Two drinks, nurse them, watch the crowd, then go home and to bed, I bargained.
I spotted two drug deals, an almost certainly underage boy plying his trade among the older men, and one person packing a gun who seemed up to no good, but he left without killing anyone, so it wasn’t my problem. Professional hazard. I hadn’t lied to Ashley when I said I couldn’t turn it off.
I was just finishing my second drink, debating whether to stick to my bargain or have one more, when the bartender solved the dilemma by putting a fresh one in front of me.
In answer to my puzzled look he nodded down the bar, indicating the person who bought the drink for me. I looked at the amber liquid. He had poured it from the good stuff. I was reluctant to look, to ruin the daydream high-end Scotch offered. I wanted a tall, dark woman; reality would be a short, rotund straight guy who either hadn’t noticed this was a gay bar or worse, had and wanted to get his lesbian fantasy jollies.
I took a sip. It was already poured and couldn’t be put back into the bottle. Nice. Very nice.
But reality called. I turned to look down the bar.
A woman. Tall, dark, and handsome. Amazing blue eyes. Not that I could tell in this dim bar, but I clearly remembered them from our encounter this morning.
I took another sip. I might as well enjoy the booze. I wasn’t going to enjoy the interrogation. I suspected Special Agent Emily Harris was more interested in asking questions than wild sex.
At least the Scotch was good.
I gave her a bare nod, but I’d let her make the first move.
It didn’t take long. One more sip and she was standing next to me, wedged in close between the next bar stool.
“To what do I owe the honor?” I asked, raising my glass at her.
“A test. I have a theory that women who like good Scotch can’t be all bad.”
“Far kinder than dunking me underwater to see if I’m a witch.”
“Ah, she knows some history, too. Very good.” She set her drink down next to mine. Same amber.
“I occasionally stayed awake in school.”
“Good thing since you went to one of the best ones in the country. Expensive to sleep through that.”
Of course she’d checked me out, seen I’d gone to Barnard. “I was a poor scholarship student. Had to work or I didn’t eat.”
She nodded, then finished her drink and motioned the bartender for another one. Maybe she was off duty and harassing me on her own time.
She waited until he’d refilled her single malt, then said, “Yeah, me, too. The parental units weren’t thrilled with a daughter who wanted to go into law enforcement.”
“So you always wanted to play cops and robbers?”
“I didn’t want to play, they were okay with playing. I wanted it to be real. They weren’t okay with that. I buy you a drink, you’re not supposed to mock my maudlin stories. Isn’t that the way the game is played?” Her voice was controlled, but I felt the anger beneath. She leaned into me, her hip against my thigh, invading my space.
I didn’t move away; I wasn’t going to give ground to her. Admittedly, she had a point. I was being a jerk.
“It’s very good Scotch. Thank you,” I said. “So, we’re two scholarship kids who went into law enforcement, albeit through very different paths.”
“You think you’re in law enforcement?” The anger was gone; she seemed to be asking.
“I usually wear a white hat—a proverbial one, anyway. Most of what I do is missing persons.”
“Skip tracing?”
“Not often. I mostly stay away from collection agencies. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I will sometimes take deadbeat dad cases. Much of what I do is look for adult kids whose parents want to find them. The nineteen-year-old who rebels by heading to the opposite coast and not communicating.”
“Divorce cases?”
“No, at least not often. My current one really is a favor to a friend. But those can be messy and nasty and only worth it if I need the money. If I have to do extra work, I take on security gigs.”
“How is that law enforcement?”
“Hell, law enforcement can be selling dogs. Just think what would happen if no one put in an alarm system or had a dog or did neighborhood watches. Better to prevent crime than solve it. A lot of my missing persons work is stuff the cops don’t have the time or resources for. A few times my search has led to a grave and the cops have an ID on their Jane Doe. Once they know who she is, they can figure out who her creep boyfriend who killed her is.”
“Neat and simple?”
“Rarely, but sometimes it makes a difference.”
She nodded, signaled the barkeep for another round.
I was only halfway through my current drink. “What made you want to get into it?” I asked. “Despite your parents.” I took a large sip as the new drink was put in front of me.
“Probably watched too many cop shows as a kid. Thought it really would be law and order and putting the bad guys away.”
My earlier sardonic comment was taking a toll. She wasn’t going to open up to me. I reminded myself that I wasn’t the only one with a hard life. I could wallow in self-pity or I could be a decent person.
I said quietly, “We don’t fail when we can’t find justice, we fail when we stop looking.” I finished my drink, then picked up the new one in a salute. “Don’t stop looking.”
“Even if it means tracking down PIs like you and asking a bunch of obnoxious questions?”
“Even if it means that.” She clicked her glass against mine and we drank a toast. “If you want, I can point you in the direction of a few who truly deserve the third degree.”
She actually smiled. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she had a killer smile. Her teeth weren’t perfect, a little bit of a gap, as if her parents couldn’t afford braces in the teenage years when things like that mattered and she had decided not to bother as an adult.
