Love [Literally]

by Maria Monroe

  I can't find any follow up articles on the case, but I read every single piece I can find, hoping for more information than I'm getting. They all have the same information. Suspected homicide that apparently was never solved.

  What. The. Hell. My hands are shaking as I sit back in my seat, unable to believe what I'm reading.

  I need to talk to Julian. I need to see if he got a chance to look through the reports from my contact. The problem is, I'm afraid to be around him. My feelings are so confused when it comes to Julian. He makes me nervous and scared, but also angry and sad. And, even though I wish it wasn't true, my body responds to the smallest gesture from him. A single glance can make my heart pound and my pussy tingle. Although I can't stop thinking about him, at the exact time I want never to see him again. How much simpler my life would be if he wasn't in it. Again.

  It sucks to see him with Scarlet. It sucks that he's my boss. But most of all, it sucks to be so near him with such frequency and not be able to touch him. Or have him touch me. Nobody's ever made me feel the way he did, and I've finally admitted to myself that nobody will ever again. He's it for me. And he's my past. Which means my future is pretty much screwed.

  Sighing, I message him on my laptop. Hey. Could use some advice. You free? For a second I have a flashback to college, when we used to pass notes to each other in class because our professor had forbidden the students to use cell phones. Those notes were the start of our relationship, the start of everything. What if things were like that again now? What if we could IM each other sexy messages throughout the day?

  Instead, though, his response is simple: Yes.

  I rifle through my desk to find the file folder where I put the papers from my contact. "Dammit!" I mutter to myself as I realize I left them at home on my kitchen table. I'd been studying them this morning while I had a cup of coffee and must have left them there. I remember Julian scanned in a copy, though, so I pull out my compact and do a quick check to make sure there's no makeup on my teeth and my face isn't too shiny.

  Michelle is just getting back to her desk at that moment, of course, and she tilts her head and looks at me for a second before speaking. "You're either prettying yourself up for a faux-casual work selfie or you're going to talk to Julian."

  I scowl at her.

  "Am I right? I'm always right," she says as she sits at her desk. Her short skirt rides up a little on her, showing off her perfectly long, slender legs. Today her hair is swept back into a loose bun at the back of her head, and her eyebrows are penciled in so she looks exactly like Audrey Hepburn.

  I tell her that.

  "Happy girls are the prettiest girls," she says, smiling languidly at me.

  "Is that an Audrey Hepburn quote?"

  "Supposedly. It's way too Pollyanna for my tastes, though." She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "I got sucked into looking at an Audrey Hepburn Pinterest board last night, and I can't get her out of my mind! I'm not even a fan. I started looking at a fashion website I like, and that somehow led to the quote I believe in pink, which also supposedly she said. And that… well, you know how it is."

  "You look fantastic," I offer.

  "You too. And you know who else will think so?" She winks at me, and grins.

  "Stop," I whisper, glancing around.

  "Sorry," she says in a tone that tells me she's not sorry at all. As I walk away and toward Julian's office, she calls out in a falsely high voice, "I believe in kissing, kissing a lot!"

  I quicken my pace.

  Outside Julian's office, I take a deep breath and knock. I can already see him behind his glass walls, typing something on his computer. He looks up abruptly, and his face lightens, like he's happy to see me. Again he's wearing a suit, and again I can't get over how unbelievably handsome he looks in it. God, he's delicious. It sort of seems like the crisper his shirt, the more it temps me to touch it, to unbutton it, to pull it out of his pants. And speaking of pants, it's possible he looks just as good in a perfectly tailored pair as he does in faded jeans. Just a different kind of good. The fuck-me-on-your-desk-right-now kind of good. Except the walls of his office are see-through. And there's nothing at all between us. We've decided and agreed. Still…

  "Sit." He gestures at the chair across from him and I do.

  I stare at his lips, which look so delicious right now, and I think about how they feel, about the magic they’re capable of doing to my body. Remembering him leaving the bar with Scarlet, though, is enough to pull me back down to reality. That and the fact that we’re supposedly going on a double date this weekend. Ugh.

  I take a deep breath. "Julian, did you have a chance to look at those reports I gave you the other day?" I ask.

  "I did." He doesn't move, though. Just keeps staring at me.

  "So…" I let my voice trail off, hoping he takes the clue and starts talking.

  "So…" He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. "Lia," he finally says, his voice low, his eyes growing darker.

  "What?" My voice is, unintentionally, a whisper.

  "Fuck if this isn't so much harder than I thought it would be."

  "Yeah, accounting is pretty tough." I force the joke out.

  "Dammit, Lia, you know what I'm talking about."

  I do.

  Before I have a chance to respond, even though I'm not sure what I'd say, he waves his hands as if to wipe out what just happened. "The reports you gave me. I did look at them, and I had a buddy in finance take a look too. It's really unclear why the money's being transferred out of that account which is, supposedly, only to be used for relief efforts of the charity."

  "So in other words, you suspect something fishy's going on?"

  He nods. "My instincts are never wrong."

  Oh. What are they telling him now, I wonder, as my body floods with desire. It's stupid, to be feeling this way during a serious conversation about work. But it's the way he's looking at me, like at any second he's going to jump over the desk and rip my clothes off. Can he tell I'm turned on by the way he looks at me? Do his instincts let him know that I'm throbbing between my legs just being in the same room with him?

  But now isn't the time. Well, never is the time. Not for us. But definitely not now, when I've just found new information I need to share with my boss. Somehow, I push all my dirty Julian fantasies out of my mind and focus, once more, on the story.

  "OK, then let me hear what your instincts are on this," I say, and I fill him in on how I found out about Melanie George's dead body being dragged from Lake Michigan. He makes me go through the story twice, taking notes on the connections between her and Hope International.

  He takes a long time looking at the articles on line and referring back to his notes. I don't interrupt him, but I do use the opportunity to study him as he works. The intensity I see in him right now is rivaled only by the intensity I've seen on his face in bed, when his focus is solely on pleasure. For him, but also for me. No, not me. Scarlet. Or the other girls he's undoubtedly been with in the past few years. Why do I care? I wish with all my heart that I didn’t.

  Finally I can't stand waiting anymore. "So? What do you think?"

  He rubs his face with both hands, then looks at me. "I think, Lia, that I don't want you working on this story anymore."

  "Wait. What? You can't take me off this story!"

  He puts up a hand. "I didn't say I'm taking you off the story. Relax. I said I don't want you working on it. But I won't stop you."

  "Do you really think it's dangerous? Do you think Melanie George's death is related to her involvement in the charity?"

  He shakes his head. "I don't know. We need to do some digging. I'll call my contact at the Chicago Police Department, see if I can get any updated info on the drowning. I know your original contact isn't talking, but I want you to try again. See if you can find another way to reach her."

  "Got it. Thanks."

  "You're doing a good job, Lia."

  "Is that, like, my first official review from you?"r />
  He growls, predatory and low, as he comes out from behind the desk and walks to my chair, towering over me as I sit there. He glances up at the glass doors, then takes a step back, as though being seen is the only thing keeping him from…what? I don't know what he was going to do, but my heart is pounding, my stomach swirling. He sits on the edge of his desk, right in front of me so that my knees touch his shins. Those eyes—so green and dark—stare into mine.

  "There are so many ways I want to answer that question," he says, his voice hoarse. "But not a single one is appropriate."

  "Because people can see us?" I whisper.

  He nods. "And I'm your boss. And last night you made it quite clear that the past is the past. And that you want to move on."

  “Have to move one,” I mutter. Julian’s my boss. And he has a girlfriend. But I’m growing weary of trying so hard to pretend I don’t feel something for him. He’s made it clear he feels the same way, but the back-and-forth of it all is getting old.

  He stares at me, his eyes unreadable; he looks as though he’s trying to figure something out, like I’m a puzzle or an optical illusion.

  “Are we done?” I finally ask, tearing my gaze from his.

  For a split second I fantasize that he says, “No, Lia, we’re not. We’ll never be done.” That he pulls me up so we can kiss, in front of everyone in the office. But, of course, that’s only in my little daydream.

  He clears his throat. “We are.”

  I push my chair back so I have enough room to get up. Without looking back, I walk quickly to my desk.

  The second I open my apartment door, I can sense that something is wrong. Exactly what, I'm not sure. It's like the air is different, or, if I believed in extrasensory perception, I suddenly have it and just know something's amiss. I stand in the open doorway for a few minutes, looking around. Everything looks fine. I just can't help the creepy sensation climbing up and down my spine, the fact that something feels really, really off.

  I want to be brave. I want to walk in like I own the place. Because I sort of do. But I'm also not stupid.

  I close the door, then head to my downstairs neighbor's apartment. I don't know her well, but she seems really friendly, and she has a super hot boyfriend who rides a motorcycle and looks like he works out constantly. His bike was parked outside when I got home, and I think he'll be the perfect backup for me.

  I knock on the door tentatively, and a few seconds later Jenna, my neighbor, answers. "Hey, girl," she says with a smile. "What's up?"

  "Oh. Hi! OK, this is going to sound really weird, but I was wondering if you and your boyfriend could go into my apartment with me?"

  She gives me a quizzical look, and I realize I really need to explain more.

  "I came home from work, and when I opened my apartment door, I just got this weird feeling, like someone had been there."

  "Is anything missing?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

  "No. I don't know. I didn't actually go in. It looks OK, but I could really use some support, emotional support, while I check things out."

  "I got this." Her boyfriend Jace appears behind her, all sexy muscles and tattoos crawling over his arms, which are muscular and hard. He smiles at me, and I know I blush. Clearly he's enamored with Jenna, but I can't help feeling a little weak in the knees when he looks at me.

  "Should we take a baseball bat or something?" asks Jenna, worried.

  "Do you have one, Sugar?" he asks with a smirk. "You're not exactly athletic."

  "That's not what you said last night," she whispers.

  "OK," I say, putting a hand in the air. "I don't need to hear this!"

  "Seriously," says Jace, "let's go. Was the door ajar? Signs of forced entry?"

  "No and no," I respond as we walk up the stairs. "Everything looks totally normal. I just have this weird feeling. I know that sounds stupid."

  "Not at all. We—humans—aren't encouraged to listen to our instincts, but we should. That gut feeling you get sometimes? That you push away because you think it's stupid? Probably the most important thing you should follow."

  I briefly want to ask him if that applies to guys—like Julian—as well as dangerous situations, but I keep my mouth shut because we're at my door now. And he's not my therapist.

  "It's unlocked," I say, and he pulls it open.

  From the doorway I watch as he makes his way through the living room and checks out the open area kitchen. "I'm going to look in your bedroom and the bathroom," he says.

  "Should I come with you?" Please say no, I think, ready to run. I'm totally being a coward.

  "Stay there."

  I hear him opening up my closets, pushing back the shower curtain. In a few minutes he's back.

  "Checked everywhere. Closets. Under the bed. Shower. It's empty. And neat. Nothing's out of place, as far as I can tell."

  "I'm sorry. I feel stupid."

  "Don't. And don't ignore those gut feelings. Listen. I'm staying the night with Jenna. If you need anything just knock, OK?"

  I nod. "Thanks."

  When he leaves, and after sneaking a peek at his tight ass as he walks down the stairs to Jenna, I remind myself to wear earplugs to bed tonight and shut the door. Dropping my bag onto the floor by the door, I slip out of my heels. Relief. I head to my room and change into the oldest pair of sweatpants I have and a worn out T-shirt. I don't bother with a bra. Right now I just need to relax.

