by Jax Colt
By all accounts, Cedar Rapids was a good town to grow up in. I’ve got to remember that when I’m all down and out about my childhood. And if I didn’t live there, I would never have gotten to know April. So, that’s one redeeming feature about the place. Back then, we were super close. She went to another high school, but we used to hang out most weeknights and every weekend.
I would constantly gossip away to her about my Blake obsession. Talking through scenarios that didn’t happen and making plans I never carried out. I’m sure I drove her crazy, but the power of his hold on me went beyond logic. He wasn’t the sporty type I usually went for. He wasn’t even nice to me most of the time. There was just something about him.
It’s so surreal to see him looking back at me right now. I know I must look like a hot, crazy mess, but that shouldn’t even matter. I need to keep reminding myself what’s important.
“So, what did you do with yourself?”
I don’t mean to sound nosy, but the Blake who sits in front of me is different than the sixteen-year-old I knew back then.
“Apart from becoming a cop, you mean?”
He raises that same eyebrow sardonically and I see his sense of humor is still intact. Physically, though, everything is different about him. The way he stands, the way he walks. His hair is short, and he must be three times bigger than he used to be. He’s honestly turned into a full-blown hottie.
I couldn’t help myself from looking at his butt when he got up earlier. It’s rock solid under that trim little waist. Not to mention those thick forearms I saw when he rolled up his sleeves. No tattoos that I can see now, but time has done him well. He’s all man now, yummy gold hairs glinting off that same brown skin I used to fret over. God, even his stubble-covered jaw has grown and is in stunning proportion to his gorgeous face and neck.
There were times when I used to stare at him like a helpless knob. I would shrink and end up nearly hiding in my locker as he walked down the hall. I’m sure I’m flushing now just remembering it. He must have thought I was a complete weirdo. All googley-eyed, and so obviously in love with him. I know I wasn’t the only one, either. At one point, every girl in that town was watching him right along with me. That was before everything happened. I’m nowhere near the little fool I was then. I’ll bet he has no idea who he’s sitting across from. The old Carrie and everything she was back then has completely stopped existing.
I pull my head back into the present. He’s looking at me, asking something about April’s family, and I wonder why he cares. It’s hardly as if the accident has anything to do with last night. Their deaths were completely random. One minute, April’s mom and dad were heading out to get some chocolate chip ice cream, and the next they were wrapped around a pole. There was no one else even remotely nearby. That’s why they didn’t make it. Both died from their injuries, both strapped into the seatbelts that didn’t protect them from the chest trauma that occurred when the front of the car buckled in.
April didn’t see the gory details, but I did. A crew from KCRG was sent out to film it. I’m grateful she never had to see it on the news. The station manager graded it inappropriate for viewings. God, it was sad. They were even holding hands when they died. I wanted to tell April that, but then I’d have to explain about the tapes, and I knew she’d force me to get them for her.
“There’s no link,” I say, and my statement seems to surprise him. “I mean, there’s nothing connecting their death to last night, nothing I can see anyway.”
Maybe it’s my vehemence that makes him ask, “So, what do you think then?”
He picks up his pen and waits for my answer.
“Well, she had no enemies, so I can’t imagine this was planned, but the thing is, those guys were deadly serious, so that makes me think it’s not a random rape case, either.”
My serious tone seems to make him sit up and pay a little more attention. “Ahh, that’s right,” he says. “You’re press. Of course you’ve got an opinion.”
9
Carrie
His eyebrow goes up again, but I’m not offended. I take it as a challenge. Men and their stupid assumptions about female journalists. I get it every damn day, even with my boss, and I’m sick of it. The challenging stare I unleash on him, filled with venom and daring, obviously touches a nerve, because he shuts right up and gives me the space to continue.
I talk and talk, going through everything that has been flooding my mind since I first got here. There are so many possibilities, and I ask if there have been similar abductions in the last month. Blake ends up telling me more than I should probably know as a witness, and I quietly feel a glow that he’s giving me what I want. Maybe I’m more persuasive than I think I am. One thing’s for certain, there’s no way I’m giving up.
It must be eight in the morning by now, and my head has almost stopped throbbing. All I can feel is a fire to do something about April. I’ve got no patience for this stuff. I wonder if he’s been working all night. I can definitely see that he’s tired, but that’s how all cops are. Their caseloads are massive, so once the leads go cold, it’s way too easy for them to stop looking. If I don’t drive this investigation, or at least make some noise, then he’s going to forget about the girl from Iowa.
I know that’s what happens. I’ve spoken to the families of too many victims of violent crime to think otherwise. Even if Officer Anderson and I do have a past connection, it’s time for me to stop complaining about my injuries and start thinking like an investigative reporter. April was there for me all those years ago, and now I need to return the favor.
I realize how hungry I am, and when I say so I see his concern immediately flare in his eyes. He jumps straight up and heads out to the vending machine. I don’t know what he’s getting me, and I don’t care. His eyes really take me back. They’re deep blue, flecked with little grey spots.
