by Kira Blakely
I gave up a soft half-laugh. “Thanks, Chet.” My hand was already on the doorknob. “But I just want to be alone.” I pulled the passenger side door open and climbed out onto the asphalt.
“All right,” Chet called after me, shutting down his engine. “Have a good one, Michelle. I hope you feel better.” He put the car in park and climbed out. I was already in the grass, halfway to my front door, like it was the finish line on the worst night of my life. Had Ace Bogart somehow managed to beat out Daniel’s betrayal for the most painful heartbreak of my life? “And your fountain looks real nice, by the way,” he added.
I paused at my front door and had to smile. I sent him home from trying to help me with that, early in the project. For a moment, I considered asking Chet why he was so combative with Andrew. Why did he take cheap shots? Was there a reason? Was Chet redeemable at all?
“Thank you, Chet,” I said without turning to face him again, sliding my key into the door lock. I twisted it, expecting the mild resistance of the tumblers and then the click of the lock, but nothing happened. The door wasn’t locked. It turned with no resistance at all.
I scrambled to push open the door and enter the foyer.
I didn’t shut the door behind me. I dropped my heels onto the wood floor with an echoing clatter.
Someone had been in here. Again.
“Chet?” I called, voice trembling with fear. It was so dark in here... and what if the assailant was still inside?
Why is this happening to me?
“Yeah?” I heard Chet’s distant voice from his yard.
I darted into the living room when I saw my phone, flashing on the coffee table. I hadn’t taken it to the wedding because it wouldn’t fit into my tiny gold purse. I never got the home invasion alert.
I swiped the phone open and saw that the security alert had gone off. Shouldn’t the police have come? What was going on? Was this thief a hacker? Did the thief know my passcode?
And can you call them a thief when it doesn’t appear that they ever take anything?
“What’s going on?” Chet called from behind me. His shadow clouded the open doorway and I turned to look at him, pressing my lips together, on the verge of tears. I felt so vulnerable right now. So unsafe.
“They were here again,” I told him, bringing my hands up to hide my face as it crumpled into tears. “Those kids were here again.”
Chet’s boots thundered over the foyer and I was stunned when his arms came up around me, tight and hard. He hugged me to his chest and I let him. We embraced for several seconds, and then I lightly pushed him away.
“I’m going to check this out,” Chet said, drawing his weapon and nodding to me. “Don’t you worry, darling.”
I watched him go with a sense of doom, but he circled through the entire house and came back in a matter of minutes.
“Gone,” I said, disheartened. Why was this happening to me? What were they taking?
* * *
The tenor of that night changed from one of heartache and self-pity to one of terror and defensiveness. I forgot about the ice cream and Netflix and Bubba. Instead, I quietly rooted through my possessions, trying to ascertain what had been taken, how they were getting in, coming up with nothing. I still had all my files, all my documents, all my cards. The living room and kitchen sets were untouched, just like last time. I took a deep breath and tried to move on with my life. It’s the only thing you can do, right?
I fell into a fitful sleep at some point, late. My phone vibrated and blinked on the nightstand with incoming text messages, and even though I hated his guts, I had to sit up and check every one. The first came around 10 p.m.
I know how you must be feeling. Please let me explain. Did you get home okay? Can we talk?
I made a soft “pfft” and fell back onto my pillow. Please.
Please just text back to let me know if you got home okay.
I opened a response, then closed it again. He could call all the hospitals in Texas if he wanted to.
I can completely explain what you saw between me and Lola. We are not together. It’s a long story… Can we talk?
I opened a response, wrote, No, we can’t, and then closed it without sending. That text message would count as talking, and attorneys don’t text their just-clients at night.
Michelle? Are you there?
That one came in at midnight. I had to admire his restraint—or else he was just with Lola, distracted.
All right…
That was the last text. I woke up to that one. It came in at 2 a.m.
I didn’t get anymore.
And a month went by.
Occasionally, I saw him. I never let myself hunt for him intentionally, but my eyes would slide toward his gray rancher every time I exited Withers Community, without fail. Sometimes he was outside and I’d catch a glimpse of him. Once, he had his powerful back bared, turned on the road, and I gave myself the luxury of tapping the brakes and admiring him for a second. The sun spilled across his muscles as they flexed and coiled during his hard work.
Then I exhaled and pressed the gas. It was over. And all those muscles—and the sex—couldn’t erase Lola’s tits from his hands. He was just like Daniel. He didn’t really love me. He was just trying to live his life. If I worked for the moment, great, and if I didn’t, that was great, too. Who would want that?
I got new clients and worked on their cases. Andrew’s case would be heard soon, but our defense was already assembled. He didn’t come to my office. He and Lola were probably firmly back together now.
I threw myself into housewarming projects: a flowerbed surrounding the porch, stepping stones in the backyard, a bookcase I painted all by myself. Chet visited without fail every time I was visible in the yard.
I lost Bubba.
There were two more invasions. It was always the same. Nothing taken. Nothing broken. No one there. Just the alert. I went to the police station and told them what was happening, and they told me that they weren’t getting the alerts. I called the app designer customer service line and they told me to uninstall and download the software again. I did. It was supposed to link up with my home system and with the police station. Then it happened again. The police didn’t show again. I decided I’d get a new security system altogether when I had the time and the money. In the meantime, no harm, no foul, I guess. At least I still had the television and the couch.
