by W Winters
As I close my eyes, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I should end it between us. My life is complicated enough. It felt so good though and I’ve wanted him for far too long to throw it away. Even when all the warning signs are flashing bright red lights in front of my face.
He pulls back just slightly, his inhale making his chest rise and I find my fingers itching to slip up his jacket and lay right there against his white t-shirt that’s taut against his skin.
“Is this public?” he questions, his voice laced with desire and his pale blue eyes simmering when I lift mine to his.
As I part my lips to answer him, he captures them in his, stealing my response and my breath just the same.
Tilting my head and rising up just slightly on my heels, I meet his need with my own. His hands play against my back, keeping me to him and my own reach around his neck, loving the skin-on-skin contact and wanting more of it. Needing more of it.
As his tongue melds with mine, the heat of our embrace enveloping around the two of us, I wish I could get lost in his touch tonight.
But I can’t. My eyes open before his and I pull away, breathlessly and with a heat rolling through my body. Cody stays perfectly still a second longer than me and takes his time opening them. His steely blues stare me down with the look of a hunter. A look that makes me feel so very much as though I’m his prey.
“Not tonight, Agent Walsh,” I tell him with my heels steady on the ground and he grins at me before stepping forward and planting the smallest of kisses on my jaw, his strong fingers brushing against my neck and hardening my nipples with the simple touch.
He catches that my eyes close when he kisses me. I know he does from the look of triumph on his handsome face.
“Drive safe, Delilah.”
It’s not until I get home that I read his text.
* * *
I enjoyed last night. I enjoyed you.
I don’t do flings and I don’t do girlfriends.
I don’t fuck around with coworkers or people I see day to day.
You know I don’t have time for a relationship. I’ve failed at every one of them I’ve ever had. I’m going to fuck this up. If this is even a thing. If this is something that you want to do again.
That doesn’t change that I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long damn time and even after last night, I want you still. I can’t offer you commitment and I’m not good at much of anything other than my job.
* * *
That’s where his message stopped and I’m quick to respond before I think too much about anything he said in this text and focus only on that kiss under the lights in the parking garage.
Don’t think about it, just take me home tomorrow night.
Delilah
Even with the curtains closed, the sun creeps in, waking me from a much-needed deep sleep. My eyes are heavy at first, but my body is so relaxed and at ease. The blush comforter, two shades lighter than the matching curtains, slips down my body as I sit up, stretching and note that the side of my bed Cody slept on last night is empty. I can’t help but to touch it and when I do I find it’s cold.
He left already.
He’s good at that. We leave separately from the bar, and meet back here. At least we have the last two weeks. Thus the relaxed muscles and deep sleeps. A good fuck is a miracle worker for the tired mind and sore body.
Letting out an ungodly long yawn, I stare down the paperwork that litters the top of my dresser. I worked magic in this apartment to give it a mature, fresh and feminine feel. A place I could hide away and forget all the bullshit and hardness of my day job. Who was I kidding? Every surface of the bright white furniture is covered with evidence of what I do. The fact is, I bring my job home. Always. It’s not about being a workaholic; it’s simply that I can’t let go of things that matter.
There’s a memory for every inch of this room. Moments when haunting evidence seemed to unveil a truth to me in the late hours when I couldn’t sleep.
I can make this room as pretty as a page out of a home décor magazine and it still wouldn’t matter.
The silk sheets rustle as I get up and that’s when I see the note on the bedside table between the alarm clock blinking 12:00 in bright red. In other words, someone in the unit tripped the fuse again. With a frustrated exhale, I check my cell phone for the time and fix the clock before reading the note Cody scribbled out for me.
Going to New York for a case. I’ll miss you.
Two sentences are all he wrote, but the last one leaves a smile on my face.
Opening the drawer, I slip it inside with the two others he left me.
The first:
I’m sorry about the last few days, but not about the part in your bed. Call me whenever you want. Or text. I’ll be waiting and I’ll try not to kiss you whenever some prick eye fucks you at the bar. And yes… I meant it when I said you look sexy with that silk scarf in your hair.
The second one he left is inconsequential, like this one, but I keep it anyway because it makes me smile. Nothing has changed at work between us and there haven’t been any other incidents. If Aaron or anyone else suspects we’re seeing each other, they keep it out of the gossiped conversations in the break room. Or at least they haven’t had the nerve to confront me.
My bare feet pad on the floor and I wrap the belt to my thin cotton peach robe with cream lace tight around my waist as I make my way to the kitchen. Today’s my first day off in … Lord knows how long. Coffee and then I promised myself I’d relax. Truly take a moment and read or maybe I could take my sister out to get our nails done. It’ll be a little over an hour drive for each of us, there’s a shopping mall halfway between us. It’s perfect for our get-togethers. She’s barely spoken to me since our last call. We’ve had our ups and downs but of everyone in this world she’s my rock. Only a year and four days apart, we’ve gone through life together. Everything that’s happened, every milestone and pitfall.
