by Marata Eros
“I... I guess he thought Mick was a threat?” I throw out lamely.
Kiki barks out a laugh, and slaps the table. “That'll do it, good for McKenna.” She throws a victory fist in the air.
“You can play the victim and get the police to lick your boots. You've gotta beat the press at their own game.”
I don't like the way that sounds.
“You hold a press conference, play the wounded gazelle. You know, talk sappy smack about how McKenna and you have been dating...”
“I don't know if he wants that...”
“Well, you can't say you and Mick have been casually fucking.” She cocks her brows.
The oxygen leaves the room. “Because we haven't.” I manage through my teeth.
“I want the deets,” Kiki says.
I open my mouth and she does a slicing gesture across her throat. “Later. Anyway,” she pauses, getting into her scheme, “Moneybags—”
“Mick,” I interrupt.
Kiki rolls her eyes, “Hotness?” She waits, and I let a small smile slip.
She grins at my expression. “Hotness is there for you when your apartment gets burglarized. Then this dirty cop comes by to make sure you're where you said you'd be”—her eyes swivel to mine—“and how many shades of fucked up is that anyway? Nevermind. He stomps in there, interrupts consensual… whatever it was, sees your underwear, and goes medieval with the juice.”
I guess that about covers it, but Kiki is missing some finer points.
I hold up my hand. “First, we don't know Tagger's a dirty cop.” I lower one finger.
“He's something.” She juts out her chin in defiance and I can't dispute something reeks like a badly camouflaged turd.
“I think he knows Mick. There's bad blood there. I mean… Mick knew his first name.”
Kiki makes a sound that I translate as knew it.
“Second, my place was not burglarized, it was demolished. Third, it didn't look good.... Mick and me.” I whisper that last.
“What doesn't look good is Tagger's concern over your underwear and why he thinks Mick is capable of assaulting women. Where the hell does he get that?”
A beat of silence passes as we stare at each other.
“Google!” we yell at the same time, making a mad scramble for her laptop.
“I can't believe I haven't already thought of this.”
Kiki looks at my face. “You little weasel, you've already thought about it.”
“Well, he Googled me...” I say in lame defense.
Kiki taps her lip. “But you took him at his word.”
“Yeah… Tagger said something about how 'if I knew about his past.'”
Kiki gives a low whistle.
She flips open her Mac, and I watch over her shoulder as she inputs Mick's name.
“Holy fuckballs!” she shouts. “There's like fifty pages.” Her shoulders slump. “It'll take all goddamned day.”
I scan the first ten hits; all entail holdings, buildings, real estate... so many stories about Mick and me. I swallow, ignoring those.
No... no, no, my eyes flicking through each post. I keep scanning.
Second page: Black Rose gentleman's club holdings.
“Click that.” I point at the elegant black rose held between a skull’s clenched teeth.
Kiki clicks. It's a boatload of boring fiscal stats. My eye catches on a small thread.
Related articles: Black Rose inception.
I point again and Kiki clicks.
I don't know who finishes first, but when we're done reading, she closes the laptop.
“That's horrible,” Kiki says.
Yeah.
At least I know why he peddles flesh.
“He's like... a really honorable guy,” I whisper, feeling like a flea for my layers of deception.
The shame I'd held at bay seeps into every pore.
“Yeah… a really rich, hot, honorable guy with a tragic past.”
Kiki gives me a sharp look. “It's almost as tragic as yours.”
Almost.
~ 10 ~
Kiki drops me at the curb. I flick her a wave, and she lifts her cell. Text me, the gesture says. Our revelations swirl between us like unseen smoke. I nod and turn toward concrete steps.
I'm on my way to see Mick when a text comes in from Thorn.
Thorn: You get a pass on laps because of what went down with Mick. It's your only freebie. You feel me? Tonight Faren.
I chew on my bottom lip while I tap out my response.
Me: Yes, I'll be there.
I don't ask about Ronnie. I have to accept that Thorn understands Ronnie terrifies me, his trashing of my apartment is his newest calling card. Thorn isn't heartless; he's determined.
I don't know which is more dangerous.
I have to talk to Mick about the strip clubs and somehow keep my secret just a little longer.
When we quench this fire between us—when he realizes how innocent I am—I'll come clean about the laps. After all, I can't keep that particular secret much longer.
He won't want to keep some naïve virgin anyway. He'll take it and run.
I'm counting on that. Mick's tender with who he thinks he knows, not who I actually am.
I inhale deeply at the thought of an experienced, rich guy settling down with a terminally ill girl who gives him her virginity while grinding on the laps of strange men.
I think about what I learned on Google. Mick's protective nature makes more sense now.
A lot more.
I just don't know where that leaves us. I know what would have happened if Tagger hadn't burst in. Mick had had me right where he wanted me. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Then fate inserted itself.
I push the glass door to the Seattle Police Precinct open, the directional reflects back at me, West.
