by Trudy Doyle
I miss him. I mean I really, truly do. Never in my life have I felt this absence, like a bit of tilt in my equilibrium. It’s more than just strange. It’s almost a hunger, a feeling so new I don’t even know what to make of it. And it’s far from only the physical. I miss his ready reassurances, his quiet strength, his brutal honesty, his decisiveness. His unwavering confidence in my abilities. I’ve never met anyone who has affected me this way let alone this fast, and there’s no doubt in my mind where it’s leading.
I’m falling hard for this man. And even though I barely know him, I know that somehow that fact doesn’t even figure into the equation.
I lean into the shower spray, lather, rinse, step out. As I towel off I realize I have much more to do today than I ever imagined. I not only have to figure out how to write the rest of my book, I may have to figure out the rest of my life. Or at least the next chapter of it. Soon I’m dressed and standing at my living room window.
From the second floor of this old townhouse, one which I share with an accountant underneath (a quiet neighbor and a doubly good investment for me; he trades for part of his rent by doing my taxes and investments), I can see over the tops of the buildings and clear to the river. It flows on and on to the ocean, its bottom as obscure as the reasoning behind what Roark let slip last night. This is why I’m not a cop anymore. Because he got shot? Sure, not an opportune situation, but certainly not unexpected in that line of work. But there has to be more to it, which surely means I need to know him better. I go to my laptop.
Roark Carmelli, I google. The hits come back almost before my finger leaves enter. There aren’t many, just a dozen or so viable ones, most toward the end in Italian. The first hits are articles from the local papers and Riverboro sites when Serious Joe opened, followed by a directory of independent coffee shops. But the hit that catches my eye is one from the Courier-Post dated over two years ago.
CAMDEN DETECTIVE INJURED IN DRUG SHOOTOUT
A Camden city detective was injured in a shootout on Birch Street between rival factions of local drug gangs last night. Lt. Douglas Welland, 39, of the Narcotics Unit was shot in the chest, and remains in critical but stable condition at Cooper Hospital. His partner, Lt. Roark Carmelli, 41, was also shot, but wearing body armor, sustained only minor injuries. He was treated at Cooper and released. The remaining suspect, Morely H. Lewis, 27, was taken into custody and is being held at Camden County Jail in lieu of one million dollars bail.
It’s not even a question. I reach in my desk, pull out the business card Doug handed me yesterday and dial his number. I get his voice mail, but surprisingly enough, he returns my call in less than ten minutes.
“Hey, Pam, how you doing? I was just talking about you.”
“Really? All good, I hope.”
“All great. So, you wanting a do-over for last night?”
Depending on the reference, I already did that this morning, not that I’ll get that specific. It’ll be hard enough finding a way to ask him, Could you tell me everything you know about Roark, professionally and otherwise? Because aren’t cop partnerships just like marriages, so who would know him better? I slide into investigative mode.
“Anytime you’re up for it, I’m there. I really enjoyed myself, Doug, no kidding.”
“Even with the gun to your head?”
“Well, truth be told, I could’ve passed on that part, but I’m sure the experience will give my writing a whole new level of realism.”
“Especially the shitting-your-pants part.”
“Especially that. But seriously, Doug, if you have the chance, I would love to pick your brain sometimes.”
“Pick my brain? Jeez, can’t imagine what crap’ll fall out if you do that. Name the day, Pam, and if I’m free, sure.”
No time like the present. Here goes. “Are you free tonight?”
He doesn’t answer for a second, and I’m sure he’s taken aback. “Absolutely,” he finally says, his voice dropping an octave.
“Could you meet me in Riverboro? There’s a great little Italian joint on 4th Street called Don Carlo’s. I’ll buy you a chicken marsala to die for.”
“That sounds great. But you don’t have to buy. Let me. I insist.”
“Sorry, Doug, can’t let you do that. This is research, and no way are you stealing my tax deduction. See you at seven?”
“Seven sharp. See you then.” We hang up.
