Celia had been tasked with creating a report on how many cases we worked on that received a guilty verdict and how many were dismissed. As I scanned over the fifty pages, my anger and anxiety grew. Nearly sixty-five percent of all perps involved in the crimes we investigated never served a day in jail. Of those, which did result in a conviction, thirty percent were overturned on appeal.
“Celia, tell me how in the fuck I still have a job?” She looked perplexed as she registered my question. “If my team’s investigation skills are this shitty, why in the hell do I still have a job?”
She stuck her pencil back behind her ear, a deep sigh leaving her body. “Actually, you have the highest numbers in the city.” I sat, stunned, in one of the chairs before her. “Listen, Dylan, you can’t save the city from itself.” She shook her head for emphasis. “We all do what we can, and believe we are making a solid difference for the familys we try to protect. But…”
“But the attorneys and the legislature are working just as hard to free the innocent,” I shot back. “And we all know there are only innocent people sitting in jail.”
I slammed my fist on my desk and pushed my chair backward, slamming into the bookcase against the wall. I’d seen enough and needed to get the hell out of there. “Celia, thank you, I’ll see you in the morning,” I tossed over my shoulder as I rushed out of the office.
I needed a drink, a stiff one. The closest place to my office was Columbo’s, a decent place, big with the tourists. I knew one of the bartenders from a case I responded to a few years ago, Jessie. Her husband beat the hell out of her, so she called the cops and had him arrested. She filed for divorce before he even made it to central booking. She met the owner of the bar when she applied for the open waitress position. He showed her how a man treated someone he cared about and married her a year later. They’d worked together ever since.
It had been a while since I’d been there, but nothing had changed except a few of the employees, including the young lady who stood at the door. I declined a table, pointing to the bar instead. She smiled a little and nodded her head, continuing on to the couple behind me.
“Uh-oh, I’ve seen that look before.” Jessie didn’t stop to ask what I wanted to drink; she poured and I accepted, not bothering to thank her, just nodding my head.
Jessie, without question, was a beautiful woman. Her skinny frame and large chest helped keep the male clientele coming in. Her big assed bear of a husband kept them respectable. Just as the burn of the whiskey hit my throat, I saw her; dark hair falling softly against her shoulders as it swayed with her movements. Her jeans wrapped around her ass and thighs, giving every male eye something to appreciate. It was her laugh, though, feminine and carefree, which gutted me the most. I closed my eyes tight, and slid the empty shot glass back in Jessie’s direction. She didn’t disappoint as she returned a full glass. Of all the bars in this goddamn city, why did she have to pick this one? Opening my eyes, I caught her laughter and the one responsible for its release.
I’d seen him in the ER, one of the docs over there. Irish fuck if I remembered correctly. Were they dating? Was he her boyfriend?
“Shit, why the fuck do I even care?” I mumbled as I downed the second drink.
“Hey, baby.” I flinched as her nails scraped against the skin of my forearms, trying her damnedest to be sexy and alluring. By the slur of her words, she had been partying for quite a while now. I’d sent her a text, telling her to meet me here. As much as I wanted to forget this afternoon and all the statistical bullshit I discovered, only one thing would help make it happen.
Shayla was a girl I met at one of the strip bars just north of the city. She had been waiting tables, among other things, while working her way through school. Chase, being a fucktard, paid her a hundred bucks to give me a lap dance for my birthday. One dance led to two, which led to her pressed to the brick on the back of the building, and me fucking the shit out of her. She gave me no resistance when I told her I wasn’t interested in her snatch. With the ease with which I slid into her, she was no stranger to anal either.
“Well, looks like you’ve gotten a better offer,” Jessie joked, pointing to the empty glass and questioning me with her eyes. What she said wasn’t funny, but Shayla broke out into a fit of giggles. One of those, where try as you might, you couldn’t help but laugh with them.
“Come on, I know how to make it all go away.” She bit the skin on my earlobe, something I didn’t find a turn on, at all. I needed to go, to get away from my feelings of failure as a good cop, the pain which was creeping back into my chest, and the twitching my cock was doing at the thought of what Shayla was willing to give me. I needed release from my realities, pun intended.
I slid some cash into the empty glass and, giving Jessie a friendly smile, pulled myself off the bar stool, the smell of Claire in the air. She was sweet, kind, caring, and, no doubt, loyal as fuck. Had friends who would do anything to protect her, fight for her if it came to it. She was everything I didn’t want, commitment, dinner dates, meeting a family who would no doubt judge me. I had enough people judging me, an entire fucking file full of them.
With Shayla tucked under my arm, my hand gripped her waist in a gesture which, to any onlooker, would seem loving, but was actually an attempt to keep me from ripping Claire’s date’s hand from her lower back. It was a move I’d seen a thousand times, a true turn on for a chick who was into that romance bullshit. I stood there, looking into her big doe eyes, trying like hell to seem like I was the least bit interested in Shayla. I sounded like a complete idiot when I could only mutter a few words to her, my voice sounding intoxicated, which would have helped if it were true. I ignored the overwhelming feeling in my chest and the desire to tell Dr. Notre Dame to take Shayla home for me, leaving me time to fuck this girl out of my system. How much better would I feel if I could? Bend that fine ass of hers over a desk and fuck her for all she was worth, creating yet another notch on my bedpost, and move on.
