Take Another Look

by Rosalind Noonan

After she bumped her head on the way in, she slunk down in the driver’s seat, rubbing vigorously and wondering if she should call a cab. The worst case scenarios loomed large in her mind. She could crash like Diana, and that would be very bad. She could get a DUI, and that would be bad, too. She might lose her job, or even her teaching certification. A teacher had to set a good example, and breaking the law was not a good thing.

  “Not good,” she said aloud as she buckled her seatbelt. But the fresh air had helped her realize that she was upset and sad . . . tired, too. Not really drunk. Besides, she was a good driver, and the apartment was just down the road. “A straight shot,” she said. Well . . . with a few turns. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, she turned the key. She could do this.

  The view through the windshield was surreal, a driving course on a dark video game as she accelerated slowly, steering carefully to stay on the track. The street by the Docks was well lit and fairly quiet, with only a few stragglers walking and the occasional car moving past her.

  As the waterfront gave way to the industrial area, the lights dimmed, and she had to strain to see parts of the roadway. What a dark night! Was there no moon in the sky?

  Just as the darkness closed around her, bright light bounced through her car. In the rearview mirror, the strobe of a police vehicle flashed red and blue. A cop. Oh, no! Right on her tail. The double whoop of the siren let her know that she had to pull over.

  You’re okay. You’re okay, she told herself as she rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder of the roadway and put the car in park. It was probably just a routine check. A glimpse in the rearview mirror revealed only the bright lights of the police cruiser behind her. Leaning toward the mirror, she was horrified by the fine beads of perspiration glistening on her upper lip. She swiped at her face and then shoved her trembling hands in her lap.

  The beam of a flashlight hit her window, and she rolled it down and peered up at the dark form of a man.

  “Good evening, officer.” The calm teacher voice came through. “Is everything okay?”

  “License and registration, please.” The voice was gruff, brisk.

  She handed him the driver’s license from her wallet, but panic swirled as she wondered about the registration. The console. Of course. Her father would have put it there when he registered the car for her. She found the little leather folder that had come with the car, and the registration seemed to smile up at her. Phew!

  “Jane Flannery.” He moved the beam of the flashlight from the ID in his hand to Jane’s face. “New car?”

  “Pretty new.”

  “Have you been drinking, Jane?”

  “Yes.” Why had she said that? She was afraid to lie to him. He was such an ominous figure: dark uniform with a shiny badge, baritone voice, face obscured by that wailing beam of light. “But I’m not drunk. I mean, it was spaced out over hours and hours.”

  “Is there a reason you were driving with your lights off?”

  “I . . .” She squinted through the windshield at the overwhelming night. No wonder it seemed so dark. She turned the switch, and the road was suddenly illuminated. “I didn’t know. Sorry about that.”

  He moved away from the door. “I need you to step outside the vehicle for me.”

  She followed him to the brightly lit area in front of the cruiser’s headlights. Panic seeped into her heart as she studied him. Thick black hair and chiseled features. A stern slash of a mouth. In his dark uniform, he was a wall of strength, solid and unforgiving. His name plate read: DIXON.

  In the stark light, she felt exposed, naked despite her denim shorts and hot-pink T-shirt. She expected him to hand her something to blow in—a Breathalyzer test—but he gave her some tasks to do. Walk in a straight line. Stretch out her arms and touch her nose with her eyes closed. Nothing too hard, though she got a little wobbly when she had to close her eyes.

  He asked her a bunch of questions, probably trying to see if her speech was slurred. She told him she was a teacher, gave her address, and talked about growing up in Burnson.

  “Have you ever failed a student?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” She shivered in the cool night, unwilling to admit that so far her career had entailed only student teaching and summer school.

  “So you’re a nice teacher. Well, I consider myself to be a nice cop. I don’t want you to fail, Jane. I could give you a Breathalyzer, but I can pretty much guarantee you’re going to blow hot. Once you do that, I’ve got to take you in and press charges. Driving Under the Influence. You’ll probably lose your license, a year minimum. And the arrest would be a public record. The local news can broadcast your mug shot. For some reason, they like to expose cops and teachers.”