We fought like cats and dogs in high school and I even have a faint scar on my face from one spat where she scratched me. College came and we drifted apart for a moment; the photos on my fridge are proof of the distance. So many pictures of when we were children, then nothing of us together until I was a junior in college and her a sophomore. I went for a law degree, following my father’s path. My sister went for psychology. We studied together, partied together. We were each other’s wingwoman in every way. My mother always said we’d be best of friends and that we needed to rely on each other. It’s odd for her to say that considering her falling-out with our aunt, but she was right.
Ever since college, we don’t go long without a call between us. It’s been nearly two weeks, the longest that I can remember, and the realization makes my empty stomach sink. I’ve been too preoccupied with Cody and work.
Pressing the brew button and listening to the water heat up in the coffee machine, I write out a quick text to her:
Off today and tomorrow. When are you free to meet up?
After I press send, a deep crease finds itself in the center of my forehead. I have twelve unread messages and two missed calls. Both of them from Claire. No voicemail left.
Swallowing thickly, I go through each of the messages.
I’m so sorry.
They’re such assholes.
Are you okay?
You need to call me.
The texts vary from coworkers to family members. I’m confused about most of them, not writing back a response until I know what the hell is going on.
A text from Aaron includes a link to an article. Written by Jill Brown’s associate. The opening paragraph makes my jaw drop and it’s then that the coffee machine sputters, announcing the hot cup of coffee is ready.
As if a cup of coffee could fix this.
I wondered what they’d write about and of course I’d give these assholes ammunition to keep the negative press running.
With my fingers going numb, I read the entire article in record time, feeling the anger rage inside of me. They
bring up my father and his old cases, which is infuriating. His career has nothing to do with mine.
Worse, they bring up my relationship with Agent Walsh. Questioning if either of us were fit for the case given our romantic relationship. As if we were in one back then.
Can Miss Jones’s judgment be clear while pursuing a romantic relationship on the field? The first case that went cold was with him and since then a series of murder investigations have led to no arrests. Those cases are worked by both the woman in question and Cody Walsh of the FBI.
I feel fucking sick to my stomach. Dropping the phone to the counter, both of my elbows hit the granite and I bury my head in my hands.
My father’s integrity as a lawyer has never been questioned. Oddly enough, Patterson isn’t mentioned and I wonder if he had a heads-up on the story. If maybe he even leaked the information about Cody and me.
Rubbing what little sleep remains from my eyes, I process everything again, breaking it down bit by bit in between swigs of coffee. Claire is going to be pissed. She’s going to be furious.
But the facts remain the same: they’re running a story because I’ve been notable recently, even if in the past there were a number of cases that ended up going cold. A pissed-off criminal lawyer, fairly inexperienced and working for the Assistant Attorney General… they were given one comment I made on the street and they ran with it, letting imagination get in the way of facts.
Internally, I prepare my response to Claire.
I didn’t make the press by losing cases. The media has focused on the fact that so many of my cases don’t have enough evidence to even go to trial. Cases that they plaster everywhere and then demand justice. They want someone behind bars. All the cases are murder investigations. At least the ones mentioned in the article are and those are the ones that require me to work with Walsh. Mostly against crime organizations that are established and difficult to penetrate.
They aren’t the only cases that matter, but they bring in the most headlines, and higher ratings on the news.
They want someone to pay, and they thought going after my family’s history in murder trials and my romantic relationship would paint me as a villain. As someone incapable of performing her job. Worse still, they question my intentions for this position. The last lines of the article imply I have ulterior motives. That I don’t want the cases to go to trial because like my father, I’m protecting murderers, the mob, and serial killers.
With shaking hands, I reach for my phone, desperate to get in touch with Walsh. This is bullshit. I’ve never been so angry in my life.
I worked tirelessly to get here. I’ve dedicated every waking hour to pursuing the same assholes they want to see locked up. It’s one thing to not be good enough, it’s another to have your intentions questioned.
As I hit the call button, two things happen at once.
I get an email from Claire that I read while I place the call on speaker, listening to the ringing:
* * *
We’re issuing this statement in response to the article and you have a mandatory one-week paid leave while we investigate. Lay low, and stay out of the press.
See the attached document.
* * *
Investigation? Really? I don’t expect to feel betrayal, but I do. The attached document is a defense for me but it’s short. I don’t know what else I could expect. The statement is merely them covering their ass.
The second thing that happens at that same time is that my sister texts me.
As I read the text, Walsh’s voicemail greets me when he doesn’t answer and I don’t have the presence of mind to hang up. I’m lost in what my sister wrote more than any of this bullshit. Dread sinks down to the soles of my feet and anchors me there in that moment.
Mom’s in the ER. You need to come home.
Delilah
Just let it pass. Cody’s text is a single line. His answer to my extremely long voicemail is a single line.
Hours go by before he texts again, hours of driving through the mountains of Pennsylvania and up to the Podunk town in New York where I grew up.
