noting that my question to her from this morning asking if she’s okay has gone unanswered.

  I have two more cases to prepare for and one of them is first-degree murder.

  This … tension between my mother and my sister can wait until tonight. That thought is what’s on my mind when I’m aware of the familiar prick. The feeling like someone’s watching me. The same one I felt last night. A glance over my shoulder proves no one’s there as I pass under the awning of a bookstore. That doesn’t change my gut feeling though and that fear lingers the entire walk down the block.

  I make it there in under four minutes, the insecurity forcing my pace to be fast enough to get my heart racing.

  Ordering the flavor of the day with cream and sugar, two of each, I convince myself it’s just the case being mentioned. The case from five years ago has never left me.

  It should have stayed in the past. It did stay in the past. One little blonde reporter with a camera behind her can’t bring back ghosts long dead.

  I slip the change the barista gives me into the glass jar for tips and listen to it clink as she thanks me and then I make that decision firm—the case is long over with and long gone—and that decision is not to be overturned.

  The cold case is dead and there’s no one watching me. All the confidence of that statement vanishes about halfway back to the office, when I swear I feel eyes on me again.

  Cody

  I know there’s a pile of letters in that locked file cabinet by my feet. Creased from the mail and some crumpled from anger, they stare at me from beyond the thin old metal that keeps them locked away.

  What haunts me isn’t the past when they were first mailed to me, it’s the fact that I got another today. A crisp new letter to join the others.

  How long has it been since I last knew he existed? Years, I know, but almost five years ago I sent him one after the next and our tenuous relationship became one sided. For a year, we exchanged information. He stopped returning the letters, he stopped giving me hints that started as a taunt and changed into a mutual decision of execution.

  Rumors on the street suggested he hadn’t died. When the letters stopped, I had nothing left to go on but the fear of kids and a name people spoke of as if they were naming the devil.

  A part of me wished it had all ended, but a piece of me that’s far too truthful, too primitive and brutal knew one day he’d reach out again.

  One day the story we started would pick back up … I simply don’t know how it will end.

  The metal goes thunk when I kick it, staring at the old dent in the side. The memory flashes in front of my eyes, prompted by the sound. A vision of me kicking the cabinet that held the only pieces of Marcus I had when he didn’t respond.

  For days. For weeks. Months passed with no word as the case went cold and I lost it. But hadn’t I lost everything long before then? Who was I to feel anything at all but relief when Marcus stopped interfering, stopped taunting me, stopped the long-held conversation we had between right and wrong and who was next on the list.

  Whiskey licks my lips and the empty glass on my desk suggests that thoughts of the angel of death serial killer will beg me to fill the glass to the brim once again.

  I’ve picked apart the letter, every word and the unique cadence in his writing. I used to think his poetic nature meant he felt highly of himself. But when I realized who he really was, everything made so much more sense.

  Knock, knock, knock, the door bangs in time with a friendly rap.

  “Yeah?” I question.

  “We’re going to Bar 44, you coming?” Steve’s voice is boisterous. As far as everyone else knows, the case is still cold. They don’t know there’s been another murder with the same MO.

  I can’t give them one letter without letting on about the others. And in those, I’m just as guilty as he was. Not in the beginning. Not until I realized…

  “Be there right behind you. Just wrapping up something,” I call through the door. Feeling far too sober than I’d like, but grateful that I haven’t reverted back to the raving lunatic I felt like years ago when Marcus left me all alone to dwell on what we’d done.

  Steven is off with an “all right, see you soon,” and it doesn’t take me long to follow. Getting a hold of myself and convincing myself that this letter doesn’t change anything.

  After all, there are no bodies. No list of names that he’s given me.

  There isn’t even a riddle.

  He only gave me a simple message and it’s one I agree with. Ghosts come back and I wish they didn’t. He started again.

  Maybe he’s gotten as lonely as I have. Maybe he’s simply using me again. Although I can’t blame my part on him.

  A deep inhale then a slow exhale makes my chest rise and fall before I take off my jacket and change shirts to go out to the bar tonight, all while pretending those letters don’t exist.

  What would they do if they knew?

  What would she do? The beautiful woman with deep eyes and a smile she holds just for me, what would she do if she knew I played a part in a case that nearly destroyed her before her career had truly begun?

  The thoughts plague me the entire walk to the bar. Even the drum of laughter as I open the heavy doors doesn’t stop it.

  She wouldn’t look at me like she does if she knew. I’m far too aware. Far too stung by the truth that she’d see me as a monster if only the letters were in her hands and not mine.

  She’d hate me. I let him get away with his bidding and she would hate me more for it.

  The certainty greets me at the same time as she does, with her beautiful smile that makes her high cheekbones appear even more feminine. Her tawny gaze and gentle sway of her delicate shoulders let me know she’s more than a few glasses deep.

