by Coulton, JC
I want to say more, but just talking about Erica brings up memories I don’t want to relive. I see a look in Carrie’s eyes, like she’s uncomfortable. So I change the subject instead.
“So how come you didn’t become a track star, Carrie?”
I remember wondering about that when I first recognized her at the station. The last time I’d seen her run was when she was kicking ass at the competition for nationals all those years ago. It was a beautiful thing watching her. So fluid and powerful, her lean body streaked down the track with rhythmic strides. She had her curves back then too. She was sexy. And she’s sexy and sitting here with me right now. Fuck.
Carrie doesn’t answer right away.
“By final year there was so much to think about, college applications for starters. I decided to not go ahead with competing because I didn’t have time.”
“Time?” I splutter, putting down my coffee cup. “You were amazing! It was your passion, I saw it in your eyes; and it oozed from your pores. How could you not make the time?”
I’m certain I’ve gone too far the second it comes out.
“You don’t understand Blake. You weren’t even there.”
Her hurt is apparent in her tone. I need to tread carefully.
“You’re right, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I just thought the next time I’d see you it’d be on the sports channel. Winning medals, or joining the Olympic team or something.”
This calms her a little, and I take it she doesn’t want to fight either. There are so many sore spots between us; so much that’s unsaid and off limits; it can’t all be resolved at once. It doesn’t help that there are too many other things to worry about first—like finding April.
I’m trying to make nice, so I keep at the conversation.
“So what about college, then? How did you decide to do media studies?”
Her face brightens and I’m relieved it’s something she wants to share.
“I just fell into it during one of my social justice lectures in first year. Print and Television media are a dying trade, but something about uncovering the lies and making people see the real truth appealed to me.”
She grins and shakes her head. “I’m idealistic, I know. It was incredibly hard to get a placement. It really is an at-risk industry, the way the web has taken over. People watch and read what they want on demand these days, and it’s really hard to be the authority anymore.
“The changes are affecting everyone in all types of media. I feel like it’s especially bad in Iowa. It’s like they know they need to catch up with the rest of the country, but they’re still a little unwilling to acknowledge the changes, to make moves towards creating content rather than sharing news. My boss especially.”
I love hearing her talk about this stuff. I’m about to reach out and touch her arm to tell her.
“So for now, I’m a researcher,” she finishes up looking slightly embarrassed that she’s not more highly regarded.
“Hey, you’re not just anything,” I say, smiling to give her encouragement. She cares about being successful, but the low self-esteem thing doesn’t suit her. “It won’t be long before you score yourself a column or a top blog or something. Maybe you can start your own thing in the meantime? That’s what I’m seeing people do. They get hungry, they build their success rather than waiting for a promotion.”
She looks at me with doubt at first. She’s churning around the merit of what I say. I hate doing it, but I’m testing her right now. Something in me tells me to keep pushing. I need to find out exactly how motivated she is to succeed. I can’t risk having anyone this close to the investigation, if their sole motivation is to move up the career ladder. It’s a risk for the Department, and for me; and I have no chances left on the force, so it’s a no go.
She looks a little bashful, and then I see a twinkle in her eyes. For a second, she opens up.
“I would like to go further, I’ve recorded myself and practiced a bit, but I need something big to get started. I’d need advertising revenue to take a shot at going independent. It’s not as easy as it looks, becoming an internet sensation.”
I laugh, but the muscles in my shoulders tighten up a little. Yes, I’ve decided to trust this woman but I need to be aware of the risks. She’s motivated enough to advance in her career, and I’m still not sure about her feelings for me. Would she be loyal if it came down to it, or would she sell me out? This would be a pretty good story to launch a career. Especially if it doesn’t go well for April.
She seems unaware of me, as she’s still a little lost in the fantasy of becoming a media personality. Everyone needs their fifteen minutes somewhere, I guess. I don’t want to hold it against her, but it does leave a bad taste in my mouth. Not her desire—everyone wants to be recognized for something and to achieve something—that’s not it. But if she does it, she’ll become public property. People will think they own her. It’s like that. I’ve seen it.
There are a couple of actors in the AA meetings I go to. They hate the lack of anonymity. They complain about always having to be ready for the public eye; to brace for criticism; to perform. They hate having to greet the world on cue like a trained monkey. And they despise having their opinions packaged up nicely.
I’m probably overreacting. It’s nothing like that for journalists or bloggers. But I get the feeling something is still there. I have the urge to protect her, and an unrelenting feeling she doesn’t know the power she’s dealing with. She has yet to promise she won’t break a story about it. I haven’t asked her, but she hasn’t offered it either.
We’re getting more comfortable sitting here, and I think again how much I like being with her. This woman could actually be my soulmate; or my greatest downfall. I wonder if she feels it too—the connection. I take a moment to look into her eyes, probing, silently asking her if she’ll be there for me.
The mood in the coffee shop doesn’t change; the music doesn’t change. It’s the energy between us that has intensified. There’s something that needs to be said, and I think she’s about to bring it up. I see her lips part once, and then twice as she gathers the courage.