All of a sudden, I remember when he used to come and watch my track meets. He’d stand in the bleachers and silently root for me. I’d be shocked every time he showed up. Blake looked totally out of place there amongst the jocks and cheerleaders. I liked it, though. I liked knowing he was there, and I was grateful whenever he came to watch.
The day I qualified for state was the best day in memory. Every lap of the fifteen-hundred meters, I’d loop around the track and see him standing in the same place; his steady eyes watching me, urging me on. He knew how much I wanted to win and how embarrassed I was to have people see me fail. I hadn’t even told April I was trying out, but for some reason I had found myself telling Blake about the qualifiers. He didn’t wave and cheer or make noise like the other supporters, that wouldn’t have been his MO. But I remember that he stayed for every heat during this track meet, his presence comforting me in the pressured atmosphere.
With each race, the coaches got more and more tense, but somehow I kept making it through. Only two female runners could represent Cedar Rapids, and because our school had the best facilities, there were girls from schools all over town trying out. The air felt tight and hot to breathe. There were dozens of runners on the track in various states of undress. I was wearing my school shorts, a tank, and my lucky underwear. But I didn’t really believe I could make the cut.
In the end, I did. The moment I crossed the finish line, he jumped over the railings and wrapped me in his arms. I was sweaty, but he pulled me against him and we breathed each other in for way too long. My head was spinning and still breathless from the race. My chest was heaving, but I moved in closer and pressed against him. I didn’t let go, and when he didn’t either, I felt myself relax into his arms. Together we stood, as a field of busy people took no notice, and my breathing started to slow.
My back and the tops of my thighs began to come alive as his hand meandered down past my tank top to the space between it and my shorts. I wanted his hands to go lower. I wanted more, but I wasn’t sure of anything, so I just pulled him closer and hoped he’d get the picture. I felt his hips shift against my belly.
Un
able to suppress a moan, I unconsciously tipped my head to the side, exposing my neck to his warm breath. Then I felt his long fingers trail up my collarbone, into the hollow of my throat and up behind my ear. He played with my ear lobe and looked down at me; his eyes seeming to smile. We were closer than we’d ever been, and it didn’t feel wrong at all.
The moment stretched on and still he didn’t pull away. I looked at his mouth then back up at his eyes. I was tingling all over, my hips were pressed against his thighs and our bodies were so close.
He raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, that’s a surprise.”
I swallowed; I didn’t know how to take his comment. I thought about it too much as he said it, and that’s when the moment was ruined. A surprise that I would hit on him? A surprise that he’d like it? What was a surprise? That I won? I was dying to ask, but I didn’t have the courage and the moment was lost.
Reluctantly, I had pulled away. Someone was calling my name, and I was thirsty. I was off balance physically, and it was more than just the fifteen hundred meter run. I didn’t know what to think, but my heart was pounding. God, I wanted him.
I took a breath, and when I looked back up I saw him do the same. Everything was different. Blake said he had to go, but congratulated me and put his thumb on my lower lip. It stayed there for just a second, but he didn’t meet my eyes, and in that stupid teenage way that wants affirmation, I asked him to call me. I’m sure I was smiling more about our ‘almost kiss’ than I was about the win. My cheeks were burning, but I looked down and pulled it together before I casually said goodbye as he walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.
I wrench myself back into the moment when he offers me a soda.
“You look like you’re ready to collapse.” He’s right, and all I want to do is sleep, but everything feels too big. I’ll head back to the hotel, but then what? It’s not like a nap is going to help find my friend. I don’t even have the key to the hotel, or my wallet or anything. He answers the question for me.
“You’re done here for now, so all that’s left to do is rest. I’ll have the nurse check you again for a concussion, then I think it’s best you stay somewhere else for now. Whoever has April will be wondering where you are, so I suggest you don’t take any risks.”
The thought that they’re looking for me sends a shiver down my spine. I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t have the strength to run again. I’m also cold. My jacket was long gone by the time I got here, and my skin feels prickly. My nose and forehead are less sore, but I gingerly touch my fingers to the bruises on my neck and wince. This is what hurt the most, such ruthless pressure. It brings back a flood of other unpleasant memories that I just can’t handle right now.
I need to get out of here before he sees me cry. I don’t need him or anyone thinking I’m a victim. I tell him that I’ll stay wherever, but I need some clothes. That’s when he sees how cold I am. The bloodstained skirt was short to begin with, but now it rides treacherously up my thighs. I reach over and pick up the blanket again just as I see that he’s going to try to be a gentleman. Keep your jacket to yourself, I think to myself, because there’s no way I’m going to turn into submissive little Carrie just because I’m hurt. He had his chance to be a hero ten years ago. But he missed out then, and I’m sure as hell not going to give him another chance now.
My coffee arrives and I wrap my hands around it. Then I decide to let him do the talking. I need to find out as much as I can before I go. If he’s going to muscle me off like a sick kid, then I’ll do my own investigating.
10
Blake
Something in her eyes seems to be mocking me. I can’t work it out. I just offered her a jacket, for Gods’ sake. Hell, I don’t understand women. One minute they’re crying and needing a cuddle, the next they freeze up if you offer to open a door. No wonder therapists make so much money. It’s like translating between two foreign languages.