Karma could be a fickle bitch and I’d managed to piss her off one too many times. If it weren’t for me giving my word to Carson, I wouldn’t be practically carrying a drunk Shayla to her apartment.
When we got inside Shayla’s place, there were dirty clothes scattered about and takeout boxes littered about the room. The rancid smell of trash, which should have been taken out days ago, permeated the air. This was how her house always looked. Shayla didn’t care who was coming over, she was a take it or leave it kind of girl. She was also always ready to fuck—her bare ass and pussy in the air, fingers going crazy playing with her clit. Shayla loved things on the kinky side. She even had both nipples pierced with weighted bells through them. She had dozens of vibrators and dildos, using them to help get herself off. She didn’t care if you participated or just watched the show. She, like myself, was in it for her own pleasure.
She wet her fingers with a bottle of oil and spread it around her back door, her free hand never leaving the piercing which ran through her clit. I eased down my zipper, my hard cock springing free. He was familiar with her seduction and knew exactly how to get in and get what we needed. Come on Dylan, she wants us. I could practically hear my dick shouting at me. I placed my left hand on her lower back, resting it beside the mythological tattoo she had done a few years ago. A single hand, vines and leaves weaved around and between the fingers, in the center, a single eye, some legend about warding off your enemy. Yet, all it brought me was the memory of Notre Dame’s hand on the small of Claire’s back, protecting her, claiming her. Where was his hand now? Was he feeling her soft skin, her pert nipples? Had she welcomed him into her bed and screamed his name?
“Come on, baby,” Shayla demanded, shaking her ass, trying to find my exposed cock.
I shook my head, ridding my mind of who, and what, Claire was doing. My hand gripped Shayla’s hip a little harder, only to find my cock had deflated, a lot. Stroking myself as I watched Shayla having her first orgasm, her hand held vibrator working her pussy into a frenzy. Did Claire
own a vibrator? Did she think about me as she slid it into her?
Jesus fucking Christ, why was I thinking about her? I had what I needed right in front of me, begging me to fuck her. Yet, every single time I opened my eyes and reminded myself this was Shayla, not Claire, my fucking dick went flat. Pissed off and wanting to regain some balance of control, I pulled Shayla off her knees and placed her directly in front of her dressing mirror. I wrapped one hand around her waist and slid my finger inside her slick folds. Just because I preferred to fuck a girl in her ass, didn’t mean I had no clue how to explore a fucking pussy.
I pushed three fingers in with my palm on her clit. Her fingers pulled at the bells on her nipples, my name falling from her lips as I leaned my head down and bit the skin on her shoulder. I worked my fingers faster and faster, feeling her body as her pussy began to contract. Shayla’s head fell back against my chest, her eyes closed and face relaxed with a hint of a satisfied smile. I removed my drenched hand and watched her body falling limp to the floor. Shayla and I had never done anything close to this, typically limiting our interaction to only fucking.
For the first time in my life, I left a beautiful woman, completely sated and, more than likely, thinking our relationship had changed.
Back in my house, a converted fire station, street lamps cast shadows on the exposed brick of my bedroom wall. I lay in my bed, still horny as fuck, what with my lack of ability to keep a fucking erection. It scared me. Not my fantasy of Claire, she was a beautiful woman, but the fact I wasn’t even thirty yet and having this issue. Did I get a disease from some chick? Or was it possible, this had nothing to do with any physical ailment?
As I closed my eyes, my mind began playing a scene in my head. Claire came from the hall, hair down and swaying with her movement, eyes on fire with need for me. Her nightgown was sheer white and flowing in the gentle breeze. She stood at the end of my bed, tugging her gown from her slender body. She had no tattoos, no piercings and no silicone toys coming out of her body. Her laugh, just as I recalled it from the restaurant, this time was only for me. I grabbed her gently and pulled her to the head of the bed to join me. I laid her with care on my pillow and covered her body with mine. Her smile was erotic as her hands discovered the tattoos that rested on the skin of my arms and chest. She was soft and warm, and completely ready for me. Sliding into her was like reaching for heaven and actually taking hold of it.
For the first time since I was nineteen, I brought myself to orgasm with my own hand. I cried out her name as my body jerked in pleasure, spilling the result of my fantasy onto my bare stomach.
“Claire!”
Never chase love, affection, or attention. If it isn’t given freely by another person, it isn’t worth having.
~Anonymous
“Where is he taking you tonight?” Lainie questioned. She was perch on the edge of my bed, her big, expressive eyes catching mine in the mirror.
“He didn’t say.” I widened my eyes as I applied a coat of mascara to my upper lashes. It was funny how I could multitask a thousand different things, but get something close to my eyes and I needed to concentrate on not poking my eye out.
“Are you kidding? How do you know what to wear if he doesn’t tell you where you’re going?”
After Sean dropped me off at my door last week, he asked if he could see me again. I had felt the girly-girl in me smile and do back flips as I agreed.
