by Jax Colt
“Moving to Cedar Rapids was my Mom’s last attempt at saving us all. She was sure she could make my dad behave one way or another. Shrieking at him, following him to the bars, trying to control what he could spend. Trying to take his keys away, and tell him who he could socialize with. He was her project. He was more her child than either of us ever were. She was obsessed with straightening him out. Every time he drank, she took it as a personal blow to her ability to be a good wife. They were unhappy for years, but he’d just get boozed to drown her out. She’d get madder and madder, hunting down the bottles he’d hidden around the house, and smashing them in front of him.
“Brenda and I just tried to avoid them, but it was harder for her than me. We looked after ourselves, and we knew it was a matter of time that we would leave too. It was in senior year, Mom had gone, school wasn’t going well, so we both dropped out, stole his car, got ourselves some fake ID so no one would question our age, and came to New York.”
“We stayed in some shitty places in those first few months, but we both got jobs. She was a barista, and I started working security in night clubs. I was taller by then, and one of the guys I met owned a gym, so we started working out together. It became my thing, work and gym, and we partied pretty hard for that first year. Brenda had a few boyfriends, and I tried to meet girls but it always went wrong. I know it was because my drinking was out of control, but it had to get really bad before I did something about it.”
“By then, I had started working the bar. I was good with the customers, so they moved me off the door and closer to the action. I drank to sell booze, but I also had a steady supply to keep me going from the start to the end of the shift. Mostly scotch and bourbon, but it got to the point I was putting vodka in my coffee, and taking anything a customer offered. Shots, champagne, it didn’t matter. I felt like a star when I was in that place. I had beautiful women, I was friends with everyone, and more alive than ever before. Then shit got worse. It got so I had to drink in order to crack a smile, and if I didn’t, I’d be a zombie. I was turning into my dad, and I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop.”
“One day, Brenda woke me up in the hallway. At first, I didn’t know who she was, and I scared the shit out of her, nearly punching her because I thought she was trying to take my wallet. It was ten in the morning, and I hadn’t made it in the door the night before. I stank of piss, and realized I’d wet myself and lost a shoe in the hallway. She got me inside, and sat me down, and told me she was pregnant. The father was a guy she’d been seeing, and they were trying to work it out, but she was going to have the baby anyway. She cried and told me I looked like Dad. She told me she needed me more than ever. It was like we were replaying the early scenes that happened between my Mom and Dad. It was less than a year since we’d left. She was seventeen, and I was eighteen by then, but we were twenty years older on the inside, and on our fake ID. I knew I had to grow the fuck up. So I did. I started going to AA. It sucked, but I met some good people and they helped me.”
I interrupt him for a second as I pour myself another coffee. I can’t believe he’s only telling me all this now.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anything about your parents.” I top off his coffee, too.
“It’s cool, Carrie. Don’t worry. Bren and I kept our cards pretty close during that time. No one knew.”
He’s cast a whole new light on the guy I thought I knew, and despite my suspicion, I can’t help but admire him.
“So, you got sober and Brenda had a baby? How’d you guys manage?”
“I dunno, we just did. I was her birthing partner, so we went to the appointments together. We got by on our savings and moved into a nicer place in Brooklyn. My sponsor convinced me to go back to security work, and I also pulled shifts at the gym during the day. She worked until she couldn’t anymore, and then had George. Our neighbor helped her look after him. The first year went by so fast I couldn’t believe it. From day one, they were close. I joined the force when I met some rookies who trained at the gym with us. Cool guys, pretty good pay, and it seemed like a career, ya know? By then, George was nearly two, and it just felt like a good fit. The police here look after their own, so once I was in, leaving didn’t make sense anymore. And Brenda worked on accounting stuff at home to make ends meet. It’s been five years since I joined, but I made detective quickly, and I knew the anti-trafficking squad was where I needed to go. I just knew it.”
I shake my head, and say nothing for a second. “Christ, Blake, I had no idea.”
I just don’t know what to say, I’m floored at his story, and a little ashamed. There I was worrying about my own little life in Cedar Rapids, while all the while he was going through hell. His leaving had nothing to do with me. I don’t know what to say, so I just thank him for being so honest and drink my coffee. He looks at me and laughs.
“Bit of a conversation stopper, isn’t it?” His eyebrow goes up again, giving me that sexy look, and I nearly spit my coffee on the table.
“Ah, yes, you could say that.”
In that moment, our old camaraderie is back again, and I’m smiling despite everything that’s happened. My head is still aching, though.
“Do you have any Advil?” I ask, holding my temples.
He gets up, rummages in a kitchen drawer, and brings me back two tablets and a little bowl of the yogurt.
“Here, you have to have them with food.”
Something in his gentle voice makes me want to cry. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I try, but I can’t control the tears, so I sob into my hands. I cry for Blake and for Brenda, but mostly I cry for me. For the years I spent feeling rejected by him. And the pain I felt aborting the baby that came from the most painful time of my life. For the disgust and the unfairness of the abuse, and for the loss of my teenage self. I didn’t get a chance to feel excited about losing my virginity, because it was taken from me before I was ready to give it to someone I cared about.