  “Hard day,” she says and her excuse comes with air of ease and flirtation before I can suggest a damn thing. Her smile doesn’t falter and the blush in her skin is hot against her sable skin. With the flowing lines of her slim-fitting, cream button-down tucked into her dark blue jeans, no one would deny that she’s beautiful.

  How someone so soft, so elegant and sweet came into this profession, I’ll never know. It’s like Marcus sent her to me. The thought makes me close my eyes, lowering and tilting my head in search for the waitress.

  Whiskey will be my lover tonight.

  “It’s been a week since I’ve seen you.” There’s an accusation hidden in her tone which is harder now, lacking the flirtation she greeted me with.

  “Just busy, promise I’m not cheating on you.” The words fly from my mouth without conscious consent as I glance up at her and those wide eyes blink rapidly, her thick lashes fluttering as if surprised, as if maybe she made up what I’ve just said in her mind.

  I’m such a prick for leading her on. But damn do I love to be wanted by her. To be so obviously desired, it makes me feel in ways I’ve never felt before.

  Thankfully Sandy interrupts the moment and I order my go-to Jack and Coke, although I don’t actually have to say the words. I simply nod when she asks, “The usual?”

  “So,” I say and my gaze is drawn to Delilah’s slender fingers slipping around the base of her wineglass. The pale wine is fragrant, drifting to me and mixing with the sweet smell of whatever lotion she must use. “A case hit my desk today,” she starts and my hackles rise, prepared for whatever case it is to
be the ghost that Marcus referred to. “The evidence is unreal, and I’m bored as hell. He’s an idiot for not taking the plea.”

  Delilah’s discontent with not being challenged with work always bring a light to my eyes, a fire deep inside of me that blazes hot to tease her, to provoke her in ways I doubt any man has before.

  “Is that the case with … what’s his name?”

  “Tanner. Yes. It’s too easy to be fun.” She throws back the last bit of her glass and before I can stop her, the waitress stealing my attention for just a moment with the glass hitting the high-top table, she’s reaching for the thick red jacket dangling from the back of her chair.

  “I’ve already had enough so I’m going to—”

  My hand acts of its own accord, my fingers gripping around her slender wrist. My skin brushing against hers is hot to the touch, singeing and I’m quick to take it back, but Delilah stands there, still and caught in the shadow of what happened for only a split second.

  My heart hammers, my pulse quickening although I don’t show it like she does. I can hide my desire so easily. I’m a bastard for even thinking about getting lost with her tonight.

  I’ve seen this vulnerable woman standing only inches from me hide everything in the courtroom. I’ve seen her strong and vibrant but in front of me now, in a room full of people, the lights dimmed but the intention illuminated, she waits for me. She questions everything and I can so clearly see it.

  “Right,” I say, my own needs protesting against the ease with which I sit back and the calmness in my tone. “Good luck with the trial, don’t fall asleep in there.” I leave her with a joke that doesn’t bring an ounce of humor to her eyes. Even though my gaze lands on the amber liquid as I bring the heavy glass up to my lips for a swig, the corners of her plump lips dropping are clearly seen in my periphery.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me. For years I’ve sat with temptation, joked with her and confided in her. The heat between us and the sexual tension is constant, but acting on it with all we’ve been through together would be wrong on so many levels.

  “When are you going to take me home, Cody?” she says as her small hands land on the table. She leans forward, bringing a drift of her perfume and with a single glance, a peek down her blouse, exposing the smooth curves of her chest. The gold necklace she’s wearing dangles between her cleavage, swaying until I lift my gaze, staring back at hers that’s drowning in need and query.

  I part my lips to answer her but she stands up straight, never breaking my gaze as she pulls her red wool coat around her shoulders and slips her black purse gracefully over her shoulder until it lands at her hip. She doesn’t back down. She’s never been so blatant, never been so clear as to what she wants.

  “You want me to take you home?” I question her feigned innocence, but take another drink after. Alcohol and bad decisions taint the air between us.

  “I had a really horrible week and I want someone to take me home,” she admits to me, teasingly even, taking her eyes from mine only to pretend to glance around the room for a suitable fuck.

  Anger simmers with jealousy, but my own need and greed are far more prevalent.

  “We’ve been friends for a while, Agent Walsh. Is that all we are? Just friends?”

  The way her strength leaves her, the rawness and slight suffering that are evident in her pinched brow and tightened cords in her neck as she swallows, beg me to tell her the truth.

  That I’ve wanted her from the first time I saw her.

  Marcus

  It’s colder in the evening, bitter cold. Of all the places we’ve been, I love this one the most. Lincoln Park is only miles away and I still remember the first time I saw her there. Going over the details of the crime, searching for answers everyone else couldn’t find. She doesn’t know how close she got and if it’s up to me she never will. She doesn’t need to be involved.

  Cody Walsh though… I think if only she pushed, she’d be able to pull out every dark secret the man has. Just like tonight.

