by Lexie Ray
Chuck and Jasmine stared at me.
“I thought this was just a custody case,” he said.
“It is,” I insisted. “The father of my child and his family are keeping me from my son. I’m trying to give you some weapons to use against them in court. Everything I’ve done has been to try to be reunited with my son. I gave him up with the understanding that once my life was in a good place, I’d have the chance to take him back.”
Chuck let out a long breath and tapped his pen on a clean pad of paper.
“It’s hard to establish which parent is more fit to raise a child,” he said.
“His father is violent and likely doing something wrong,” I said, incredulous. “That should be all there is to it.”
Chuck shook his head. “We need proof,” he said. “Until then, it’s your word against his. A big part of proving your fitness as a parent is touting what you bring to the table, not detracting from the father of the child.”
I bit my lip. “I own my own business,” I said. “I’m—I’m thinking about opening a second location.”
“Shimmy!” Jasmine exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”
“And what are your potential detractions?” Chuck asked, not pausing in his staccato rapping of the pen against the pad. He still hadn’t written anything down.
I swallowed. “It was a teen pregnancy,” I said. “I don’t have any family to help support me. I was a prostitute in a nightclub that was raided by the NYPD.”
Chuck looked grim. “Can we go over the positives of the father’s family, just as an exercise?”
“They have a lot of money,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “And they’ve raised him these past four years. He—he seemed healthy when I saw him yesterday. And happy, I suppose. He didn’t know who I was.”
I felt like shit. I felt like it was four years ago again, and I wasn’t good enough to raise my son. Things had to be different now.
“Let me tell you something,” Chuck said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. “You’re the mother of that child, and no one can take that from you. Judges are very, very sympathetic to mothers in cases like these. You deserve to see your son again. Anybody can see that. It’s just not going to be as easy as I think you think it should be.”
“You should press charges against Ben,” Jasmine piped up.
“That’s a possibility,” Chuck agreed. “Cast some doubt on him.”
“Not an option,” I said. “I’m afraid of what he’d do. I’m afraid they’d disappear with my son.”
“Paxton’s can’t just disappear,” Chuck said, laughing. “They like the limelight too much. Which is why I just can’t figure out how you found cocaine in their house. Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true,” I said. “I wouldn’t like about something like this. It was part of a package in an open box within reach of my child. If he’d pulled down those boxes, or gotten a hold of what was inside of them …”
I shuddered violently as I trailed off, unable to think of the nightmarish possibilities.
“Here’s what I can do,” Chuck said. “I can get Child Protective Services over there—with a police escort—to check the place out. We can let that act as a preliminary inquiry into the parental fitness issue you have with the father.”
“Good,” I said, determined to stay positive. “I think that’ll be a good first step.”
“The wheels are rolling, Shimmy,” Jasmine said, smiling at me. “Things are going to get better.”
“I hope so,” I said, looking forward to the next meeting of the day.
I did a little shopping and had a light dinner out. I took a cab to the Braxton Speakeasy, a pub that ended up being fairly near my apartment. I was surprised that I’d never seen it before, but it was little more than a hole in the wall. I was usually too busy to go on too many strolls, and I rarely set out with the end goal being a bar. There were many reasons why I’d never stumbled upon the Braxton Speakeasy, but perhaps it was because my life was waiting until the right moment for me to get here. Something about it felt fateful, like Tyler Marlowe was going to actually achieve something for me.
I checked my phone. No missed calls, and five till eight. I decided to go inside anyways. I felt like I could use a drink.
I ordered a glass of red wine and sidled up to the bar, discreetly observing my fellow patrons. How was I supposed to know which one was Tyler Marlowe? I thought of all the private detective stereotypes I knew. Maybe he’d be carrying an enormous magnifying glass, or maybe he’d be in a khaki trench coat and matching fedora.
I wasn’t prepared for what Tyler Marlowe actually was, and that was incredibly sexy.
I knew he was who I was looking for the moment I laid eyes on him. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt, but he dressed it up impeccably with his neatly groomed appearance. He was clean-shaven with dusty blond hair trimmed to a near buzz cut. His blue eyes shone in the dim light, but I couldn’t guess what emotion they might be conveying. I couldn’t keep my eyes off his obvious muscles. They bulged from his T-shirt and his dark jeans.
And he was staring at me.
I checked my phone. Eight o’clock sharp. Carrying my glass of wine, I approached him.
“Tyler Marlowe?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Mistake number one, Ms. Crosby,” he said, not taking his eyes off mine. “Never ask a person who they are. If you don’t know, they could be anyone. What if I were a serial killer who decided to be whoever you were looking for? I’d let you chat for a while, figuring out what it was that you needed, and then I’d take utter advantage of you. Maybe I’d be cheeky about it—dinner and drinks first—but then I’d tell you that we needed to meet at my private office. You’d leave with me, and I’d have my way with you. Game over, Ms. Crosby.”
I cocked my head at the man’s monologue. There was some truth in what he was saying, maybe, but that’s not how I’d want to introduce myself to a person.
“Mr. Marlowe, I presume,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you regardless.”