As I was coasting out of Withers Community to my office downtown, my eyes tracked Andrew through the windshield. There he was. We hadn’t seen each other in so long now—but there he was, on a riding lawnmower in his front yard. His shirt was off and his torso glistened with sweat in the July sunshine. That pepper-colored hair still fell wherever it landed. It seemed like forever ago... and I thought about my fingers sliding through his hair again, his hands hard on my back.
As if he felt my gaze, he glanced over his shoulder, and we made eye contact through the driver’s side window.
It was only a second, but my heart stopped.
My eyes flicked away and refocused on the road. My heart did the jitterbug in my chest, but I beat it down. It was just eye contact. We would have to see each other soon in court, and I couldn’t be this nervous and butterfly-infested then, could I? I needed to get used to him. I’d probably be defending him for another misdemeanor in a few months anyway, right? It was nothing, Michelle. Get over it.
I cruised through the front gate. If another car had been entering, I would’ve crashed smack dab into them and needed a mechanic real bad.
Guess I got lucky.
* * *
I didn’t dress up in anything special for Andrew’s trial. It was just the standard cloying black wiggle dress with three-quarter sleeves, and a tantalizing little froth of crimson silk at the bust in a sweetheart cut. It made my tits pop like a red-breasted robin’s. I pinned my hair up into the classic top knot bun, speared with black chopsticks, and delicately slid a pair of black cat glasses up my nose. I put on a touch of makeup. The u
sual: a quick flick with the mascara wand, a dust of foundation and some highlighter cream on my cheeks, and matte crimson lipstick to match the dress. Black pumps.
Totally standard.
As I walked across the courthouse parking lot, I took deep breaths and reminded myself that this was just another quick trial, just another client.
I strode into the courthouse with my pumps echoing behind me and my ass swishing from side to side, and Chet’s attorney spilled his pitcher of water across the plaintiff’s table. Andrew stood up like the national anthem was playing.
He wore a slate gray suit that barely contained his body, and my first non-sexual thought about him was concern that his jacket or his pants might rip if he didn’t move very carefully. He’d shaved, too. I didn’t know he owned a razor.
I placed my folder down on our table and didn’t look directly at him. He was just as likely to sear himself into my eyes as the sun was.
“Michelle,” his voice grated behind me.
An involuntary shudder raced down my spine and I didn’t turn. I kept my head down and kept rifling through our file, just like I had done on the day he walked into my office five or six weeks ago.
I swallowed. “Yes?” I asked in a bright, fake voice. “Everything all right?”
“You shouldn’t be dressed like that today,” he replied.
I twisted to glance at him and saw that the bulge of his cock was clearly outlined in those tight dress pants. A part of me ached to reach out and stroke him right here—he was as big and rigid as ever for me, and in a matter of how many seconds?—but I pressed my lips together and burrowed back into my file.
“Take some deep breaths and think about baseball statistics,” I recommended.
“I hate baseball.”
“Then think about Lola,” I said. I knew it was a low blow and that this wasn’t the place, but the comeback was out of my mouth before I could stop it. When I glanced over my shoulder again, his erection was deflating. “Problem solved.”
I settled into my seat and crossed my legs, waiting patiently for the arrival of the judge to hear our case.
“How have you been?” Andrew wondered, settling next to me.
“Well. And yourself?”
“A mess.”
My eyes met his and held for a few beats. The room shrunk and we were the only people in it now. I could hear my heart in my ears. Those electrifying green-and-gray eyes were so soulfully pained, and I looked away again.
“I’m not going to do this here,” I said in a rushed whisper. I clutched my pen like I was trying to break it.
“Then where can we do it?”
“Michelle, Ace,” Chet’s voice broke into our conversation. “Good to see you two could put all that old bullshit behind you and focus on the trial.”
“You know me,” I agreed sweetly, though I did not look up to meet his gaze. Andrew stewed beside me as if he was telepathically slamming into Chet with a wave of animosity. “How about your team? Are you excited?”
“Ecstatic,” Chet agreed. He swung a hand out to shake mine, and then took Andrew’s. “I haven’t seen you outside too often lately, darling.”
Andrew’s head whipped to glower at Chet, but I ignored him. “It’s July in Texas, Chet,” I explained. “That’s about it.”
“Well, all right, but I’m starting to miss you, that’s all,” Chet said. Andrew’s glower intensified. “Have you been able to find any rhyme or reason to those break-ins yet?”
“Not—”
“Break-ins?” Andrew interrupted, sitting up straighter and joining the conversation. “There have been more?”
“Boy, you’re behind.” Chet grinned with pride and winked down at me, completely ignoring Andrew. “I tell you what, Michelle. If you win, I’m going to do something special for you in congratulations.”
“Before or after your suspension without pay?” Andrew wondered innocently.
“Not too worried about it,” Chet whispered with a wink. “Sheriff Langhorn knows there’s no such thing as unnecessary force with some people. Now, g
ood luck out there,” he said, pointing to me as he trod to his side of the courtroom.
