by Cecy Robson
“Yes?” I manage.
“I . . .” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you got away.”
“I am, too,” I tell him gently. Our moment is gone. I know it. I reach for my notes and skim through them. “Before we get back to Tricia, I need to ―”
“About your dad,” he begins.
“Yes?” I ask, lowering my pad.
“He’s―look, there are seven of us kids in the family. Six boys, and one girl who could kick our asses if we pissed her off enough. My mother raised us in a tiny three bedroom row home. She owned her own dry cleaning service and worked herself to exhaustion to put us through Catholic school. She’d take us to church every Sunday so God wouldn’t strike us dead for all the sins we’d commit Monday through Saturday. If it wasn’t for her, none of us would have made it out of the neighborhood we were raised in alive.”
He reaches for his pen, appearing pissed. “We barely knew our father. When he wasn’t working his part time job at the post office, he was in bed with his mistress. Those baseball games dads take their kids to? It was our mother who took us, and paid for our popcorn and drinks because that’s all she could afford. Those sports we were all in, the ones fathers are supposed to attend and cheer you on at? That was my mother yelling, and my brothers and sister cheering.” He looks up at me. “Ideally we’re supposed to have parents, a team that works together for their kids. But sometimes the team sucks, and only one parent steps up. That’s okay. You have one good one, you can take on the fucking world. That’s what your dad and my mother were to us.” He starts scribbling. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”
For a moment, all I can do is gape. Declan isn’t unloading to unload, he’s trying to bond with me.
He glances up when all I do is sit there. “Melissa, what else is on your agenda?”
“Your sister-in-law.” It’s what I say, because that area of discussion is professional, unlike my insane desire to kiss him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like you to consider Tess for SACU.” Again it’s what I say, and what’s relevant. So why am I focused on his shirt, and how I’d like to ruin it by ripping it open so I may trace my initials on his chest with my tongue?
“No. Tess is bright, but she doesn’t have enough trial experience yet.” His voice cuts off when he realizes I’m blushing. “Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” I answer although something clearly is. Within a span of a few minutes and with just a handful of words, Declan has turned me into one of those ridiculous women who pant after him.
Holy heavens. I want to have sex with Declan O’Brien.
CHAPTER 7
Declan
I rest my head against my hand, hoping I don’t look as nauseous as I feel. Someone knocks on my door. I’m ready to lie and yell that I’m in a meeting. But I know it’s Mel and that we need to talk.
“Come in.” I realize I’m muttering and that she probably can’t hear me. “Come in,” I call louder.
She walks in slowly, takes one good look at me, and sighs. I don’t say anything, waiting for her to speak. Fuck. Me. Tricia Helmsley belongs in an institution. Marketing executive or not, the woman is bat-shit crazy.
The door clicks shut as Melissa rests her back against it. “You okay?” she asks.
When I don’t answer, she takes a seat in front of me. It’s only been a few weeks, but Mel already knows how to read me. She knows when I need space, and better yet when I need her. But given the amount of hours we spend each day, trained counselor or not, I suppose she would have figured me out eventually.
I rub my face. This job sucks, though I won’t complain about what it’s done for me and Mel. Do we always agree on things? Hell, no. But the hostile tension between us has been replaced with a different kind of tension, one that involves her knees on either side of my head.
She’s wearing a sleeveless coral dress today. It’s simple, professional, and sexy as hell on her. When she walked in this morning to meet with me about the new smart phones she secured for my detectives, and handed me the large cup of coffee she bought me, “just because”, I couldn’t stop picturing what it would be like to pull the zipper all the way down until her dress fell in a wrinkled mess at her feet.
But that was before Tricia Helmsley.
“Declan,” Mel pleads. “I know Tricia is a challenging witness and somewhat hard to like.”
“Hard to like?” I repeat. “She asked me if I’ve ever taken it up the ass when I asked her to explain what happened when Morris entered her apartment.” I look up at the ceiling as I recall the ninety hellish minutes I’ll never get back in my life. “You heard that, right? And when I tried to redirect her she told me how she’d have fun shaving my boys.”
“She wasn’t in a good place today,” Mel offers.
“I don’t know about that. She offered to buy me my first butt plug.”
“Declan . . .”
“That was nice of her, don’t you think? Oh, but the real treat was when she told me she’d get one with my birthstone on it.”
“I realize—”
“My fucking birthstone, Mel. I didn’t even know they bedazzled that shit. Did you?” I huff. “If that doesn’t say welcome to SACU, I don’t know what does.”
Mel clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m going to work with her. Next time, I’m sure the prep for trial will go better.”
I meet her square in the eye. “There isn’t going to be a trial. I have to plead this case out.”
“You can’t. He assaulted her, Declan.” She throws her hands out when I don’t budge. “Please tell me you believe her.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe her, I don’t believe in her as a reliable witness. Look at what I’m dealing with here, she’s a submissive at Club Hurt. She and Morris went out on a date. She invited him back to her place where he tied her up and assaulted her. The defense is going to build it up as foreplay and consensual sex that comes with the lifestyle she actively participates in. Did you see the witness list? One of the men on it is a Dom―or whatever the hell they’re called―from that same damn club. Throw in the fact that she’s unstable, and attempting to sabotage her own case . . .” I swipe at my face. “You can see I don’t have a lot to work with here.”
