The Bridgewater Case

by R. C. Martin

  When it’s time to return to the office, Ava and I bundle up and hurry back. Upon reaching our floor, we say our goodbyes and go our separate ways, each of us anxious to get back to work. The first thing I notice as I slip out of my coat and scarf is that Dane is still gone. Then, as I sit down to check any missed calls and messages from the last hour, I spot an envelope resting against my keyboard.

  It strikes me as odd, given that the only thing written on the front is Sally. Flipping the envelope over, I find it’s not even sealed shut. I don’t recognize the handwriting, and my curiosity has me yanking the note out without thinking anything of it. When I unfold the paper, I gasp before I can even make out what it says. I know right away that I’m holding another threat.

  Goosebumps break out across my skin as I look all around me, trying to spot anyone who might be lurking. I see nothing out of the ordinary, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Somehow, whoever this is, they were able to get to my desk without anyone even noticing them. My heart pounds in my chest, remembering the night I was grabbed, and I start to panic.

  What if I had been here when they delivered this letter?

  What if they come back?

  What if Dane’s not here?

  I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, willing myself to calm down. It takes me a moment, but when I’ve gathered myself enough, I look back at the letter. It’s like one of those old magazine cut-out messages—each word made up of various fonts found in a periodical of some kind. Even merely looking at it creeps me out, but I manage to read what it says.

  CALL THE COPS AND YOU WON’T LIKE THE CONSEQUENCES. IF YOU THINK YOUR BOSS CAN HIDE YOU, THINK AGAIN, SWEETHEART. DROP THE CASE, AND NO ONE GETS HURT.

  Blinking away my tears, I shove the letter in its envelope and stow it in the bottom drawer of my desk. My hands are shaking, and I know if I don’t get control of my fear, I’ll draw attention to myself. Pulling in deep breaths through my nose, I exhale through my mouth, trying to decide what I should do.

  I know I have Officer Cowell’s number in my purse, but I’m afraid to call him. The letter said if I called the cops, I wouldn’t like the consequences. I have no idea what that means, but I’m certain I don’t want to know, either. I’m also certain that if I tell Dane about the letter, he won’t hesitate to take it to the cops.

  Burying my fingers in my hair, I realize I no longer feel safe here. It’s obvious they know I’m hiding out and I haven’t stayed at my place in over a month. If they’ve been paying attention—which they clearly have, given that they know we got the police involved—then they know Dane is the one hiding me. While I’m aware this building is secure, and there are security measures that insure the firm is locked down after business hours, there’s no telling what these people have access to, or if they somehow managed to steal a key while no one was watching. There’s no telling how long they were up here, or how they managed to slip by the reception desk.

  Thinking back over the last three threats I’ve been victim to, my mind is flooded with too many questions to count. It doesn’t make sense that I don’t know these people or the person behind this. At the very least, I’d have to know the someone feeding them information. They knew my car, my home address, and my desk. This couldn’t have been their first time here. Yet, every time I remember the man who grabbed me, I can’t say that his voice was familiar. Then again, I was scared—much like I am now.

  Feeling nervous and paranoid, I do another scan of my surroundings, making sure nobody is watching me. Again, I see no one, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. I want Dane to be back. I can’t tell him about the letter. I know him. I know he’d want to do the right thing, the just thing. I have to keep this a secret. I don’t want to put him in any danger. Still, it would make me feel safe knowing he’s close.

  Glancing at the clock, I note that it’s almost two o’clock. I log into my computer and quickly check his schedule, breathing deeply when I see that he should be back any moment now. He’s expecting a call in twenty minutes. While I wait for his arrival, I try and relax. I don’t want him to know how anxious and scared I am. I don’t want him to be suspicious. I’ll figure out what I plan on doing about the letter on my own. The trial for the case is in two months, which means I have time. Surely I have time to figure this out without anyone getting hurt.