A horse whinnies with a cop on its back as I walk into the old stone building and scan my surroundings. My body feels ultra-sensitive from the shock of the Taser. I'm certain that combined dangerously with my illness.
I shove that thought away for later reflection.
I walk over to the reception desk and stand there while a cop types something.
“Yes?” he asks without looking up.
I feel sexist for thinking it's weird that a man is working the front desk instead of a woman.
“I'm here to see Jared McKenna,” I say, my eyes sailing around the huge noisy space.
He stops typing and looks at me, really looks at me. “You're Faren Mitchell.”
“Yes.” How does he know who I am?
Nothing about that seems good.
Officer Ferric stands and walks around the chest-level, semi-curved desk. He gives me a once-over. “Follow me.”
I don't.
He's ten paces away before he notices. “Miss Mitchell?” His brows rise to a receding hairline of unkempt tufts of dishwater blond hair.
I put my hands on my hips. “Let's just say my confidence in police protection has been shaken.” I'm no longer afraid of every single thing in my life. I want to find out what I can about Tagger. What's happening between him and Mick- see Mick.
I can tell he's thinking about what words to use. “That's what this is about,” Officer Ferric replies.
I cross my arms. I don't have time for this, my life's clock is ticking. I dipped into my vacation time at the clinic and Sue is covering for my last minute request for a personal day. I have do or die laps tonight and haven't seen my mom in two days.
My world is unraveling, a slow spiral of chaos settling in for the duration. My emotions boil right underneath the surface. Being in the public eye again just makes it worse.
“Okay,” I huff. At least I can see Mick.
We pass through a door as his finger holds it open for me and I walk through.
Among the rows of desks my eyes hit on Tagger and I slow. I can't ignore the instant association of Tagger and the Taser. The Ts run together in subconscious connection.
I take comfort in the shadow of a bruise on his jaw. The one Mick put there because he touched me.
“Miss Mitchell?” Tagger addresses me. And I can almost feel Ferric behind me as he quits breathing.
I don't even try for polite. Tagger sends a ripple across the water of my barely concealed emotional turmoil and he's off the list for civility. He's been so out of line I don't know where to begin. “Where's Mick?”
Tagger sits on the corner of his desk, one long leg dangling off the edge. “He's lawyered up.”
Mick's not here. I squelch my disappointment.
“Why... He didn't do anything wrong.” My guilt over pigeon-holing Mick spurs me on. “You need the supposed victim to accuse someone, right?”
They can't just nail Mick to the wall because he wants to. Can they?
Tagger inclines of his head, my eyes keep fixating on the dark mar near his chin. “True... but it looked like assault from my perspective, Miss Mitchell. And we're here to protect the victim, even if they don't think they need it.” His eyes hold mine.
I see how large his hands are. I’d forgotten until that moment how they'd looked on the grip of the Taser.
The damage those hands could do to someone he wished to bring to harm.
Protect and serve, my ass.
I lick my dry lips, and his eyes shift to the movement. “It was consensual, Tagger.”
“Detective,” he corrects. Condemnation fills his gaze like brackish water .
I think of how Mick doesn't care about titles. The very thing Tagger accused Mick of—being arrogant and aloof—becomes more glaring as his character flaws.
I cross my arms. “So Mick's 'lawyered up' because of police brutality.” My eyes don't stray, but spear him with my accusation.
“How do you figure?” The scorn of his expression hits me with dismissal. “He's the one who struck me, Miss Mitchell.”
“So you gave us both the zap?” I ask. Justify that. My fingers bite into my crossed arms.
His eyes drop. When they rise, they’re filled with artificial concern. “You got in the way. It was unintentional.”
I don't believe for one second that my safety was a consideration.
“You tell yourself that. But remember, you laid your hands on me... and by your own admission, you're aware of my history. I don't need another violent episode in my life.”
My short life.
Ice creeps into his expression. The little bit of green in his eyes becomes flecks of hardened emerald steel as he stares me down.
“Tagger,” Ferric cautions.
Tagger scrubs his face, hiding his expression but unable to remove my memory of it.
“I was just about to contact you.”
I can tell he's trying to regain his composure.
Epic fail.
“Yeah, I loved waking up in the holding tank.”
He gives a hard exhale. “You didn't deserve that.”
I shake my head. My apartment's McFucked, my soon-to-be lover and I were electrocuted, and I woke up in a holding tank for criminals. Tagger doesn't get it, and I can't figure out why.
Ultimately, the biggest thievery is my time.
He looks up at me and I lean into his face, gathering courage from I don't know where.
Well, yeah I do. Nothing to lose.
“My house is wrecked, your assumptions landed me in jail—unconscious—and now the world is going to dig through what happened.” I try to unclench the tight balls of my fists, and they don't budge. Even my bad hand is like stone.
“It's sealed, you were a minor,” Tagger responds smoothly.
Unflappable.
I straighten and laugh. It sounds like brittle glass. “Oh yeah, that's going to keep everyone from finding out.”