  A sob wracked her words. “I could lose my job.”

  “Right. See how one failure affects so many people? I bet your husband would be upset.”

  “I’m not married.” It came out in a whimper. “But my parents . . . they’ll be mortified.” She imagined her failure as another encumbrance to heap onto her father’s shoulders, adding to the burden of supporting his elderly father and the scars of three tours in Vietnam, memories he kept sealed up tight under his wounded eyes. On the other side of the spectrum, her mother would be concerned about how such a scandal might reflect on her. Sandra Flannery would be afraid to attend church, worried that people were whispering about her daughter the “criminal.” Jane sucked in a desperate breath. Her life was tumbling down before her, a row of dominoes, each one slapping the next to the ground.

  “My hands are tied if I give you the Breathalyzer.” The cop paused, watching her, assessing. “If I don’t give you the test, I have some discretion. I could give you a ride home, let you off with a warning.”

  Jane sucked in a breath. “Would you? Please? That would be such a relief.”

  “But I would need something from you. A promise that you’re going to be a good girl for me. Can you promise that, Jane?”

  “Yes. Yes, I promise. I’ll never drink and drive again. Not even one drink.”

  “Yeah?” He assessed her, and although she tried to demonstrate her commitment, she found it hard to meet his eyes. His stern, iron-clad demeanor scared her, even as it excited her in a surprising way. Being in the presence of authority was like veering dangerously close to a fire. The closer you came to the flames, the more thrilling the dance. But the greater thrill also increased the danger of being burned.

  “You’re not just bullshitting me to get out of the charges.”

  “No. I’m an honest person. Please, I’ll do anything for a second chance.”

  His eyes were smoky and unreadable; she sensed power and unleashed fury. Her knees began to quiver.

  “All right.” He nodded at her car. “Get your purse and keys, and then lock it up. You’re coming with me.”

  She thanked God for mercy as she hurried to the car. Hitching her bag onto her shoulder, she locked up with the keypad. Back in the white shower from the headlights, he summoned her closer.

  “Hold your hands in front of you like this,” he said.

  She followed his instructions, flinching when he snapped handcuffs onto her wrists. Wariness skittered up her spine. Was this a trick?

  “I can smell your fear,” he said.

  “I . . . I don’t understand. I thought I wasn’t under arrest?”

  “Just procedure. You’ll need to ride in the back, too. It’s tactical defense. A cop can’t trust anyone.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She tried to sound agreeable, though she knew she had no choice in the matter.

  He opened the back door and pressed her head low so that she didn’t hit it on the way into the squad car. A dank, salty smell assaulted her nostrils as she adjusted herself on the seat. How many hardcore criminals had ridden back here? Burnson was a nice place to live, but some parts had more than their share of gang-related crime and murders.

  He leaned in, his eyes steely in the dome light of the car. “Let me buckle your seatbelt. Gotta stay safe.”


  She sat back, very still, as he veered close. He smelled of citrus and spice—much better than the car—and although he didn’t touch her, she found the intimate proximity enticing. But he was all business. Once she was buckled in, the door closed, and he went around to the driver’s seat.

  Even through the screen separating them, his eyes were beacons in the rearview mirror. “I’ll bet this wasn’t the way you thought your evening was going to end.”

  “No,” she admitted. Disappointment was draining her dry. The one true princess of the world had just died. Jane’s transformational summer was fading. And she’d nearly tossed her future away with a poor decision. A tear slid down one cheek, and she lifted the onerous bindings to push it away with the back of one thumb.

  As they drove away, passing her lonely red Honda, the radio erupted. A female dispatcher reported something happening on the 1200 block of Ortega, the sketchy side of town. Jane sniffed, telling herself to get over it. She had been given a reprieve. She was safe now.

  “I live over on Figueroa,” she said. “The Hillcrest Apartments.”

  “I saw that on your license,” he said. “I know where it is.”