I can see she’s had enough of the questions, though. The weight of the night’s events is showing in the tension around her neck and shoulders. But she still looks beautiful. Carrie has always been beautiful. Even when she’s been rolling under cars and fighting off thugs. My thoughts are interrupted by a crash of something heavy against the door of the interview room. Carrie flinches, and I instinctively grab my gun. I motion her to quickly get under the table, and when I hear a woman’s screech through the wall, I throw open the door, weapon drawn.
The station hallway is a mess, but not because of a lazy shift. Paperwork and folders are flying from the fingers of the most outrageous and angry looking hooker I’ve ever seen. She’s one of our regulars, but every time she ends up here, I marvel at the poison she spews around. She’s dressed to the nines this morning in a flesh colored bandage dress that barely covers her breasts, and heels that make her nearly as tall as me. It’s a sight to be seen. The desk officer meets my eyes. He looks horrified as he tries to move her along, but this woman has something more to say to him at the top of her lungs about her supposedly unjust visit to 43rd Street.
“You don’t fucking know.” Her shriek has become a snarl now. “Sitting here playing high and mighty while the rest of us just get by. How dare you judge me!”
I feel Carrie edge up and stand beside me, and we watch as the woman seems overtaken by an itch that runs the length of both arms. She’s slashing at her skin, the fake diamonds and sequins on her acrylic nails twinkling, and she forgets whatever it was she was saying in order to satisfy the itch. I can see her arms from here. There are no bumps or welts except the ones she’s creating now by scratching. The woman must be on the crack pipe to be acting this way. I do feel compassion for her. After all, addiction is a disease, but mostly I’m annoyed. I don’t have time for this shit. I want her out of here.
Just then, more papers swirl as she swipes at the flyers pinned up on the community bulletin board. It’s getting out of control, but the desk officer seems out of his depths. I remember that feeling from when I was a rookie—that sense that I shouldn’t man-handle a pretty woman. But just as I learned, he needs to learn now. Pretty face and scanty clothes or not, if she’s causing trouble, she needs to be dealt with. I look around and realize that most of the team is still in briefing. Lucky for him, because I know Lieutenant Jacobs would freak if she saw the ruckus going on out here.
I give the desk officer an affirming look, and he moves in toward the wild looking street worker. He’s trying to calm her like one would calm a wild animal.
“Come on, Janey, let’s sit down and talk it through.”
His caution is understandable. The effects of crack and meth are scary. I can see that Janey has been awake and causing trouble for a few days by now. Her hair is dirty, her voice is hoarse, and her eyes are luminous discs in their sockets. They are dilated and manic. She’s on the edge of snapping. I recognize that point, the place where only one thing matters, and I know it’s important we get her under control before she loses her shit entirely.
Past and personal experiences tell me this woman is running on overdrive. She’s insane, so every reaction is out of proportion to what it should be. If she wants to say something, the best we can do is let her say it. Meth and crack, or whatever she’s been smoking, causes extreme elevations in emotion. If there’s a random unjust scenario going on inside her head, the quickest way to shut her down is to acknowledge it and then just listen to whatever she has to say. It’ll probably come out in a jumbled prattle, and it’s likely it won’t make sense, but it’ll be as good as letting air out of a tire when it comes to shutting her up.
Janey must be in her mid-thirties. She’s not covered in tattoos, but her fake tan is getting leathery from malnutrition and her make-up is making her look older rather than younger. I wonder what age she was when she started in the game. I wonder what she imagined she’d be when she grew up. It’s tragic. There’s no such thing as fairytale endings on the street. By choice or by accident this woman has had a hard life, and it shows.
“You nee
d to watch your back.” Her threat is directed at me now, and it sounds ludicrous, like she’s trying to mimic a line from a movie. But she’s still looking my way with a snarl on her face that doesn’t crumple for a second. “Lips will get you, she’s coming for you.” Just then, the desk officer gets Janey’s hands behind her back. She’s spitting and kicking at him but he administers the cuffs and drags her away with an apologetic look on his face.
I glance over to check on Carrie. Something in me wants to protect her from this stuff, but she’s not flinching or looking away. Instead, she’s just watching the situation with interest and sadness in her eyes.
“Mad old Janey,” I tell her. “She’s in and out of here most weekends. Means no harm, she’s just hopped up after a big night.”
I see in the set of Carrie’s jaw that she’s not shocked or disgusted by the woman, and my heart opens, too. The scene that’s just played out would appall most of my friends, but Carrie seems to take it in stride. I wonder again what the hell she’s been up to since high school. You don’t get that blasé from watching movies, that’s for sure.
I shepherd her back into the interview room and close the door. We look at each other, and she picks the blanket up from the floor. Meeting my eyes, she starts to laugh but says nothing, and I get the distinct feeling she’s not the type of woman who’s used to taking shelter under tables. Carrie always had a calm energy, though. It’s hot now, and it was hot back then compared to all those giggly high school girls. It was a relief to hang out with her when I was a teen. I’m cursing that I never took the chance to tell her that.