Ex-Con Times Two

by Jay S. Wilder

  She could have a neck injury, so I lean toward her from outside the shower and squeeze her hand. Her grip on my hand tightens. I think my heart leaps out of my chest with relief.

  She’s not dead!

  “Rebecca. It’s Jonathan. Jonathan Sloan. Can you hear me?”

  With that, she opens her eyes slowly and blinks a few times. She doesn’t seem to recognize me at first, but she’s more shaken up than anything.

  “What…I…what happened?”

  “Don’t move. You fell in the bathtub.”

  A look of panic and sheer embarrassment comes over her face. She gazes down her body and sees the towel. She looks a lot less stressed after that. Her other hand reaches up and touches the back of her head.

  “I said don’t move. I’m calling the ambulance. Hold on.”

  “Wait! Don’t do that. Give me a minute.” She sits up with little effort and draws the towel around her to cover herself. “I’m sure I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

  “Are you crazy, woman? I told you not to move! You were just unconscious. You could have a concussion or a spinal injury.”

  “No. I’m sure I’m fine. A little light-headed, but I’m okay.”

  Releasing my hand, she tightens her grip on the bathtub to stand up. She’s not listening to me anyway, so I reach under her armpits and help her up.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, still helping so she makes it out of the tub and onto solid ground without incident. She becomes aware that I’m holding on to her, and tries to pull away. I’m ready to shout. I bend forward and pick her up. “Stop fighting me and let me help you.”

  I walk carefully through the doorway and carry her to the living room.

  I lower her to rest on the sofa. “Stay here.”

  “I’m fine, Jonathan. Really.”

  “Yeah whatever. Where do you keep your lounge clothes?”

  “What? No, Jonathan. I can get my own clothes and dress myself.”

  “Like hell you can. You were unconscious for at least two minutes, and I’m already cutting you some slack by not taking you to an emergency room. You’re not moving from this chair until I say so. Now tell me where to find you some clothes. Unless you’re comfortable staying in just a towel.”

  She glares at me like no one has ever talked to her this way. “Last door down the hall,” she concedes. “Look in the large dresser. Bottom drawer.”

  I go find some sweat pants and a t-shirt, and take it back to her. “Here you go. You can figure out underwear after you feel better.”

  She gives me another evil eye. I walk into her kitchen and pull a bottled water from her fridge.

  “Drink this. How’s your head?”

  “It’s fine,” she answers, opening the water bottle. She almost downs the entire bottle. “I’m completely fine. Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed, but I feel perfectly okay now, Jonathan.”

  “Has this happened before?” I ask, sitting in the armchair opposite her.

  “No.”

  “So why are you brushing this off like it’s nothing?”

  “Because it’s—look, it’s my fault, okay. I haven’t eaten. Kara and I were at court all morning, and then out to see you and your father in Long Island. I should have had something when I got back to the office, or before I went out for my run with Sarah.”

  “Well at least I don’t have to give you the concussion test. Your memory is fine. You really haven’t eaten for the entire day?”

  “Technically, that’s not accurate. I did drink the other half of the coffee I spilled on you this morning.”

  I roll my eyes as she pulls the t-shirt over her head and pushes the towel down her torso, taking extra care to make sure I don’t see anything. I stand and turn away so she can get her pants on.

  “Haven’t you heard of carrying a protein bar in your purse or leaving a box in your desk?”

  She doesn’t answer. She must be embarrassed enough.

  “You can turn around now.”

  Turning, I see she’s sitting on the sofa again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Thanks Jonathan. Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Well in any case, it’s settled.”

  “What is?”

  “We’re not going out anymore.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I’m ordering in for you, and then you’re going to sleep.”

  “I have a few things to do at the office tonight.”

  “You’re not going anywhere tonight, and neither am I.”

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  Her eyes widen as though she’s shocked I would use such a commanding tone with her. At this point, I don’t give a damn what she thinks. She scared the shit out of me, passing out like that. I’m ready to remind her she’s lucky I was around, but I don’t.