  The night streets of Burnson seemed sinister and gray from the back of the patrol car. Was that fear, casting shadows over the town she’d grown up in? Oh, to get home and step into a hot shower, scrub away the funk of her crime. She would wash away her sorrows, slip into clean pajamas, and fall to her knees beside her bed to thank God for saving her from doom.

  Officer Dixon pulled the patrol car into the visitor’s spot in front of the building. “Now let’s do this quietly. We don’t want to disturb your neighbors. Is there anyone else home in your place?” he asked. “A boyfriend? Roommate?”

  “My roommate is over at her boyfriend’s place.”

  Again, he put a hand on her head to help her out. This time, she felt his gaze sweep over her, down the length of her bare, tanned legs to her high-heeled sandals. It was awkward, getting out of a car in handcuffs, but when she straightened, his eyes lingered at the swell of her breasts. He was checking her out—definitely—and she enjoyed the slight shift of power, sensing that he liked what he saw.

  Cocking one brow, she held up her cuffed wrists. “Will you take these off now?”

  “Inside.” He looked toward the building. “You don’t want to make a spectacle out here.”

  She led the way, watching the windows, which were mostly dark. With any luck her neighbors were asleep and missing this fiasco. When she paused at the door, Dixon reached into the purse slipping down her shoulder and found the keychain with its little red ball. He unlocked the apartment door and gestured for her to go in. She breathed in the lemony scent of the familiar vestibule, flicking on the lights with her cuffed hands. Home. The familiar space restored her sense of confidence, her equilibrium.

  “Nice place,” he said, closing the door behind him. In the warm light of her apartment, he looked handsome and distant. His crisp navy uniform was a bold reminder of his authority over her. He paused at the collage depicting an ocean cove. “Did you do this?”

  “I did.” She noticed how he filled the hallway with a masculine aura, big and bold.

  “Reminds me of Half Moon Bay. I’m a surfer.” He folded his arms, biceps shifting where they touched the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.

  She imagined his body in a wetsuit . . . or maybe just the bottom half with the top pulled off and dangling, the way guys hung out on the beach. Maybe she’d seen him at the coast. “You look like a surfer.”

  His dark eyes glittered as he reached for her hands. “How’s that?”

  “Tanned. Strong.”

  He unlocked the cuffs, folded them into small rings, and snapped them back onto his leather belt. “Let me see your arms.” He turned her hands and ran his fingers over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrists. “Look at that; you might have some bruises. Sorry, Jane. If every perp was like you, I’d invest in cuffs lined with velvet.”

  She squinted at him. “Now you’re kidding me.”

  “I am.” He was still massaging her wrists, pressing into the tender pad at the base of her thumbs. The shift intrigued her. So Officer Dixon had a softer side. She didn’t mind that he held onto her hands, finding the sweet spots in her palms and squeezing the tension away. She knew he was stepping over the line of procedure, and the fact that he was interested in her sounded a glad ping in her head. Men like him had always been out of her league—too good-looking and sure of themselves to give her a second glance. But Dixon wanted her—there was no question about that. Her heart raced at the realization that she had risen in stature; she was playing a woman’s game now.

  Here was a way to cling to her transformed self, the new Jane who held court in the bar. The new Jane, attractive and entertaining.

  When he pulled her into his arms and pressed his teeth to the tender spot on her neck, she let go and threw herself into the abyss. Dark and daring, wild and impetuous. His mouth was voracious, his touch heated by desperation. And the danger of it . . . the exquisite danger intensified every sensation.

  There was no awkwardness, no grappling or miscommunication. He knew what he wanted. He knew how to get it. Jane followed his orders, moving to the couch, stripping off her clothes, piece by piece, until they were skin to skin. Her initial fear turned to intrigue and finally release as pleasure crashed through her body.

  Afterward, he stroked her hair back, surprisingly gentle now. “Good girl,” he whispered. “I knew you’d be a good girl.”

  Ordinarily she would have taken offense, but somehow his words filled her with pride. She had been good. It had been great—the hottest sex she’d ever had. Her heart purred with satisfaction.

  He drew her hair back, pressed his lips to her neck, and sucked hard until she cried out in pain. What the hell?