“Follow me,” he said, standing and turning brusquely and walking over to a more secluded table in the bar. When we were seated, I could see that while we had a perfect view of the entire bar, there were very few people who even noticed us.
“Best seat in the house,” he said.
“Oh?” I asked. “Is this where you’re going to have your way with me?”
He laughed shortly. “No, unless you ask me to,” he said. “I have a weakness for pretty women.”
“If old Hollywood movies are any indication, that’s a fatal flaw in your line of work,” I warned, waggling my finger in mock disapproval.
“We’ll see how fatal we are, Ms. Crosby,” he said.
“Please. Call me Shimmy.”
He looked me up and down. “Ms. Crosby, you may call me Tyler, if you like. But I find that it’s best to maintain the most possible professional distance as possible. It will help us both focus on your case.”
Professional distance? The man had just told me that he’d have his way with me if I asked him. What game was he playing at?
“Mr. Marlowe, I completely agree,” I said. “Let’s stick to our professional distance.”
Even as I said that, I noticed how deliciously tan his skin was, as if he spent every available moment under the sun. I wondered if he was tan everywhere and blushed.
“Very good,” he said. “Now. Tell me about your case.”
I briefly explained to him about the Paxton’s and my son, the threatening and the issue of custody, the way that Ben had changed and the boxes and security camera.
“I don’t want to press charges,” I said. “I want to handle this as discreetly as possible. I’m trying to gather evidence here to get my baby back. Do you think this is something you can take care of?”
One side of Tyler’s mouth quirked up in a half smile.
“Take care of?” he repeated. “Ms. Crosby, this is right up my alley. One question: Who gave
you my number?”
“NYPD,” I said. “Officer Fitch.” I hoped Fitch didn’t mind that I told.
“Ah,” he said shortly. “I worked with Fitch on a couple of cases back when I was still in the FBI.”
“Why did you leave the FBI?” I asked, curious, but he shook his head.
“Professional distance, Ms. Crosby,” he said.
Even the way he insisted on calling me “Ms. Crosby” felt like flirtatious teasing. It somehow frustrated me that he was holding me at arm’s length.
“I have to admit that I’m worried about the changes in Ben Paxton,” I said. “He used to be strong and caring. Now he’s strong … and unfeeling. When he told me that he’d kill me if he saw me at the house again …”
“You thought he meant it,” Tyler finished for me. “Tell me. Do the Paxton’s know where your new apartment is?”
“No.”
“That you know of.”
That gave me a chill. “No, not that I know of,” I said. “Would it be possible that they would know?”
Tyler shrugged. “If it’s public record or even something that could be discovered as easily as following you home one night, it’s possible.”
I shivered again, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Ms. Crosby.”
I lifted my eyes to meet his blue ones, which were shimmering again with an emotion I couldn’t place.
“This is why you hired me,” he said. “I’m sorry that I’m asking some difficult questions and forcing you to think about difficult things. I just want you to be as prepared as possible.”
“I think I need another drink,” I said, tapping my empty wine glass.
Tyler raised a finger and a server was there immediately.
“A red wine for the lady,” Tyler said. “Club soda for me.”
“You don’t drink?” I asked.
“Not when I’m on the job,” he said. “I don’t like to dull the senses.”
“All I want to do right now is dull the senses,” I said, taking a few big gulps of my wine. “Do you have any children, Mr. Marlowe?”
He only answered with a tight little smile, one that made him look pretentious and cocky and utterly desirable.
“Oh,” I said, returning the smile as best I could. “Professional distance.”
“Now you’re learning,” he said. “Are there any other details that you could tell me that might help? Even if you don’t think they’re of any consequence. You never know.”
I found myself pouring my heart out to this man even though we’d only just met. He listened dispassionately, his eyes never leaving my face, studying me as I divulged every gory detail starting with my baby’s conception to yesterday’s violent rejection of my presence.
“I just don’t understand,” I said, light-headedly starting on my fourth glass of wine. “Four years ago, Ben said that they’d keep in touch with me. He said that there was the chance for custody once I got back on my feet. And now, just when everything is finally going my way in life, something changes. Why won’t they let me have my son back?”
“Something changed,” Tyler said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“What?” Maybe it was the way the wine was fogging up my mind, but I didn’t quite catch his drift.
“The game changed,” he said, shrugging. “Something began to change four years ago. You said at that point, you barely knew Ben. He was so vastly different from the boy you’d loved. And yesterday, it was more than not being able to recognize him. He’d turned into a monster. People change because their circumstances change. And it’s the circumstances that we need to figure out.”
“I’m impressed,” I said, wondering why my head was so heavy and light at the same time. “You didn’t even take notes.”
“Taking notes is an excuse for people not to listen,” he said. He tapped his temple with one neatly manicured finger. “It’s all in here.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I’m glad I’m all in there.”
He laughed shortly and I realized I was spouting nonsense.
“I’ve taken too much of your time, Mr. Marlowe,” I said, rising suddenly and unsteadily, my head spinning. I didn’t fall, though. Tyler had a strong grip on my arm. He’d risen when I had, though I didn’t realize it.