  “You heard me. You need food and rest. I’m not leaving until I know you’re all clear—even if I have to sleep on this couch overnight. I hope you like Chinese food.”

  She pauses and looks at me, and I get the sense she realizes I’m making perfect sense.

  “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

  Chapter 10

  Rebecca

  Embarrassment and dizziness—with a generous dash of desire. They pretty much sum up how I feel after catching sight of Jonathan leaning over me in the bathtub. Oh, and I can’t forget, mortified. When I first open my eyes, all I can see are massive shoulders filling up my vision. I barely recognize him.

  Thank goodness he says his name, and God bless him for throwing that towel over me, or I’d probably scramble to get out of his grips, and end up falling on my ass again. When he helps me stand up, I’m relatively grateful for the assistance. It’s when he swoops me up into his arms to carry me into the living room that I get bashful. It’s the rock-hard chest I’m leaning into, and the massive arms wrapped around me that I become unavoidably aware of when my dizziness and blurred vision begin to clear.

  I don’t dare tell him I’m still a little dizzy, or he won’t hesitate to cart me off to some hospital nearby to get checked out. I’m also conjuring up all the effort possible to mask my attraction to his insanely masculine energy. The towel is all I have to cover my already hard nipples, but it’s not enough to hide that I’m getting flushed all over. Good thing running, taking a shower and passing out can all explain these rosy cheeks.

  I want to clock him when he tells me he’s getting me some clothes from my room, ordering in, and staying over. That tone he’s taken is not sitting well with me—not one bit. I’m tempted to tell him get the hell out. I don’t bother, because I see in his eyes that he’s not about to take no for an answer. Truth be told, it’s my own damn fault he’s nominated himself as my protector and hero for the night.

  A storm brews in my gut, telling me it’s a really bad idea, but also sending my body into a sensual overload of sorts. I curse under my breath as I get dressed, and my stomach starts to growl its displeasure that I’ve not eaten yet. By the time I shuffle to get my pants on, I’m hungry, wound up, and hoping there’s some silver lining to being forced into close quarters with Jonathan Sloan.

  He calls for delivery and asks me—no, he orders me—to give him my apartment keys, so he can grab something from his car. I use the time to clear my head and figure out the best way forward.

  Maybe this unplanned time will be helpful to Kara’s assignment, somehow.

  There has to be an upside, so I won’t have to feel guilty about the pile of work waiting for me at the office.

  He comes back with two shopping bags and a small workout bag. Setting down the workout bag, he brings me the two shopping bags.

  “This is for you.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “See for yourself.”

  I open the larger bag. It’s a new tablet. “Jonathan. You really didn’t need to replace the tablet. My job will take care of it.”

  “You know, there’s nothing weak about showing a little gratitude. I replaced it because it’s m
y fault that it fell.”

  “Well, I destroyed that suit of yours, but I didn’t run out and get you a replacement.”

  “I’ll try not to hold that against you. Check the other bag. I had those in my trunk. They go everywhere with me.”

  I look inside and there are three boxes of protein bars—in chocolate, peanut butter banana, and coffee mocha. I’m so hungry I open the box labeled coffee mocha, and rip open a bar. The whole bar is stuffed in my mouth in no time. I barely remember he’s standing in front of me.

  “Um, thanks,” I say. “These are really good.”

  He’s got a broad, entertained smile plastered on his face.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’ve got some—oh let me just get it.” He leans down and brushes the side of my mouth with his thumb. “Just a few inconvenient crumbs. No biggie. By the way, that cookie monster puppet character has nothing on you.”

  I’m flushed again from mild embarrassment, but I opt to let it slide. “So what’s in the bag over there?”

  “Getting a little greedy, aren’t you?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, no. I’m just curious.”

  “It’s fresh workout gear. I keep some in my car. I’ll sleep in them tonight.”