  I SEE RIGHT through Sigourney’s forced smile when I return to the office, but I don’t have time to ask her about it before my scheduled conference call. I’m on the phone for nearly an hour, and as soon as I hang up, I ring her desk and instruct her to come into my office. My eyes are pinned on her as I watch her take a deep breath and stand from her chair. As soon as she steps foot into the room, I get up and make my way around to the front of my desk. Leaning against it, I grab hold of the edge with both hands and wait for her to stop a few feet away from me. It’s not nearly as close as I would like, but I respect her sense of decorum and don’t question it.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “How do you know that something is—”

  “Babe, I don’t have time for silly questions. What’s the matter?”

  Her shoulders rise and fall with another deep breath before she blurts, “Can we stay at your place for a while? I mean—not upstairs, but your place? It might be presumptuous of me to ask, but I hope it’s not.”

  I furrow my brow as I study her, curious as to where this is coming from. Oddly enough, over the weekend, I was thinking about how she’s never been to my home. The thought had crossed my mind repeatedly. I can’t say for sure where she’s at, but if living together is going to become a permanent thing, the penthouse is not where I intend for us to make a home. I haven’t minded staying here, as there’s plenty of space for us to cohabitate, but I have a house—a house my cleaning crew has seen more of in the last month than I have.

  Nevertheless, I haven’t yet shared these thoughts with Sigourney. Her suggestion is unexpected, and I’m not sure from where it comes. “Why the change?” I ask with a slight shrug.

  “There’s…talk. We’re not a secret anymore. And—I don’t know—I just thought maybe instead of giving people something more to talk about, we could relocate. Anyway, I’ve been going over it in my head all afternoon, and you have a home. I have a tiny apartment I lived in for a month. Staying here all the time? It’s not a big deal to me. In fact, it’s an upgrade. But you—you never go home anymore, and that’s my fault.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault, Sigourney. I’m choosing to be with you.”

  “I know, I didn’t mean it like that,” she insists, pressing her hands against her stomach as she takes a step closer to me. “I just mean—can we stay at your place? Please?”

  I’m still not certain what to make of the hope I see in her eyes, but I don’t put too much thought into it. If she wants to sleep at my house from now on, I won’t object. Offering her a nod, I say, “Sure.”

  “Tonight?” she asks, a relieved smile playing at her lips.

  “Yeah, babe—tonight. I won’t be done here any earlier than six. If you want to head up and pack a few things when you’re finished this afternoon, tonight will be fine.”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, taking another step toward me.

  She’s now standing close enough that I could reach out and pull her into the space between my legs, but I don’t. As much as I want to, I refrain. I’m beyond the point where I give a shit what a passerby may think, but I do care what my woman thinks and how she feels. Whatever gossip is circulating about the two of us—no doubt a result of Meghan’s loose lips—it’s made Sigourney feel some type of way. I can sense this place no longer makes her feel comfortable, and it is not my intention to add fuel to that fire.

  So, rather than accept her gratitude with the affection I find myself growing quite accustomed to, I simply reply, “You’re welcome.”

  “Okay, well, I know you have work to do—and now I have even more appreciation to dole out to you later so…” Her sentence trails
off as she begins to back away from me, a mischievous glint in her eye making me suddenly impatient for the workday to be at its end. “Go on,” she teases, waggling her fingers at me. “Get back to work.”

  I don’t move, my gaze trained on my woman until she returns to her seat at her desk. I suspect there’s more going on in that head of hers than what she’s telling me. The good mood she was in this morning, after being informed about the Bridgewater trial, has dimmed considerably. Nevertheless, I won’t pry. I trust she’ll tell me more when she’s ready—perhaps tonight.

