Do You Want Me

by W Winters

  The thought of Cody being just a fuck buddy sends a sharp pain straight through my chest, one I don’t expect.

  I’ve always struggled when it comes to men. I suppose I have my father to thank for that, I think bitterly as I slip on my red wool coat and cinch it tight around my waist. My sister would argue it’s our mother I should blame.

  The wool strap digs into my palms as I pull the belt even tighter, staring at one article on the wall and then the next, the light from the large window behind my desk shining against the pristine glass.

  Nostalgia lingers for a moment, back to the moment I started hanging the articles. I focused on putting monsters behind bars and got the hell out of our Podunk town in upstate New York.

  I was so proud of this office. I thought I’d really made it and it would only get better. I thought I would only get better.

  The door swings open without an invitation and Claire stares at my desk for a moment, her tall figure draped in a brown twill pantsuit. The expression on her face is foreboding but loses its strength when she takes in an empty desk.

  “Right here,” I speak up, squaring my shoulders and giving her a questioning look in return to her stricken expression.

  “Did you see this?” Her voice is lowered and it’s only after she hands me the paper that she turns away from me to shut the door to my office. It’s not a loud bang, it’s gentle. Nerves prick at the back of my neck as the rolled newspaper crinkles open between my fingers.

  Claire Eastings is never gentle.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I scan the article.

  “‘Fuck’ is right. They’re having a goddamn field day.” Claire’s comments are accompanied by her pacing back and forth in her short heels, muted from the modern woven carpet until she steps on the hardwood flooring. Then back onto the carpet and so on and so forth.

  That rug is the single piece in this room that differs from the rest of the offices. Everyone else has framed photos like me, although mine are articles. Everyone else has the same black leather stationery set on a mahogany desk and an entire wall lined with bookshelves filled with necessary reference texts.

  My coat is the only splash of life and color in this place. Disappointment carries to my lips, pulling them down as I refuse to read any more of the article.

  “I’m not surprised,” Claire comments with her arms crossed as she stands in front of me, her pacing momentarily paused. “You opened the door for criticism.”

  She’s referring to my unfortunate “rot in hell” experience, mentioned in the article … twice. “I know,” I answer her with a heavy breath and suddenly my rendezvous with Agent Walsh doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

  “He walked, there’s no proof if we can’t use the evidence,” I say and frustration coats every word. “Ross Brass got off. The press will fade. It’s not going to trial. It’s done.”

  “It should have been done. The press can keep it alive and compare to any other case they want.” It surprises me that she’s letting it get to her.

  “Do you want me to issue a statement?” I offer, feeling that insecurity creep up my spine. “I can’t be blamed for the PD’s errors.”

  “No, no. …” Unfolding her arms, Claire looks past me and her gaze seems far away. There’s no anger, no fire blazing there. Defeat wades in the depths of her irises. It sends a chill down my spine.

  Clearing my throat, I question her, “What is it that you want me to do? How are we handling this?” Although my voice is strong and I’m able to stand tall, crossing my arms at my belly and still gripping the paper, I feel anything but when Claire looks me in the eyes again.

  “Someone’s looking into your background. We were alerted to the files being opened, including cold cases.”

  Chills flow down my arms and I stand there breathless, expertly maintaining my composure.

  “You can’t believe the press—” I didn’t read it all, but the first line suggests that I’m either incompetent or mishandling cases. I have no doubt that the journalist is good friends with Jill Brown.

  “That report is nothing but the product of a wild imagination and a witch hunt,” Claire says confidently, cutting me off.

  “Exactly.” Stress pushes down my shoulders as I respond. “They can just say whatever they want and we … what?”

  She nods, continuing before I can make my own guess. “We assume someone is doing an exposé on a member of the Assistant Attorney General’s office. A member with an impeccable record, but whatever ghosts you’re hiding, I think you should prepare for them to come to light.”

  “Is there really nothing else they have to write about? Especially given that I’ve closed how many cases? My reputation is solid and one of the best on this team.”

  “It’s not just work,” Claire says then looks behind me at the two picture frames on my desk. “They will turn over every rock.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide.” A tingling heat spreads over my skin, denying what I said. But I don’t have anything to hide. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve never mishandled anything.”

  “I know. We can’t have that here.”

  A bitter vein of offense laces my voice when I answer her, “I’m aware of that. They can write whatever article they’d like. They can drag me through the dirt. It’ll last for a moment until I win a trial and another. Or until they have something more interesting to write about.”

  The cords in Claire’s thin neck tighten as she swallows. “Is there anything at all that they would find, Delilah? I’m asking as a friend.”

  Hearing my boss call me by my first name is …. unsettling. The defenses I’d thrown up crumble at the tip-top and my composure slips for just a moment, the tiredness pulling my gaze down and the pain in my back and shoulders creeping to the surface.

  “Being the enemy of the press is a vulnerable place to be,” she warns and when our gazes meet in the silence of the office, other than the ticking of the clock and my own racing heartbeat, she adds, “I should know.”

  “There’s nothing for them to find. I’ve had a boring life and I’ve done everything by the book.”