Lainie had bombarded me with a million and one questions when I got home that night. Watching her excitement while we exchanged giggles and peals of laughter, I felt something huge change between us. Never in the relationship between my sister and myself did we ever share a bond such as the one I was forming with Lainie. With Cheyenne, men were vessels used to achieve a goal. Whether for money or a decent dinner away from your family, she used every man she’d ever met.
Lainie and I agreed men were an accessory and not a necessity. Having a good-looking man around was always a bonus. He should give you compliments of pretty words, but also by being a good companion and friend. By taking the best parts of you and making them better. Accepting the worst parts of you, instead of trying to change them. I just wasn’t sure where Sean fit in there yet, but I was willing to find out.
“Sean doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to run me through a drive-thru for take-out,” I called over my shoulder, watching as Lainie consumed a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
“You just never know with guys like that.” She pointed her spoon in my direction and flicked her wrist, emphasizing each word like the conductor of a symphony.
“Hey!” I gave her a pointed look with a playful warning in my tone. “Sean has been nothing but a gentleman, which is more than I can say about certain people.” I’d told Lainie about running into Detective Morgan coming out of the bar. How he’d been eyeing up women around him while he had Shayla tucked under his arm.
“Speaking of other people,” Lainie alluded. “Has Shayla come to her senses yet?”
The Monday after seeing Shayla stagger off with Detective Morgan, she’d floated into the hospital on a cloud. She’d been telling several of the other nurses how she and Dylan had moved their relationship to a new level.
Shayla had danced around the floor and was writing her name, Shayla Morgan, on every scrap of paper she could find. It appeared the girl was permanently stuck in high school—her freshman year.
“No, she’s still planning the wedding,” I responded sarcastically. Something told me even if the world were ending, Dylan Morgan would never get married, let alone to Shayla. Before any more discussion of impending marriages or lack thereof, the security buzzer sounded.
“Don’t need to guess who that is,” Lainie muttered. She looked at her watch and shoved another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.
My smile and laugh were genuine as I stepped around her and confirmed it was in fact Sean waiting downstairs for me. Butterflies took a trip around my stomach, and I had to remind myself this was only a casual thing. Dreaming about white dresses and seating charts would get me nowhere.
Sean stood in the foyer of my building, hands tucked into pockets, wearing a jacket that was dressy enough to get us into any number of the finer restaurants, yet casual enough for the clichéd “movie date.”
“Hey, Sean,” I greeted him with a smile, walking in his direction. His cologne was already doing things to my mind.
“Wow!” he returned; his toothy smile as bright as always. He leaned over to me, his left hand landing on my shoulder, his lips brushing against my temple. The gesture was the exact way he’d bid me goodnight, the last time we’d gone out. Innocent enough, but with a promise of possibility.
“You ready?”
I nodded as his hand slid down my arm until it found mine, interlacing our fingers as he pulled me to the door.
Downtown Charleston was full of great restaurants, so naturally I assumed that was where we were going. However, he headed toward the Ravenel Bridge. I glanced in his direction, silently asking where we were headed.
Sean said nothing, just kept humming to the song on the radio as he shifted gears. I listened to the tires buzzing against the textured tread of the bridge and watched as the gleaming, white cables passed by.
One thing I learned rather quickly when I first moved here, exercising, specifically running, was a popular pastime. I didn’t think I’d gone a single day without noticing a jogger along a sidewalk or bikeway. As we crossed the second half of the bridge, I looked over to see several runners making their downhill descent on the runner’s path.
My curiosity got the best of me one Sunday afternoon. I hopped in my uncle’s car and drove to the bridge to see what was the appeal. By the time I reached the center of the bridge, the muscles in my ass were protesting. Lucky for me, there was an area with cement benches, which overlooked the river below. I sat there watching the boats glide through the water and the wildlife enjoying the delicacies the water provided. As I’d stood to head back to my car, I looke
d over the rail and shivered as I contemplated how far down the water was and how terrible it would be if the fall didn’t kill you.
“Claire?” Sean’s voice pulled me from my musings, alerting me to the fact we had reached our destination. I glanced around, unfamiliar with the street or the businesses surrounding us. Not until I looked up at the building we were parked in front of, did I realize where we were. Delmonico’s an Italian-American Restaurant was painted in white letters on a green canvas awning. Est. 1986, in smaller print was under the bold lettering of the business name. I’d read about this place in the Taste of Charleston section of the newspaper. Food critics all agreed the food was worth the trip to Mt. Pleasant.
Sean opened the door to the restaurant, and the smell of baking bread and garlic caused my mouth to water and my stomach to rumble with hunger. Sean apparently knew the hostess as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.
We were seated against a stonewall, at a table with starched white tablecloths and silver lamps, creating an ambiance of intimacy. Lighted sconces placed every three or so feet around the room casting a soft glow to everything the light touched.
Our waiter, Armando, as he introduced himself, told us of the night’s specials and house wines. His white, long-sleeved shirt and black tie seemed to add something to the character of the restaurant.
Sean ordered a plate of manicotti and center cut pork chops, which came highly recommended. He suggested we share the entrees, since I’d never eaten there before.
Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Page 10