by Cecy Robson
“Someone like her?” I repeat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” he responds. “But that’s not the point. It’s what he said and how she took it.” He shrugs, trying to play it off as if it no longer matters even though I think it does. “I called him an asshole and told her she was too good for him.”
“It’s probably the same thing I would have done,” I say. In addition to stalking his ass and bashing his face in.
“Maybe,” he says. “But it wasn’t what she needed. She was trying to tell me she didn’t feel good enough, and that she never would. Instead of ripping into the little bastard and putting him down, I should have been building her up.” He motions to the women at the next table. “A mother would have known that.”
“I see your point,” I say. “But everything I’ve come to know about Melissa shows me you did a damn good job.”
He sighs. “Hopefully, but as a parent you always wish you could have done better, said something a little differently, tried a little harder, and opened your mind a little more. She’s my greatest gift, but one I don’t think I’ve given enough back to.”
I meet him square in the eye so that he knows that I mean what I say. “Miles, Melissa couldn’t have asked for a better mother or father than you.”
“God, I hope so,” he says, finishing off his water.
Melissa returns then, laughing when I stand. “Quit pretending to be a gentleman just because my father is here.”
“Just being myself,” I say, throwing in another wink.
“If you were, you’d already have that blonde’s phone number listed under your contacts,” she says, tilting her head to the right.
Funny, I hadn’t even noticed her looking at me. But with Mel around, I have a hard time noticing other women. Her intelligence and sexiness are more than enough to hold my attention. Considering what a whore I am, it should scare the unholy shit out of me.
“It’s still not too late to get laid, counselor,” she tells me.
True, but it’s not the blonde I want to take to bed. I don’t tell her with Miles here. But I would if we were alone.
I groan, making a face like she’s left me no choice, but to retaliate. “You’re making me pull out the big guns.” She cocks her head, unsure what I mean. I ignore her and address Miles. “Care to share any embarrassing stories involving Melissa’s ex-boyfriends? I’m sure her magnetic personality have lured plenty of boys home.”
“Declan,” she warns.
“I can’t,” Miles begins.
“Thanks, Dad,” she says.
“There’re too many to choose from,” he continues. He ignores Melissa’s gasp and begins to tell me about Rodrigo, a state senator’s son who tried to serenade her beneath her bedroom window.
“He wanted to be a professional singer,” Miles says, grimacing. “But the boy couldn’t sing. It was like a desperate cat, trying to make his way up a chimney. And you knew the little guy wasn’t going to make it.”
“He’s not joking,” Melissa admits, pouting her sweet lips. “By the second chorus I had to remove my hearing aids so I could finish my schoolwork. He couldn’t take the hint I simply wasn’t interested.”
With a sigh, she reaches for her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, grinning. “We’re just getting started.”
“Don’t worry, this will only take a minute,” she says, returning my smile. “Hi. It’s Melissa Fenske . . . No, nothing’s wrong. I’m having dinner with my dad and Declan. Is Curran home?”
All traces of humor immediately dissolve from my face. “Hey, Curran. Declan is here asking my father about my ex-boyfriends. But I don’t want him to feel left out, seeing how we’re only talking about me and not him. Care to share any interesting stories about his past girlfriends or hook-ups? . . . You would?” She bats my hand away when I try to reach for the phone. “Great, I’ll put you on speaker.”
She places the phone between her and her dad. “For shit’s sake,” I mutter.
Curran’s loud voice immediately fills the space between us. “Her name was Wrestling Rhonda Signaterri also known as Rhonda the Wrangler,” he begins.
No . . . not . . . Fuck.
“What an interesting nickname,” Melissa gushes. “I wonder how she acquired a name like that.”
“Wonder no more,” Curran chimes in. “So Rhonda was hot―a slutty kind of hot―but still hot. She liked to wrestle, as in got off on it. Oh, can your dad hear me?”
“Yes,” Miles answers, laughing.
“Good,” Curran says. “I don’t want him to miss a thing. Anyway, so Declan, of course, challenges her to a wrestling match, trying to get her worked up so maybe they can wrestle afterwards with their clothes off, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, we know,” Melissa and Miles say at once, cracking up.
“Anyway, Declan wins, or so he thought. Rhonda’s breathing fast and so is he. They run back to our house knowing the house is empty and our mother is at work. But me and my brothers were curious to see if Deck gets the job done, or in this case, Rhonda done.
“We sneak back to the house only to find Declan tied Ma’s bed, spread eagle wearing nothing, but a pair of tighty whities and a grin. All our shit―our T.V., our sound system, everything is gone. Turns out while he was sleeping off the experience with Rhonda the Wrestler, her brothers Patrick the Prowler and Theodore the Thug robbed us blind.”
Melissa and Miles aren’t laughing. They’re howling, and so is Tess in the background because why not?
Curran continues. I don’t have to see him to know the son of bitch is smiling. “I don’t think we’re there two minutes before our Ma walks in. Angus, our oldest brother, tries to give Declan a running start and cuts him free. Deck barely rolls off the bed before our mother snatches him off the floor by his throat. The rest of us run for our lives. Oh, but that’s nothing. Wait till I tell you about Tina the Tramp . . .”
