by W. Winters
There’s a brief recess where Ella insists I eat a granola bar, and then we’re back in the courtroom for the defense to respond.
And that’s when I see this is going to be different.
Murder cases like this often have trials that stretch out for days. Weeks, even. There’s a shift in the energy in the room when we come back, the defense attorneys consulting in low voices at the front of the room. One of them approaches the bench, and the judge listens. Nods.
“What’s happening?” asks Ella. “Can you hear?”
“No. But we’ll know soon enough.”
We do know soon enough. What happens is that the defense puts the murderer on the stands.
He’s a tall guy, too thin and pale, with dark bags under his eyes. He’s lost weight since they put his picture in the news for killing Quincy. I’d expected to feel pure fury when I saw him on the stand, but looking at him now, all I feel along with the rage is …
Emptiness.
I’ve been staring at the back of his head all day, and seeing his face doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that Quincy is gone and never coming back. She’ll be dead forever, and it will always have begun with our conversation.
Justice can be healing, though. We have to own our actions, but we cannot own anyone else’s. This will change something. It will bring a sense of closure. There will be no more open case, no more phone calls, no more text messages. Quincy can rest and her name will be spoken by people who knew her beyond those photographs. The memories of her smiling will be the context of those conversations. And I’m ready for that. Fuck, I need that.
No more of this.
There’s a brief back-and-forth between the murderer and the judge, and then the defendant, her murderer, a man named Elijah Edwards is holding a sheet of paper in his hands, staring down at it.
“Your Honor. Jury. Ladies and gentlemen in the courtroom.” He sounds tired. “We’re all here today because of what I did, and I won’t sit in front of you and deny it. I killed Quincy Davis.”
My next breath fails to come. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as I sit still, barely contained and listen to him speak.
“I was high, on meth, when I encountered the young woman on the street that night. I don’t say that to make an excuse, but to offer an explanation. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I killed her. I—” He covers his mouth with his hand, then drops it down again. “I am truly, truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused to her friends and family, and I know that nothing I say here will ever make up for that. All I can tell you is that I live with the horror of what I’ve done every day. That I became a person who would take a life under the influence of drugs. It’s not what I intended, and it’s not the way I hoped my life would be. Your Honor, I understand that I don’t deserve a second chance. All I ask is that you grant me mercy when you make your decision. I was in the grips of something I couldn’t control.” He puts the paper down. “That’s all,” he says. “That’s all.”
Ella
I keep expecting him to cry. I did. Tears spilled helplessly once we were back in the car. If anything were to bring him to the brink, it would be the tombstones to the left of us.
“She’s buried over there.” He motions as we sit at the red light. His knuckles rap on the window although his focus is on the street.
“We could go, if you want?” I offer Zander, who shifts in his seat. Staring out of the window at the rows of headstones.
“No,” he says and his answer is gentle, more composed than he’s been. I learned today he’s short when he’s emotional. He’s also quick to check on me once he realizes he’s been blunt.
All I can do is to keep holding his hand.
I don’t think souls stay in cemeteries. There’s nothing here but stone, dying flowers and grass that needs to be trimmed but with the chill in the air and fall turning colder in the mountains, it’ll probably stay like this until spring.
“Are you all right?” he asks me yet again. The ache in my chest is the most vulnerable I’ve felt in so long and it’s directly linked to the way he looks at me. And the question I keep wanting to ask him, but my heart refuses. Did you love her?
Instead I nod, saying that I’m all right, and question, “Did you come this way because you knew she was buried over there?”
“Yes … Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t gone to where James is buried. I just don’t think he’s there. Have you been … since she’s been gone?”
“To the cemetery?” he questions, slowly hitting the gas and putting it in our rearview. “I used to. In the beginning.”
I debate on whether or not to tell him something I haven’t confided in anyone yet, but I settle on the truth, on speaking what’s on my mind. I’ll feel it, whatever the memory brings, and then let it go. “I would go to the bar a lot. When James first died.”
“The bar?” he asks for clarification, and he peeks at me a moment before returning his attention to the road.
“There’s this bar down by the trolley in the city we lived in; it’s the first floor of Monet’s. It’s where we first met.” I smile at the memory as the car moves and the world blurs around us in a beautiful hue of greens and blues. The trees are only just starting to turn to auburn shades. Licking my lower lip, I continue, staring out of the window. “I knew of him, of James,” I say, correcting myself. “I knew he slept around. I’m sure he knew I did the same.”
I can feel Zander’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back at him. Instead I remember the din of the bar and the way James smiled at me, like I would jump at the chance to fuck him. I’m certain I roll my eyes now just like I did back then. “He was cocky, came from money but invested in a few companies at the right time.
“Rich Prick is what we used to call him.”
“Sounds like Prince Charming,” Z jokes and I finally turn to him, letting him see how happy that comment made me. His strong hand lands on my thigh and I place mine on top of his, not wanting him to let go as I remember the first time I spoke to James, years ago.
