According to their account, Miriam had been shot in the stomach, and then somehow she’d taken Jack’s wounds into herself. Which, if that was at all believable, meant that she had had four gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach, and she’d survived. Either she was inhumanly tough, or she healed like Wolverine. There was no other explanation.
Carson finished his first drink, raised the glass, and clinked the ice at the bartender—what was her name? Leila? Yes, Leila. That was it. She filled a clean highball glass half-full with ice, then tipped a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to pour a generous two fingers’ worth. She smiled at Carson, a quick, flirting glance.
“Nice to see you again. Do you want me to start a tab?”
“Yeah, sure,” Carson answered. “Thanks.”
“You seem preoccupied,” she said by way of making conversation, setting down his drink.
She leaned on the bar in front of Carson, toying with a book of matches. Her T-shirt was a low-cut V-neck, and when she leaned over, Carson found it hard to keep his gaze from straying to her spilling cleavage. Carson had spent enough time in bars and on patrol to know the various ways women leaned over. He’d categorized them: There was the absent-minded lean, in which the woman was simply assuming a natural, comfortable position, either not realizing or not caring about how she was displaying herself; then there was the flirt-lean, where she was more aware of the spillage, but not necessarily trying to accentuate it; last was the overt seduction-lean, where she squeezed her arms underneath her breasts to prop them up and leaned over so they all but spilled out. Carson was pretty sure Leila was somewhere between number one and number two.
The way she was looking at him, combined with her body language, hinted at flirtation, but certainly not seduction. He was kind of glad for that, actually. He’d been seduced on any number of occasions, mostly by women trying to get out of a speeding ticket or a DUI arrest. He’d come across the occasional witness hoping to sway the outcome of an investigation, and he’d met his share of drunken badge-chasers. The ones who were into serious seduction, he’d found, were not the kind of girls he was interested in, at least not long-term. He’d like to be able to say that he’d turned them all down, but he hadn’t. Not all of them. He never took favors on the job or for the job—he drew the line at that—but if a girl threw herself at him off the clock, what was the harm?
Carson realized he’d not responded to Leila’s comment. “Sorry, yeah,” he said. “I guess I am a bit preoccupied, at that.”
Leila laughed at him. “Delayed reaction, much? I was starting to wonder if you’d heard me.”
“No, I heard you, I was just….”
“Lost in la-la land?” Leila teased. “It’s okay. I imagine your job takes up a lot of brain space.”
“You have no idea,” Carson said. “Today especially.”
The bar was dead, Carson one of only three patrons in the place, so Leila had time to chat. She was a beautiful girl, tall and willowy, with thick black hair tied back in a neat ponytail, and wide, dark eyes that held a wealth of expression. She seemed to like him, and that made it even better. Carson could use a distraction.
Leila grimaced, somehow making the expression look attractive. “You must see a lot of unpleasant stuff, huh?”
Carson finished his drink, and Leila poured him a third without asking. “Yeah,” Carson said. “Part of the job, I guess. Most of it I can block out, some I can’t. There are some things people just aren’t meant to see.”
“I bet. So is that what’s preoccupying you? A bad case or whatever? I hope I’m not being too nosy.”
“You’re not being nosy. And, yeah, it’s not one of those gruesome cases that’ll give you nightmares, it’s just…confusing. I’m not sure what to believe, you know?”
Leila just nodded, her attention fully focused on him. She had her chin propped on her palm, listening, watching him. Carson found himself talking about the case out loud, which he knew he shouldn’t do with a stranger, but Leila seemed different somehow, trustworthy. And the gin was clouding his judgment enough that he didn’t care.
She was pouring them stiff, more gin than tonic or ice, and Carson wasn’t protesting. He heard himself telling her about Miriam, how odd things were, how so many elements to the case seemed unbelievable, if not impossible.
“Unlikely, sure,” Leila said, “but impossible? Didn’t we talk about impossibilities before? From what you’re telling me, this isn’t one or two odd little things. It’s several big things, almost too big too ignore, or to pretend it’s not what it looks like.”
Carson nodded and drank. “Yeah, that’s what part of me says, too. And I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Promise,” Leila said, smiling.
“Better not. But if something goes against everything you know to be true? What then?” Carson felt himself slurring a little. He should slow down on the drinks, but he didn’t want to. He liked the warm muzziness, the gentle floating of his mind. He liked not feeling as uptight about the whole business. Leila was easy to talk to, and easy on the eyes. It was past two in the morning at this point, and the last customer was walking out the door.
Leila considered before answering. “Well, it depends, I guess. If you can’t deny it, if it’s just there and obvious, despite the apparent ‘truth’ of things, then you can’t really keep insisting on what you think is true, can you? I mean, isn’t that just being obstinate? There’s so much about this world and about life that we can’t see, you know? Just because we haven’t seen something before doesn’t make it impossible.”
