Knox

by Lisa Ladew

  “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 Eleven

  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.

  I settle into her sofa. Once I’m relaxed, I give my sub-conscience a stern warning that it had better not have nightmares tonight. There’s a woman in the other room with the power to save my ass or take me the fuck down. If she gets the faintest insight into the gory memories locked up in my brain, it’s over for me. As sleep comes over me, there’s a new image in my mind, moving around with the others—it’s Rebecca.

  ***

  It’s the middle of the night and I abruptly jump out of sleep. It’s one of my nightmares. It’s Freud again, except I wake up before the teeth fall out my mouth and down the front of my shirt in a bloody mess. There’s a bit of cold sweat on my face and neck, but I’m not feeling as tense as some of the other nights. I’m not anxious or panicked at all. I could get used to waking up before the worst part happens.

  It’s barely past midnight. It’s no wonder I’m up. I’m usually not in bed until now. I take off my t-shirt and head to the bathroom. I need to throw some water over my face to try and get some more rest. Before I go inside, I stop to listen at Rebecca’s door. There’s no sound. I’m relieved. I take it to mean I didn’t holler during my nightmare, so no harm done.

  I’m only in the bathroom for a minute and when I come out, I walk right into her in the hallway. At the pace I’m going, with my height and size, I almost shove her to the ground.

  “Whoa, there,” I say, holding her shoulders to stop her from falling back. “I didn’t see you—what are you doing up? Can I get you something?”

  She doesn’t answer. Not with words anyway. She just looks at me—through me. It’s unsettling. I want to look away.

  “Are you alright?” I ask again, without releasing her shoulders.

  She tilts her head back slightly and exposes the soft flesh of her neck. I know how I want to react, but it’s not what I expect from her. I hold back. Her hands snake up my stomach and come to rest on my chest. There’s a change in atmosphere in the hallway. It’s palpable. It’s sexual tension and need, and once it mixes in with the lust my body’s been giving off since I met her, we become lost in it.

  There’s no asking and there are no words. Her unspoken permission is in her eyes. It’s embedded in every shallow breath I hear escape her mouth and come to rest on my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist. She lifts a leg up and rubs it against my calf, letting her hips rock and her stomach rub against my already throbbing cock. In two steps, I’ve pinned her to the hallway wall.

  I don’t know where the fierceness comes from, but it takes us over. Before my lips even touch her, she’s digging her nails into my back and moaning like I’m already fucking her. The sound fuels me forward. I need to claim her. I press my lips into hers. She’s so soft, so welcoming. She parts my lips with her tongue and begins to duel and dominate mine. I reach up and slide my fingers through her hair, my grip tightening as I press her harder into the wall to get closer.

  I feel her leg is practically rubbing up to my thighs now. She’s anchoring to me for more contact. I pick her up. She wraps both legs around my waist, and bucks her hips. I don’t know if my cock can take much more of it without thrusting inside her. Before I move, she kisses and sucks my neck like I’m edible. That’s it. I’m ripping these clothes off her and fucking her hard—as soon as she’s in the bed.

  I carry her to the bedroom. She’s purring in my ear like a hungry kitten. I lower her on the bed and just as I said, I rip her clothes off and throw them to the side. She’s not shy laying there either. She spreads her legs out slightly. She’s so seductive. She slides her hand over her belly, snaking it from her navel to her waxed mound. I’m spellbound and ready to rock her into Tuesday morning—but I stop.

  I quickly excuse myself and rush out to the living room. I duck down and search through my duffel bag. Condoms.

  Yes!

  I hurry back to her and she’s in the same spot. She rolls over and gets on her knees to face me at the side of the bed. She reaches out to grasp my waistband. I look on with excited amusement as she tugs my sweatpants and boxers down my leg, exposing my rock hard cock. Her eyes widen. I don’t judge why, all I know is she looks like she’s figuring out what she wants to do with it.

  I don’t give her the chance to do much thinking. I push her back on the bed and spread her legs wide. I kneel on the floor and pull her hips to the edge of the bed in front me. I hear her beg me to come inside her. I’m not ready for that. I lower my head to her belly. I need to taste her first. My arms push her
thighs wide open and she hisses.