The judge entered from his chambers but Andrew leaned over and hissed to me, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And what would you have done?” I wondered coolly, coming to a stand for the judge. Andrew stood beside me and the trial began. It was an easy case, considering the evidence we had at our disposal.
At one point, the judge asked me to define to him who Lola was. “The woman mentioned in the footage,” he noted. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Bogart’s significant other,” I explained smoothly. No one could have guessed that there was a little throb beneath my sweetheart neckline.
“Excuse me, your honor, but that’s incorrect,” Andrew said, standing. “Lola Haynes is my ex of five years, and no one of consequence in the discussion.”
“Mm,” the judge grumbled. “Your legal aid needs to get her facts straight, then.”
“I wish she would,” Andrew agreed. I scowled at him.
The judge decried that Andrew was not guilty, and he opted out of countersuit. It should have been a giddy moment, filled with victory and pride, but it wasn’t. It was just another victory for another client, like the others. I’d still go home to the same old house and follow my evening routine.
“They used to call me Honest Chet when I was a kid, but I guess it only applies to women,” Chet whispered, unsheathing a gleaming string of white pearls from a velvet slip. “Surprise.”
“Chet!” I gasped. As a child, I had been even more girly than I was now, and I loved pearls most of all. Maybe I’d been right when I said that he knew me. Maybe he did. “How did you know that I was going to win?”
“He didn’t,” Andrew seethed. “The pearls were yours either way.”
“I knew you were going to win,” Chet insisted, looping the cool necklace around my throat and fastening the little hook. “Because you’re brilliant, darling. Pearls to match.”
My eyes flashed to Andrew and I watched him seethe as Chet stepped away and marveled at the necklace dangling just above my breasts.
“Marvelous,” he purred. “You’re the most beautiful girl in Pelham, Michelle Harper.”
“You’re too kind,” I told Chet.
“How would you feel about celebrating your victory over me tonight?” he wondered. “The first of many, I’m sure.”
The mood dampened a little as I realized that the only honest answer I could give was no. I lightly unhooked the pearl necklace and let it dangle in the air, returning to him.
“I think this might be a conflict of interest,” I said, proud of myself for slipping the noose so gracefully. The pearls tinkled into a puddle in his palm. “Thank you, though.”
Chet accepted my rejection with a fallen face and left Andrew and I to gather our things. Andrew held every door for me as we exited the courthouse, spilling into bright afternoon sunlight and an elegant courtyard.
“How’s your car doing?” Andrew wondered.
My engine overheated last week and I still hadn’t taken it to anybody. I was determined not to crawl to Andrew for help. I’d taken an Uber to the courthouse and I was going to get around to fixing everything... eventually.
“It’s fine,” I answered. If he wanted to walk me all the way to my supposed car, I’d tell him I was trying to conserve my carbon footprint. “I don’t need you to drive me anywhere, Andrew, but thanks.”
He stopped and I glanced back at him, then turned and slowly sauntered closer. “What?”
“It’s just been a long time since I’ve heard you say my name.”
I smiled softly—saddened, in spite of everything—and said, “Then let me give you a few to hold you over.” I placed my hand gently against his chest and I could feel his heartbeat surging on the other side of his shirt. How incredible. I placed my lips close to his ear and breathed, “Andrew... Andrew... Andrew.”
&n
bsp; I knew how sexy it sounded and I did it anyway. I felt reckless, standing this close to him, wearing my pumps and my little wiggle dress, him in that suit.
Andrew gripped my wrist hard in his hand and I gave a little gasp. “Get in my car,” he commanded.
“Um,” I said. “Okay.” My Uber driver would be able to survive being stood up this once.
I had to have known what was going to happen next, but I couldn’t say no. It was just like before when Chet told me all about Lola and Andrew and I fucked anyway, against my bookcase and on the floor of my office. I trembled a little as we drove back to Withers Community. I was like an addict who had broken the habit, and then, suddenly, found herself face-to-face with a little dust of her favorite drug. Would she be able to stop? Would she be able to say no?
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I slid my finished martini across the bar, and Andrew scooped it up and refilled it, then slid it back. He had a bar in his finished basement, a man-cave that must have taken years of curation.
This was like some roleplaying game. I thought he was going to fuck me as soon as I walked through the door—and I knew I would have let him—but he didn’t. He offered me a victory drink in his basement and didn’t come closer than a foot radius at any time. He hadn’t even accidentally brushed my hand once. He was playing the bartender; I was the patron. And the people we used to be, the people who had fucked each other, were just not involved.
I felt a little ache as I sipped at my second martini.
Maybe I’d been hoping he was going to grab my bun and rip it loose as soon as we crossed the threshold, like some kinky wedding night, but no dice.
“How many break-ins have there been?” Andrew wondered as he sipped at his own tall, amber glass of beer.
“Two,” I lied. “Or three.” I’m a terrible liar.
“In a month? Why aren’t the police watching your goddamn house? What good is that chump, Chet, if he can’t do anything to help?” A vein stood out on his temple and my heart softened. Andrew was sweet.