“Blake what happened between us, we don’t have to talk about it, but I want you to know that you don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” I say.
“That we’re somewhat…involved.”
She seems to shrink back down into the chair. My clothes really do dwarf her and I can’t help feeling a rush of desire. I smile.
“Hey, it’s okay, I’ve already told the Lieutenant that we know each other from years ago. She says I’m still the perfect one to work with you.”
She looks like she has something she can’t get off her chest, so I have to ask.
“Is there another reason not to talk Carrie? Is there someone else in your life?”
“No, no, there’s not, I don’t even really date back home. I’m just trying to think about the chain of evidence and how you might have to testify one day and how it looks…”
She breaks off, and I feel it in my gut—that after all of this opening up, there’s still something she’s not telling me. In that moment all my resolutions of trust and kindness go out the window. It only takes a second for my switch. I’m in the red zone.
“This is bullshit. I’m telling you everything like an open book, and you’re still shutting me out, Carrie. You’re not telling me something.”
My voice is too loud in the empty coffee shop; loud enough that it surprises me. Right now Blake the detective is speaking. Now I’m the detective who won’t hesitate to intimidate when necessary; the one who can recognize and call out a liar when he sees one. And I see one. She’s cowering now. My aggression scares her, but I don’t fucking care.
“Tell me the truth!”
Tears start trickling down her face. I take her lack of protest as an admission of guilt. I stare at her while she stares at me. The silence stretches out in the dim light of the café.
Chapter Nine
Carrie
I can’t believe what just happened. First he gives me the hottest ride of my life on his sofa. Now he yells at me and then storms out. He actually shouted. I’m shaking. My clit is still throbbing, but now the adrenaline is pumping. I wish I didn’t have this much coffee, but I pick up my cup and finish it anyway.
Blake Anderson has anger issues. I don’t deserve this shit. I try and breathe. I need to think, but my brain isn’t kicking into gear. I need some food.
I’m alone in the café now and there’s still some cash he’s left on the table. I order a donut from the cashier. She raises her eyebrows—probably from all the shouting from Blake—but at least she has enough tact to not say a word to me. I need sugar and time.
I sit back down, and the leather chair protests as I get comfortable. I’m staring at the wall. The donut is nice. Fried cake is beautiful. It’s what I need right now. Or a burger. What am I going to do? He obviously thinks I’m still hiding something, but I’ve told him everything. Except about the story I wrote today. He probably doesn’t know I called those numbers again either, but he’s told me that they’re Jessup’s already. So really, I’m hiding nothing.
I’ve done nothing wrong, except write an angry story and email it to myself. His outburst was way out of proportion. Is he upset about something more? Hell, I don’t know, but he certainly has trust issues, and he needs to get into an anger management class—stat. I’ve not seen a guy redline that quickly for years. It’s scary. I’m trying to blow it off, but I was scared. He scared me.
If I just delete the story, will he be happy? If I tell him I love him and that I always have, will he be happy? If I go back up there and take him to bed again, will that work? I just don’t know what to do. He thinks I’m a liar. No matter what I do, he’s not going to believe me, and I’m at the mercy of his anger. I’m trapped in his house, with no way to connect to the outside world, and forced to trust him.
This does not sit right. Everything I learned about self-care tells me this is wrong. This man is violating every boundary I have. He takes me, pleasures me, shouts at me, storms off like a child, refuses to trust me, and then turns those eyes on me and I’m powerless again. Blake Anderson is trouble. I’m in trouble even being close to him. I can’t think around him. I need to get out of here. I need to get some space. I have to have my head on straight if I’m going to do anything for April—or at least stay sane.
I feel it’s time to face some truths. If those assholes wanted to take me down when they took April—they would have. I don’t honestly believe I’m in danger. They’ll know I won’t make a reliable witness anyway. I had so much alcohol in me. We weren’t blind drunk, but no jury is going to trust a witness that downed more than ten shots of tequila before claiming she could identify a bunch of guys in the dark.
The cops must know that. Blake is fucking with me. Emotionally and mentally. I have less reason to trust him than he does to trust me. Is this some kind of reverse psychology they teach them in the academy, or is he actually just screwed up?
Whatever the truth is, there’s one thing that’s abundantly clear to me now. I need to get out of here. I’ll go back to the hotel. They have my driver’s license number and picture on file, so I’ll be able to get at my clean clothes and money. Most of all I’ll be able to think. My laptop is there if I want to write. There’s security.
The hotel is probably safer than this building is now. In fact, I’m sitting alone in the café, on the ground floor, with no Blake around. If someone was coming for me, this would be the perfect place. That’s it, I’ve had enough. I motion to the girl behind the counter for the bill, and decide to let her keep the change. I take the last bite of my donut, wipe my fingers on a napkin, and make my way down the hallway.
I take big breaths as I wait for the elevator. I need to be mature and clear. I cannot let him convince me to stay. By now, I’m sure he’s calmed down and will be all ‘I’m so sorry for yelling.’ It’s not good enough. My clit may be betraying me but I’ve made up my mind. Sorry is not enough right now. It’s not okay to go all ‘bad cop’ on me without warning. I can’t handle any more surprises today.