  My tongue slowly trails down from her navel and comes to rest on her clit. She’s wet and so sweet. I lick and suck for a while as she fists my hair and pulls me closer. Her hips lift up to my tongue, and she tries to move her thighs out of my hold, but I’m too strong. I hear her squeal like she’s going to come. I’m ready. I rip the condom open, slip it on and slide her up in the bed. Her legs are still spread wide. Lowering myself on top of her, my throbbing cock presses into her tight center.

  “Oh God,” she groans, gripping my arms and rocking her hips up to mine. I find my rhythm, and move inside her channel, then out, staring down at her face. I duck my head and latch onto her breast and she shouts that she’s coming. This ride is for her, but her voice sends me wild. I release her breast and my hips thrust deep and hard. I let a groan rumble from my throat as I sink my shaft deeper into her soft flesh. My movements are wild, and in less than a minute, I feel her orgasm. Her channel tightens around my cock like a vice, and coupled with the force of my own movements, I feel my release approaching. I give a powerful thrust once, then twice, and on the third time, I explode so hard I could almost roar.

  I collapse in the spot beside her in bed and before I know it, we both fall asleep.

  ***

  It’s seven in the morning. I’m back on the couch. Before I fell into a deep sleep, I got out of her bed and returned to the living room to sleep. I’m glad I did—I can’t take any chances. I hear her in the bathroom. She’s singing. It sounds like something by Katy Perry or Bruno Mars. Who knows? It’s garbled, but she sounds happy.

  Everyone sounds great singing in the shower. I think my mom would sing to me, but I can’t remember much. I’m getting sentimental listening to her in there. I’m not in the mood for sentimental shit, but her singing is also confirmation she’s conscious and not passed out, so I let her be.

  She comes out, and I go in for a quick shower once she’s safely back in her bedroom. I need to keep my distance this morning. I’ve got things to do and am usually at my office before eight-thirty. That sexual energy between us was just the beginning, so it’s best if I don’t get too close right now.

  By the time I shower and put my shirt and slacks back on, she’s ready and waiting at the front door.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sloan.”

  I ignore the formality. It’s clear she’s a little uncomfortable. “Can I give you a ride to work?”

  “I think I’ll be fine walking. It’s just a twenty minute walk.”

  I don’t say a word. I just give her a look and she knows I’m not letting her walk to work on her own.

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “I’ll take the ride.”

  We’re heading out, and I tell her I just need to stop at my place for a fresh shirt and suit. Nodding, she gets into the passenger seat when I open it for her. She’s quiet as we drive. I don’t mind. My condo is on the way to her office. I park in the underground, inviting her upstairs to wait. Surprise, surprise. Rebecca agrees. I sense she’s being a quiet observer, making a note of my actions and behaviors, but whatever. Everyone has a job to do, I suppose.

  We get up to my condo floor, and there’s a man waiting right off the elevator. This is unusual. Something is wrong. This level of the condo is all mine. Only Mandy, Claire and my dad have access. I step in front of her and tell her to wait.

  “Are you lost?” I ask. “This is a private floor.”

  “No, sir, I’m not. The concierge let me up,” he answers. His tone is serious, professional. His body language screams he’s a cop. “Are you Jonathan Sloan?”

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Mr. Sloan, I’m Detective Robert Bateman with the New York Police Department. Are you available to answer some questions?”

  By now, Rebecca has poked her head out from behind me.

  “Rob? What are you doing here?” she asks before I can shake the man’s outstretched hand.

  Rebecca knows Rob.

  Why am I not surprised?

  “Wait. Becky? I could ask you the same thing.” He turns his attention back to me and says, “Sir, if this isn’t a good time, we can schedule an appointment for me to come back.”

  Rebecca whips into action and shows me why the top law firm in New York City has hired her. “That won’t be necessary, Detective Bateman.” She turns to me. “Jonathan, don’t say a word. I’ll handle this.”

  She asks the cop for a word in private, but does not lower her voice when they walk over to the corner. She stands her ground and tells him, “This is my client, Detective. Before any arrangements are made, I will need to advise my client on the nature and purpose of your visit.”

  He sees her formality and shakes his head. There’s clearly some history there.

  “It about our investigation into the murder of Doreen Rushton,” he answers.

