by W Winters
“White wine?” A deep voice from my left is followed by the sound of wooden legs grinding against the slate floor as he pulls out a stool and takes a seat. Agent Cody Walsh.
I wish I could have contained the jump in my shoulders and the way my heart beats wildly at the sudden sound of him sneaking up on me.
“Shit, sorry,” he says and his tone is light as I laugh, letting my body sway gently as I shake my head, peeking up at him through my thick lashes. I hope my lipstick is still in place. He told me once how the dark red looks good on my light brown skin. I don’t wear it just for him, but I can’t deny that I like it when he sees me in this particular shade. His gaze drifts to my lips then. That’s when the butterflies happen. My thirtieth birthday behind me and I still get butterflies.
Shaking it off is easy for me, but stopping this smile from growing as this handsome man eyes me … well, that’s not so easy. Neither is stopping the heat of a blush from creeping up my cheeks all the way to my temple.
“It’s fine,” I say as I wave him off and seek refuge in my glass of wine. Within seconds I’m in control, relaxed and myself again. I don’t know if he saw the heat I felt or if he thought it was just embarrassment, but Cody is a gentleman, so he doesn’t say either way.
“I just wanted—” he starts, but Sandy interrupts, dropping a double Jack and Coke in front of him. “Thanks, Sandy,” he answers, his tone different. More professional maybe. My stomach doubles over in the best of ways and then that feeling travels lower as I wonder if he talks to me differently than he does to other women.
When I’m consulting with his team, it’s men only. I rarely see him out of the office. Especially since they go out of town so much.
There’s an obvious masculinity to the strong man in front of me. A hard edge that doesn’t seem to matter whenever he flashes me a charming smile. I’ve spent a number of nights with a toy between my legs, thinking about him. Watching him in interrogation rooms, observing the way he works and the manner in which others look up to him, does something to me. He’s only in his late thirties, maybe in his early forties, but the way he does just about everything has an air of authority that’s undeniable. Being a member of the FBI will do that to you I suppose.
It’s sexy as hell. As he reaches for the glass, palming it with his large hand and takes a swig, I glance at the muscles in his forearms, out to play tonight since he’s rolled up his button-down sleeves. They sure as hell don’t hurt his sex god image I’ve conjured up in my head.
I’ve been in this town in Pennsylvania since I left New York five years ago. Walsh happened to come here too from Virginia. The same case brought us here and we both stayed. Maybe it’s camaraderie from the now cold case or maybe it’s the mutual misery we’ve endured in this gray town riddled with corruption, but every time I see this man, I want to be under him more and more by the end of the night.
“Just wanted to say,” he starts again, setting down his glass, the swirling amber liquid more Jack than Coke and he keeps his blue eyes focused on it rather than me for the half second. Reaching my gaze, he tells me, “I’m sorry you went through that hell yesterday.”
Confusion hits me first. Then a blip of reality. Right. Of course he’s thinking about business and not fucking me into his mattress.
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. There was no reason for her to bring up that shit.” His tone is deathly low although there’s nothing but compassion there.
“Her” meaning the reporter, a blonde with perfect hair who goes by Jill and works for the local eleven o’clock news. And “that shit” meaning the case that brought us both here five years ago.
We were both in deep, both devastated when every lead gave us nothing and the one man we could track down ended up dead. There was nothing left that we could do. The murders stopped and the evidence didn’t lead to anyone still living.
“It’s fine, Walsh,” I say, shutting down his anger with a flat tone of my own and reach for my wine again, but I don’t drink it. “She’s not a lawyer or a detective. She has no idea what she’s talking about.”
“No,” he answers and waits for my gaze to meet his. My chest hollows but somehow feels full just the same when I see his steely blue eyes. “It’s not fine.” His last statement is almost a murmur. He’s the one who breaks our stare to look down into his full glass and then empty in a second when he throws it all back.
I don’t look back at him, even though I can feel somebody’s eyes on me. Someone else is watching me. There’s a prick that travels up the base of my neck, making the small hairs there stand on edge. I can feel it. But not a soul is looking at me when I glance around the room. A shiver rolls down my spine.
The chilling sensation doesn’t stop and I have to turn around toward the small window near our table to check there too, but no one’s there either.
“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Cody’s somber tone forces me to look back at him and I do what I haven’t done even once in the years I’ve known him; I lay my hand on his. The touch is hot, smoldering even, sending a tingle up my arm that jolts me. It’s only a fraction of a second before I realize what I’ve done and I quickly move to pat his hand, but from the look in his eyes I know that he knows a friendly pat wasn’t my intention.
“It’s really,” I say then clear my throat and clasp my hands together in my lap before continuing. “It’s fine, I promise you. I can take her criticism when I know I did everything I could.”
The first thing I learned in this field is the truest statement: everyone wants someone to blame. If Cody doesn’t catch the bad guy or if I don’t get him convicted … well, then it’s one of the two of us who gets blamed.
Cody’s gaze drifts to my lips for just a moment; I know it’s brought on because I snag my bottom lip between my teeth and maybe he notices the lipstick.