“Are you single?” she abruptly asked.
“Sitting by myself in a bar, what do you think?” I took a large swig of the Scotch, relishing the burn and smoke of it.
“Could be avoiding the mother-in-law.”
“Yeah, I’m single.” Then I added, “How about you?”
“Same. Single. Moved here recently. You been single long?”
“Forever. It feels that way. By the calendar a few months. You?”
“Since I moved here. She said I put my career before our relationship. Guess there’s some truth to that. She’s back in DC, already moved in with someone else.”
“Mine’s in the New York area. Same thing, already moved in with someone else. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Neither do I. Why don’t we get out of here?”
It was getting noisy and crowded, karaoke about to start. I nodded and finished my drink.
I stumbled slightly getting off the bar stool. She caught me, wrapping an arm around my waist. I’d had more to drink than I intended. Once we edged through the crowd and I was on solid ground, she let me go.
I couldn’t read her. If I had to bet, it’d be we’d walk out of here, say our good-byes, and head in different directions. Her actions, buying me drinks and suggesting we leave the bar, would be in most cases an invitation to spend the night. But this wasn’t most cases. And she was one of the last people I should sleep with.
The air was cool, a mist of rain haloing the lights. The wet chill kept people off the streets. Once we moved away from the noise of the bar it was quiet and we were alone. We were walking to the back of the Quarter. Long ago the mistresses of the plantation owners lived here, Dauphine and Burgundy Streets, away from polite society. Now it was mostly residential.
We walked in silence, though it felt comfortable, like we’d talk if we had something to say and not waste time with polite chatter. At the corner of Burgundy we both turned and headed downtown.
A light rain started to fall. I turned up the collar of my jacket.
At the next corner, she motioned me
left.
I shook my head. “Home is this way.” I pointed straight ahead.
“I live this way.”
“Need me to walk you to your door?”
“No. This is what I need.”
She pushed me against a car, a hand in my hair. Then her leg was between mine and she was kissing me, hard.
I thought to fight her, but the thought never turned into action.
There were moments in my loneliness and despair when I wondered if I’d ever kiss or hold another woman again. If anyone would want me.
I let her kiss me, found myself kissing back, needing the touch of her hands—anyone’s hands, the smoky taste of alcohol on our lips. More than the sex, I was desperate for the affirmation that someone still desired me. Emily Harris was an intelligent, attractive woman. I ignored every warning bell going off in my head and let her have me.
A car shushed by on the wet street.
“This way,” she said, taking my hand and leading us to her house.
Halfway down the block she stopped, still holding my hand as if afraid to let me go, as she took out her keys and opened the door.
I stumbled up the stairs behind her. She didn’t turn on a light, instead closing the door behind us. Then her hands were on me—no, our hands, we both had our needs. Roving and exploring, taking and conquering. Time and touch blurred. The charge of her cool hand under my shirt, then covering my breast. Pulling her hips into me, my hands on her ass, noticing the firm muscles. Kissing over and over again. Her loud groan as my mouth covered her breast.
Then she turned on a small table lamp, the one flare of light in the night, using the dim glow to find our way to her bedroom.
We had both drunk enough that our want was little impeded by thoughts of tomorrow. All I wanted was her to touch me and keep on touching me. What she wanted—I didn’t know. Maybe the same thing I did. It was easy to think we both were recently broken up and needing the kindness of a stranger. In truth, it was easy not to think. To let our hands and mouths and bodies take the lead, take over.
I saw little of her bedroom, just where the bed, our destination, was; didn’t see where our clothes landed.
Then we were naked and she was on top, her hand inside me, her tongue circling between my breasts as if she couldn’t get enough. Our only foreplay had been the kissing on the street. I was wet, embarrassingly so, a talisman of how much I needed this and how much power my need gave her.
No, this was about sex. Two bodies meeting in the night.
She pushed my legs open as if she owned me. I let her. Let her push deeply inside me. Didn’t stop to say no, not so hard, or touch me here. It felt good; I came easily and again, but I wasn’t able to ask for anything, as if this unexpected sex was too fragile and anything could break it.
Only after she’d made me come twice did she let me touch her, guiding my head between her legs. No words, not even my name.
As she had, I pushed her legs open more, teased her by kissing her thighs, around her mound. If she wanted something else, she could ask. She didn’t, letting me explore her with my tongue, set the pace, soft at first then hard and direct, making her jerk and moan. Making her come once and then again and again, until she rolled away, panting.
We curled in each other’s arms. She murmured something. I like to think it was “Thank you.”
We lay still for several moments, the only mark of time the beating of our hearts. I tried not to think, to sink into the warmth and closeness of her body, to let the stupor of alcohol and sex lull me into sleep. But a small part of my brain wouldn’t let go, couldn’t trust we were here for the same reasons, an animal want and need. I didn’t know whether it was me or her not to trust the most.
She spoke first. “Now that we’ve fucked, are you going to come clean about what happened?”
“Is this your usual interrogation technique? Get your suspects naked and in your bed?” I countered.