Five will get you ten this guy will be scratching his head over this all day. But with less than six hours until I have to meet him and two days to deadline, I need to make every minute count. I open tanaka4.sexscene:
“Tanaka…?” Dana said. “Can you hear me?”
God, even now, she was beautiful. Not that it wasn’t always there. Dana wore her beauty like an Atlantic sunrise: obviously consistently, a given. And like so many other things he was feeling for her at that moment, the bare fact of it was
Okay. Dana gets shot but her body armor saves her, and Jack is so relieved he finally figures out… Oh, man. My imaginary partners sure turn out a whole lot better than the two real-life partners I just read about. At least the bed they’re going to end up in isn’t in the hospital, and maybe that makes me feel a little guilty. I sit back; can I really write this now, knowing what happened to Doug? Or am I just chickening out before I start? This is getting ridiculous. I place my fingers on the keyboard. No more excuses.
And like so many other things he was feeling for her at that moment, the bare fact of it was driving him insane.
“Don’t move,” he said, coming closer.
She stared at him though she quickly acquiesced. Good. Because this was no time to question him about anything. She didn’t move, breathe; she simply watched him as he undid the buttons of her shirt, revealing the armor that lay underneath and the bullet compacted against her heart. His hand hovered above it, his breath catching.
“Lean toward me,” he whispered.
She nodded, doing it in half speed, watching as Jack slipped her arms from her shirt, as he undid the Velcro and pulled the armor over her head, as he dropped the vest to the floor. Each time he touched her she shivered, trembling visibly when he pressed her back to the carpet, revealing a bruise already forming just above the tiny rosebud at the cinch of her bra. He bent to it, her chest heaving.
“I could have lost you,” he murmured, kissing the spot.
She gasped, her hair a swirl of red silk around her head.
He pulled back, his arms caging her. “I could have lost you,” he repeated, his voice brutally thick.
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.” She was crying; it was so unlike her he’d never seen it before. “You know I wouldn’t let you go anywhere without me.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it—I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. And goddamn, Dana,” he said angrily, his face inches from hers, “I don’t know if I can live with that anymore.”
She was struggling now, choking for air. “What…what’re you saying?” Her mouth opened in panic. “You’re not leaving me, are you? Oh Jack—if you leave me I’ll—”
“Leave you? Are you—” He couldn’t fight it any longer, it was too much, for much too long. Down deep the hunger overtook him and he fell into her, her lips, her mouth, her tongue shocking
Oh fuck. My mind goes blank. Just when this was going so good. I mean, really, all I have to do is insert Part D in Part C, add a little color and my work is done. But the Google hit I read keeps coming back to me. And what Roark said to me the night before.
I read back what I just wrote. “I could have lost you… and I don’t know if I can live with that anymore.” Then I shiver, recalling more. Pam, if it did happen, if by my stupidity I allowed it to… I just couldn’t handle it.
Son of a bitch, I’m channeling him. Not that I haven’t done it before; I am a fiction writer after all. But this time it feels off kilter, slightly skewed. Yet as close as I am to it, I still feel like I’m flailing around in
the dark. Because what I felt was still so proverbially close, the trees got in the way.
I had a gun to my head and survived. But what if I had actually gotten shot? How would I go on? It had to be like rising from the dead. I needed to understand the mechanics that let you go on. Or not.
Oh how I need to talk to Doug.
Double fuck! It’s nearly six thirty! I save and shut down, and run around like a maniac to get dressed and out the door in fifteen minutes. By the time I make Don Carlo’s Doug has already arrived, sitting at our table with a bottle of wine, two glasses and a way too predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Hello, Pam,” he says, rising as I slide into my chair. Oh boy, I got to nip this in the bud, but quick.
“Doug, great to see you,” I say with my best businesslike clip, reaching out to briskly shake his hand. I slip a pad out of my purse. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes, and just so you know, I really am paying for dinner. This is all part of the job, so you shouldn’t have to—”
“Pam.” He puts his hand over mine. “I get it.”
That throws me. “What?”