He clears his throat like I did and sits up straighter, the empty glass in his hand staying where it is since the place is busier now and Sandy is nowhere to be seen. With his broad shoulders squared, he looks straight ahead rather than at me when he speaks. “It’s not your fault we didn’t catch the bastard,” he murmurs and for a moment I question if he meant those words for me or himself.
“You want another?” I offer him, not liking this conversation and wanting the easy air between us again.
Tapping the base of the glass on the bar, Cody pauses and then glances up at me, a boyish smirk crossing his face. “Only if you have it with me.”
Just like that, all the tension is gone and the smile I had for him when he first sat down comes back.
I tell myself that I’m not like my mother. I don’t forget. I don’t pretend. I’m aware of my reality.
I’m simply making the best with what I’ve got.
Right now, that’s a tall glass of chardonnay and a handsome man to keep me company. Even if I go home alone to an empty apartment and a too-hard mattress that makes the tight muscles in my back even tighter, I’m doing all right for what I’ve been through.
Delilah
Some days you’re the dog. Some days you’re the hydrant. My auntie Lindie told me that one when I was young. A student in my freshman high school class pulled my hair. So I pulled hers back. I was the one that the teacher saw and the only one who got in trouble. Both my mother and auntie had things to say about that, but when it came down to what my punishment would be back home, my mom told me to keep my hands to myself unless detention was worth it. My auntie said detention was always worth it and then she gave me that wise line about dogs and hydrants. That day I got in trouble I was the dog.
Today, I’m in that bitch of a position again.
“One thing after the other,” I whisper into my coffee. The steam flows around my cheeks. The sinful smell of caffeine addiction is the only thing that’s been comforting so far today.
My desk chair groans as I lean back in it, staring at the plaque to the left of my door then the framed news article beside it.
My JD and a story about the first case I ever won, which was published in the town’s paper. Six years ago I had so much more energy than I do now.
My laptop is closed and I just simply can’t find the stamina to open it again. Instead, I find myself wishing I’d just stayed in bed all day and never answered my phone.
As a sigh leaves me, I chance a sip of coffee. It’s still too hot, but not scalding like it was when Aaron first brought it in. The shade of brown matches my walnut desk and I find myself smiling over the color of the coffee. I suppose in rough days it helps to be grateful for the little things. And then I catch sight of the bruise on my hand. The same shade as the grain in the desk. So long, gratitude. See you whenever I find that thing called patience.
Ignoring the bruise, I turn my attention to the case file laying open on my desk and read the first bit for what’s now the fourth time since I first sat in here. The constant ticking of the clock seems so loud today that I stare at it rather than the black and white words and inwardly curse myself.
I never should have gotten out of bed. I never should have answered my phone to deal with my mother. I sure as hell would have made it to the curb on time to move my car so I wouldn’t have gotten that ticket. If I hadn’t seen the ticket as I was getting into the car, I wouldn’t have slammed my hand in the door. And, most importantly, if I wasn’t pissed off and in pain, I wouldn’t have said what I said to the press when I was walking into the building.
I shouldn’t have said it and I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. Tension twists my gut. It’s bad; today is a really, really bad day.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I do everything I can to calm myself down. To pretend like my boss isn’t going to walk in here and chew my ass out any minute now.
The parking garage is just across the street. Our building lies between an office complex and small commercial strip. The coffee shop is all the way on the other side, which is a six-minute walk, tried and true. So when I parked with fifteen minutes to spare and a hand that was throbbing just as hard as the headache my mother gave me, I knew I needed coffee.
What I didn’t need was the press waiting for anyone from the Assistant Attorney General’s department so they could ask questions about a case that slipped through my fingers.
Microphones and camera crews first thing in the morning get my adrenaline going in a way I used to crave. I can even admit that back when I first moved here, I loved the sight of them. The high of knowing information and having a voice that mattered meant so much to me. The fact that I worked on cases that were worthy of press was enough to keep a soft professional smile on my lips and a confident gleam in my eye as I strode along confidently with my simple black leather purse kept tight to my side. I paired a power walk with red lipstick and a skirt suit worth more than my first car.
I thought I had it all back then. This morning though, and lately with the way the press has turned, it was hard enough to keep my lips pressed into a thin red line. Lipstick courage or not, I sure as hell had better things to do with my time than be battered with questions about a conviction that’s been overruled.
I barely had a hand in the case. I gave my opinion and that was all.
“Anyone who helps a man do that to children, to little girls who were dead the moment he set their sights on them… a man who helps and does nothing to stop them deserves to rot in hell.”
Needless to say, I didn’t get my coffee. So I’m stuck here with Aaron’s choice of brew. Which is too hot to drink still and every second that passes, the headache gets worse.
My statement plays back in my head followed by the ticking of the incessant clock.
And then suddenly there’s a loud bang at my door. The knock, knock, knock hardly registers before the door is swung open.