Neither of us got the perfect American life that’s in the movies, and it just feels so fucking sad. Blake doesn’t say anything. I tell him I’m fine, that I’m tired, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. But he agrees that I should head to bed, and even walks me up the stairs. For a moment, I think he’s going to hug me, but he doesn’t. I leave him in the hallway, strip off Brenda’s clothes, and climb into the bed alone.
18
Blake
It’s good to see her. In a way, I’ve been wanting to tell her my story since I first got sober. Of everyone I knew in Cedar Rapids, she was the only one worth making amends to. She was the only one I cared about. I nearly told her about Dad so many times back then, but I just couldn’t. It was our job to pick him up off the floor when we got back from school, not her.
I didn’t want to be like him, and make my situation anyone else’s responsibility. Fucking stupid old fool. It was easier for me to deny there was anything wrong than uncover our secret. I hated him back then. I hated myself, too. There were times when the teachers would pull me aside and ask if everything was okay. They knew I was moody for a reason, and they were always talking about how I should make more of my potential. I knew I was smart, but it was easier to mock them, and eventually they left me alone.
Shit, it’s late. I should get some sleep. I know I need it, but I’m wired and my brain is working too fast to rest. There’s something missing in this equation. Something sticks out to me about Carrie’s story. I just don’t know if she’s told me everything. I can’t get a read on what she’s hiding, but it’s something. And the more I think about it, the more I see it has to be something to do with April. Carrie’s a fierce friend. She’s obviously used to protecting April, but why? Who else have they been hiding from? And even back then, why would a talented track star ditch her main sport for Judo?
There are so many questions I want answered, but I know Carrie needs to sleep. I can’t push her into telling me about her past, but I wish she would. She still doesn’t trust me. After everythi
ng I shared tonight, I don’t know one more thing about her. She either cries or gets angry with me every time the conversation is focused on her.
I smirk like only a cop can. I know she may not want to tell me her story, but I can certainly find out more. Pulling out my laptop, I start to do a search on both Carrie James and Carrie Bonner. The department software gives us access to all sorts of information about people, so I find her on Facebook and scan through photos and posts from the last couple of years. Nothing there, and most of them are work related.
She’s listed on the KPMG website as a senior researcher rather than a reporter. Despite that, a few of the stories on the website carry her byline. She writes well, a little urgently, but well. I wonder how they choose which stories she will cover, and who assigned her the pieces she gets. I find a spattering of women’s style book reviews and opinion pieces, but also an article on the federal government’s changes to school lunch programs. Looking further, I see some liberal political pieces have shown up on other local blogs, and note that she keeps her opinions well in check.
Just then, an email alert pops up on my screen. Scrolling down, I quickly open the video that’s attached to it. It’s the security camera footage from the street of the attack. Vice is able to pull footage from any of the cameras in the inner city network within a number of hours. I watch as Carrie and April make their way out of the club. The tech guy has spliced the footage from several cameras, so I see their jilted journey past the hotdog stand and along the street. But then it cuts off just as Carrie is hailing a cab. The time sequence continues clicking, and it’s as if the two women just vanish. I backspace the video, and press play again, only to see the same result. A time lapse shows a virtually empty street where, just a moment before, Carrie had been hailing a cab.
I scroll back up to the message from the tech, who says this was all he was able to recover and that the cut was done so professionally that it’s irreversible. I’ve never seen this before. The city’s camera network is often hacked, but for someone to break in and doctor a video this quickly, they would have had to get access to the server before the kidnapping took place. It looks like Carrie and April are involved in something bigger than she’s admitting to, and there could be a very real reason for her silence.
I’ve seen the corruption of organized crime leach into the city’s public offices before, and I wonder if her influencer may be among the people I call my team.
The idea is disturbing. I don’t wear blinders, and I know the force has its flaws. It’s bound to, being so full of defective human beings, including me. But I had assured myself that the people at 43rd weren’t party to that stuff. I was sure we were a clean station, yet in front of me I have an evidence report that says the scene was entirely wiped down, and a video has been cut to delete the attack. It was our technicians who attended the scene, and our lieutenant who authorized tech to retrieve the footage in the first place. Could this be an inside job? Christ, I just don’t know.
Stifling a yawn, I realize I’m not going to find everything out myself. I may be wired, but my body is tired. It’s time I take a break and get some sleep. Rinsing the cups and the pot, I head upstairs. There’s no noise coming from Carrie’s room, so I shower quietly before slipping between the sheets of my own bed.
Working the night shift has gotten me used to sleeping whenever I can, so I set my alarm to go off in six hours and close my eyes against a barrage of unwelcome thoughts. I regulate my breathing and start to feel myself slip off. The sheets smell clean. Brenda must have changed them yesterday. They’re soft against my skin. I sleep naked for this reason, preferring the freedom over the restriction of clothing.