  Claire looks away, nodding. “Well then, it will be a boring piece and they won’t be able to find anything. Maybe there will be no article.”

  No article. Please God, no article.

  “Right,” I answer and that seems to be when Claire finally notices I’m in my coat. The thick fabric makes me feel that much hotter under her scrutiny.

  “Early lunch?” she questions.

  “Just need another coffee,” I comment and inwardly scold myself for lying. If only she picked up the thin cardboard cup on my desk, she’d know just how full it was.

  Delilah

  “Have a good night then,” I say and lift my glass in salute as Aaron leaves the high table in the corner of the bar, giving me a short wave before he slips the leather jacket around his broad shoulders and heads for the door.

  “You too, Jones,” he answers but I barely hear him over the chatter in the packed place. It’s busy for a Saturday night and I focus on every face except for his. Every single one, taking them in, watching the way they speak, some of them a little too close as they whisper, some laughing so loud and genuinely that wrinkles form around their eyes.

  I take them in like I took in the evidence of the case this morning, distracted and not seeing it at all.

  Because Cody Walsh is right there, not even ten feet from me and he’s been there all night, but he hasn’t spared me a glance.

  His phone has eaten up most of his attention and right now he’s having what looks to be a very interesting conversation with someone I’m unfamiliar with. He’s avoiding me. It’s plain as day. He hasn’t looked at me once. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing so either. What a prick. Sleeping with him was a mistake. A grave one for my ego but nonetheless, one that’s over. We’re nothing more than a man and a woman working closely together in a professional setting. Not a damn thing else as far as I’m concerned.<
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  Wine… back to my wine I go because I desperately don’t like feeling that twist in my stomach and the tightness at the back of my throat.

  Just a sip, and only two glasses tonight. I couldn’t focus at the office, so tonight will consist of sitting cross-legged on my bed with paperwork in front of me until I have every piece of evidence in line for the perfect prosecution.

  Work is my comfort place and working will get me through whatever these emotions are that I’m warring with inside right now.

  Trial is a dance. The steps are all taken carefully and meticulously to get to the twists and turns that wow and convince the room. It’s more than a back and forth of questions, there’s intention, there’s a necessity in every move and every angle. Even the wording of the questions is vital. Being able to focus and pivot is even more important.

  I won’t sleep tonight until I know the pace and presentation that will be the most alluring and convincing. Some call the courtroom a circus, but that’s just a show for entertainment and distraction. I treat every courtroom like a ballet, with a spotlight on the details. Every single detail brought to light with a pirouette given enough time and pause to show the depth of what it means.

  With a glimmer of confidence, I take another sip of my wine. Aaron and I went over the basics and in only hours I will figure out exactly how we nail this prick with first-degree murder and nothing else.

  “Jones.” Patterson’s voice startles me, but not so much that I show it. Giving him a professional smile, I offer the experienced man a nod in greeting.

  “How are you doing tonight?” he asks, but doesn’t give me a moment to respond before adding, “I heard you got a whopper of a case.”

  A whopper. Patterson’s from somewhere in the Midwest, I think. Maybe he wants to know details, I’m not sure. But he should know better than to think I’d give him any. He’s a defense attorney and none of his clients have anything to do with any of mine. So this is … peculiar.

  “You know how it is,” I answer him with a shrug that brings his attention to my blush-colored blouse. But not to my shoulders. His gaze dips lower and the heat of embarrassment creeps up my chest. “When you have a series of plea bargains and boring cases, you get hit with a difficult one to throw you off.” Setting my wineglass on the table and pushing it away slightly, I add, “Can’t have too many easy ones, can we?”

  Patterson looks between the glass, my chest, and my face. The slight sway in his stance and the red in his cheeks betray any air of being sober the man has. He’s simply had too much to drink.

  “That’s true,” he comments, pointing at me with the hand he’s also using to hold his whiskey. The ice tinks on the glass. My father’s a whiskey drinker. Never on the rocks though. He said the ice melts and weakens it.

  The thought reminds me that Patterson is old enough to be my father and rich enough to buy him four times over.

  Patterson seats himself, occupying the chair Aaron recently left empty. “You know when I worked with your father years ago, he used to say the same thing.”

  My father was a lawyer decades ago. Pride wore on his face the day I told him I was going to law school. I’ll never forget that day. But his career was incredibly short-lived. The lifestyle, he told me, simply didn’t suit him and Mom wanted to move back home.

  “Is that why he gave it up? It was too easy for him? Or are the stocks just paying better?” Patterson questions me.

  I shrug again and this time when Patterson’s gaze drops, I lift my glass of wine to block what little of my cleavage could possibly show from that angle.

  “My mom wanted to move back home,” I answer straight-faced. We never wanted for anything and grew up in a nice enough area. It may have been a small town and not anything like New York City, but we were well-off. Maybe not as well-off as Patterson; I have no idea. “I’m sure he would have stayed had he known what the firm would become,” I offer him with a polite smile and a nod of recognition.

  There’s a murmur of agreement from Patterson and then he takes a swig of his drink. I look away, not wanting to continue the conversation.