  “Mr. Sloan will not be responding to any questions at this time,” Rebecca informs him. She reaches into her purse. “All inquiries can be arranged through the offices of Henry, Miles and Rothman. Here’s my card. Make an appointment. Have a good day, Detective Bateman.”

  He shakes his head again and turns to call for the elevator. I’m impressed with Rebecca’s performance. I could bend her over and make her come all over again. More importantly, I’m perturbed.

  How could anything they found on that dead girl possibly lead back to me?

  Chapter Twelve

  Jonathan

  My father has to know something about why this cop was at the condo this morning. In case this guy is just fishing, I don’t call Dad right away. I drop off Rebecca and head into work, just like any morning. I’m so fucking pissed off right now, I can’t even think. I’m already behind from going to Long Island yesterday, and now this.

  I get a phone call from my father. He wants me to meet him at a friend’s office over the lunch hour. I don’t have the time, but he says it’s important to the future of Sloan Sports and Entertainment. I tell him I’ll come—I also need some answers from the man—and ask my assistant to rework my schedule for the day. I need to keep busy this morning.

  My dad picks me up in his limo just before noon.

  “What’s this about, Dad?”

  “I want you in the loop in this deal. I think I should have kept you at Sloan instead of letting Fairchild hire you. I need more people I can trust.”

  “Who are we meeting? Jeff Silva?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  “Just sit in with me for this meeting. I’ll fill you in on the rest tonight.”

  “Dad, we need to talk about the octagon,” I say. I won’t dare mention the girls when we’re out in his limo or in the open like this.

  “We will, just not now. There’s no time.”

  It’s less than a fifteen minute drive before we stop at his friend’s office building. We take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. The doors open onto an open concept floor decorated with expensive antique furniture. The receptionist greets us, immediately asking us to follow her down a long hallway and into a large, glass conference room.

  Jeff Silva is in the room, speaking on his phone until we walk in. He ends the call and stands to welcome us.

  “Solomon, Jonathan, how have you been?” He comes around to give Dad a bear hug, and then turns to shake my hand. “What’s it been, Jonathan? Three years since I saw you last?”

  “Probably five, Mr. Silva.”

  “Time sure flies. Well, it’s great to see you…and cut it out with that ‘Mister’ bullshit. You’re a man now. Call me Jeff.”

  “Thanks Jeff.”

  “Have a seat and let’s get into it, Solomon.”

  I still have no idea why I’m at this meeting, so I hang back and let them have their discussion.

  “How can I help you, Jeff?” My dad asks when we’re all seated.

  Jeff laughs. “Did you get amnesia?”

  “I didn’t. Why did you ask me here? Y
ou said it was important, so here I am.”

  “Yes, you’re here, but guess what’s not?”

  “Jeff, we already talked about this last week. I told you I’m…”

  “Yes, you’re working on it,” Jeff finishes Dad’s sentence. “While you’re working on it, do you know what that means?”

  “I’m not stupid, Jeff.” My father is clearly agitated, but looks like he’s doing his best not to blow up at Jeff.

  “Let me tell you anyway.”

  “Jeff…”

  “It means my five hundred and seventeen million dollars are sitting in Sloan escrow accounts, making zero interest while you wait for this Warrior Revolution deal to happen.”

  “We’re getting closer, Jeff.”

  “Yeah, well closer isn’t enough. This was supposed to be a seven business day favor, Solomon. We’re at forty-one days. Do you know what kind of return I could have had on my money in that time?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

  “Tell me when that money is coming back to me instead of spinning me all this bullshit. Better yet, don’t tell me. Just get the funds. I don’t care where. Talk to Mandy if you have to.”

  “I can’t do that right now.”

  “That’s not my problem. Get that deal signed with Warrior, then go to your usual bankers to wrap it up.”

  “That’s what I’m working on. You know these deals take time.”

  “Not as much time as it took for you to lose five hundred million of your own cash, it didn’t.”

  “Quit acting like such a self-righteous prick,” my dad says. He’s steaming now.

  “I will, when you drop the smug bastard routine.”

  “I’ll have this problem solved shortly. You’ll have your money back, and interest, just like we discussed. Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “As soon as Warrior signs.”

  “You know, it’s not my business where you get that money, but maybe you should be thinking of holding off on Warrior and resolving the real issue.”