This Love Hurts, Book 1

by W Winters

  “Hard day,” she says and her excuse comes with an air of ease and flirtation before I can suggest a damn thing. Her smile doesn’t falter and the blush in her skin is hot against her sable skin. With the flowing lines of her slim-fitting, cream button-down tucked into her dark blue jeans, no one would deny that she’s beautiful.

  How someone so soft, so elegant and sweet came into this profession, I’ll never know. It’s like Marcus sent her to me. The thought makes me close my eyes, lowering and tilting my head in search for the waitress.

  Whiskey will be my lover tonight.

  “It’s been a week since I’ve seen you.” There’s an accusation hidden in her tone which is harder now, lacking the flirtation she greeted me with.

  “Just busy, promise I’m not cheating on you.” The words fly from my mouth without conscious consent as I glance up at her and those wide eyes blink rapidly, her thick lashes fluttering as if surprised, as if maybe she made up what I’ve just said in her mind.

  I’m such a prick for leading her on. But damn do I love to be wanted by her. To be so obviously desired, it makes me feel in ways I’ve never felt before.

  Thankfully Sandy interrupts the moment and I order my go-to Jack and Coke, although I don’t actually have to say the words. I simply nod when she asks, “The usual?”

  “So,” I say and my gaze is drawn to Delilah’s slender fingers slipping around the base of her wineglass. The pale wine is fragrant, drifting to me and mixing with the sweet smell of whatever lotion she must use. “A case hit my desk today,” she starts and my hackles rise, prepared for whatever case it is to be the ghost that Marcus referred to. “The evidence is unreal, and I’m bored as hell. He’s an idiot for not taking the plea.”

  Delilah’s discontent with not being challenged with work always brings a light to my eyes, a fire deep inside of me that blazes hot to tease her, to provoke her in ways I doubt any man has before.

  “Is that the case with … what’s his name?”

  “Tanner. Yes. It’s too easy to be fun.” She throws back the last bit of her glass and before I can stop her, the waitress stealing my attention for just a moment with the glass hitting the high-top table, she’s reaching for the thick red jacket dangling from the back of her chair.

  “I’ve already had enough so I’m going to—”

  My hand acts of its own accord, my fingers gripping around her slender wrist. My skin brushing against hers is hot to the touch, singeing and I’m quick to take it back, but Delilah stands there, still and caught in the shadow of what happened for only a split second.

  My heart hammers, my pulse quickening although I don’t show it like she does. I can hide my desire so easily. I’m a bastard for even thinking about getting lost with her tonight.

  I’ve seen this vulnerable woman standing only inches from me hide everything in the courtroom. I’ve seen her strong and vibrant but in front of me now, in a room full of people, the lights dimmed but the intention illuminated, she waits for me. She questions everything and I can so clearly see it.

  “Right,” I say, my own needs protesting against the ease with which I sit back and the calmness in my tone. “Good luck with the trial, don’t fall asleep in there.” I leave her with a joke that doesn’t bring an ounce of humor to her eyes. Even though my gaze lands on the amber liquid as I bring the heavy glass up to my lips for a swig, the corners of her plump lips dropping are clearly seen in my periphery.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me. For years I’ve sat with temptation, joked with her and confided in her. The heat between us and the sexual tension is constant, but acting on it with all we’ve been through together would be wrong on so many levels.

  “When are you going to take me home, Cody?” she says as her small hands land on the table. She leans forward, bringing a drift of her perfume and with a single glance, a peek down her blouse, exposing the smooth curves of her chest. The gold necklace she’s wearing dangles between her cleavage, swaying until I lift my gaze, staring back at hers that’s drowning in need and query.

  I part my lips to answer her but she stands up straight, never breaking my gaze as she pulls her red wool coat around her shoulders and slips her black purse gracefully over her shoulder until it lands at her hip. She doesn’t back down. She’s never been so blatant, never been so clear as to what she wants.

  “You want me to take you home?” I question her feigned innocence, but take another drink after. Alcohol and bad decisions taint the air between us.

  “I had a really horrible week and I want someone to take me home,” she admits to me, teasingly even, taking her eyes from mine only to pretend to glance around the room for a suitable fuck.

  Anger simmers with jealousy, but my own need and greed are far more prevalent.

  “We’ve been friends for a while, Agent Walsh. Is that all we are? Just friends?”

  The way her strength leaves her, the rawness and slight suffering that are evident in her pinched brow and tightened cords in her neck as she swallows, beg me to tell her the truth.

  That I’ve wanted her from the first time I saw her.

  Marcus

  It’s colder in the evening, bitter cold. Of all the places we’ve been, I love this one the most. Lincoln Park is only miles away and I still remember the first time I saw her there. Going over the details of the crime, searching for answers everyone else couldn’t find. She doesn’t know how close she got and if it’s up to me she never will. She doesn’t need to be involved.

  Cody Walsh though… I think if only she pushed, she’d be able to pull out every dark secret the man has. Just like tonight.