The button pings and lets me out on Blake and Brenda’s floor. I get to the door and knock gently. He opens it up almost instantaneously. He must have been waiting inside for me. I wonder how much longer I would have had to stay down there before he came down to get me. This man is a control freak with anger and trust issues. But he’s so hot! I can’t help but notice his tight ass in those pants as I follow him into the room.
He turns to look at me. As expected, there’s regret on his face. I expect some groveling—either that or some serious professing of his love or something. The first words out of his mouth aren’t sorry. Instead, he asks if I’m hungry.
“No,” I tell him, and move away from him, towards one of the bar stools. I need to put some distance between us to deliver the news. “Blake, I want you to take me back to the hotel. Now.”
I’m firm. I’m not letting the seriousness of my demand leave me face.
“No, Carrie. That’s not a good idea. You’re in danger. You know those guys will be looking to tie up loose ends. You can’t be alone.”
I stand my ground. “I’m alone for most of the day anyway, you leave me here, and you come home and take your shit out on me. I want my life back. I want my shampoo. I want to wear my own clothes and I want to start pulling myself back together. Tell your boss whatever you want. Tell her to send an officer to my door. I don’t care anymore, Blake. I’m not staying here another minute!”
Now I’m the one yelling and I can tell that it’s working when his shoulders drop.
“You’re right. I’m sorry I lost it, there’s a lot riding on this case. I could lose my job. You know why I don’t trust the press.”
I shake my head at him. “Not good enough, Blake. Take me back now.”
I stand up, cross my arms over my chest and widen my stance. I’m still a couple of feet smaller than him, but it doesn’t matter. I feel strong. I need to get out of here before I’m pulled back into him. As I look up at him, a wall of guilt hits me hard. I start to wonder if he’s really at risk of losing his job over this. I want to be the person who doesn’t give a damn, but I can’t help it. Instead of anger in his eyes, I see fear. It’s not about the job. He’s actually worried about me.
“Carrie, they could really hurt you. They can kill you for what you’ve seen.” He looks into my eyes like he’s searching for an answer that I’m not willing to give him. “Can’t we just talk about this? I don’t want you to get hurt. I—”
He goes to say something but swallows and says nothing instead. My heart softens a little. He does care about me. My arms are still crossed across my breasts, but I don’t tense up when he moves in closer.
I look up at his face. “Blake, I’ll be fine. I just need some space. You don’t trust me; I don’t know what to think. I’ve lost my head. You need to give me some space.” My words are gentle now; he can see I’m not going to change my mind.
He takes another step forward and I uncross my arms. He’s staring at my lips. The spark between us is undeniable. My body betrays me. My nipples harden and my core lights up like a firecracker at the intensity of his gaze. He’s like a drug. He’s like the best cake in the world. I can’t resist these feelings.
He gets within a few inches of me, and I can’t say no. I understand right now what it must be like to be an alcoholic. I’m completely powerless. All I can do is look at his face and his skin and the hair that’s curling up from the neck of his shirt. He smells divine. And as I watch his Adam’s apple, I want to reach out and stroke his neck.
He cups my cheek with one hand. Those eyes lock on mine. His thumb strokes my cheek bone, running delicious trails up and down towards my hair line. Now I want his hands on me. I let out an involuntary moan, and with that, he pulls me into his chest.
I close my eyes and breathe him in. It’s j
ust a hug, but the heat in my stomach makes me dripping wet with need. I can’t let this feeling change my mind, but surely there’s nothing wrong with a hug. I settle into his arms, turning my cheek so it lays flat on his chest. I feel his breath on the top of my head and he nestles me under his chin.
“While I have you here with me - you’re safe.”
I say nothing but wrap my arms around to his back. He’s telling me with his body that he’s sorry for yelling before, and he really doesn’t want me to go. It changes nothing. I need to look after myself. Once I’m back at the hotel, I’ll have a chance to relax. This has been the most overwhelming week of my life.
He presses a little closer and I feel his hips settle against my stomach. He’s hard already. I instinctively press myself up against him with a wiggle. I arch back my neck and look up at him. There’s a grin on his face as we both acknowledge the intensity.
He shakes his head. “Carrie James. What am I going to do with you?”
Chapter Ten
Carrie
There’s a look in his eye. He wants to strip these clothes off me—and God, I want them off too—but I don’t let him. This is just a hug. He has other ideas though.
I haven’t noticed him moving me backward, and all of a sudden he has me pressed against the wall. He’s pinned me there—not hard, but hard enough that I’m trapped between his body and wall, with no place to go.
I would be scared if I didn’t want him so much. He’s so tall compared to me. That chest is so firm, pressing against me. I can feel his powerful back muscles under my hands. And his aftershave cocoons me into waves of desire. God I want him.
I close my eyes and revel in the growing hardness of his cock against me. His hips are gently starting to rotate and when his knee nudges between my thighs, I let it. I gasp as his knee rubs my clit firmly. I’m so wet. I have no control over what happens next. Like hell, this is not just a hug. Maybe I should just stay?