“You haven’t,” he said. “You’ve been sharing pertinent information on this case that will hopefully help me reunite you with your son.”
“I hope you don’t charge by the hour,” I joked.
He shook his head. “We’ll discuss payment when the case is resolved to your satisfaction,” he said.
“Well, I’m good for it,” I said, my words slurring a little bit. I was drunk and I felt stupid, like I didn’t want Tyler to see me like this.
“I don’t doubt it, Ms. Crosby,” he said softly, those blue eyes shimmering.
“I’m going home,” I said.
“Not alone you’re not,” he said, taking my elbow as I left a couple of bills on the table and stumbled a bit.
“Mr. Marlowe,” I crowed, giggling. “What was all this about professional distance?”
He smirked at me and I wanted to kiss him just to see what he’d do. I tried to shake myself from the tendrils of the thought. I’d only just hired the man to help me get my son back. It was a testament to just how long it’d been for me sexually that I was so attracted to a practical stranger.
Another errant thought: I’d willingly fucked men who were much more strangers than Tyler Marlowe. Where were these thoughts coming from? Didn’t I have control of my own brain anymore? I was lucky that the private investigator couldn’t hear them.
“I’m not going to let a tipsy woman negotiate the streets of New York by herself,” he said, walking me out of the bar.
“Tipsy?” I echoed. “Mr. Marlowe, I’m drunk. There’s no tipsy about it.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” he said, putting his arm around my waist as I tried to totter down the sidewalk on my own.
“Should we get a taxi?” I slurred, feeling like an idiot. Why had I felt the need to have so much wine in front of the private investigator? He must think I was the mother of the year or worse—not take the case seriously. The only thing that mattered was Trevor, my treasure. I wanted him, no, I needed him back in my life. I didn’t know how much longer I could go without seeing him.
“We’ll be fine walking,” Tyler said reassuringly. “Your apartment isn’t too far from here. And the exercise and fresh air will do you good.”
“Are you calling me fat, Mr. Marlowe?”
He gave a surprised laugh, the rich and unexpected sound echoing pleasantly off the pavement.
“No, Ms. Crosby,” he said. “You have quite a nice figure. I’m calling you drunk. Exercise helps metabolize the alcohol. Maybe, if you drink some water and take some aspirin before passing out, you might escape the worst of a hangover.”
We walked on for a block before I had my next thought.
“Wait,” I said, stopping in my tracks and almost falling down. If not for Tyler’s strong arm around me, I would’ve eaten sidewalk.
“What’s the matter?”
“How do you know where I live?” I demanded. “Are you stalking me?”
“You’re very astute, Ms. Crosby,” Tyler said in what I strongly suspected was a sarcastic voice. “But I’m not stalking you. I do my research on all clients before taking their case. That’s how I decide which cases to take.”
“What made you take on this case?” I asked as we approached my apartment building. “I’m interested in knowing.”
Tyler ducked his head for a moment, and if I hadn’t been so drunk, I would’ve sworn he was blushing.
“I hope this doesn’t violate our professional distance,” I said, deliberately making my voice husky.
He smirked almost ruefully and shook his head. “You sure do know how to push a man’s buttons, Ms. Crosby.”
“It’s what I do best.”
We stood in front of my apartm
ent building as I fumbled with the keys long enough for Tyler to take pity on me and open the door.
“Thank you for seeing me home,” I said, even though I could barely see Tyler. Figures were blurring together, and all I wanted to do was collapse in bed. “I can take it from here.”
“Not likely,” Tyler said. “I can’t leave you until I see that you’re safely back home. I have this vision of you struggling with the door to your apartment and then giving up, sleeping on the floor outside it.”
I shrugged. That didn’t sound so bad.
But Tyler insisted on accompanying me up to my apartment, opening the door and turning on the lights, which hurt my eyes. I sat heavily on the couch and put my face in my hands.
After some sounds from the kitchen and a few moments, a strong but gentle hand took me by the wrist and made me close my own hand on a cool glass of water. The thought of drinking anything else turned my stomach and I shook my head furiously.
“Try to drink a little bit,” Tyler urged me. “It’ll make all the difference in the world tomorrow. Believe me.”
I took the tiniest sip possible just to get him off my back, but it soured in my belly and came lurching back up. Somehow, instead of vomiting on my apartment floor, there was a trashcan right in front of me. I heaved and heaved, purging all the toxins I’d tried to numb myself with this evening. I knew now that it wasn’t the right thing to do. I had to stay clear headed for my son and to try to resolve this situation. Tonight I’d displayed nothing but weakness, and that was inexcusable.
“That’s it,” Tyler encouraged. “Get it all out.”
“I’m done,” I said, leaning back from the trash bin and feeling miserable. What a fantastic first impression I had to be making.
With incredible tenderness, I realized that Tyler was dabbing my lips and forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. The small gesture of kindness and care set me off, and I started weeping.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking the washcloth from him and pressing it into my eyes to try to staunch the tears as if they were blood from an open wound. “What you must think of me.”