  The wind brushes against my neck, leaving a pricking sensation that I tell myself has nothing to do with the way she provocatively leaned into him back at the bar. My gaze moves from the reflection of the moon against the windowpane to the soft curve of her back as she arches. His lips barely leave her skin… not even to breathe.

  That’s the way I’d do it too.

  Cars drive by and I don’t bother to look at them. I know they can’t see me here, motionless and bathed in the shadows from Delilah’s apartment building. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me; maybe she thinks she does, but she doesn’t. I know plenty about her, though.

  Specifically, that she initially requested a different floor of this apartment building, even though this one was the only one with a vacancy on such short notice. I’m surprised she stayed and didn’t transfer apartments as soon as another came available. I waited for that transition, for the challenge of following wherever she went. The workaholic never made herself a priority. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised by it all.

  But she does that to me more than anyone else. She surprises me.

  Her head falls back, her lips parting and her hair laying across her shoulders then over her back as she moves. The repetitive motion is seductive, and Walsh is very much under her spell.

  Her gasps aren’t heard through the double-paned windows, the gap in the curtain providing my view, but I swear I can hear her still. When her nails run along his back, right before she grips onto his shoulders, I practically feel what it would be like.

  Arousal is primitive, obsession demeaning… what she is… is something hypnotizing. It was curiosity at first, then respect, and now... Well, now I’m not certain what she is to me. To us and to what we started so long ago.

  With the fire lit behind them, it’s the only light I have with the exception of a table lamp that casts beautiful shadows down Delilah’s dark skin. Her nipples pebble and just as I’m enjoying them, Walsh takes them for himself. Devouring her flesh as he thrusts into her and forces her to hold on to him.

  He’s good to her and I recognize that, but it doesn’t, not for a single moment, mean that I’ll sit back while he plays.

  We had an unspoken deal. “Had” being the operative word.

  * * *

  I now have something I truly desire and no reason not to take it.

  Delilah

>   As my shoulders lower with a long exhale, I rub my right one, still sore from a horrible night of sleep. My gaze never leaves the open case file on my desk. I’ve been staring at it for hours.

  Certain lines on the paper are difficult to read as some cases are, but this one is different. Really, they’re difficult to digest.

  My mother’s denials and my sister’s concerns ring in my ears as I read the evidence. Everyone knew what was happening, but no one did anything.

  How many times he beat her, where he chose to hit her. It’s all documented now, but before last week, neighbors and family all took notice, and that was it. So many neighbors said they knew what was going on. Not a single one called. They didn’t think it would go that far. The woman never said anything either.

  With a tight throat and a rapid pulse, I swallow and put my pen to the paper, to the exact attempt we should charge him for.

  Repeated abuse isn’t evidence of malice aforethought. The choices are first-degree or second-degree murder. I have to make that decision. It’s difficult to determine which one we can prove when every paragraph I read is minimized by the memories brought back up so recently. The sound of the slaps and then a cacophony of painful cries that are enough to keep two girls awake in bed together, staring at the door and pretending not to cry because Mom said it was all right.

  I lean back in my seat and pinch the bridge of my nose, refusing to let my personal bias affect work. The air has been different this past week and a half. Something inside of me is different and I don’t like it.

  I’m better than this. I’ve grown so much and there’s no reason I can’t take on this case. With a sip of coffee and a deep breath in paired with a longer breath out to calm my sympathetic nervous system—as my counselor sister taught me—I repeat my mantra until I can start from the beginning again. This time I grab a pen and travel along the pages with it to keep track, circling keywords and then scribble on a pad of paper. It’s not quite a pros and cons sheet with that sharp black line down the middle of the lined paper. It’s a first-degree or second-degree murder charge. Which has enough evidence to thoroughly convince a jury.

  I’d focus on something else, anything else, but this needs to be submitted by the end of the day and the only other place my mind takes me is to a few nights ago when I lost myself to Cody Walsh.

  Closing my eyes, I can still feel him, the sweet lingering pain of a good fuck even though it’s been days. That’s all he left me with, though.

  I woke up to a slight hangover and an empty bed. If it wasn’t for the throbbing between my legs, I’d have thought it was only a dirty dream about a coworker.

  Fuck, what did I do?

  My attention is so far off from what I need that I shove both the case file and the pad of paper to the left and decide to go for a walk, to clear my head instead.

  I haven’t seen Cody since that night. I haven’t spoken to him either. A deep pain settles inside my chest, digging there and planting seeds of insecurity and doubt.

  The insecurity that stands with me as I head to the other side of my office makes me think it’s all a childish crush. It was most likely a one-time thing. He may even think it’s a mistake. I wouldn’t know, since he hasn’t spoken to me.

  I barely ever dated my entire life. I dated one guy in college for a few months and that shitty experience was enough to convince me to focus on my studies. I had a fuck buddy, though. And then another in law school. It was exactly what I needed. I focused on my work and there was someone around for the release when either of us needed it.

  The thought of Cody being just a fuck buddy sends a sharp pain straight through my chest, one I don’t expect.

  I’ve always struggled when it comes to men. I suppose I have my father to thank for that, I think bitterly as I slip on my red wool coat and cinch it tight around my waist. My sister would argue it’s our mother I should blame.