Leila came around from behind the bar and started lifting chairs onto tables. Carson stood up to help her, a little more unstable on his feet than he’d expected to be. Leila rolled her eyes, pushed him back to his stool, and sat him down. Her hands on his back were warm, the feeling of her touch was electric, sending thrills through him. He wanted her to keep her hands on him, but she moved away to finish putting up the chairs.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Carson said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept what you’ve always thought was impossible.” Leila had moved back behind the bar, wiping bottles with a rag. Carson watched her move, admiring the easy grace of her motions. She was light on her feet, every step smooth, every twist of her body as she performed the closing ritual flowing into the next. There was something airy about her, Carson thought. The idea seemed odd, even to Carson in his tipsy state, but it stuck with him as true all the same. She moved as if blown by a secret wind, like she was a leaf. She had a dancer’s body, he realized. Maybe that explained it. She must be a dancer.
Carson watched raptly as she took her hair out of its ponytail and shook it out to fall in glinting waves around her shoulders. But being a dancer didn’t explain the way her hair floated and fluttered as if blown by a breeze. There were no open doors, no windows, no fans, but her hair was definitely fluttering. That was the word, too, Carson thought. Fluttering.
She was standing at the bar counting the register drawer, her hands peeling bills in quick, sure motions that spoke of years of practice. She was standing still, but her hair was moving. Carson felt himself repeating his thoughts, but he couldn’t help it. He was watching her, mesmerized, and he couldn’t deny what he was seeing. It was weird, all this talking about the case and Miriam and the strange facts, and now Leila was part of the mystery. He considered asking her about her hair, but the words wouldn’t coalesce into a sentence that didn’t sound stupid. Excuse me, Leila, but your hair is being blown by a wind that doesn’t exist? That was just stupid.
Carson finished his drink, handed his credit card to Leila, and signed the slip with a sloppy signature, accepting one last drink. He’d lost count again. There may have been one or two he’d tossed back so quickly that he forgot to count them. Either way, the room was wobbling a little as Leila shut off the lights in the kitchen and locked the drawer in the office, sitting down next to Carson with a Styrofoam cup of Coke. Carson coul
d smell rum in the Coke and on her breath. She was sitting close to him, her shoulder brushing his, her thigh nudging his as she bounced her knee absently. He was acutely aware of every point of contact between them; her presence grounded him, in some indefinable way, keeping his spinning world centered.
“So, what are you going to do about the case?” she asked, toying with a matchbook. She lit a match, watched it burn down toward her fingertips. Before it could burn her fingers, it puffed out as if blown by an unseen wind.
“I don’t know. Legally, technically, what she did was manslaughter. She should’ve reported Ben to the authorities and let them deal with him. But, speaking as one of the authorities, by the time she did that, there’s no telling where he would’ve gone. He might’ve disappeared before we could catch him, and, in reality, there are just too many other cases to investigate. To be honest, I doubt we’d have spent much time chasing him. I investigated his death, but along the way he turned out to be an asshole who deserved what he got.”
Carson drained the last of his drink, chewing an ice cube as he spoke. “I know what I should do, according to the specifications of my job, but I just don’t think I can. I became a cop to get justice for people. There were other reasons, but that was one of them. Miriam did the only thing she could do in those circumstances, and I can’t make myself arrest her for it. And even if I did, proving anything at all, for her or against her, would be impossible anyway. But…it’s like—it’s ethics versus morals, you know?”
Leila nodded, bumped her shoulder against his. “Hey, all you can do is what you think is right, you know? For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right choice.”
“Thanks. That does help, actually.”
“So you’re gonna close the case?” Leila had a ring on her right hand that she twisted absently. It looked like a keepsake of some kind—perhaps something that had emotional value to Leila, and Carson found himself wondering what the story was. He remembered the first time he’d met her, the way she’d paused before answering a question, and how much of a back-story he’d sensed in her.
“Yeah, I guess I am. I’ll tell the Captain it’s a cold case, that there’s not enough to go on. And technically, there’s not. There’s no physical evidence tying Miriam to Ben’s death, and even if there might be plenty of motives, I don’t think there’s a way to make the charge stick. It would waste everyone’s time and money, and just cause more trouble for Miriam. And she’s had enough of that.”
“Good,” Leila, said. “I’m glad.”
Carson hesitated for a moment, then asked, “So…what’s your story? You said last time I was here that you needed a fresh start, so you came here. What’s all that about?”
Leila glanced at him, took a deep breath, as if wishing he hadn’t asked that. “Oh, it’s a long story. Not very interesting, especially if you weren’t there.”
“Oh, you never know what I’d be interested in.” Carson reached over the counter, grabbed the soda gun, and filled his glass with water. “I’m interested in you, for example.”
Christ, he hadn’t meant to say that. He drank his water to cover his flush of embarrassment. Leila had turned on her stool, regarding him with several emotions written plainly on her face: surprise, embarrassment, curiosity, maybe a little fear.
“You are, huh?” she said, a slight smile on her lips, chewing on her straw. Curiosity was winning, apparently.
Carson laughed, an awkward chuckle. “Yeah, that just kind of slipped out. Sorry. But it’s true.”
“A Freudian slip? What else are you thinking about me that you’re not saying?” She had inched over on her stool so she was just at the edge of his personal space.
