Recharged

by Lulu Pratt

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  “Okay. Good night.”

  I slammed the door shut with more force than intended, making me seem like a petulant teenager caught smoking in the schoolyard. I didn’t need to look to know that Tom’s face was a mask of disappointment and concern.

  I made my way inside where I found my mother sipping wine and reading a paperback.

  “How’s the boy?” I asked without prelude.

  “Bathed and in bed,” she replied. “Should still be up if you wanna give him a goodnight kiss.”

  I nodded and strode from the living room to the door of his bedroom. Slowly, so as not to disturb him in case he had already fallen asleep, I turned the knob and entered.

  Moonlight slanted through the blinds, falling across the bars of his crib and alighting on his angelic face. His eyes fluttered between sleeping and waking.

  “Dada,” he bubbled.

  “Hey, Danny boy,” I replied, moving closer to the crib until I was hanging over the edge, looking down on him. “You should already be asleep.”

  “Dada,” he demanded. It was our little ritual. Obliging his request, I reached into the crib, and hoisted him up to my chest. I kissed his forehead, both cheeks, and blew a big raspberry on his tiny tubby stomach. I hugged him tightly to me and gave him one more kiss on the crown of his head.

  “Dada,” he said once more, and I knew that he was drifting off into dreamland.

  I replaced him in the crib, and snuck out on tiptoe, shutting the door behind me. Falling into normal footsteps, I walked to the living room, where I found that my mom had already skittered out into the night. Good. She needed some time off from taking care of the kid. She was in her early sixties, retirement age, and yet somehow was picking up the mantle of motherhood once more. It was enough to steep me in immense guilt.

  I padded to my bathroom where I stripped down and stepped into a steaming shower, reluctantly washing off Zoe’s scent, a peculiar blend of cherries and cinnamon. Was it from the bakery? Was it her shampoo? I couldn’t tell, but it lingered.

  Hefting a bar of mint soap into my palm, I began to scrub it along my arms, taking time to let the suds froth up. It was luxurious, peaceful. The pounding rhythm of the water was almost enough to distract me from questions of Zoe and what to do about our predicament. Almost being the key word.

  Sighing, I stepped out of the water and into a fluffy white towel. The mirror had fogged up, so I took my forearm and dragged it along the surface, clearing a space in which I could gaze.

  I examined my chin. Was some of her tinted Chapstick caught in my follicles? Next my neck. Had she given me a small hickey? Everywhere I looked, I saw traces of her, both real and imagined. It was as if her face had juxtaposed itself over mine in the reflection, and I couldn’t see myself without also seeing her. This left me with the eerie impression that I was no longer alone.

  I dried my feet on the bathmat, and paced from the shower to my bedroom, where I shucked the towel off on the floor. There’d be time to deal with that later. Right now, I was exhausted from the mental gymnastics of trying to justify getting involved with Zoe.

  I plummeted into bed, naked and more confused than ever. My hand weaseled its way down to my dick, which grew hard to the touch.

  Enough, I told myself firmly. No more. Time to sleep.

  Frustrated, I abandoned my cock and the prospect of fifteen enjoyable minutes, and instead turned to the laborious task of sleep. As predicted, Zoe’s eyes and pillowy lips haunted my dreams.

  The following morning, I awoke groggy and ill-rested. Zoe had tormented me throughout the night, and I’d reentered the waking world with an immense hard-on. I was running late, though, and didn’t have the time to take care of it.

  I fed Danny his breakfast, consigned him to my mother’s care, and after kissing both my loved ones, I hurried off to the station. Texting Tom for a ride seemed like a bad idea today, and my car was still parked outside of Zoe’s, so I was forced to make the twenty-minute walk to the station. The cold did me good, the air seeped in through my ears and nose, preventing me from thinking too hard about anything besides keeping warm.

  I arrived at the station a few minutes later than usual. Perfect. Just the way to convince Tom that everything was totally fine and that I had shit under control. The day was already off to an uneven start.