  “I always mark my territory,” he said without apology.

  Did that mean she was his girlfriend? The notion added sweetness to the afterglow. Apparently Officer Dixon was more sentimental than she’d realized. As the sting on her neck receded, she relaxed and reached for him, wanting the reassurance of his body against hers.

  But Dixon was already sitting up, gathering his clothes. Contact over. She shivered and curled up on the couch as embarrassment cooled her skin.

  When he asked where the bathroom was, Jane pulled her T-shirt against her breasts, covering up as she pointed the way.

  “A little late for modesty,” he said.

  “I don’t even know your first name.”

  “Frank.” He picked up his gun belt and took it with him to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.” He walked down the hall, brazenly naked.

  While he was showering, she gathered her clothes and went into the bedroom to grab her robe. As she passed by the mirror, she dropped her clothes to the floor and took a good long look at herself. When had she become beautiful? Taut, rosy nipples and an hourglass shape. The tan lines from her bikini emphasized the dove-pale hue of her breasts and the healthy golden glow of the rest of her skin.

  The slight embarrassment she’d felt at having sex with a stranger began to fade. She was a healthy woman, old enough to make her own choices. And given the choice again, she would definitely take another ride with Officer Frank Dixon.

  Chapter 6

  The trauma of Frank Dixon had nearly destroyed her. Fear might have overcome her if it hadn’t been for the baby. Funny how she couldn’t muster the strength to protect herself, but once she learned that an innocent life relied on her, she had found a way to escape. After she made it to Seattle and found an obstetrician to treat her, the news that she was expecting twins was even more incentive to stay away from California, remove herself from her family, and begin a new, anonymous life.

  Like prey in the forest, she covered her tracks and always looked behind her. She got rid of her cell phone and used a pay-as-you-go phone for years. She changed her last name. And when Marnie got a call from Frank, who fished arou
nd for information about Jane, it became clear that Seattle could not be Jane’s final destination. Marnie wanted her to stay, but she understood. If Frank was hunting her down, Jane had to keep running.

  See Jane run. Run, Jane, run!

  The old first-grade primer struck a macabre note for her in that first year or two, when her dreams were full of chase scenes. Frank popping up in the backseat of her car. Frank following her down the cereal aisle in the supermarket. Frank chasing her around the park while her baby sat, wide-eyed, on the bottom of the slide. What a relief to bolt up in bed and realize it was a dream. Even if her chest was exploding from fear, even if Harper was crying in her crib, the harshest reality was better than those nightmares.

  For nearly a decade Jane had focused on making a life for herself and her daughter. Most people assumed she’d been married before, and she did not correct them. Harper had grown up believing that her father was dead—a difficult lie for Jane, but when she considered the alternative, she couldn’t bear the possibility of Harper’s one day tracking Frank down. That confrontation would certainly blow up in their daughter’s face. Frank would toy with his daughter, torture her, harm her. No, Jane couldn’t risk that.

  With all her energy focused on her daughter and her teaching job, Jane befriended moms of Harper’s friends and only engaged in family activities that involved Harper. While eating her bag lunch in the teachers’ lounge, she shared amusing stories about raising her daughter, but she avoided asking personal details of her colleagues, and she did not join in the happy hour gatherings at local restaurants. Her body language clearly transmitted that she was not interested in a relationship, and people respected that.

  Then came Luke. Scientist and teacher, philosopher and geek. He was as good at online gaming as any high school senior, and yet he was social, too. His tales often reduced faculty members to laughter, and other teachers in the science department sang the praises of the curriculum he created. Although Jane remained leery of men, Luke kept proving himself to be exceptional as she watched him studiously. It wasn’t just his earnest attitude; Luke was transparent and unashamed of his past. He was on good terms with his ex-wife, whom he had met while they were both teaching at a college in Spokane, and his college-age son seemed to enjoy helping out at the high school when he visited. If Jane’s past was sealed with Krazy Glue, Luke’s was an open book, full of anecdotes about camping trips that went awry and Luke’s own mistakes in the game of life, which always seemed comical when Luke was spinning the story.