  I put it all out of my mind as I push myself away from my desk and walk to my chair. Shortly thereafter, I get lost in my work. The rest of my afternoon is spent going over contracts, answering emails, returning phone calls, and meeting with my associates. I barely notice when Sigourney shuts off her computer and makes her way up to the penthouse to pack her things. It isn’t until I’m sufficiently finished for the evening that I even stop to look at the time. When I see it’s half past six, I call and order dinner to be delivered to the house. With enough suits in my closet at home, I only plan on tossing a few necessary toiletries in a bag to take with me for the evening. The rest I’ll worry about over the weekend.

  I find Sigourney on the couch when I step off the elevator. She’s in a sweater, a pair of jeans, and her new, suede, fur-lined boots—one of her practice exam books in her lap. I tell her I’ll only be a moment and then we’ll be on our way. She offers me a nod before returning her attention to her task. She doesn’t need the book, but I don’t tell her as much. It doesn’t matter how over-prepared I think she is; what she needs is to feel confident walking into that room, so I keep my mouth shut and gather my things.

  I make quick work of packing a few necessities, and then Sigourney follows behind me as I carry her bags to the garage. The traffic is light on our drive across town, and we make it in less than twenty minutes. It isn’t until I pull up the short driveway of my townhome that I realize how much I actually missed this place. When I park in the garage and kill the engine, it occurs to me that I’m not sure I wanted to come back alone. It feels right, having Sigourney with me. Hopefully, after taking a look around, she feels the same.

  I LEAN FORWARD in my seat as Dane pulls into the driveway of his townhome. It’s dark, but with the help of the streetlamps and his porch light, the first thing I notice is how modern it looks. It’s very boxy and linear, but it’s also wonderfully three-dimensional, and it reminds me of him.

  “Dinner should be here any minute,” he tells me as the garage door closes behind us. “I’ll come back for your bags. Would you like a quick tour?”

  I nod enthusiastically. While I’ve been looking forward to getting away from the office since I received that threatening letter, the excitement I feel now that I’m here is of a different sort. This is Dane’s home. It’s a piece of him I’ve yet to see, and I’m anxious for him to share it with me.

  When we both get out of his Benz and head toward the door, leading into the house, he takes my hand. I lace my fingers with his and allow him to escort me inside. As soon as we enter, I notice we’re in his laundry room, and there’s a short flight of stairs directly to my left.

  “I’ll get you some house shoes, babe—the floor in here gets cold as fuck. Fortunately, you really don’t need to come down here unless you’re heading out or washing a load. Obviously, the garage is only big enough for one vehicle. We’ll figure out how we want to get to and from work, but I can park on the street. No big deal.”

  I try and pay attention to what he’s saying while simultaneously attempting to remember the layout of his place. The stairs we climb lead us to a second entryway, where guests can come inside through his front door. We then make our way up another short flight to his main level. I’m about to tell him I can park on the street just as easily, but I lose my words when we reach the landing and he flips on the light. His home is shaped like a rectangle, the floorplan entirely open, and it’s amazing.

  To my right is his dining room table, which is set up in front of a huge, almost floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the street. Directly in front of me is his kitchen. It’s gorgeous. Tucked into the far corner, sitting right beside the same set of windows that stretch along the wall in the dining room, is a cute, little breakfast nook. The bench seat behind the small table has a dark blue cushion, and the bench itself is built into the cabinetry that spans the length of the kitchen. On the other side of the tiny nook is the refrigerator, and beside that are his double ovens and microwave. The counter space that extends underneath the cabinets is incredible, and the black granite counter tops are beautiful and seemingly untouched.

  The island is almost the same length as the kitchen itself. It’s where his flat top stove and kitchen sink are located, along with even more counter space. On the end, closest to the living room, there are three bar stools tucked underneath a built in opening to allow for more casual dining. Just looking at the room makes me want to make something.

  “Kitchen, dining room, living area, and there’s a bathroom through that door there,” says Dane, pointing in the appropriate places.

  I only manage to spare a glance in his living room as he leads me to another flight of stairs, but it’s enough to spot his textured gray, sectional couch, his collection of books displayed in his shelving unit on either side of his mounted big-screen television, and the stone-faced fireplace beneath it. There’s also a massive window on the back wall that seems to offer him a view of some kind.