He squeezes it and lets it go. “Besides the fact you’re one of my favorite writers and it’s a real thrill you’re asking for my input, you’re an extremely attractive woman. Trust me, I’d still be here without the added incentive. But I also know the deal.”
I blink, sitting back. “Do you now?”
“Carmelli couldn’t have made it plainer if he had his initials tattooed on your forehead. Look, I’ve known him ten years, and I’ve never seen him react that way to anyone, including his wife. He’s into you, totally.” He gives me a quick assessment. “Just like I’m also figuring the feeling’s mutual.”
“Well.” I have to regroup for a second. “Not to sound smug, but are you okay with that?”
“I’m down with it. Sometimes you just have to take what people say at face value. Anyway…” He shrugs. “You want to pick my brain? Here I am. Ask me anything.”
“Thank you.” He smiles genuinely at me, all six-foot plus of blond Nordic good looks, and right then I could tell, if it wasn’t for Roark, he would be in my bed tonight. But that assumption is based purely on my own history, and not on any real cues he’s tossing. Now that I’m actually sitting across from him, I can’t help thinking there’s something just a bit off about Doug, nothing I could really put my finger on, though enough to make the fancy footwork I thought I’d need unnecessary. So much, I almost feel embarrassed. But that was all static anyway. Time to get down to the real reason I’m here. I jump to it.
“Doug…” I’m treading delicately here. “I need a favor. If it’s okay, I’d like to ask you about the time you and Roark were shot.”
He flinches, almost imperceptibly, as he picks up the wine bottle. “Okay,” he says a bit stiffly, filling our glasses. “What do you want to know?”
“Look, I know this can’t be easy to talk about, and if you’d rather not, that’s all right. But I have a scene I’m working on that’s similar, and I really want to make it accurate.”
“I’m all right,” he says, steel seeping into his gaze. “Go ahead.”
There’s a part of me that doesn’t quite believe it, but I need to know so I plow ahead. “This might sound a little strange, but it would lend realism to my story if you could give me a little insight. Both you and Roark were shot. But how is it you took a bullet and still went on being a cop, but Roark walked away and gave it all up?”
He laughs, his gaze hardening even further as he takes a long sip of wine. “Maybe because you don’t always have to take a bullet to take a hit.” And when he takes another long sip, his jaw clenching as he stares past me into nothing, I know he’s returning to that night in Camden two years earlier. “Six people were killed that night, four by the bangers killing each other, two by Carmelli. There almost was a seventh, and that’s the one that got him.”
Another sip of wine, another moment of recollection as I wait, my pencil poised over pad, my fingers wanting to move. Doug finally continues. “There’s one banger left in the house. I’m inside creeping up the steps, and Carmelli’s outside covering him from the street. Then all of a sudden this thug dangles a baby out of the second-floor window. He’s saying he’ll drop it or he’ll shoot it, he doesn’t care. The sickest thing is the baby mama isn’t even screaming for her kid, she’s screaming at us. Her kid’s hanging out the window and she’s freaking for her crack daddy.
“Now I’m not seeing any of this as I’m sneaking up to the room with a couple of uniforms backing me. Carmelli’s outside still trying to talk sense to him, when all of a sudden crack daddy turns and pops a couple of rounds at me before he leans out the window and pops a couple more at Carmelli, tossing the baby at him.”
“Oh my God.” I feel sick.
“He takes one in the chest but he catches the baby. It’s screaming, but it’s alive. The mother doesn’t even blink or see if the kid’s okay. The uniforms jump the thug and take him in. I go to the hospital, get a bullet dug out of me, and after a little while, I’m back on the street. Carmelli lasts a few weeks on desk duty as the investigation winds down, then he quits. They offered him a promotion to captain, and the mayor wanted to give him a citation, but he turned both of them down.”
He refills my glass; I didn’t even know I drained it. “So last night when that thief held a gun to my head,” I say, “it was like that baby getting tossed all over again.”