  Patterson knows far more than I do about my father’s departure. I’m not privy to my parents’ decisions back then. And I don’t like to have conversations involving sensitive topics knowing I’m lacking relevant details on said topic.

  “You know I was surprised you came down here of all places.” Patterson doesn’t quit, leaning back in his seat. “I get it, wanting to stay on the case and transfer…” he pauses and nods, dropping his head. “That’s commitment,” he comments into his lap and raising his brow, which forms a series of lines on his forehead.

  “I was just starting and took it as a sign.”

  “What’s that?” he questions, not following and I don’t know if it’s because of the whiskey or because, like my mother said, it was crazy that I was moving to stay with a case.

  “The firm was a starting point so when the offer came up and evidence led us here, it seemed like a sign. Like I was meant to get into federal criminal law.”

  “And what did your father think of that?” Patterson questions. “I’m sure he was able to help you. He has strings to pull. But to help you go into federal criminal law…” he trails off and makes a face just then. One I’d like to punch but instead I simply smile.

  My father and him were defense attorneys. “Working for the prosecution shocked him, but my involvement and dedication didn’t.” I give him the same answer I gave Claire five years ago. And just like her, he nods with understanding.

  “You certainly worked your ass off to get here.”

  The smile on my face is genuine as I say, “And I appreciate the help I got along the way.”

  His asymmetric smile widens and he lifts his glass to me in cheers, but just after taking my sip, Patterson’s smile fades.

  Before I can turn to my left to look at whatever’s taken his attention, a heavy arm rests across my shoulder and Cody Walsh kisses my cheek.

  I barely catch sight of him before his lips brush against my skin.

  What the fuck is he thinking? My heart spasms as I smile like it’s a joke and push against his muscular chest, which barely moves.

  “Do you have a minute?” Cody questions, his brow furrowed as he ignores Patterson. The older man is up from his seat and leaving before I can hiss at Cody, “What the hell are you thinking?”

  Adrenaline races through me as I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the long day wearing on the simple bun I’d styled my hair into this morning, and casually glance around the bar.

  Aaron saw what Cody did, that I’m sure of. He has the decency to look away when I catch him staring.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It will be the talk of the office. As if I need any more buzz around my personal life and intentions right now.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come over sooner; I’ve been busy.” He speaks as if it’s a given. Like he was genuinely busy. Does he think I’m a fool? I have eyes and common fucking sense. He was ignoring me and we both know it. I’m not an idiot and I don’t like being treated like one.

  “What the hell are you doing, Walsh?”

  “Saving your ass. He was eyeing you up and you didn’t like it. I know damn well you didn’t.”

  “He’s my father’s age and my father’s friend.” The excuse doesn’t dissipate Cody’s scowl; it only makes it deepen. And quite frankly, I second-guess myself at the term ‘friend.’

  “Don’t lie to me,” Cody reprimands me. He has some damn nerve.

  I grit my teeth, laying cash down at the bar for the glasses of wine and grab my coat. “You have some fucking nerve to come over here pretending to be a knight in shining armor when you’ve ignored me for days.” The last word is practically spit out of my mouth.

  I could choke on emotion right now, but I’m damn good at ignoring it and better yet, at hiding it. I give Cody the cold shoulder and silence as I make my way out of the bar, but the stubborn fool follows me.

&nb
sp; Shaking my head and huffing out a sarcastic breath, I turn to look at him as the entrance doors close and a gust of wind blows against my bare neck.

  “I don’t have time for a man who doesn’t know what he wants.” My anger is palpable. I don’t know what gets to me more. Him ignoring me after sleeping with me, or him affecting the way colleagues see me by implying we have a romantic relationship in the bar.

  I don’t care to figure it out. Not here in the cold night on the corner of Main and Spruce.

  “I’m already up shit creek with the press. I was fine with having something low key. But ignoring me? No, I didn’t sleep with you because I thought you’d treat me like I didn’t exist after. And I sure as hell didn’t want it out in the open. I get it, you don’t want a relationship, but causing a scene isn’t my style. I don’t need any more prying into my life,” I mutter under my breath and push Cody back another step.

  “I’m not prying.”

  “No, you’re kissing me in front of everyone after leaving without a word and not speaking to me for days.”

  “You needed him to back off,” Cody says, keeping up his hero mentality and it only pisses me off more. Is he not hearing me?

  “Is that what you were really doing? Saving me?” I practically hiss. The weight of the other night lays on my shoulders. I glance around to make sure no one’s out here, but even in the empty street, I feel the familiar prick. It’s an uneasy sensation, only adding to my annoyance and frustration. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Because I kissed your cheek?” Cody asks as if it’s an insult and I take it as my cue to cross the street. Holding my coat tightly closed and ignoring Cody behind me as I walk as quickly as I can to the garage.

  “Don’t follow me.”

  “Don’t leave then,” Cody responds.

  Why does it have to be messy? Why couldn’t this have been low key and easy? The same at work as it’s always been and if we needed each other, we’d act on it. That’s what I thought it would be. Just as I figured Cody would, he follows me as I storm off toward the garage, my irritation growing with every step. Both with myself and more so with Cody.