  I went inside the station and was immediately gratified by a blast of warmth. Throwing my coat over the rack, I walked to my desk, and collapsed in the decades-old spinning chair with a dramatic harrumph. In the center of the writing surface, somewhere between my pictures of Danny, was a cup of shitty drive-thru coffee — the kind that Tom drank daily.

  It was his gesture of peace. The coffee said more than the gruff older man ever would. I smiled at the proverbial white flag.

  As if on cue, Tom trod in from his office, which was secluded. Perks of being the senior unit leader. Whereas I, by comparison, was stuck on a desk, in the midst of a row of desks. No privacy. Tom came to a standstill in front of my desk and stared meaningfully at the coffee.

  “Thanks,” I said, raising the steaming mug. “For this.”

  “Welcome,” he replied.

  Our eyes met, and I tacked on, “And for last night.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I knew he meant that literally, so I moved on to easier topics.

  “What’s on the menu for today?” I asked.

  “A little highway patrol, some more paperwork. We can finish back here and put in a few more hours on the bakery case.”

  It was hard to miss the fact that he so purposefully left her name out of the itinerary. I tried to not take it as an affront, or as some kind of indictment.

  We went about the day as Tom had laid out, first patrol, then paperwork. The whole time, my mind was elsewhere. Specifically, on the sweet curves of Zoe’s chest and neck. I fantasized about her nipples until they were nearly emblazoned on the inside of my eyelid. Several times, I had to forcefully redirect my attention, lest I get a work-inappropriate boner.

  Tom spoke little, for which I was grateful. More time to run my thoughts over last night.

  By the time we got back to the station, in the late afternoon, I’d had more than I could stand. I needed to text her.

  “Can you get started on some of the leads?” I asked Tom as we settled down in the conference room. “I just need to take care of something.”

  “Danny?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was on to me, or just being friendly.

  “Mm-hmm.” A full ‘yes’ was unable to pass my lips, as lying to Tom was nearly impossible.

  “All right, I’ll get started.”

  I left the room, and found myself in the hallway, where I began to pace. Was this a good idea? Was it the noble idea? Did I give a fuck?

  The answer to that last one was ‘no.’ I didn’t care anymore. My body craved Zoe like crack cocaine. I needed to take a hit. So I sent her a text.

  I’ve got some follow-up questions on the case that I never got a chance to ask you. Are you around tonight?

  Yes.

  I suggested an out-of-the-way pub, one that was set just on the edge of the forest that encircled Fallow Springs. She agreed readily, almost as if she were perched on the edge of her chair, biting her fingernails and awaiting the influx of a new message ding.

  Okay. See you there around seven.

  See you then, she returned. She added a small wink emoji to the end of the text message, and I spent the next few hours wondering what, exactly, that emoji might mean.

  CHAPTER 18

  Zoe

  To make a long story short, I got my car back in working order. It required help from Mina and a very friendly gas station attendant, plus a little luck, but ultimately come mid-afternoon the following day, it was in tip-top shape — or at least as close to tip-top as that old beater was ever going to get.

  But the whole endeavor took us, at final count, around four hours. Four ho
urs! Just to get a car back up and running! Insane. It felt like the entire Midwestern weather cycle, or maybe the entire Midwest period, was against me. Couldn’t I do anything as simple as start a car without encountering a ludicrous issue? I had begun to feel further and further from civilization, as it felt that simply slogging through daily life had become a challenge.

  I mention this only so that you can understand how thoroughly excited I was when Dylan texted, asking to meet at the pub. I replied in the affirmative so quickly that it crossed all lines of etiquette. Generally, I hear, the girl is supposed to wait a few hours, maybe even a day if she’s feeling particularly punishing, before at last responding to the man in question. Not me — I was on those texts like white on rice.

