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.