My mind drifts to the look on Carrie’s face when we were laughing in the car. She looks the same to me now as she did all those years ago in high school. I shift as the image of her curves comes into my mind. I remember pressing her against me after the state qualifiers way back then. It was the closest we’ve ever been. Her breasts were both soft and firm. I didn’t want to let her go, and she smelled so fucking gorgeous. God, I could have taken her on the field there and then, but she was usually so reserved that it felt wrong.
There was one moment when her lips touched my neck that I nearly exploded with desire. Her breath was hot, sweat was running down the back of her neck in droplets, and her chest was heaving against me with the effort of winning that race. I felt her sink into the shape of my body and I smelled her hair, so soft and smooth. It drove me so fucking insane I didn’t want to let her go.
I shift again against the clean sheets and sigh. I’m hard just thinking about her, and I know I need to shut this line of thought down if I’m going to get any rest at all. Through force of will, I stop myself and begin to drift into unconsciousness. I may be firm in my decision to behave, but there’s a reignited desire going on here that has never felt more fucking powerful.
When the alarm starts beeping, I swear it’s only been a second since I dropped off, but the day has passed and it’s almost four in the afternoon. George and Brenda will be home soon. I know I need to talk to Carrie before then, so I knock on her door on the way to the shower. Ten minutes later, I emerge wrapped in a towel and nearly run straight into her in the hallway. She’s waiting for the shower. She doesn’t look embarrassed, so I decide to play it cool.
“Howdy,” I say, trying to act casual as if I see her every day without clothes.
She half waves at me and as we pass each other. I turn sideways so as not to brush against her tight little body in the hallway. Her breasts swell over the top of the knotted towel, and the urge to reach between her thighs comes over me like a train. I could take her right now. Press her against the wall and let that towel slip slowly to the floor. My mouth waters at the thought of her skin against mine, and I know she knows what I’m thinking.
We stand there for a second and her eyes are burning into mine, but she does nothing and I do nothing. The challenge in her eyes is clear. I can see she wants me, but as I meet her look with my own burning stare, she swallows and looks down. Her collarbones and neck look so delicate there in the light of the hallway, and seeing the bruises is what spurs me to keep walking.
“Take you out for breakfast?” I fire the question just as she’s closing the door of the bathroom, and she nods quickly, disappearing without saying a word.
Closing the door of my own room, I slump against the back of it. My cock bobs up above the line of the towel and I press it absentmindedly, dying for release but knowing there’s no time. I get dressed, head downstairs, and leave a note on the counter for Brenda to tell her we have a guest. I can hear Carrie moving on the floor above me, and when she comes downstairs I avoid her eyes and tell her we should get going if we’re going to miss the traffic. We’re both quiet on the drive to the café, so I turn on the stereo to break the tension. Physically, she looks better. She must feel better after some sleep, too.
19
Blake
“Did you rest?” It comes out gruffly, but she seems relieved I asked, and tells me that she did.
“I’m sorry for losing it last night,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. So much emotion. It’s unpredictable, you know. One minute I feel fine, then—”
“No need to apologize. You don’t have to pretend to be tough with me, Carrie.” Her mouth tenses up, but I continue. “You were attacked. You’ve been through trauma.”
The tiny shake of her head makes me go on.
“Denying what happened is only going to delay the inevitable. Eventually those feelings are going to come and there’s nothing you can do but let them come. Staying in control won’t work right now.”
She says nothing, so I let it go as we arrive at a place I think she’ll like. There’s good healthy food here, and a selection of smoothies. I know one thing, the woman loves coffee and this is one of the best cafés in town. It might just be a direct pathway to her heart.
She’s lucky that the second interview doesn’t have to b
e held at the station. Victims of crime seem to struggle more with their recall when they’re in the same environment. I wanted to bring her here. I want her to feel safe. She needs to learn she can trust me.
We both order eggs benedict and black coffee. I add a carrot juice to my order, and think about how I’m going to manage the interview structure. We’re trained extensively in this area during the prep for detective, and I need to remember to actively listen rather than try to force information out of her. Those good cop, bad cop fear tactics only work in the movies. Some cops forget they’re talking to another human, but that’s all it takes, really. Offering them a sense of connection.
Most people, even the guilty ones, experience relief when they tell the truth. It’s simply about finding the right trigger to make them want to. Carrie and I may have a rapport built from shared history, but that becomes an obstacle with the shields she brings to the table. She’s the most covert but seemingly innocent witness I’ve ever met. Maybe that’s why I’m convinced she’s hiding something. So masked up with those tough girl characteristics. I need to see beneath them if we’re going to make any progress at all.
The food arrives. I think I could get used to eating with this woman. We don’t rush, and I can see she is pondering her next move. I sip my coffee and watch her ruminate. The place is quiet at this time of day. That’s the good thing about working nights. I can avoid crowds most of the time, and the worst of the traffic.
“Carrie, today we need to do a second interview.”
“Okay, sure,” she says. “Do we go back to the station after this?”
I see the food has put her in an amiable mood, so I drop into my friendliest tone. “No need. It’s just you and me here, so I’ll ask some questions and we’ll keep it informal.”
She takes another sip of her coffee and says, “Shoot.”