  Given how things had ended with Dylan the other night, I was also pretty surprised to be receiving word so soon. He had seemed, at least as far as I could reckon, pissed at himself, and possibly pissed at me too. I understood all the reasons why we shouldn’t, but when I thought of those blue eyes and well-defined abs, I found reason quickly evaporating.

  At the stroke of seven, I pulled into the parking lot of a dingy joint called O’Reilly’s. Actually, I’m not sure ‘parking lot’ accurately encompasses the area. It was more like a strip of gravel with two cars smattered around it, parked in different directions. It looked a bit like the beginning of the apocalypse, when everyone just abandons their vehicles and tries to outrun the zombies. Or it would’ve, if there’d been more than two cars. Quiet night, I assumed.

  O’Reilly’s was equally apocalyptic. The neon sign was all dark, save for the letter E, and several windows were boarded up. I wondered absently whether they too had recently had a breakin, or if the bar was older than window panes. No, that couldn’t be right. And yet, it was the variety of drinking establishment that looked to have been born straight out of the Earth, in the exact condition it now stood. O’Reilly’s fit in perfectly with its forest environment.

  I brought my car to a halt and didn’t bother trying to maneuver into any kind of space, for there were none outlined. Slamming the door behind me, I headed into the bar.

  It was exactly as a dive bar ought to be — still reeking of the smoke that had once filled the air and had permeated everything. The room seemed to be covered in a kind of perma-haze and lit by flickering bulbs. A pool table stood in the far corner, near a set of dart boards. My boots had trouble peeling themselves off the floor, sticky as they were. There was a long, oak bar stationed in front of a wall of various cheap, off-brand liquors.

  And at the bar sat Dylan.

  He hadn’t spotted me just yet, and I took advantage of my stealth to momentarily devour him with my eyes. He was turning a toothpick over in his fingers, spinning it from one palm to the next like a mini baton. I stared jealously at the toothpick, wishing I could be manhandled like that.

  He’d ditched his jacket for the night — that was new — and instead wore a collared chambray shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his bulging forearms, and the collar was unbuttoned just one button more than seemed appropriate, displaying his chest. I walked closer and inhaled deeply, the noise caused him to turn.

  Dylan looked at me with thinly veiled hunger, and said loudly, “Hey, Zoe!”

  There was no need to shout, we were clearly the only two in the place. I gave him a small wave and strode up to the counter.

  “Where’s the bartender?” I asked curiously.

  “Gone on his smoke break.”

  Gone on his smoke break, despite the fact that his occupancy had just doubled? Seemed odd. Then again, given the state of everything else, the owner clearly didn’t have a head for business.

  I settled into the stool next to Dylan, a rickety number that threatened to heave a sigh and give out any second now. Our knees brushed under the counter, and my mouth went dry. Keep it professional, I instructed myself. That’s what he wants, he said as much yesterday.

  “Hey,” I coughed, stumbling over the drought in my throat.

  “You need something to drink?”

  “Yeah,” I returned skeptically. “But the bartender’s out.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes and grinned. “No need to stand on ceremony in O’Reilly’s.” He scooted out of his seat, and in one smooth motion, hopped over the counter.

  “Show off.”

  “Only for you,” he shot back, with a wink.

  The messages were becoming garbled in my mind. Was he, or was he not, interested in taking things a step further? One minute he couldn’t date me on principle, and the next, he was hitting on me in an abandoned pub on the edge of town. I groaned internally, trying to decode the signals.

  His fingers tripped across the shelves of liquor, randomly alighting upon a bottle of good scotch.

  “Will this do?” he questioned, holding the clear liquid to the light. “Seems decent.”

  I nodded but didn’t reply. I was past the point of pretending to care about anything but getting my hands on Dylan’s cock. He stood with his back to me as he poured out the liquid and I had an opportunity to take in his body from a new angle. He was tall with wide shoulders and his ass filled out his jeans perfectly. I noticed that the jeans were worn enough so that the outline of his wallet had started to fade the back pocket. When he turned around with my drink my eyes were still at the same level and I quickly closed my eyes to make it seem like I wasn’t looking where I wasn’t supposed to be.