  The wool strap digs into my palms as I pull the belt even tighter, staring at one article on the wall and then the next, the light from the large window behind my desk shining against the pristine glass.

  Nostalgia lingers for a moment, back to the moment I started hanging the articles. I focused on putting monsters behind bars and got the hell out of our Podunk town in upstate New York.

  I was so proud of this office. I thought I’d really made it and it would only get better. I thought I would only get better.

  The door swings open without an invitation and Claire stares at my desk for a moment, her tall figure draped in a brown twill pantsuit. The expression on her face is foreboding but loses its strength when she takes in an empty desk.

  “Right here,” I speak up, squaring my shoulders and giving her a questioning look in return to her stricken expression.

  “Did you see this?” Her voice is lowered and it’s only after she hands me the paper that she turns away from me to shut the door to my office. It’s not a loud bang, it’s gentle. Nerves prick at the back of my neck as the rolled newspaper crinkles open between my fingers.

  Claire Eastings is never gentle.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I scan the article.

  “‘Fuck’ is right. They’re having a goddamn field day.” Claire’s comments are accompanied by her pacing back and forth in her short heels, muted from the modern woven carpet until she steps on the hardwood flooring. Then back onto the carpet and so on and so forth.

  That rug is the single piece in this room that differs from the rest of the offices. Everyone else has framed photos like me, although mine are articles. Everyone else has the same black leather stationery set on a mahogany desk and an entire wall lined with bookshelves filled with necessary reference texts.

  My coat is the only splash of life and color in this place. Disappointment carries to my lips, pulling them down as I refuse to read any more of the article.

  “I’m not surprised,” Claire comments with her arms crossed as she stands in front of me, her pacing momentarily paused. “You opened the door for criticism.”

  She’s referring to my unfortunate “rot in hell” experience, mentioned in the article … twice. “I know,” I answer her with a heavy breath and suddenly my rendezvous with Agent Walsh doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

  “He walked, there’s no proof if we can’t use the evidence,” I say and frustration coats every word. “Ross Brass got off. The press will fade. It’s not going to trial. It’s done.”

  “It should have been done. The press can keep it alive and compare to any other case they want.” It surprises me that she’s letting it get to her.

  “Do you want me to issue a statement?” I offer, feeling that insecurity creep up my spine. “I can’t be blamed for the PD’s errors.”

  “No, no …” Unfolding her arms, Claire looks past me and her gaze seems far away. There’s no anger, no fire blazing there. Defeat wades in the depths of her irises. It sends a chill down my spine.

  Clearing my throat, I question her, “What is it that you want me to do? How are we handling this?” Although my voice is strong and I’m able to stand tall, crossing my arms at my belly and still gripping the paper, I feel anything but when Claire looks me in the eyes again.

  “Someone’s looking into your background. We were alerted to the files being opened, including cold cases.”

  Chills flow down my arms and I stand there breathless, expertly maintaining my composure.

  “You can’t believe the press—” I didn’t read it all, but the first line suggests that I’m either incompetent or mishandling cases. I have no doubt that the journalist is good friends with Jill Brown.

  “That report is nothing but the product of a wild imagination and a witch hunt,” Claire says confidently, cutting me off.

  “Exactly.” Stress pushes down my shoulders as I respond. “They can just say whatever they want and we … what?”

  She nods, continuing before I can make my own guess. “We assume someone is doing an exposé on a member of the Assistant Attorney General’s office.
A member with an impeccable record, but whatever ghosts you’re hiding, I think you should prepare for them to come to light.”

  “Is there really nothing else they have to write about? Especially given that I’ve closed how many cases? My reputation is solid and one of the best on this team.”

  “It’s not just work,” Claire says then looks behind me at the two picture frames on my desk. “They will turn over every rock.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide.” A tingling heat spreads over my skin, denying what I said. But I don’t have anything to hide. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve never mishandled anything.”

  “I know. We can’t have that here.”

  A bitter vein of offense laces my voice when I answer her, “I’m aware of that. They can write whatever article they’d like. They can drag me through the dirt. It’ll last for a moment until I win a trial and another. Or until they have something more interesting to write about.”

  The cords in Claire’s thin neck tighten as she swallows. “Is there anything at all that they would find, Delilah? I’m asking as a friend.”

  Hearing my boss call me by my first name is …. unsettling. The defenses I’d thrown up crumble at the tip-top and my composure slips for just a moment, the tiredness pulling my gaze down and the pain in my back and shoulders creeping to the surface.

  “Being the enemy of the press is a vulnerable place to be,” she warns and when our gazes meet in the silence of the office, other than the ticking of the clock and my own racing heartbeat, she adds, “I should know.”

  “There’s nothing for them to find. I’ve had a boring life and I’ve done everything by the book.”

  Claire looks away, nodding. “Well then, it will be a boring piece and they won’t be able to find anything. Maybe there will be no article.”

  No article. Please, God, no article.

  “Right,” I answer and that seems to be when Claire finally notices I’m in my coat. The thick fabric makes me feel that much hotter under her scrutiny.