I’m at a gas station before he messages again: This break will be good for you. Your mom needs you and by the time you get back, all of this political bullshit will have passed.
My stomach stirs with the faint smell of gas and the whirl of cars driving down the worn asphalt road beside the gas station. Staring up at the faded sign, I do what I’ve always done—I breathe through it all, not letting it get to me.
My mom’s arm is broken. She’s not sick or dying. I won’t be here for long and then I’m going home to look into that journalist. With my message sent, I slip the phone into the cup holder and finish up at the gas station.
Regarding the article, I’m pissed, Cody seemingly couldn’t care less.
When my phone rings at the swinging red light to get back on the interstate, I nearly answer it until I see it’s my sister. I’m pissed at her too. My heart fucking stopped when I saw her message about our mother.
I didn’t even know it was only her arm until I was halfway here.
She wouldn’t answer; neither would Dad.
Anger swarms inside of me. Coupled with disappointment and resentment. Could anything else go wrong this week?
Some days are harder than others in the career I’ve chosen and it took me a long time to realize it’s like that with family too. Some days … some days I just wish they would be honest. I still would have come. I know Cadence would argue that I wouldn’t have, but I had the time off and I didn’t need to be manipulated into coming back home.
That’s exactly what it feels like and my discontent with my sister is why I drive the rest of the way, nearly two hours, without the radio on and my phone on silent. I didn’t even realize it until I parked in the hospital lot that I hadn’t turned the volume back up. Sometimes a person just needs quiet.
A few hours of quiet to clear my head and let Cody’s suggestion sink in: Just let it pass.
I can do that, I think as I climb out of the car, my purse hanging from the crook of my arm and the light jacket I threw on before leaving not doing a damn bit of good up here where it’s colder. At least I can try, but I can’t stop caring.
Absently, I nudge the door shut with my hip, cradling the bouquet of flowers I picked up for my mother in my arms. As I walk into the small hospital, I can’t recollect what I even packed. It was a furious effort to gather up my luggage and leave immediately.
I asked my sister what happened. She said she didn’t know.
It’s a difficult task not to set my jaw into a straight line when I see her as the glass double doors open and the visitor section to the left of the desk is visible. Mom could’ve been dead. I thought she was dying. How could she let me think the worst and not answer me when I demanded to know more? The words pile on top of each other in the back of my throat when I see my sister, but she doesn’t see. She doesn’t see any of the resentment, any of my anger through her blurred vision.
I nearly tumble back when my sister, slightly taller than me, skinnier and frailer in every way, wraps her arms around me and sobs in the crook of my neck.
I’d hold her back but I can’t move my arms; she’s gripping me so tight and my hands are full.
The anxiousness and fear sink back into my blood, slowly coursing through me.
“It’s just her arm,” I whisper to my sister in a dual effort to comfort her and also remind myself. “It’s just her arm, isn’t it?”
Cadence is slow to unwrap her delicate self from my body. She should’ve been a model, I swear. As she does, I take in the scene behind her. Auntie Susan is in the waiting area too. My God, I barely even recognized her. I don’t see Dad anywhere. The only other people in here include the woman working behind the desk and a man with his son in the opposite corner of the waiting area. There are only two rows of seats on the right side of the entrance. But we have our own corner it appears, judging by the two coats spilling over one chair and where Au
ntie has her purse on the coffee table next to two cups of what I know is tea. None of the women in my family drink coffee but me.
My gaze is brought back to Cadence when she sniffs and wipes her eyes, apologizing with that hint of shame for breaking down. Steadying her with a grip on her forearm, I ask her, “Where’s Dad?” The rustling of the plastic around the flowers is all I get in response because Cadence breaks down again, silently crying and walking off to gather a tissue.
Hitching my purse up my shoulder and straightening my coat, I take my time making my way to my auntie.
I set the flowers and my purse down on the end of the coffee table and take off my coat, laying it on the third seat from the end. My auntie in the corner, then my sister, then me.
“Hi Auntie,” I greet her, stepping in front of my sister to lean down and give my auntie a hug. I expect it to be brief but she holds on to me tight, whispering that she’s glad I’m here before she releases me.
Her tone is tense and that’s what keeps me from asking the question again: it’s just her arm, isn’t it? Dread is a difficult thing to swallow; even more difficult to talk through.
“Dad’s talking to the police.” My sister speaks up before the silence passes too long. Her slender fingers run under her eyes gracefully before wiping the mascara that mars the tip of her fingers on her black skinny jeans. I know my sister very well, and she simply threw on those clothes. Yet, she still looks beautiful. Her hair in curls, her face fresh and bright eyed. She’s wearing a chunky cream knit sweater that hangs just low enough to show her chest and the cream against her light brown skin complements her perfectly.
Even with tears in her eyes, she’s beautiful. And she looks just like Mom. Everyone used to say it growing up; her skin is lighter than Mom’s, but that’s the only difference between them. She got our mother’s femininity, and I got our father’s intellect and ruthlessness.