My name isn't on Google, just everything else that identifies me. I blister him with my regard. “Everyone will know.”
“The Seattle Police is sorry for this unintentional interruption in your life.”
I stare at him. “Maybe they are... but you're not. Mick and I are together, and you can't stand it. So now I have to pay by association.”
I lean in close to him and he remains immobile. I plant my hand beside his leg and I can feel the other officers’ eyes on us like weight. “Right?”
Anger warms his eyes and I know I've hit the mark.
Tagger slaps his hand next to mine. The energy from his rage simmers through the hairsbreadth that separates us.
“Yes,” he hisses so quietly only I can hear him.
I step away, never letting my gaze drop-- as if we're opponents in a boxing ring.
I don't care that twenty other cops are watching; this one worries me.
I whirl around and stomp out of there. I don't get to see Mick after all.
Ferric doesn't follow.
Detective Jake Tagger's eyes never leave me, I don't have to turn to know they're there.
Hate beats down on my back.
~ 11 ~
Me: We need to talk.
Mick: Yes... when?
Me: Now?
He can't sense my pleading via text. But it's there, and I hate myself for it.
I wait five minutes for a response and sigh.
Forget it.
I stuff the cell in my pocket and smooth my right hand over my left while I vacantly stare.
I storm all the way from the police station to my apartment. I launch up the five flights of stairs because a handwritten Out of Order sign is taped to the freight elevator.
Figures.
A new door greets me. I pull out my key, slip it into the lock, and turn it. I heave a disgusted sigh. Humphrey couldn't even get a new lock for the door! Cheap-effing-skate. Totally not secure.
I open the door, anticipating a night of filling huge black bags with broken picture frames, lamps, knick knacks, and my kettle.
Instead, I gaze around in wonder. Every surface gleams. Everything that was broken is gone, and a replacement fills the space.
I move to the stove as though in a dream and see a new kettle, a replica of the one I lost, sitting in its usual position on the back left corner of the stovetop.
Who did this?
Mick.
I jump when I get his text.
Mick: Are you home?
Did you... do this? I quickly tap out.
I jog to my bedroom, fling the closet open, and burst into tears.
My closet overflows with new clothes. I take inventory of the colorful smocks and matching pants lining the far end of my rod.
Every cartoon print ever made stings my eyes with its primary colors, and I hug the clothing, pressing my face into the laundered goodness.
My cell vibrates.
I look at the screen.
One word. The only response that matters.
Yes.
I put my cell against my chest and hang my head.
For once, my tears are happy ones.
I needed something good so bad.
*
Me: Can you come over?
I have become the pursuer.
Mick: I'm with my legal team. When I finish here, I'll be over. If you're okay for now, we can make a day of it tomorrow. I'll break away if you need me now. I'm more sorry than I can say.
For the strip club revelation, I assume.
My fingers hover over the keys.
Me: No apologies. But disappointment slays me.
Then a thought pierces my self-pity. Laps.
Another single word. Unfortunately, it doesn't illicit happy tears.
One more time.
I can't expect him to come running. I bet his publicity people are ripping their hair out. I'll have to settle for tomorrow even though I ache for him now.
I gaze around my refurbished apartment and believe I owe him the truth.
I just don't know if I'm brave enough to tell him.
All my outfits for laps are at Mick's in that duffle.
I have nothing.
I turn, looking into my closet stuffed with new things.
My shoulders hunch when I realize I have to cannibalize something beautiful he got for me to get through my last night of laps.
I stare into the closet’s depths. I'm way past introspection but sick over my choices.
I know Mick won't want me if he knows.
I'm a dead girl walking who takes her clothes off for men. I like to imagine he would see my desperate battle to pay for my mom's care, to make the last moments of my life count for something.
However, I don't know if anyone is altruistic enough for the transgressions I continue to accumulate.
I don't beg for Mick's help because I'm a coward. I fear his answer, I fear that I'll lose my chance at the one thing I want for myself. It's selfish.
It's real.
I take deep, even breaths. I refocus my thoughts on my mom, her welfare.
I straighten my spine and stride over to the closet, tossing my cell on the bed. I tear through everything and see something that makes my heart stutter.
It's a beautiful gold and silver slip of fabric that shimmers in a draping sweep from the hanger. The beads at the hem catch my eye, and I think of when Mick's fingertips breached the hem of my dress in the limo. I swallow the memory—it seems like forever ago.
It feels like yesterday.
I run my fingers over the silky material, threaded in a cross-hatching pattern with tiny strings of gold and silver. It's really too classy for what I’m about to do, but if I wear something Mick chose, maybe I can keep him with me tonight like a seed of goodness in the awful garden of my choices. It's a lie I cling to without complaint.
I need it to survive.
The dress doesn't resist when I slide it off the wooden hanger. I grab a pair of hump-me pumps from the new selection.
I locate the size on the sole.
I look at everything inside the closet. It's all my size.