  “Here you go,” he said with a touch of a smirk, sliding a glass over the counter. He restocked the liquor bottle and leapt over the bar.

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  Once again, we were sitting knee to knee, and I took a sip of the scotch, hoping that he’d assume my flush was from the alcohol, and not from thoughts of his sumptuous body doing things to me I could barely fathom.

  “So,” I began, hoping to deescalate the situation. “What questions did you have for me?”

  His eyes focused in like lasers. Would he play my game? Was I even playing a game? His finger trailed the rim of the glass.

  “Well,” he returned, “let’s start easy. What’s the last thing you did in the bakery before the breakin?”

  I scoffed. “You arrested me.”

  “No, before that.”

  “I left to get ingredients for a big order. I told you that when I got pulled over, remember?”

  “Right, right,” he said pensively. “And is there anyone you think might’ve done it?”

  I inched closer to him, only an inch, scraping my ass along the rough vinyl of the stool.

  “No,” I replied. “I think, I thought, everyone in town liked me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. They couldn’t help themselves. I mean, look at you.”

  I blushed, and hastily forced more liquor down my throat. Not like I needed liquid courage, though. I had Dylan right where I wanted him.

  “Is that so?” I asked. “I thought they all saw me as some big city girl who didn’t know jack shit about the way real people lived.”

  “Oh, I think you know plenty. About the important stuff, anyways.” As he said this, he too scooted forward on his vinyl seat. Our knees were now interlocking.

  “And what, pray tell,” I continued, “will you do when you catch the criminal?”

  He grinned, and leaned in. “Well, I imagine I might do a little something like this.”

  Without warning, he kicked his stool over, came behind me, and gripped my wrists together between his hands. He hefted my ass in the air as he knocked my stool over as well, leaving us both standing. He pressed himself against my back, leaning me over the bar.

  His hard cock was pressed between my ass cheeks. I wanted it badly, so very, very badly, but I wasn’t ready to give up my little game. Especially given how he’d reacted the night before. I was going to make sure that this time, I got exactly what I desired.

  He released my wrists and I pushed back against him so I could swivel around. The wooden bar was in the small of my back, and his face was
a breath away from my own.

  “What happens if the suspect escapes?” I asked, and in the blink of an eye, disappeared in the gap between his arm and his side, thus freeing myself from his captivity.

  “Then,” he returned with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll hunt her down.”

  He began to walk to me, forcing me to walk backwards. Our gazes stayed locked, daring the other to make the first move. I felt myself bump into the pool table, and I realized I’d been so focused on Dylan that, unbeknownst to me, we’d traversed the entire bar.

  Improvising, and totally dashing all known etiquette, I jumped onto the pool table, and slid onto my hands and knees, arching my ass to the dim fluorescent light that hung overhead.

  “And what if,” I questioned, “she’s bad for you?” We’d stopped even pretending to talk about the criminal. “What if she’s not a good idea? What then?”

  He’d reached the pool table and put his hands on the paneling as he bent over the green fabric. “I don’t care if she’s good or bad.”

  “But she’s a criminal, she’s definitely bad,” I teased. “And besides,” I added, growing a little more serious, “you cared last night.”

  “You’re right,” he fired back. “She is a bad, bad girl. And I don’t care anymore. I want her.” He swallowed. “I want you.”

  “Then,” I said, “come and take me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Zoe

  I’d said the magic words. Dylan crushed his lips to mine.

  I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t have the presence of mind to consider details. “What about the bartender?” I asked.

  Dylan laughed. “I think he’s actually in the back sleeping off a bad hangover. I said I’d take care of any customers for him and while I was behind the bar getting your drink, I turned off the sign. People will think the place is closed. I think you might have been too focused on my ass to notice me flicking the switch.”

  My mouth gaped open. “So, you knew we were going to—”