CHAPTER 10
Melissa
Bethany’s little son grins at me, showing off his bottom teeth and flapping his arms. I kneel on the floor with them and sign to Bethany. Can I hold him?
Of course, she motions, turning Peyton toward her. Do you want to go to Aunt Melissa?
Like Bethany, little Peyton was born with severe hearing loss. Already he seems to understand a great deal. He angles around to face me, offering a sweet smile and reaching for me when I hold out my arms.
“Oh, sweet boy,” I say, gathering him to me.
I love babies: the way they coo and smile, and their total innocence completely melts me. Sometimes, though, I grow a little sad being around them. It’s not that I’ve given up on marriage and family, but working where I work, and doing what I do, makes it impossible to meet a potential baby daddy.
A knock on the door has me looking up. “Hey,” I say when I see Declan standing there.
Okay . . . maybe not completely impossible.
He grins back at me, reassured I’ve given him the smile he likes, the one that means “I haven’t pissed you off today” as he puts it. Funny thing, he doesn’t piss me off. We don’t always see eye to eye, and sometimes we go back and forth before we reach an agreement, or at least find common ground. But . . . things are better between us. I sigh at the way his light blue dress shirt brings out his eyes. No, they’re a lot better.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meeting,” he says, his eyes sparkling as if on cue. “But I have a meeting in another half hour, and I need you to sit in on it.”
I cuddle Peyton closer, rubbing his small back. Today is a little easier to keep my smile having this sweet baby so close, regardless of where I see this conversation going. Most days, though, are harder. Declan and I have handled too tough many cases lately, all surrounding horrific circumstances, forcing us to work late. Between my Dad starting chemo and hardly any time to myself, I’m ready to snap. And if it weren’t for Declan, I likely would.
Declan has completely chiseled his
way into my heart. Just two months ago, I wouldn’t have believed he could. I viewed him like so many politicians I interact with, an overly inflated ego stuffed into a suave suite, driven to succeed no matter who it harmed. Now, I can’t find any joy until I see him.
“Does this case involve ‘R’?” I ask.
Bethany is too busy looking at Declan to read my lips, but I have to keep things confidential. He gives me a stiff nod, his smile vanishing. I let out a sigh. Rosana called me crying the other day and told me her mother’s pressuring her to drop all charges against Iker. I reassured her that she has our full support and counseled her on the phone until she calmed. If Declan is meeting with them this whole thing is getting ugly.
“I’ll be there,” I assure him.
“Thanks, Mel,” he says. He nods to Bethany who incidentally can’t stop gawking at him.
Who’s that? Bethany signs.
I perch Peyton on my lap. Acting District Attorney Declan O’Brien, I sign. I’m doing my best to appear casual, but the size of my grin gives me away.
How long have you been seeing each other?
I lower my chin to kiss Peyton’s head and give my face a moment to cool. We’re not dating, I motion. We’re simply colleagues.
Colleagues don’t stare at each other like they want to take each other’s clothes off, Bethany responds.
That’s not how I was looking at him, I insist, even though that’s pretty much how I look at him every time we’re alone. But if Bethany, who doesn’t know me well, can see right through me, who else knows I’ve fallen for Declan as hard as all those women I used to make fun of?
I think you found who you need, she signs.
I think you’re reading way too much into this, I tell her.
It’s what I say, but I already know she’s right.
My long floral skirt bats against my legs as I swoop into Declan’s office. “Hi,” I say.
His suit jacket is hanging on a hook behind him and about ten case files are spread across his desk. “Hey,” he says, smiling despite the hot mess in front of him.
Instead of taking a seat in front of him, I walk around to stand beside him, crossing my arms as I skim through the file names. All are particularly violent cases and require immediate attention. “You have to reassign these, don’t you?”
He nods. “Curran ripped into me for giving Tess three of them, claiming she’s pregnant and I shouldn’t be giving her cases like this.”
Curran is only watching out for Tess, but Declan and I are watching out for all these victims. “And how is Tess taking it?”
He rubs his jaw, like he does when he’s troubled. “She assures me she’s ready and up for the challenge.” He drops his hand away. “But she’s one person. I need Carmichael and Saunders to handle the rest, but they’re greener than Tess.” He shakes his head. “These cases are complex and will likely go to trial if we can’t agree on plea. I’m giving each two. I can’t handle them all myself. And if I give them more, I don’t think they’ll last the remainder of the year.”
“Which leaves you with three additional cases,” I reason.
“That’s right,” he says.
Which means he’ll likely try seven major cases over the next year. It would have been eight if he didn’t successfully plea out Tricia’s case. “I’m having lunch at the Fat Salmon with the governor on Tuesday.”
He slumps in his seat. “Awesome. Order the Dragon Fly, you won’t be disappointed.”
I lean against the desk in a half-sitting position so I can meet his face smiling slightly. “I want you to come with me. You’re doing a great job, but you’re taking on too much.”