Carson hoped he was reading her body language right. He wanted to believe she was expressing interest.
“Oh…I don’t know,” he said. “You’re hot.” Shit. That hadn’t come out right.
Leila laughed, an infectious, musical sound that made him not feel so stupid. “Is that right? Keep going.” She crossed one leg over the other, facing him.
“Um….” There were a lot of things going through his mind. Her lips looked soft, a slight glimmer of lip gloss on them, making him wonder what they would taste like. He’d only met her a couple of times. It would be reckless to act on that thought. “I’m wondering what flavor lip gloss you have on. What your lips taste like.” Carson heard himself speaking the words as they entered his mind. “God, I have no filters suddenly,” he said.
Leila arched an eyebrow. “Filters are a nuisance anyway,” she said. Was it Carson’s imagination, or was she leaning into him, ever so slightly? “I’ve always believed in saying what you mean.”
Carson was leaning toward her, thinking how ridiculous it was to be considering kissing a girl he’d met a handful of times here, in the bar, at her place of work. “Yeah? So what are you thinking? Now that I’ve embarrassed myself completely.”
“Oh, so it’s my turn now, huh?” Leila was definitely closer than she had been a moment ago. Her wide eyes were inches from his, sparkling with amusement, and secrets, and something he wanted to believe was desire. “You haven’t embarrassed yourself at all. I’m glad you can say what you’re thinking.”
“You’re avoiding my question,” Carson said. Leila was sitting facing him, her feet on the rungs of his stool, her knees resting between his legs. His hands were on her knees, and she wasn’t pulling away.
“You caught me,” Leila admitted with a mischievous tip of her lips. “Okay, so what am I thinking? Hmmm. I’m thinking…you’re cute, in a rugged sort of way. I’m thinking you’re a little drunk.”
Carson nodded. “Keep going.”
Leila’s fingers were plucking at a loose string on the collar of Carson’s shirt, and then they were playing with a lock of his hair at his neck. She was definitely moving into his personal comfort zone; touching someone’s hair was a strangely intimate thing, yet he didn’t mind. “I’m thinking…I like you, and I’m hoping you’ll ask me out. There. How’s that for embarrassing myself? Admitting you’re interested in a guy goes against every rule of the dating game I know.”
“I’ve never been too interested in the dating game anyway,” Carson said.
“Me, neither. That’s part of the reason I moved up here,” Leila said. “I know I’m avoiding your original question, but…I don’t want to talk about that just yet.”
Carson nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Leila asked. “Or a wife?”
Carson shook his head. “Nah. Would I be here, talking to you like this if I did?”
“You’d be surprised what some guys will do even though they’re with someone.”
Carson shrugged. “You’d be surprised how much it takes to surprise me. I’m a homicide cop, remember? I’ve seen just about everything. What I should’ve said was, I wouldn’t be here like this, with you, if I was with anyone else.” Carson had been about to kiss her, but the moment seemed to have passed with the turn in the conversation.
“Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t like to have any surprises come up later on.” She glanced down, saying, “If there is a ‘later on.’”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“Well, I left you a pretty big opening to ask me out, but you didn’t.” Leila bit her lip, chewed on it, scratched at a stain on the leg of her jeans.
Carson cursed himself for being so dense. “Yeah, I guess I missed the boat on that one. Is it too late?”
“You’ll never know until you ask,” Leila said.
“So…do you want to go out with me? For dinner? Sometime?” Carson was fumbling. He took a drink of water and tried to clear his head. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Lemme try again. Leila, would you like to have dinner with me?”
Leila shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You’re funny,” she said, a teasing grin on her face. “Yes, Carson, I would. I’m off this Tuesday.”
She was slipping forward again, touching her lips with her t
ongue, an invitation in her eyes. Or at least Carson hoped it was an invitation. He swallowed his nerves and allowed himself to lean forward, touching his lips to hers, slowly and hesitantly, giving her every chance to pull away, to tell him he’d misunderstood her. But she didn’t. Instead, she moved her hand from her leg to his, the other to his shoulder, and, moving toward, pulled him closer to deepen the kiss.
Her breath was cold, like a winter wind, and her lips tasted like cherry lip balm, and a hint of rum and Coke. He felt a rush of excitement run through him at her response, an absurd joy that she was kissing him back. Carson would have sworn that a breeze had kicked up to blow through his hair, ruffling his shirt and skirling Leila’s long raven-black hair to tickle his face.
Then he felt a quick, sharp pang of pain blast through the back of his skull, and darkness leaped up to swallow him. As he faded into unwilling unconsciousness, he heard Leila shrieking and cursing, and he fought to keep his eyes open, but it was no use.
The world went black and silent.
Djinn and Tonic: Coming soon!
Jasinda Wilder
Visit me at my website: www.jasindawilder.com
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Links to my other titles:
The Preacher's Son #1 #2 #3
Wild Ride
Big Girls Do It Better (#1) Wetter (#2) Wilder (#3) On Top (#4) Married (#5)
Jack and Djinn Page 17