  The wind brushes against my neck, leaving a pricking sensation that I tell myself has nothing to do with the way she provocatively leaned into him back at the bar. My gaze moves from the reflection of the moon against the windowpane to the soft curve of her back as she arches. His lips barely leave her skin… not even to breathe.

  That’s the way I’d do it too.

  Cars drive by and I don’t bother to look at them. I know they can’t see me here, motionless and bathed in the shadows from Delilah’s apartment building. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me; maybe she thinks she does, but she doesn’t. I know plenty about her, though.

  Specifically, that she initially requested a different floor of this apartment building, even though this one was the only one with a vacancy on such short notice. I’m surprised she stayed and didn’t transfer apartments as soon as another came available. I waited for that transition, for the challenge of following wherever she went. The workaholic never made herself a priority. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised by it all.

  But she does that to me more than anyone else. She surprises me.

  Her head falls back, her lips parting and her hair laying across her shoulders then over her back as she moves. The repetitive motion is seductive, and Walsh is very much under her spell.

  Her gasps aren’t heard through the double-paned windows, the gap in the curtain providing my view, but I swear I can hear her still. When her nails run along his back, right before she grips onto his shoulders, I practically feel what it would be like.

  Arousal is primitive, obsession demeaning… what she is… is something hypnotizing. It was curiosity at first, then respect, and now... Well, now I’m not certain what she is to me. To us and to what we started so long ago.

  With the fire lit behind them, it’s the only light I have with the exception of a table lamp that casts beautiful shadows down Delilah’s dark skin. Her nipples pebble and just as I’m enjoying them, Walsh takes them for himself. Devouring her flesh as he thrusts into her and forces her to hold on to him.

  He’s good to her and I recognize that, but it doesn’t, not for a single moment, mean that I’ll sit back while he plays.

  We had an unspoken deal. “Had” being the operative word.

  I now have something I truly desire and no reason not to take it.

  Delilah

  As my shoulders lower with a long exhale, I rub my right one, still sore from a horrible night of sleep. My gaze never leaves the open case file on my desk. I’ve been staring at it for hours.

  Certain lines on the paper are difficult to read as some cases are, but this one is different. Really, they’re difficult to digest.

  My mother’s denials and my sister’s concerns ring in my ears as I read the evidence. Everyone knew what was happening, but no one did anything.

  How many times he beat her, where he chose to hit her. It’s all documented now, but before last week, neighbors and family all took notice, and that was it. So many neighbors said they knew what was going on. Not a single one called. They didn’t think it would go that far. The woman never said anything either.

  With a tight throat and a rapid pulse, I swallow and put my pen to the paper, to the exact attempt we should charge him for.

  Repeated abuse isn’t evidence of malice aforethought. The choices are first-degree or second-degree murder. I have to make that decision. It’s difficult to determine which one we can prove when every paragraph I read is minimized by the memories brought back up so recently. The sound of the slaps and then a cacophony of painful cries that are enough to keep two girls awake in bed together, staring at the door and pretending not to cry because Mom said it was all right.

  I lean back in my seat and pinch the bridge of my nose, refusing to let my personal bias affect work. The air has been different this past week and a half. Something inside of me is different and I don’t like it.

  I’m better than this. I’ve grown so much and there’s no reason I can’t take
on this case. With a sip of coffee and a deep breath in paired with a longer breath out to calm my sympathetic nervous system—as my counselor sister taught me—I repeat my mantra until I can start from the beginning again. This time I grab a pen and travel along the pages with it to keep track, circling keywords and then scribble on a pad of paper. It’s not quite a pros and cons sheet with that sharp black line down the middle of the lined paper. It’s a first-degree or second-degree murder charge. Which has enough evidence to thoroughly convince a jury.

  I’d focus on something else, anything else, but this needs to be submitted by the end of the day and the only other place my mind takes me is to a few nights ago when I lost myself to Cody Walsh.

  Closing my eyes, I can still feel him, the sweet lingering pain of a good fuck even though it’s been days. That’s all he left me with, though.

  I woke up to a slight hangover and an empty bed. If it wasn’t for the throbbing between my legs, I’d have thought it was only a dirty dream about a coworker.

  Fuck, what did I do?

  My attention is so far off from what I need that I shove both the case file and the pad of paper to the left and decide to go for a walk, to clear my head instead.

  I haven’t seen Cody since that night. I haven’t spoken to him either. A deep pain settles inside my chest, digging there and planting seeds of insecurity and doubt.

  The insecurity that stands with me as I head to the other side of my office makes me think it’s all a childish crush. It was most likely a one-time thing. He may even think it’s a mistake. I wouldn’t know, since he hasn’t spoken to me.

  I barely ever dated my entire life. I dated one guy in college for a few months and that shitty experience was enough to convince me to focus on my studies. I had a fuck buddy, though. And then another in law school. It was exactly what I needed. I focused on my work and there was someone around for the release when either of us needed it.