  In the kitchen I'm about to get out a wine glass, when I notice the kitchen table. It's empty. I swear I left that folder with the financial reports from my contact there. In my tiny apartment there aren't really that many other places I'd put something like that, and a quick check of my coffee table and night stand reveal that it's not here. So where is it? Is that why I got that weird vibe? Did someone come into my apartment to take that folder? And why? This isn't some Erin Brokovich movie. This is real life, and stuff like that doesn't happen in real life.

  Still, I feel shaky as I pour myself a glass of wine. For good measure I light a candle. I'm not really into candles, but I found this one in a little boutique store, and it smells like vanilla with a hint of whiskey. Which, if I'm being honest, reminds me of Julian. The whiskey part, at least. It always has. But fuck it. I'm not going to be a martyr tonight. I'm going to drink as much wine as I want and light whichever candle I want.

  As I sit on the couch, though, I have to fight every single instinct I have to not text Julian. He's the one I want here. He's the one who could make me feel safe. God help me if that's wrong, but I can't deny it. If I listened to my downstairs neighbor's boyfriend, his talk about listening to your instincts, I'd text Julian right away. And then? I'd strip him naked the second he walked through my door. It's a good thing I've got such great self-control, I think as I settle onto the couch, putting my phone safely out of reach and picking up the remote control instead.

  When my phone vibrates with a text message, though, I can't resist and I reach for it. It's Julian. Like he read my mind, I think, then shake my head at how sappy and ridiculous I can be.

  Talked to my police buddy. No updates on body.

  Thanks, I text back. He could have waited to tell me at work, couldn't he? Does the fact that he's texting me at night mean something? I don't know why I'm being so needy and dumb; maybe it's the panic from earlier. I resolve to be stronger and much, much saner.

  Let's meet first thing tomorrow to go over everything, he texts.

  OK. Do you have laptop at home? Can you print finance report just in case?

  Sure. Just in case what?

  Mine's missing, I text.

  Way to stay organized.

  I add a rolling-eyes emoticon. Thanks, boss. I think it was stolen.

  What?? From where? desk?

  No, I text. Not a big deal. Just print in case. Please. Thanks.

  Dammit, Lia.

  A second later my phone rings. "Dammit, Lia," says Julian's voice the moment I answer. He sounds all sorts of pissed off. "What happened?"


  "With what?"

  "Don't fucking play games. Tell me what's going on."

  "Nothing. I don't know. When I got home from work, my folder with the reports was gone."

  "From your apartment?" He sounds incredulous and angry. And worried.

  "Yes?"

  "And you're there now? By yourself?" His words are harsh through my phone.

  "It's all right, Julian. I had the guy downstairs check out my place first. He's huge. And nobody's here except for me and my glass of wine."

  "I don't like it."

  "Sorry?" I'm not sure what kind of response I should give him. "Look, I didn't want to get you all worked up. I just wanted to make sure you printed those files. So we have an extra just in case."

  "On it," he says and hangs up abruptly.

  So he's being a dick. Again. Like usual. I settle back down onto the couch and start watching an old episode of Gilmore Girls, one of the later episodes where Rory's dating Logan. I consider the fact that, of all the boyfriends she had on the show, Logan's by far my favorite. He's also the one most widely considered an asshole by other viewers. I do always go for the assholes, don't I? Or at least one asshole in particular.

  Though really? Julian’s not actually an asshole. I know that so well. I still remember how gentle he could be, how he surprised me with a trip to watch the sunrise in college. And an excursion to the sex toy store. And just an overall sweetness, even though it was hidden deep behind his cool and collected exterior.

  I sip my wine, lost in memories of Julian back in college. When my doorbell rings, I start, spilling wine down the front of my shirt. I guess I'm still jumpy. Dammit, I whisper, setting my glass on the coffee table and licking wine off my hand. It's probably Jenna and Jace checking up on me. Of course, they wouldn't ring the bell, since they're already in the building and don't need to be buzzed in. They'd just knock on the door…