  “In here is my home office,” he says, stopping in the doorway of the first room to my left. He switches on the light, revealing a modest set up. It might surprise me how sparse it is if I didn’t know how much he preferred to get the majority of his work handled at his actual office.

  Tugging me further down the narrow hallway, he tells me, “There’s a spare bedroom there, but I’ve not done anything with it. And through here…” His voice trails off as he opens the double doors at the end of the hallway, revealing his master bedroom. “This is where we’ll be sleeping.”

  Directly in the center of the wall in front of us is his bed. Much like the bed at the penthouse, it sits on a platform with an upholstered headboard, only it’s higher off the ground. Also, to my surprise, it’s not black; instead, the rich, chocolate brown leather brings a warmth to his color palate that I appreciate. The down comforter folded across the lower half of the bed is a dark, blueish-gray color, and I can tell his sheets appear to be a lighter gray. He’s got six—six pillows to finish his bed dressing. The brown, navy, and cream colored shams giving the room an impressive, masculine, homey feel.

  On either side of the bed are large nightstands with lamps sitting in the middle. I spot an entire sitting room to my left, but I don’t get a chance to look at it as Dane takes me right. I stop abruptly when I get a look at the wall. Unlike the other walls in the room, painted a pale gray color, this one is made of glass. When I peer through it, I swear I can see his bathroom.

  “Is that—?”

  “The back wall of my shower?” he asks with a smirk. “Yes.”

  “So, when I wake up and you’re in the shower…?”

  He winks at me, and I smile, both amused and intrigued by this design. When he points out his walk-in closet before we cross the threshold of his bathroom, I hardly think about how it’s notably bigger than the one at the penthouse. My mind is still trying to imagine what it might be like to wake up with the view of Dane in the shower.

  The doorbell rings, distracting me from my thoughts, and Dane presses a kiss against my forehead before he lets me go in order to answer it. My hungry belly doesn’t let me linger upstairs for long, even though I want to. When I slowly trail after him, curious as to what he ordered for us tonight, I remind myself that I’ll have plenty of time to become acquainted with the finer details of his home later.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Dane ascending from the entryway, a box of Capitol Pizza in his hand. It’s
been months since we last had it, but I still remember that night—the two of us in the office going over subpoenaed files for the Bridgewater case. It was the first time he kissed me. I never imagined that night would one day lead us here, but here is where we are.

  “If we’re lucky, I might still have some beer in the fridge,” he says, smacking my ass on his way to the kitchen.

  I grin, following after him, now more certain than ever that I’m falling in love with this man—this gentleman in a three-piece suit who feeds me pizza and beer; this esquire who smacks my ass but kisses my forehead; this man who makes me feel safe. While I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do about that letter now hidden away in my desk, I know, with complete certainty, I’ll do what I must to make sure nobody ever hurts him. He means far too much to me.

  SOMETHING’S WRONG. She won’t tell me what it is, but I can sense it—even now, as she takes me inside of her, her palms flat against my chest while she rides me, I feel it. She’s been clingy tonight. The issue isn’t that I mind, it’s that I notice.

  “Dane,” she moans, tilting her head back as she rides me harder.

  She’s beautiful, and I don’t take my eyes off of her as she becomes consumed by her desperation. I graze my hands along her thighs and up her sides, gripping her waist as I watch her tits bounce with her movements. She feels amazing, her hot, tight pussy soaking my dick in her arousal—but I can tell she’s somehow reaching for something she can’t quite grasp.

  “What do you need, baby?” I grunt, palming one of her breasts.

  She whimpers when I roll her hard nipple between my thumb and forefinger, but she only responds by grinding down on me with more force.

  “Sigourney, babe—what do you need?”

  “You,” she cries, her green eyes frantic when they clash with mine. “Dane—baby, I just need you.”