  “You know, I’m sure that after I eat I’ll be back to normal. I feel better already just from the protein bar.”

  “Nice try.”

  The intercom buzzer goes off and he answers it. It’s the delivery guy calling from downstairs.

  “Be right back again.”

  I wrack my brain for a convenient segway for him to talk about our earlier meeting. The fall must have really done some damage, because my head feels fuzzy and lethargic. I try to stand, but become painfully aware that the room is rotating slightly, before the fog in my head slowly clears again. I face the facts—I’m exhausted, weak and Jonathan is probably right to stick around, in case I pass out again. I flop down on the couch. I can’t help but feel defeated, and resentful that I have to depend on another human being.

  He comes back with bags of takeout. The smell is heavenly. It curls around my nose and tells my brain it’s time for no holds barred, stretchy waistband styled eating. He lays the food out on my kitchen table, and searches my cupboards for flatware like he owns the place. I’m about to tell him where things are, but he finds two plates, two glasses and eventually, some cutlery.

  “Okay, Rebecca. Food’s ready,” he announces. “Get over here and eat.”

  I’m a little nervous to stand up. I almost fainted just now, and if he sees how weak I am, he’ll probably insist on a hospital visit. The man must read minds. He must, because he walks over to me and holds a hand out.

  “I saw how you ate that energy bar. There’s no chance I’m letting you eat where I have to sleep tonight.”

  All I could come up with was, “You’ve got an interesting way of showing kindness, Jonathan.”

  “You’re welcome. Now take my hand so I can help you to the kitchen. Do you think I can’t tell you’re dizzy? I’ve spent years around some of the toughest fighters. I know what a mild concussion looks like. I’m not taking any chances with you.”

  I give up on resisting his offer. He’s seen my attempts to put on a brave face. He knows I’m hurt. I rest my hand on his forearm, which he takes as the signal to wrap his other arm around my shoulder to hold me up securely for the walk to the kitchen. I’m dwarfed beside him, and again, my body has a mind of its own. I melt into his side, allowing my weak frame to rest on his strong chest. As I’m pressed up on him, I smell his cologne again. It’s more potent and more addictive than when we were in Long Island—but just as dangerous.

  We sit to eat. The food is divine—everything I put in my mouth tastes better than the last bite. After his comment about how I ate the protein bar, I’m taking my time, doing my best not to wolf down whole boxes. I’m famished, so it’s hard. It takes all my energy not to close my eyes and moan with pleasure from every morsel.

  I could just be extremely hungry, but that’s’ not it. He’s ordered from le Chinois. It’s the top-rated, authentic Chinese restaurant in midtown. Before this job, while I articled with Barnaby, I could only dream of having a meal there once or twice a year.

  “I see you have good taste in restaurants,” I tell him, trying to break the ice with a compliment.

  “Yes, and I see I’ve met my perfect dinner companion,” he answers.

  “How’s that?”

  “I get so tired of women who eat those dainty little servings, or plates full of garden salads. Going out with the guys is not always my kind of thing, but I could get use to eating with you.”

  I hesitate. I’m not sure how to take it. Again, he reads my mind.

  “Relax. It’s a compliment. Don’t take it the wrong way.”

  I decide I need to work on my poker face, then launch into my subtle questioning. It’s not direct, and does not specifically ask about the night Rushton’s niece is murdered. All I’m doing is getting a sense of his routine, how close he is to his father and the rest of his family, how wide a social circle he has. It’s the basics.

  So far he’s open, but I assume he knows exactly why I’m asking. The man is a Harvard graduate and a VP at Fairchild. I’m putting myself at a disadvantage if I assume he’s not as sharp as a whip. I don’t push too hard. I’m building trust, and too much pressure will make him clam up. Still, I want to know what I’m dealing with.

  “Why don’t you just ask me if I did it, Ms. Clark?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Just spit it out and ask me a direct question. Or are you like Kara—just assume I’m guilty, and focus on reasonable doubt and other tactics to get her criminal clients off.”