She stiffened. “No. You know as well as I do that we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“So why are we?”
She slipped her arm from around my waist and rolled onto her back. “The usual reasons. I’m lonely, no sex since the breakup. You’re an attractive woman. Throw alcohol on that and do something stupid.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
She sighed. “No, not you. This. Us sleeping together. To be clear, you’re not a suspect, at least not yet, but you are a person of interest in a case I’m working on. I don’t think you were honest with me, but I can’t tell if you’re protecting a client and it has nothing to do with the case or withholding information that could be important.”
“No possibility I was actually telling the truth.” I rolled onto my back as well, staring at her dim ceiling.
“No, not much. There was a gas station about a mile down the road. You say you grew up down there and knew the territory. Why stop and charge into the bush on private property when there’s a nice civilized bathroom not that far away?”
“Maybe I forgot about the gas station. Maybe I really had to go. Maybe the family who owned that land and my family didn’t get along and I welcomed the chance to piss on their property.”
“Maybe you’re really good at telling tales. It comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t mean I’m lying to you.” I wanted to tell her the truth, wanted to relieve myself of the burden of seeing that red ledger and knowing those lines in ink were people. But I couldn’t. Ashley had warned me. Maybe I could roll back into Emily’s arms and tell her what really happened, but too many alarm bells were going off. Even if she wasn’t the mole Ashley cautioned me on, she could still charge me on withholding evidence and perjury. If she was involved on the wrong side of the law, revealing what I knew could be my death warrant. FBI agents aren’t paid minimum wage, but top-shelf Scotch at bar prices isn’t cheap, nor is living in a fairly nice place in the French Quarter. Running into her at the bar seemed a coincidence, but she could have easily followed me there.
I wanted to trust her but I couldn’t. Even worse, I still wanted to fuck her, and that was the most dangerous thing of all. I couldn’t touch someone like we touched and keep lying as well.
“Perhaps not being untruthful, if you define withholding the truth as different from lying. You know, this is your chance. Tell me now while we’re naked in my bedroom and I have to let it pass.”
Her words were seductive. I could give in to her body, but I had to protect my soul. “Why were you at the bar? Were you following me? I’m an idiot for not thinking you’d be thorough in your check of me. You had to know I’d just broken up with someone I lived with for over a decade. That I’m a bit self-destructive and drinking my troubles away. Easy sex and information for you, win-win, right?” I sat up, looking down at her.
“No, it’s not like that. Yes, I could have found out the information if we needed, but, frankly, you’re not that important in the investigation for me to spend the time looking. I didn’t know about your breakup and I didn’t follow you to the bar.”
“Just one of life’s little ironies, right? Of all the gin joints in the world, we end up at the same one?”
“There aren’t that many gay bars, and we both live in the neighborhood. Bound to happen.”
“Ever so conveniently.”
“Look, can we back up? I told you I got dumped because I was too involved in the job. Enough that I ask questions at the wrong time. We—I screwed up by letting this happen. I’m only making it worse by trying to question you.”
“Will you drop it?”
She hesitated, a deep breath in and out. “No. I can’t. But I’ll keep my investigation to the proper times and places. And we can’t do this again.”
“No, we can’t,” I agreed.
“We can’t do this again until the case is over,” she said, her hand reaching over to cover mine.
No, we can’t because I still wanted to trust her, to not believe that she might be mixed up in human
trafficking. But I couldn’t. Her hand squeezed mine.
“I should probably go,” I said.
“It’s the middle of the night. At least get a little sleep.”
“Probably not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I still want to fuck you.”
Her breath hitched and she said, “Then fuck me and fuck me hard.”
I rolled on top of her, shoving my leg between hers. Hard, fast sex. I covered her mouth with mine, my tongue waiting for no invitation to enter her. She grabbed my ass, pulling me tightly into her.
This time was different. We had admitted what was unspoken the first time—we shouldn’t be doing this and we both wanted it. The knowledge set free our desires. We both asked for what we wanted, demanded even. Faster. A little lower. Touch me here. Kiss me like this. Two fingers, three. Deeper. Harder. Make me come. Make me come now.
There was no fragility; it couldn’t be broken. We both touched each other as if this was the last time, barely holding on to the slender thread that we might be free again once this case was over. Once we moved beyond the places we could not trust each other. But I know that wasn’t likely, and I suspected she did as well.
Sweaty, gasping for breath, we finally rolled away from each other, a lingering kiss, until we had to break it off to breathe. From there I fell into a dreamless sleep, safe from answering questions and needing to trust.
Chapter Ten
The harsh jangle of a phone woke me. I struggled to wake up, reaching for it. Cordelia got the calls in the middle of the night. Why wasn’t she answering it?
She’s not here. And won’t ever be again.
My hand found only air where the phone was supposed to be.
From the other side of the room I heard “Emily Harris.”
I wasn’t at home. Instead, I was in a bed I shouldn’t be in, with a woman I knew only well enough to know I couldn’t trust her.
The Shoal of Time Page 10