“You said, ‘rot in hell.’” Claire Eastings mocks my tone as she swings the door closed behind her with a hard thump from the bottom of one of her flats. She stands taller than me without heels, and that’s saying something. Six feet tall and sixty years old, she towers over my desk with a scowl. Another thing Auntie Lindie used to say, your face will get stuck like that. … Yeah, well, Claire’s face is in a constant scowl. Despite her resting bitch face and all, she’s damn good at what she does. So when she repeats, “rot in hell,” drawing out the words with her dark brown eyes wide and full of disbelief, one hand on her wide hip with the other gripping a piece of paper so tight that she’s creased and crinkled it, my stomach drops.
My fingers nervously pick at the edge of the case file as I meet her gaze. I have a lot to learn. I’ll be the first to admit it. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No,” she agrees then throws her head back and when she does I close my eyes, wishing the ground would swallow me up. I don’t react well to being scolded and especially not by someone I admire. Claire paved the way for women in this career, simply by being the best of the best. Today isn’t just a bad day, I think as I swallow the knot in my throat, it’s an awful day.
I know what I did. I know I messed up. Just tell me whether or not I’m going to have to sit out on cases and file paperwork as punishment. I have shit to do.
With my jaw clenched tight, I keep the words there at the back of my throat and give Claire’s rant the full attention she wants.
Her pencil skirt isn’t fitted and it rides up, bunching around her hips as she paces. “Are you kidding me?” she questions, her head tilted and her eyes narrowed at me. When she does that, the wrinkles around her eyes and her pursed lips deepen.
“First the mess that happened two days ago and now this? Are you—” She continues her tyrannical rage and I cut her off.
“What happened two days ago didn’t come out of my mouth.” Jill earns another dart thrown at her in my imaginary poster of her on the wall in my head. “That was a reporter trying to stay relevant.”
“Well, this morning, ‘rot in hell’ certainly came out of yours.”
“I apologize,” I say and my sincerity is there when I meet her gaze, refusing to break it even though I’m burning up inside.
“Is it because of what was said? Is it because Jill said you’re becoming infamous for serial murder cases going cold? Is that why you had to give your two cents this morning about Ross Brass?”
“You and I both know he did it.” As I speak, the emotion that creeps into my voice, cracking it, is something I didn’t count on. I know Claire hired me over seasoned lawyers well worth their weight because I’m hard; I keep my emotions in check. That’s what she said. I have a hard edge and the emotion rarely gets to me. It’s evidence and precedence and getting to the point.
Emotion is a weakness to be exploited and preyed upon in this business. I don’t know if it’s my family issues or the case from five years ago, but today is hard. I’m struggling to remain unaffected.
“He played a part in four girls dying and he got off on a technicality.” I answer her as best I can without letting my voice crack again. It would be easy if all of this really was as simple as dogs and hydrants, but that’s not the world I live in. I chose a career with higher stakes and things that truly matter to me.
Sympathy isn’t something I anticipated. So when Claire’s gaze softens and she takes a seat in the leather wingback across from me, I’m truly surprised.
“Of course he did. But when the evidence is tainted while it’s in police custody…” she trails off then inhales slowly and shakes her head, shifting her curly auburn hair around her shoulders. With her hands thrown up in defeat, she adds, “It’s on the PD for the way they handled the evidence. Not on us.”
Leaning forward, I look my boss in the eye and remind her who she hired and who I am. “It’s bullshit that they mishandled evidence and now Brass gets to walk.” Taking in a deep breath, I make it known that I have more to say. “He does deserve to rot in hell, but I never should have said that to anyone other than you and our partners. I am sorry,” I add emphasis to the last statement, my voice firm and then sit back in my seat.
“I shouldn’t have said it. Now I know why you say you don’t talk to press after six p.m.”
“If you aren’t on point . . .” she begins and I finish her line for her, “. . . then don’t say shit.”
Claire’s an early riser and gets into the office before everyone else. Claire practically lives at work and handles the press above everyone else, unless it’s past 6:00. That’s her cutoff. Now I know my limit: No coffee, no talking.
“I think my new rule should be no press before coffee.” My muttered statement as I run my hand along the back of my neck forces a small laugh from Claire. If it can even be called a laugh since the sound is just a tad longer than a huff. Her smile lasts though, thank God.
“Are you pulling me off my cases?” I ask her and she shakes her head.
“No, but I will be giving you the cold shoulder in front of Tanner and Shaw. I can’t let them think you got off easy.” They’re new to the prosecution team. Shaw used to handle defense and Tanner is fresh out of law school.
“I was serious when I asked you if Jill bringing up that case got to you,” Claire states although it’s meant to be a question.
Eating up time by hiding behind a sip of coffee, I deny the stomach drop and the pounding in my veins. “I’m fine,” I answer her and then give her a tight smile followed by a distraction. “My mother called this morning, I got a ticket, and I smashed my hand in the door.” Holding up my hand as evidence, Claire winces.
“All before coffee?”
With a nod and a click of my tongue, I answer, “Without a single sip.”
Within half an hour, she’s out the door, my coffee is gone and all of it goes to the back of my mind as I force myself to actually get work done and make today productive at the very least.
Time slips by as I catch up on a case that goes to trial next week. I’ll be looking over Tanner’s shoulder and he’ll be pissed because of it, but it should be an open-and-shut case. The evidence is damning. It would take one hell of a defense or one hell of a fuckup for Tanner to lose this one.