He stares at me, though I know in an instant it’s not me he’s looking at, nor anything in this restaurant or anything I’d ever be able to see. Then, in the space of a breath, his gaze softens and the Doug of our first meeting returns. “Everyone has their limit,” he says with a shrug. That baby was Roark’s. He’s a good cop and a good man. That day he killed two people who wasted their lives. But he also saved one that hadn’t even started yet. Maybe that told him it was time to save his own.” He raises his wineglass. “As for me? Maybe there’s still a few things I don’t get yet. Maybe I take a little longer to catch on.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. You seemed to have caught on pretty quick.”
He smiles. “Some things are just too damn obvious, Pamela Flynn.” He picks up a menu. “Shall we order? I’m freakin’ starving.”
And so am I. But it’s not for anything I’m going to get at this table. We eat, we talk, we laugh, I learn. Then we say good night and I’m home on my sofa, staring up at the ceiling, my keyboard silent, my mind on Doug. Roark seems to have gotten past it just fine. Doug, I’m not so sure.
* * * * *
At three the next day my phone rings and it’s the car service. They’re downstairs, and do I need any help with my luggage? No, I tell them, it’s just a carryon. I’m already sporting my new fuchsia dress, hair piled up, garters on, looking fabulous. But when I get outside it’s not a Lincoln Town Car that greets me but a full-fledged stretch limo, and I climb inside, feeling as though I should be kicking back the paparazzi.
My driver’s amiable, and we leave the window open chatting about this and that and everything, the scenery along the New Jersey Turnpike slowly changing from rural to suburban to urban to industrial. Before long I see the Pulaski Skyway and the New York skyline, and we’re into the Lincoln Tunnel, day turning into neon dusk before disgorging us right into the thick of it. The driver’s phone rings and I know it’s Roark.
“Yes sir. Right on time, sir. Ten minutes.” He turns his head to me. “We’re picking him up at the Javits Center.”
“Okay,” I say, my heart pounding.
I’m counting every light, every block. The closer we get, the shyer I feel, and I know it’s ridiculous—my God! I’ve had sex with the man three times! But I just can’t help it. The driver pulls to the curb and there he is, looking spectacular in his dark business suit and shades.
I grin. Lasciviously. Did I actually say something about feeling shy?
He opens the door and slides inside. “Ritz Carlton,” he says to the
driver, then closes the window, sealing us off. The car pulls back into traffic.
He turns to me and I can hardly breathe as he scans me up and down. “You look fantastic—Christ, I missed you.” His hand slips around the back of my neck, his mouth lowering to mine.
Once again, the world falls away.
Chapter Nine
When Roark pulls back from our kiss, his sunglasses are steamed.
“I think you need to give your cool a rest for a moment. I feel like I’m kissing a mirror.” I slip them from his face to atop my head. Oh dear. Big mistake. Those deep, dark laser lenses are aiming right at me and apparently, they’re not getting the joke.
“Hi,” I squeak. “Am I in for it now?”
“Oh,” he says, deep and throatily, “you have no idea.”
In a flash I’m flat on my back, his hands sliding my dress to my hips. A little gasp escapes him when he sees my stockings and garters and whoops!—my distinct lack of underwear. “Jesus…” he breathes, his gaze fixed, his hand just skimming a most sensitive part of my anatomy. I can feel my insides firing as he slowly spreads my legs, his hands searing my thighs. “I want you coming in my mouth.”
I hope he doesn’t expect me to answer him. Because not a split second later his tongue is on me and I lose all powers of speech. I grab the armrest, desperately trying to hold on.
His hands slide under me and squeeze my bottom, his thumbs teasing, stroking, playing around the periphery, his tongue flicking away at my clit. “God, you have a beautiful ass,” he breathes into my skin, his hands kneading my cheeks.
“You’ve got to be…kidding,” I say, breaking through this delicious stupor long enough to crack, “Dump trucks have smaller payloads.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never seen a Mack that made me want to do this.” He nudges me on my side and plants a smooch on my ass, kissing and sucking and licking his way back to my pussy, my whole body quivering.