“Bitch,” Noah said in a soft voice as if trying out the word. He waited for his mother to react. She kept a stony expressionless face. Noah lowered his eyes and again tried to capture cut asparagus on his fork.
“I’m impressed,” Maverick said.
She winked.
“If I don’t react, he doesn’t repeat the word. He’s a parrot now. Hopefully, he will forget it.”
“I doubt it,” Maverick chuckled.
“Drink?” Noah turned his head to his father. Maverick picked up the cup and gave it to Noah to drink. The boy then decided it was enough and scooted until Maverick let him go. He took off, running to the living room to play with his trucks and pots.
“He’s a parrot. Doesn’t speak in full sentences, but he’ll mock you,” Delilah warned.
“He’s a smart kid,” Maverick said.
She drank her wine, more and more.
“It’s strange sitting in here with you and having a decent conversation. I don’t know why it is so easy all of a sudden. Especially on the first day.”
“Because we’re supposed to hate each other?” Maverick asked.
Delilah nodded. “You’re my enemy.”
“Enemies make strange bedfellows,” he mumbled.
Delilah's eyes stretched, and she lowered her wine glass.
“Sorry, the wrong joke,” Maverick chuckled.
“It’s okay,” Delilah laughed. “I know you are being friendly and not flirting. I appreciate that. Just for the record, though, I am not looking to make a strange bedfellow.”
“Understood,” Maverick gave her a respectful nod. “How about we finish dinner and then drink the rest of the wine before I walk you both back to the house?” Delilah ate and talked a bit. The conversation eventually turned to politics. He was a conservative who voted for the current president and regretted it. She was a moderate Independent who forced herself to vote as a Democrat because there were never any independents to vote for she could support. It was a point of contention between her and Charles. He and his family were far-right conservatives. The conversation went from the table to the sofa and became even more challenging as they talked over their thoughts on the upcoming election. Noah climbed on his mother’s lap and went to sleep against her breast, listening t her voice. Delilah was a great conversationalist and an even better debater. It was only natural that she would steer her questions toward the ones subject left answered the day in court. In particular, his police record.
“My biggest problem with you, Maverick, is your police record,” Delilah confessed.
“Why?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“I don’t want to offend you, but you have to admit it’s a tough read,” Delilah replied.
Maverick nodded.
“So?” Delilah pressed him.
“It’s a long story. Some of it I’m not proud of, and some of it I am. I’m not a dirty cop, though. Being a cop is just sometimes dirty business,” Maverick mumbled.
“Camille was Latina? Right?”
“Latina, yes. Dominican and Puerto Rican,” Maverick replied.
“Did she have a problem with the accusations of racism against you from her own community?” Delilah asked.
“Racism? No. She had been there through it all. She knew what we were trying to accomplish. She saw the violence, the victims, the girls as young as eight being sold into sex trafficking. She knew I wasn’t motivated by some racist bias. She knew it worse than that for me.”
“Worst than racism?” Delilah scoffed.
Maverick slouched back and considered his next move. If he were honest, he’d win a bit more of her trust or give her ammunition against him in court. Honesty was not always the best policy. He looked over to Delilah and wanted to trust her. There was more. Maverick wanted to be comforted by her. That was the weakness of most men. The need to have a woman understand and nurture him even if they hadn’t earned the privilege.
“What’s worst than racism, Maverick?” Delilah asked.
“Ghosts,” he said.
Delilah sat up. Shocked, she nearly woke her son. He glanced at her and then away. He had said too much. Quickly his mind scrambled for a plausible explanation.
“The first time I killed a man, I threw up. I went into shock. Literally. Had to take leave and see a psych doctor. Scared the hell out, my wife. I had nightmares for a year—ghosts. The man I killed was the victim, not the perp. I came in on a hostage situation and fucked it up. The store owner was being held by a knife to his throat. I tried to defuse it. I shot to kill him, but they moved, and the bullet hit the victim. It was an accident. But your mind doesn’t register accidents; it registers events. And your guilt. That’s a different story. It haunts you. It changes you. And it makes you different. I was a different cop after killing a person, a different man.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry you have ghosts.”
Maverick shrugged.
“What about the sixth man you killed?” She tossed at him. “What did you feel then?”
Maverick glanced over to her and registered his mistake immediately. He’d just confessed to a mental state that he had come to prove wasn’t an issue for him. And she was sharp. Maverick was okay talking about mistakes. When she crossed into the grey matter, the area where his intentions weren’t pure, he didn’t want to take on that risk. But he was a man. And he stood on his bullshit, right or wrong. She needed to know that too.
“How did you feel when you killed the sixth man,” Delilah repeated.
“I felt great,” Maverick said.
Delilah didn’t look shocked or impressed.
Maverick continued, “That motherfucker put Camille on a ventilator and made her brain dead. Thoughts of killing him still put a smile on my face. When you kill a man in self-defense or not and feel nothing from it. You’ve lost your soul. Maybe putting a bullet in the first man-made me lose mine.”
Maverick glanced at her. This was the moment she ran from him. The moment she judged him and called her attorneys to get their notes together. Instead, she dropped her head back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry that happened to you. But you’re wrong, Maverick. I saw it today. You have a soul.”
Chapter Nine
DELILAH
Delilah Denise Fletcher Montgomery loved to talk. She was nothing like her friends. For instance, Goodiva loved to create. From music to art to poetry to short stories, nothing didn’t inspire her best friend. And Queen was the logical, reasonable thinker of the trio. She loved to process information and analyze the results. As a kid, Delilah was the best at puzzles. There wasn’t one she couldn’t crack. Solving unsolvable problems was her specialty. Queen was the kind of person that could pick up any Rubik's cube and solve it in under ten minutes while talking to you the entire time. Delilah loved conversations, debates, and achievements. She wanted to be the best at everything she set her mind to. It was one reason Maverick’s ability to speak directly on all topics warmed her to him.
“How did you meet your husband?” Maverick asked. He sipped his beer as they slipped deeper into the conversation. Delilah guessed he only drank wine with her to be polite. The moment the bottle went low, he seized the opportunity to get a Michelob, he brought back from the grocery store. Charles didn’t drink beer; he considered it low class. But Delilah’s father was a beer drinker. He’d come home and try to help her with her homework and drink his beer as she taught him how to solve her math problems. It was some of her best memories. Delilah hadn’t realized how much she missed that comfortable space until Maverick reminded her of treasured memories from a hard-working blue-collar man by sipping a beer in front of her.