by Cecy Robson
“No, I’m good,” he says, returning his focus to me.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying late,” she pushes. “I do it all the time.”
I glance at the wall clock. It’s almost six. The majority of the clerical staff leaves at four thirty. As county employees, they’re paid a set salary. There’s no incentive to stay unless there’s a pressing matter and many have children to return to.
“It’s really late,” I tell Stephanie. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
For some reason, she doesn’t like me questioning her. “I had work to do,” she says, doing little to hide the annoyance in her voice.
I lean back, frowning. While I don’t expect her to fall all over herself to please me, I’m rather baffled she’s not more polite. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
She stiffens. “No. Why?”
“Because your tone and the way you’re addressing her suggests you don’t respect her or her position here in the office,” Declan answers for me. He could have kept his tone light and easy to keep her apparent awe of him going, but he didn’t. While he wasn’t harsh, it’s clear he’s not happy.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she responds, to him.
I reach for my notes on the case. There’s a lot I can say to Stephanie, but I pick my battles. If I’m going to be labeled a bitch, I’d rather it be for fighting for victims’ rights, not fighting with someone who’s immature, self-serving, and oblivious.
“I suppose I should apologize,” she offers to Declan, trying to make amends with him.
So much for staying quiet. “Don’t bother,” I tell her. “Just watch what you say. We’re all working for the greater good and everyone deserves respect, regardless of their title or physical appearance.”
She presses her lips into a firm line, but doesn’t bother with a retort. It doesn’t matter. Her glare is telling enough.
“Have a good night,” Declan tells her, tilting his head in the direction of the door.
I focus on the list I have to discuss with Declan and don’t bother to watch her leave.
“What did you mean when you told her physical appearance shouldn’t matter?” he asks. I glance up to find him, grinning. “Are you saying she only talks to me because I’m pretty?”
I shouldn’t smile. Of course I do. “You think you’re pretty?”
“You don’t?” he challenges.
I laugh. “Fish for compliments much?”
“I don’t usually have to.” He holds out a hand. “I know that shocks you.”
“Nothing really shocks me about you, Declan, except for your ongoing love affair with yourself.” I return to my pad of paper, adding “must kick Declan’s ass” to my to-do list.
“So are you going to tell me?”
“Whether or not I think you’re pretty?” I ask, underlining the ass kicking and adding a star. “You don’t need me to, do you? I’m sure any one of your groupies would be more than happy to tell you between bows.”
I smile and keep my voice light. I’m mostly joking, ignoring the fact that my yes, Declan has legions of ladies ready to tear their panties off at his command.
“No, whether you were referring to me and what I look like when you made the comment . . . or yourself.”
This time when I look up, I meet his gaze and hold it.
“Do you think Stephanie doesn’t respect you because you’re hearing impaired?” His voice is steady. There’s no apology behind what he’s asking, but there’s no malice either. “Or that she respects me because she finds me attractive?” He plays with the pen in his hand. “Your inability to hear well reflects in your speech, making the unnoticeable, noticeable. So who were you referring to, you or me?”
“Maybe both,” I admit.
There’s more I can say about Stephanie, but I don’t want Declan to mistake my dislike of her behavior for jealousy. There’s nothing of her to envy. I don’t desire her looks, insecurities aside, I’m comfortable in my skin. And if given the choice, I’ll always choose kindness over gain. I’m not certain Stephanie would agree.
“All right,” Declan says, his smile returning as her reaches for his bottled water. “Next question. “How do you know so much about being dominated?”
“I’ve spent a few nights at Club Hurt.”
Water spews from his mouth, drenching the plastic takeout bag in front of him. I rush around the desk when he starts to choke, smacking his back a few times. “Are you okay?”
He swipes his mouth with a wad of napkins. “You’ve seriously been there?” he asks.
“I have,” I say, toying with whether to come clean. My hand slips down his back and away. “Tricia asked me to go so I can understand her lifestyle. Those things I said, about being stimulated and sexually freed are more or less what she and her Doms told me.”
Declan stares at me, his expression split with fascination and shock. “Just so I’m clear, you went to Club Hurt and watched Tricia get spanked?”
“Whipped,” I clarify.
“Whipped?”
“That’s her preference. But I only went because I wanted her to trust me and open up.”
“By whipping her?” Declan asks incredulously.
I throw back my head, laughing. “I didn’t whip her, Declan. And I didn’t watch either. I simply met privately with her and her favorite Doms. No one was in leather, in fact, one of the Doms was dressed in flannel.”
“Why?”
“It was cold in the office.”
He laughs. “You know what I mean. Why did you meet with her and her buddies?”
I return to my chair. “I told you. So she’d trust me. A woman in Tricia’s position wants be understood, but given her history, she has some serious trust issues. She wanted me to be sympathetic to her lifestyle before she’d open up. So I went.” I shrug. “The ball gag made it a little hard to breathe through, but I did okay.”
He laughs again, but then quiets the longer he watches me. “Do you do that a lot? Go to places outside your comfort zone to better understand victims of crime?”