  “You’ve got a massive chip on your shoulder Mr. Sloan. I would never—”

  “Never assume I did it? Or never ask me a direct question?”

  He’s getting a little angry and defensive, and so am I, for that matter. If I keep up the line of questioning, it’ll get us nowhere.

  “Jonathan. Can we continue this conversation when my head isn’t throbbing in pain? I think I should rest now.”

  “Oh. Of course. I’ll help you to your room and get this stuff cleared away.”

  He helps me to stand, and I’m certain he’s capitalizing on his power over me. He picks me up effortlessly. He’s carrying me again. He walks down the hall and eases my bedroom door open, turning so he can get me through the doorway. He lowers me on the bed and pulls the covers over me. His physical strength is almost as remarkable as his tenderness.

  “Sleep well,” he says, and casually walks away. When he gets to the door, he turns and says, “Just in case you were still wondering, I didn’t do it.”

  He leaves before I could reply. I could yell from frustration, but opt for letting out an exhausted breath. I can only imagine how Kara will react when I report back to her. I’m disappointed in how I’ve let him get under my skin. I feel unprofessional and out of control, like I’ve already failed him as a client. Most of all, I feel need rising up in me.

  I settle under the covers and bury my head in the pillow. Tomorrow is a new day, so I let sleep find me.

  Chapter 11

  Jonathan

  I leave her room, and the realization of what’s happened creeps up inside me. My heart is racing, my hands start to shake, my skin gets clammy from cold sweat, and I’m so irritable, it’s a wonder I didn’t fly off the handle with her earlier. I suddenly feel paranoid and out of control.

  It’s not the first time I’ve felt like this, and it certainly won’t be the last. When I found myself reacting this way to mildly tense situations years ago, Mandy wanted me to sit down with a therapist. She kept telling my dad she felt I had post-traumatic stress disorder from something that happened in the past. Her guess was it had to do with the death of my mom. If only she knew.

  My dad shut that idea down in a heartbeat, telling Mandy no son of his was going to see a shrink to talk about his feelings. He had
the most to gain, so understandably, he resisted the most. She dropped the subject eventually, but it didn’t stop me from looking into whether or not I had PTSD. I was skeptical at first—like so many people, I thought it only happened to combat veterans or people who were victims of some horrendous crimes. I realized after several hours of in-depth internet searches, that I displayed all the classic symptoms.

  The recurring nightmares happen often. There are two dreams in particular. In one of them, all the girls I helped cover up for my dad would stand around me in a circle and ask me why. There’s blood on my hands. They would get closer and closer until they were swarming me and tossing me around. Their voices would start off soft and sweet and tender, but by the time I wake up, they’re shrill and squeaky to the point of seeming deafening.

  In the other dream, I’d be sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. It’s a man who looks just like Sigmund Freud. He would tell me I’m keeping a deep, dark secret, and as I open my mouth to deny it, all my teeth would fall out with a mouthful of blood. I never experienced flashbacks, but the night sweats, irritability, paranoia, heart rate surges, outbursts of anger, emotional numbness and trouble sleeping were commonplace for me.

  Tonight, I’m sleeping on a lawyer’s couch. Before I do anything, I talk myself down. I use one of those meditative type affirmations. It’s the only thing recommended on those PTSD websites that does not involve telling someone. There’s no way I’m going to a support group or getting a peer mentor for this disorder. There is no one I can talk to for this, unless I’m ready for a walk down death row. I’m an accessory to federal serial murder. If I ever share my feelings, the only place for me after that is the green mile.

  Saying my affirmations on Rebecca’s couch makes me feel a little calmer. I use her bathroom to change, and curse because there’s no toothbrush in my workout bag. I settle for swishing around some of her mouthwash, and head back to the living room. I shake my head, and push back a faint smile when I look down on the couch. This woman does not listen. She got up while I was changing, and has left me a pillow and blankets.