His eyes skim along my body, just like they do every time we’re alone. At first, he was more subtle. Now, not so much. It’s like he no longer cares what I might think and wants me to know he’s looking at me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
That I want to kiss you. I fantasize about his lips all the time. How they would taste and whether I could stop once I started. Kissing Declan wouldn’t be an innocent gesture. I’d start at his mouth and keep going, down to his throat and chest and further yet.
I’ve never told him, but each time, it becomes harder not to at least drop a hint. I don’t though, choosing to talk about business instead. Business is safe. Declan isn’t, not when I’m feeling more than simply lust.
“The D.A. offices need more staff in SACU. I’m limited to what I can offer on the law enforcement side, but perhaps you and I can convince the governor we need more A.D.A.s in this unit statewide.” I motion to the stack. “This is ridiculous, Declan. One attorney can’t take on all this alone.”
I grip the sides of the desk, waiting for him to argue. Declan often allows his ego to get in the way, pushing him to do more than humanly possible. He knows how hard this job is. This time, he thankfully doesn’t give me a hard time.
“All right,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still have a governor to convince.”
I start to push away from the desk, but the gentle sweeps of his fingers across the back of my hand keep me in place. My breath lodges in my chest. Such a delicate touch shouldn’t create such a firm hold or warm my skin the way it does, and it most certainly shouldn’t send a wave of goose bumps along the length of my arms. Except that’s the power Declan seems to have over me. I love it in a way, but in another, it frightens me.
“Who was that woman in your office?” he asks.
His gaze sears into mine, making it impossible to answer right away. “Her name is Bethany. She was a victim of domestic violence. One of the local agencies helped me relocate her to Canada when the case against her ex-husband was dismissed.”
His fingers stop against my knuckles. “Excuse me?”
“It’s something that happens a lot,” I confess. “When the victim is in danger and the system has failed.”
“You’re aiding and abetting a woman kidnapping her own child?”
I shake my head, hoping he’ll understand. “Bethany was five months pregnant when the charges against her abuser were dropped due to lack of evidence. If she would have stayed, Tomas would have killed her. I took her to a battered woman’s shelter, knowing that they’d help transport her out of the country and to safety. The only reason she returned is because Tomas is currently serving a life sentence. He met someone almost immediately after Bethany left. This woman didn’t make it.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, dropping his hand away.
The memory surrounding the incident breaks my heart and I wish Declan hadn’t pulled away. The way he stroked my hand gave me comfort I could use as I explain. “In an ideal world the A.D.A. would have tried and won Bethany’s case, justice would be served, and Tomas would be sentenced and held accountable for the multiple assaults he committed. That wasn’t what happened so, off the record, I did the only thing I could for her.”
“So she had her baby, and now that it’s safe she came back.”
His voice is so quiet, I have to read his lips. Not that it stops my smile. “Not the best happily ever after,” I admit. “But I’ll take it.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a lopsided smile. “You looked good holding that baby,” he tells me. “Happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
I laugh, slightly embarrassed. “I adore babies and want a million.”
He chuckles. “Impressive. We’re Irish Catholic and I don’t think we can manage that many.”
I glance down. “I’d be happy with one, a healthy one.”
“What do you mean by healthy?” He frowns when I don’t answer. “You don’t mean one who can hear, do you?”
Declan has a way of reaching me down to my core. My voice splinters despite that it’s not what I want. “I like who I am,” I begin.
“Good,” Declan says, his frown firmly in place. “Because I like who you are, too.”
He’s trying to be sweet. I try to make him understand without sounding like I’m fe
eling sorry for myself. “I like who I am,” I repeat. “But as much as the great things in my life have shaped me, like my father and his kindness, there have been some awful things that have shaped me, too.”
I push off the desk. “My birth mother neglected me so severely, I didn’t attend school until Dad stepped in. I was significantly delayed as result. Dad fought to make sure I’d receive all the help I needed, but the process to adopt me was lengthy, limiting the services I was eligible for regardless of my needs.” I shrug. “Learning ASL and to verbally speak, in addition to reading and math, took longer and was more challenging as result.”
“But still you learned,” he reminds me. “And not only did you catch up, you likely surpassed those your age.”
“I did,” I agree. “But I never felt like I belonged.”
“Belonged where?” he asks, clearly confused.
“Among my peers.” It’s what I say, but it’s only partly true. Growing up, I never felt like I belonged anywhere, except with my dad. “It was hard being different,” I admit. “I wish I didn’t care so much what others thought of me when I was growing up, but I did.” It’s hard to tell him what I do, and I almost turn away. Somehow I manage to keep my chin up and continue. “For a long time, I stopped wearing my hearing aids.”
“Why?” he asks.
My mind wanders, and for a brief second, I’m there, walking the halls of my high school alma mater. My mother’s actions significantly impacted me, but what occurred within the walls of that school also took their toll. “Kids would say things, mean things,” I clarify. “They’d make fun of the way I spoke, that sort of nonsense.”
“Is that why you’d take your hearing aids off?” he asks, anger finding its way across his features. “So you wouldn’t have to hear what they said?”
I answer so quietly, I barely hear myself. “Yes.”