“I do.” I let out a breath when I start to think about it. “I’ll admit, though, sometimes I’ve gone too far.”
“How so?”
I debate whether or not to answer, mostly because I worry who it will get back to. “Will this stay between you and me?”
“Depends. Is it legal?” he asks.
It’s a fair question given his role. “It is. I would just prefer my father not know.”
“You, a grown woman, doesn’t want her daddy to know what she did?” he asks. “I thought you were closer than that.”
“We are. But what I have to say will only upset him.” My voice quiets. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“All right,” he agrees, suspicion drawing his brows tight.
“Okay. Here goes,” I say, slapping my hands against my lap. “I’ve helped social workers search for runaways on the streets, rushed into warehouses known to house addicts to pull young girls out, and driven around in the dead of night talking with prostitutes about giving up their lifestyles.”
“Shit,” he says, completely caught off guard. “Any success?”
“Very little,” I admit.
“Then why do it, especially when you can get hurt or killed doing shit like that? Christ, Mel, invading crack houses, driving around the worst parts of town, that’s nothing short of suicide.”
“At the time, all I could think about was helping those who really needed me.”
“What about your dad? Don’t you think he needed you, too?” He holds a hand out. “I’m not trying to be a dick. But like I said, anything could have happened to you.”
He’s not being judgmental. At least, that’s not how I take. If anything, he seems concerned for my welfare even though the events happened long ago. It’s sweet and I do my best to assure him. “I usually hired a bodyguard to come with me―”
“Usually?”
Okay. He went from being
sweet to thinking I’m crazy, not that I blame him. But now that I opened that can, I keep going. “Sometimes even bodyguards packing big guns, big muscles, and big attitudes were hesitant to enter the places I needed to search.”
“So you’d go alone?” he asks, barely able to get the words out.
“Never alone,” I say, thinking back to my more desperate cases. “But sometimes it was just me and another victim services advocate.”
“Another woman?” he asks. “Mel, again, I’m not trying to be a dick, but how do two women stand a chance against dealers and pimps bent on keeping what they feel belongs to them? I love Philly. It’s my home and heart, but I know firsthand how unforgiving it can be.”
In his last words, I catch a flicker of bitterness and maybe pain, too. I want to hug him, knowing those he loves have been hurt despite the A.D.A. title he holds out like a shield.
I don’t of course, watching with sadness as that flicker vanishes, leaving only the shield in place.
“I know what I did was dangerous,” I agree quietly. “But I was young and wanted to give these girls a chance that no else would.” I smile softly, even though these memories are nothing to smile about. They were the suicide missions Declan inferred. But it’s my way of assuring that that despite what I saw and encountered, I’m okay on the inside.
“I don’t get you,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taken aback how upset he appears.
“The odds weren’t in your favor,” he points out. “And like you said, your success rate was low.”
“Oh, my success rate was hideous,” I agree. “I think I only helped three people at most.”
“Three?” he stresses. “After all that you only helped three people?”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much, and it’s not given the absurd number who remained on the streets, selling themselves and wasting away. But to me, they were three people who didn’t die.” I shrug. “They got their chance at life.”
“Do you still go out like that, into those neighborhoods and abandoned buildings?”
Because I’ll officially kick your ass if you do, he doesn’t add.
My stare travels to the wall behind him, struggling to admit what I do. “No. Although I’m thankful I was able to help those that I did, I stopped going when I realized exactly how much I was risking compared to what I was getting.”
He lets out a breath, as if relieved. It takes me by surprise as does the kindness in his stare. “Good,” he says.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply slowly. “It’s like so many are on this sinking ship and there aren’t enough life preservers or boats to save them. Sometimes, I still want to be that person out in that ocean, pulling people onto my rowboat or tossing them a life preserver. But I can’t, not when I risk them pulling me under.”
“Or stealing your boat?” he offers.
I laugh a little. “Yes. That, too. But if I’m struggling to reach someone or get them to trust me, like with Tricia, I attend these ‘field trips’ as I call them.”
“Why is victim services so important to you, and don’t tell me it’s because it’s your job.” He threads his hands behind his head, scrutinizing me closely. “What’s your story?”
My lips part. Declan doesn’t know about me, only what he’s sees on the surface. I was sure Dad had mentioned at least a little about what I’ve been through. I guess I was wrong.
I adjust my position in my seat, that awful sense of unease I bury deep crawling uncomfortably along my skin. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised Dad didn’t say anything about my past, he’s always been protective. But for some reason, I am. Probably because he adores Declan.
For a moment I don’t answer, wondering if I can trust this man that only days earlier, I could barely stomach. But when something softens in his features, I take a chance. “There are too many like me in the world, Declan. But most never get the help I received on that sinking ship.”
He pauses, dissecting each word. “You’re not talking about kids with special needs, are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Considering I was ready to come clean about why I do what I do, I almost immediately clam up. Probably because I’m about to add another layer of imperfection. “Did you know I was adopted?”