“He wanted my number when I turned him down.”
Z looks back at me, curious without an ounce of jealousy. His thumb travels over my hand as I tell him our story.
“He said he’d change my mind.” My heart does a painful flip in my chest remembering the timbre of his voice. “There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to sleep with him. I was getting over a different guy. So …” I take in a deep breath and huff it out as I lay my head back on the seat. “So when he asked for my number,” I say and smirk when Z’s eyes meet mine, “I gave him my ex’s number. To piss two men off at the same time.”
The low, deep rumble of Zander’s laugh spreads a much-needed warmth through me. “That’s one way to make an impression.”
My smile is dull, but it’s there. It lingers along with the grief that comes with the past.
“So you were always a smart-ass, stubborn woman?”
“You mean a bitch?” I question and Zander’s quick to say, “I’d never call you that.”
“Well, I would. I could be a bitch when I wanted to be one.”
“I don’t want you to call yourself that.” His admonishment is a simple statement and as he turns the wheel, he has to remove his hand and along with it goes the warmth. Dom Z has returned it seems.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmur sarcastically.
“Don’t make me pull this car over and spank your ass because of your mouth.” The warning on his lips changes the atmosphere of the car instantly.
His tone heats every nerve ending in my body at once. I wonder if he knows how much power he has over me.
“I’m sorry,” I say and pull the hem of my black dress down. With my pulse quickened, I change the subject, back to Zander and Quincy.
“Do you have any stories?” I ask him.
“Stories of what?”
“Of you and Quincy.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, too long. An awkwardness
slips between us. “You don’t have to tell me if you—” Just as I’m offering the both of us an out, he speaks up.
“I was drunk and wanted to pick a fight.” He peeks over at me, smirking, and his hand returns to its rightful place on my thigh. “It also started at a bar.”
His gentle smile picks up the corners of my lips. His jaw is strong, covered in a five o’clock shadow as I gauge his expression in profile.
“I was pissed. I’d gotten into a fight with my brother over our parents. He wanted them to go live with him. I wanted them to move down south where it was warm. It’s what they wanted really.”
“Why did they want to move?”
“Mom had chronic pneumonia and … well, things had to change. Pops had a hard time taking care of everything although he wouldn’t admit it.”
“Did he love her?” My question throws Zander off and I almost feel compelled to explain myself. “I don’t remember a time when my mother was alive, really … only moments and they were fighting.”
“Yeah,” he says and nods, taking my hand in his and kissing my wrist before setting both our hands back down on my thigh. His thumb moves in soothing circles. “He loved her and she loved him.”
“They’re gone?”
He nods slowly and says, “Yeah, they had just passed. One after the other and my brothers just made things worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that, my little bird.” I swear he almost says something else but stops himself. “She passed quickly. My father died later that year.”
I have to bite down on my lip to keep from apologizing again. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-five. And angry.”
“So you went to the bar,” I say to remind him of the start of his story.
He sucks in a breath and nods. A moment later he has to turn the wheel again, but he makes do with just his one hand.
We’re driving slower now and on a back road I’m not familiar with.
“I was angry at the world, but Cade got the most of it.”
“Well … if it’s any consolation, Cade is an ass.”
He chuckles. “Why do you say that?”
I shrug, shyness overcoming me. “Because I want to make you feel better.”
This time he lets out a bark of a laugh and I love it. I love seeing this side of him. “You’re sweet, Ella.” His thumb taps, taps, taps as he pulls in the side entrance of a long lot with a row of brick buildings. At the very end is a larger building with parking all around it. I imagine that’s the restaurant we’re having dinner at.
“I wanted to pick a fight I guess, and she was there at the end of the bar.”
“Don’t tell me you fought a woman,” I say, dropping my voice to be comical.
He doesn’t laugh. Instead he gives me a sad smile. “No, we didn’t fight.” His voice is hoarser but he keeps going. “She made me laugh. I hadn’t laughed in a long time.”
He stops then. Not speaking as we pull into a parking spot. The car sways slightly and he keeps it running as we sit there.
It hits me then, that he loved her. I thought he did when we were in the courtroom. He looked like a man who’d lost his love. Seeing him now, there’s no question. He loved her.
“How long were you together?”
“About a year and a half.” He doesn’t hesitate. That little fact tells me more than anything.
“You loved her?”
He shakes his head once, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say it out loud. “We were lovers.”
My heart breaks in this small way watching him deny it. Suddenly I feel like a mistress, like an imposter posing on his arm. And I don’t want it. Glancing at the restaurant and then back to the man denying the obvious, I no longer have much of an appetite.
“Did you come here with her?” I don’t want to be here if that’s the case.
“No. No, this place is new. But my friend suggested it.” He doesn’t pick up on what’s come over me, thankfully. I don’t understand it fully myself and before I can think much of it, Zander kisses my knuckles.
“Thank you,” he says between kisses and then stares deep into my eyes. “For coming with me today.”
I melt for him, for the side of him he doesn’t want to accept. The side that loves and breaks. The vulnerable bits that turn us crazy and allow us to fall into a well of emotion we can’t control. I ache for him. Because I feel it. No one can deny the fact that I feel every bit of it. And then there are people like him, men who pretend they don’t when it’s so very obvious that they do.
I wonder if he would ever admit that he loved me. If he ever did fall for me. Would he say it? Would he tell me, or would I just have to know it and be complete with that?
“You’re certain you want this?” he asks as he finally shuts off the car. “Knowing I’m a little fucked up too?”
“Yes.”
“Show me,” he commands and leans across the console of the car, taking my chin in his hand and kissing me deeply. So passionately it shocks me at first, my lips parted, granting him access and my world tilted. All because of him. Because of what he does to me.
Not a damn bit of it I can control.
Zander
The days pass easily. It’s been weeks now of spoiling Ella and enjoying her in bed … as well as discovering her boundaries.
One thing I love is taking her out, and watching her light up a room when she doesn’t even realize it.
Ella looks gorgeous in soft candlelight. She looks gorgeous in every light really, but the candlelight at the Italian restaurant does something special to her features. It catches in her silky hair and makes her dark, sultry eyes shine.
And it makes me want to do filthy things to her.
I feel lighter after the hearing, and somehow heavier. Lighter because this part of my history with Quincy is closed. There are no more hearings, other than the formal sentencing. Heavier because I want Ella so much. My feelings seem much more intense than they should. Which makes me question them. More specifically if I’m using her emotionally because of what I went through with Quincy.
We go to dinner nearly every other night. Just like tonight.
She hasn’t stopped talking since we got in the car, and only occasionally stops to take a drink and touch her throat. She’s worlds better than she was only a month ago.
Tonight, she talks to me about surface-level things, things that don’t hurt, things like what decor style she likes and how much of the garden she’d have to take out if she wanted to change the landscaping in her yard. It’s a busy night and the waiter takes a few minutes to arrive.
It’s all seemingly mundane, but the truth of the matter is that Ella’s been discussing plans to redesign most of her home—never the blue room, though. She’s told me repeatedly she loves that room as it is. Every plan she’s made has fallen through. She ends up making some excuse as to why it isn’t good enough and vetoes it all.
Damon mentioned it as well. It’s a process, whether she realizes it or not. I’ll be here through all of it.
Ella glances at her empty wineglass. It’s late, getting later by the minute.
“Are you thinking about having a glass?” I ask her.
She readjusts the napkin on her lap. “No. Damon told me it’s not the same when it mixes with the medication. It could make me feel lower than if I wasn’t taking anything at all.”
“Come here.”
She listens. Of course she does. She’s out of her seat in a heartbeat and sliding onto my side of the rounded booth a moment later. Close enough to touch, but not so close she’s actually sitting in my lap, though I’d love that. I’d love so much with her.
I place my hand on her thigh. “Tell me more about the garden.”
“Well—” Her cheeks flush, and she looks so beautiful against all this red fabric and the cream walls. All this dark wood and candlelight. “One of the beds is overgrown, so I’d probably have—”
I brush her dre
ss up with the back of my hand, the silky deep red fabric gliding easily up her thigh, and Ella sucks in a little breath.
“Keep going,” I command.
With her lips still parted and her voice breathy she whispers, “But I thought maybe a raised bed would be nice.”
Another inch toward her waist, then another. It’s entirely inappropriate. At the very last moment I slip my hand under the fabric and toy with the waistband of her panties. Her cheeks turn a deep rose. All the while, my focus is on the thin paper menu held in my left hand.
“You know what to say to stop this if it’s too much,” I murmur.
Ella bites her lip, and I dip under her panties to graze a knuckle against her softness and seek out her clit. She brings her hand up to cover her mouth, trying to make the movement seem natural, and I do it again.
“Good evening,” the waiter greets us, and I feel her body stiffen. “Please forgive me for the wait. What can I get started for you tonight? Drinks?”
I don’t take my hand away. I brush my knuckle over her clit as slowly as I’ve ever done it. “I’ll have a cider. Whatever you recommend. Ella?”
I keep the pressure light, but I don’t stop.
“I would—” Ella takes the drink menu in her hands, then lets it fall to the table. “A mocktail. Anything, really. Just something sweet.”
A smile from the waiter. “I know the perfect thing.”
He leaves, and I hold the menu in front of Ella while I play with her. She’s hot, hotter than she’s ever felt, and her breathing is shallow. “Have you done this before? Discreet play?”
She shakes her head. “The most outrageous thing I’ve ever done, you’ve probably seen. The … swinging, recording, and uploading—”
“Exhibitionism.” I add a little more pressure, cutting her off.