“She’s only acting this way because she’s traumatized after what he did to her. The experience has brought up deep-seeded abuse from her past.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Mel. But putting her on the stand is going to make everything worse for her. This case will go public no matter how quiet we try to keep it, ruining Morris’s reputation sure, but also hers once the BDSM comes out. And if she can’t even get through testimony with me―if she’s asking me questions about my sex life, telling me what she wants to do to me because she can’t handle my questions, what the hell is she going to sound like in front of the jury?”
Mel tugs her skirt over her crossed leg. She does that, fusses with her clothes when she’s frustrated. I suppose it beats tearing her hair out which is what I’m ready to do. “I’ve been urging her to go to counseling,” she says. “It’s what she most needs.”
“No,” I bite out. “She needs shock therapy and a shit ton of meds.” I stand and face the window. I’m not trying to be an insensitive asshole, but that meeting was among one of the worst of my life. Is it a wonder people burn out in SACU? You don’t forget the shit you see and hear, and there’s no way to undo any of it. And the victims? Christ. No matter what, they’ll always have that memory. Like Finnie, and Wren.
God damn it.
“Are you all right?” Mel asks, well-aware that I’m not.
“Fine,” I answer, making no effort to fool her.
She gives me a moment. It’s what I need more than anything right now. But like I said, Mel recognizes my needs better than most.
“You hear what I’m saying, don’t you?” I ask when I can finally think straight. “I know you want to help her. I do, too. But making her testify isn’t the way.�
��
I cross my arms, taking in the city I love, whose residents I’d kill to protect, at the same time I wonder how many crazies are out there. Crazies like Tricia born of predators like Morris. Damn. Seriously, damn.
My spine stiffens as I hear Mel push away from her seat. My first thought is I pissed her off and that she’s leaving. With everything going on with Miles, it’s the last thing I want.
For the most part, Mel keeps it together. But last week, when I arrived at the hospital following his surgery, I found her in the hall crying alone. It tore me apart to see her that way and gave me insight to how much she’s holding in.
She put on a brave face when she saw me, wiping her tears and trying to smile. But I still sensed her pain. Hell, I felt it. I hated seeing her so alone and scared. My first thought was to gather her in my arms and hold her close, and I almost did. But I knew if I touched her, there was no going back. That kiss I’ve been fighting to give her every time we’ve said goodnight would have followed and maybe led to something we’re not ready for.
Her bruised expression remains ingrained in my mind, and even though she’s probably mad at me, I don’t want her to go. Mel has a way of settling me, and everyone around her. For as distant and cold I once thought she once was, she’s every bit as nurturing and sweet as everyone claimed. I see that now, mostly because she’s let me.
Her warmth closes in around me as I sense her approach, lifting the tension bulging the muscles along my shoulders. Damn, I want to kiss her. Me, that same guy who’d get annoyed at Curran every time he shows his wife affection. I didn’t understand how he couldn’t just keep his hands to himself. I get it now. There’s been moments, I’ve barely held back around Mel.
Am I still dreaming about fucking her? Yeah. Almost every damn night. But when those dreams fail to make an appearance, I make up my own fantasies. Usually they’re first thing in the morning, or late at night when I’m alone and can do something about it. But sometimes, like now, when it’s just me and her, my mind wanders where it shouldn’t and I think about what it would be like to bust that tension between us and allow it to explode.
She touches my shoulder, luring my attention to her face and that plump, pouty mouth. “Declan, if you approach opposing counsel now, they’re going to know you’re doubting Tricia and her stability. They’re also going to think you can’t win this case.”
“Not if I spin it right,” I tell her. I try to keep my expression neutral, ignoring my desire to tug her bottom lip with my teeth. “I’m going to remind them of all the DNA evidence we have, including the skin cells that were scraped from Tricia’s nails.”
“And you think that will be enough?”
“Based on her BDSM lifestyle? Not even close,” I confess. A tiny wrinkle forms on her brow when she frowns. I want to cup her face, smooth my thumb across her skin. And that’s just the start. But right now, I can’t go there.
“I’m going to make it clear how broken she is because of what happened between her and Morris,” I continue. “And that as a result of their night together, she’s attending intensive counseling. I’m also going to tell him that I’m prepared to put her counselor on the stand to verify she has PTSD and bring in an expert that will educate and spell out to the jury what victims like Tricia go through.”
Mel tilts her chin. “You need me to convince her to attend counseling.”
I shake my head. “No. I need her in intensive counseling. Minimum three times a week with a therapist that deals specifically with PTSD. Preferably a renowned psychiatrist opposing council would be fools to question.” I cock a brow. “Know anyone?”
“I do,” she says. “So your plan is to wait, to get her into counseling so the defense knows you’re not misleading them?” I nod. “What if they still want to try the case?”
Then we’re all fucked. It’s what I think, but I don’t say it. “If Tricia wants to go through with it, we will. But Mel, you need to talk to her about me pleading this case out. I’m serious,” I add when she opens her mouth to argue. “It’s not going to take much for the defense to turn her into a blubbering mess and for the members of the jury to turn against her.”
The way she takes in every inch of my face, I’m sure we’re seconds from going at it. Instead she answers with a small nod. “I wish you were wrong about her stability.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “Morris is another scumbag who needs to be put away for a long time. The problem is, Tricia doesn’t have what it takes to help me make it happen. Not the way she’s acting now. At the very least, Morris will have to register as a sex offender. That in itself will be a win.”
She bows her head. “I just wish there was a way to give her more.”
She starts to head out, but I don’t want her to go. All this darkness I deal with every time I sit at my desk would be impossible to push through without Mel. In the few weeks we’ve worked together, she’s become my salvation. It’s like I can’t see anything good when she’s not around.
“How about dinner tonight?” I ask as she reaches the door.
Her fingers linger over the knob as she thinks about it. “That could work. I need to discuss the Winston case with you and possibly adding another detective with a grant I just had approved.”
“No. No work,” I say. “Just you and me, talking about anything but this place.”
She pauses, as if she unsure what I’m asking. “Like friends? Going out to eat?”
I peg her with a look that cements her in place, surprising her, and me too. “Maybe not like friends,” I confess, my voice gruff.
Her full lips part. She wasn’t expecting this. I can’t blame her, considering how bad I screwed up the first time I asked her to have dinner with me. “I thought you didn’t date women you work with?” she reminds me.
“I’ll make the exception for you.”
Warmth spreads along her cheeks. She’s not blushing like she’s embarrassed . . . no, not with the way those sweet brown eyes sizzle. There’s a whole lot of heat that has nothing to do with being shy. I know because I’m feeling it, too.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, a slight quiver to her voice.
My tone stays even. “Why?”
“We work together, Declan. My father is your boss. And―” She cuts herself off, as if she was about to say something she shouldn’t. “It’s not a good idea,” she adds quietly, passing her hands along her skirt.
“I think you’re wrong.” Reason tells me to shut my mouth and move on—to end this conversation and not go there again. Except I can’t. Melissa, with her killer body, sexy smile, and keen intelligence makes it hard to stop. “And I think you know it, too.”
Her chest rises and falls with purpose, mimicking mine as I fight to stay in place. Ten feet. That’s all that separates us. “I don’t think we should,” she says.
I open my mouth to say more and keep her with me. But then she throws open the door and walks out, shutting it tight behind her.
CHAPTER 8
Melissa
“I don’t want to see him,” Jennifer says to me. “I can’t do this.”
I’m an advocate for victim services, but as a director, my caseload is limited due to the severity of the cases I cover and my other obligations to the state. Jennifer’s case isn’t one I’m handling. Brenda is her advocate. But as much as Brenda means well, she’s new, and Jennifer has completely overwhelmed her.
I’m trying to remain calm, but with the murmuring echoing from all sides and the loud voices spilling from the courtrooms, I’ll admit, I’m overwhelmed. I motion Jennifer to the opposite side of the foyer, allowing the deputies escorting a row of shackled prisoners a wide berth to pass. Unfortunately, these men in their condition are the last thing Jennifer needs to see now.
“You can’t make me do this,” Jennifer whimpers, glancing back at them. “You can’t make me do that to him.”
I hold out my hands, keeping my voice soft. “No one is making you do anything. But your te
stimony can make a difference between Darren serving several years or just a few months.”
“But I love him,” she insists. “I don’t want to see him suffer. Did you see those men?”
“This isn’t about them,” I say, trying to keep her focused. “It’s about Darren and how he hurt you.”
“But I love him,” she insists, her voice cracking.
This is the hardest part of doing what I do. Some people are so broken they can’t be reasoned with. Jennifer, like many women in her situation, is scared to death of her abuser. He’s fractured her jaw, landed her in ICU, and placed her in debt she will never recover from. But she “loves” him. Or so she believes.
She doesn’t know what real love is. Having been abused all her life, her brain has conditioned her to think those you most love should also hurt you. Kindness and compassion are elements completely foreign to her. Which is why she’s in the situation she’s in.
If it weren’t for a police officer who witnessed the assault and pulled Darren off Jennifer, she wouldn’t even be here. She didn’t press charges, the police officer did. But he can only account for this one incident, and Jennifer is refusing to step up for the rest.
“Do you think Darren loves you?” I ask her carefully.
Her lips press tight. “Of course he does. He says it all the time.”
No. He says it after he beats you so you’ll stay. I don’t tell her this, obviously. It’s the last thing any victim needs to hear. Instead I put the blame back on Darren where it belongs. “If he truly cares about you, then why does he hurt you?”
Brenda stiffens beside me. She shies away from asking the tough questions. But the way Jennifer is reacting, this is no time to be shy.
“He gets upset. His job is really hard,” she says quickly, stumbling over her words. Something shifts in her expression as her gaze sweeps over me, turning her from a cowering little mouse to vicious hell cat. “But I suppose you don’t know anything about real work,” she snaps. “You walk in here with your expensive clothes and your pretty hair. I bet you’ve never known a day of manual labor in your life. Have you, princess?”