His eyes widen slightly. It’s a subtle gesture, and if I wasn’t watching him closely, I might have missed it.
This news probably wouldn’t be a big deal to anyone else. But Declan is smart. He knows where I’m headed and that it’s not someplace especially good. “I guess not,” I answer for him.
“I never saw a family resemblance,” he replies. “But I never gave it much thought, assuming you took after your mother.”
“Maybe, I do. I don’t remember much about her,” I confess. “I could be Latina or Caucasian, maybe both or something entirely different. I really don’t know or have anyone to ask.”
“It doesn’t say on your birth certificate?”
“There’s no father listed and no mention of my mother’s ethnicity,” I answer. I take him in, curious about what he’s thinking and maybe what he thought before now. “What did you think my childhood was like?”
“Before I realized you were adopted?”
When I nod, he stares back at me like a man who’s been given a test he can’t possibly pass. “It’s okay,” I add, smiling. “There’s no wrong answer.”
I’m not sure if he believes me, but he tells me anyway. “I figured Miles had a wife, your mother, and that she died when you were young.”
“You assumed a lot of negative things,” I say, quietly. “I’m not offended, but may I ask why you thought Dad was widower rather than a divorced man?”
“If you want to know, I’ll tell you,” he answers, his tone serious. “But you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Tell me anyway,” I reply.
He lowers his arms so his elbows fall against the armrests. “You both always seemed a little sad, like you lost someone important to you.”
I try not to react, but I’m stunned by what he says and how he easily summed up our lives in a few simple words. Declan is insightful and sensitive, too. In a way, it scares me. It’s not a side I expected to see.
He’s right, though. My father and I did lose something precious. Dad lost his opportunity to fall in love with someone and have children of his own, and I lost the opportunity to have a real mother I could cherish.
The mother I did have, wasn’t warm or compassionate. There were no gentle touches, no kind gestures, nothing I could recall that demonstrated any semblance of love. I knew only harshness and fear in her hands. I only knew pain.
Is it a wonder why it’s so hard for me to trust, when the person who was supposed to love me most did nothing but harm me?
The pain . . . it’s still raw in a way. Not just because of how I was treated, but because I’ve never understood how people could be so heartless. Yet as much as I’m feeling, and as deeply as it haunts me, I don’t dare admit as much to Declan.
What I do reveal is the truth. “My birth mother was an addict. She tried to sell me when I was little to maintain her habit.”
Declan stops moving. “What do you mean she tried to sell you? For adoption?”
It’s what he asks, but the darkness shadowing his features reveals he knows better. Part of me wants to spare him, worried what he might think of me. But I take a risk and trust him a little further, even though a more vulnerable side of me warns I’m making a mistake. “Not for adoption,” I admit quietly.
Disgust spreads along his handsome face and I’m certain he’s stopped breathing. When he speaks, I almost expect him to change the subject. “How old were you?” he asks, instead, his tone harsh.
“Almost six, I think.”
Anger overtakes his features, making it hard for me to hold his stare. “Tell me what happened,” he says.
I cross my legs and place my hands over my knee, speaking carefully so he hears me a
nd because a part of me knows there’s no going back. “There was this man . . . I’m not sure if he’d seen me before and asked for me, or if my mother simply offered to get what she needed. Regardless, he came to our apartment one morning while I was watching cartoons.”
“Jesus,” he says, already anticipating what was coming next.
I want to stop, and end the story. Somehow, I keep going. “I felt his footsteps marching toward the bedroom before my mother grabbed me and yanked me out of my clothes. I didn’t know what she was doing. But I was scared by how rough she was and tried to resist. She slapped me, trying to subdue me. When I was finally naked, she shoved me into the room where the man was waiting.”
“Please tell me you got away. That you weren’t hurt.” His breath releases in stiff motions as if in pain. “Tell me you got away.”
Because his little brother didn’t.
The compassion and sympathy he demonstrates threatens to release tears I thought had dried long ago. “I got away,” I assure him.
He closes his eyes, long enough to release a breath and steady his breathing.
“It was summer and the window was partly open. He was drunk or high and stumbling. I was able to escape before he could hurt me.” I try to smile. “Dad was the assistant D.A. in charge of my case. He told me that from the first moment he saw me, he didn’t want to let me go.”
Declan’s gaze sweeps along my face. “I don’t blame him,” he tells me.
My heart stalls. He continues to take me in, like he needs to or can’t stop. I think he’s going to say something sweet.
“Your mother was a piece of shit,” he adds.
Or perhaps not.
I glance down. “I won’t argue with that.”
In the heavy silence that follows, the universe disappears, leaving us gently tucked within the soothing peace enveloping us. It shouldn’t feel this tranquil, my story after all is one of nightmares. But it is unbelievably serene, and despite that neither of us move, I feel Declan close in, the warmth of his body reaching out to stroke me.
We lose ourselves in each other’s stare. I can’t move and I barely breathe.
“Mel,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling.