Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (6 page)

“No, I just wanted to check in,” he said. “You seemed shook up last time I saw you.”

“I'm just living my life,” I said with a small shrug. “I'm not going to hide away and let fear get the best of me.” I let myself raise my eyes and meet his. I let my gaze linger on him a bit too long. He doesn't look away and I have a feeling my suspicions are correct. He's going above and beyond his job for a reason. And that reason is me. “Did you come all the way here just to check up on me?” I asked, lightly. He smiled shyly, dipping his head and looking away. That was definitely flirting, I decided. Awkward and strange, but definitely flirting.

“No,” he lied, shaking his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I would give you a quick update.”

“Do you do this often?” I asked, stepping closer to the car and crossing my arms over my chest like I was just as nervous as him. “Go out of your way like this for someone you hardly know?”

“Not always,” he said, scrunching up his nose in a cute way. There was something about him, I realized. He knew it, too. Despite the fact that he was shy, he knew that some women found him attractive. He had a little bit of game and he was trying to use it on me. “But some victims are worth it.” I frowned at the word 'victims' and he immediately knew he'd made a misstep.

“Victim, huh,” I said, shutting down the flirtation in an instant. I was annoyed at how much that word could still affect me. It'd been years and I still didn't like it. It'd been years but I didn't want to be looked at like some pathetic damaged person that deserved pity and downturned glances. No one had called me a victim in a long time and that was how I preferred it.

“I didn't—” he started then stopped. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I appreciate you coming out here, but I'm fine,” I said, dismissively. “I'm on my lunch break though, so I do have to go.” I turned and walked around the back of his car before he could get another word out and continued across the parking lot toward the cafe, completely ignoring him.

“Hey, hold on!” he called out behind me but I kept walking. “Miss Vasquez!” I couldn't help but smile as I heard him call out my name, because I knew I'd hooked him. He couldn't stand me thinking less of him. He wanted me to like him. And that made him weaker. He thought I was weak, but really I was the strong one. “Joan!” he called out when I didn't respond. I got to the end of the parking lot and glanced to my left and right, checking the street for traffic. Cars whizzed by in both lanes, preventing me from continuing on my way across the street. I said a silent prayer, even as I pretended to be impatiently waiting for the traffic to let up. A car pulled up next to me and I bit the sides of my cheeks to prevent myself from smiling. I heard him open the car door and I braced myself. “Do I have to apologize? Let me apologize,” he said and I finally had mercy on him and spared him a glance. He was leaning against the car, his elbows on the roof. He looked so contrite that I almost felt bad for manipulating him.

Almost.

“There's nothing to apologize for,” I said.

“Then why do I feel like I should?” he responded, knitting his brows again. “I didn't mean to offend you, really.” A car blew by us on the road and my hair flew around my face. I lifted my hand to brush it away, happy with the distraction. His eyes watched my movement and I was even more convinced of his weakness. “Let me drive you. Wherever you're going.”

“I don't need a ride.”

“Please. Let me. I'll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Anywhere?” I asked, allowing a small smile again.

“Yeah,” he said and I could see the hope on his face.

“Alright,” I said lightly, like it was difficult for me. I opened the door and he quickly ducked inside the car and cleaned off the passenger seat of the assortment of empty cola bottles and thick manila folders for me. I slid in and closed the door behind me, wondering if I was making a mistake or not. But it was more important for me to get as much information as I could get from the detective. I didn't know how much he knew. I didn't know how close they were to Elliot, how close they were to finding him. How close they were to figuring out who his accomplice was and what had happened to the other escaped prisoner. We'd buried him deep enough I wasn't too worried, but nothing was certain. It would be worth a few moments in the man's company for a bit of peace of mind. At least that was what I told myself.

“Okay,” he said, pulling out of the entrance of the parking lot and leaning forward to check the traffic. “Where are we headed?”

“Make a left,” I said, settling my purse on my lap.

“Yes ma'am,” he said with a throaty chuckle. Sitting so close to him, I could smell his aftershave, a spicy, minty scent that didn't smell bad at all. In fact, it smelled pretty good. I studied him as he watched the traffic, studied the hint of a five o'clock shadow on his chin and how his skin had a slightly olive tint. He was an attractive man, no doubt. He was the type I might've gone for in my dark years, the years when I ran around town with different men and different names like my pussy was on fire. It was fun at the time, but only because of the pain it'd caused Elliot. I never wanted to use another man as a substitute for Elliot again, though. It was never as satisfying. I had the real thing again; there was no need to try to find it in someone else.

“Now pull in here,” I said as soon as he pulled out onto the road. I pointed to the entrance to the cafe, which was several feet ahead.

“Here?” he asked and I could hear the surprise in his voice. It wasn't a very happy surprise but it still caused me to laugh.

“Yes, here,” I giggled. I actually giggled. The sound was so asinine, but also involuntary.

“Well shit,” he said with a laugh as he made a sharp right into the cafe's parking lot.

“I told you I didn't need a ride.”

“You were right about that,” he said, shaking his head as he turned quickly into an open parking spot. “But since you tricked me, I think you owe me,” he said, turning in his seat to look at me after putting the car in park. I swallowed, his words having some odd affect on me. I suddenly had the little nagging feeling that Elliot wouldn't like this much. In fact, I was fairly certain he wouldn't like it one bit.

“Owe you?” I asked, as innocently as I could muster.

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, the smile never leaving his face. “Let me buy you lunch.” I ran my tongue over my lips, pretending to mull it over.

“No,” I said and watched his face fall. His disappointment was so palpable it was almost endearing. “You can't buy my lunch, but will you have lunch with me?” I smiled as he perked up instantly. This was almost too easy. But I had to be careful, I told myself as we got out of the car. I had to be careful because I was walking on walking on hot coals with bare feet. It was best not to get too cocky. It was best to keep a cool head, even if I wanted to poke and prod at him like a medical experiment. It was almost too fun.

I ordered my usual lunch and he got a sandwich and a Coke and we sat by the window. The view wasn't much to brag about but at least it was in out of the chilly air. I picked at my salad and watched him as he ate. Eating with the enemy wasn't nearly as bad as sleeping with the enemy, I figured. I still wasn't doing anything too bad, so I decided to push a little further. “So you've been thinking about me this whole time?” I asked, spearing a dried cranberry on my fork. “For the last few weeks, you've been wondering how I am?”

“No,” he said, but then flashed me a smile and I knew he was lying. “I just thought of you this morning. And I realized we'd never followed up.”

“You could've called.”

“What if you didn't answer? I was close enough, I figured I would stop by.”

“Where's your partner?” I asked, playing along. “Aren't you two usually a team?”

“He's busy,” he said, dropping his eyes back to his turkey club, still lying like a rug. “Working another case.”

“So you were thinking about me just out of the blue.” I took a sip of my iced tea, wrapping my lips around the straw. I swallowed and watched his face. His eye twitched a bit and I almost missed it. Almost. “Maybe you've got some new information? Some new information you don't want to tell me because you think I can't handle it?”

“No,” he said again, wiping his hands on his napkin.

“You say that a lot. 'No'. But I don't know if I believe you,” I said.I set my fork down and and gave him a patient look. Like I could wait there all day to hear the truth.

“The feds don't give a lowly Seattle detective like me the time of day,” he said, crunching on a potato chip. “But I guess it wouldn't be completely true to say I didn't know anything.”

“The feds?” I asked, my interest immediately piqued.

“The asshole skipped state lines,” he said, staring at me intently again, so I know he's telling the truth. He's not avoiding my eyes anymore. “But there's been no sign of him since Kansas.”

“Kansas?” I can't stop myself from blurting out the name. My first inclination was to scour my mind for any instance, any slip-up, where we could've been spotted. I thought we'd been careful, but it was impossible to be too careful. I also wondered just when Wilson or his partner would remember that I told them I was in Denver. Would they think it was more than just coincidence that I was traveling so close to where he was spotted? If someone somehow saw him in Denver, we'd be screwed.

“I shouldn't be telling you this,” he said with a sigh. “I'm not trying to scare you.”

“I'm not scared,” I said, then picked up my fork again. I took another bite, even though the spinach tasted like dust on my tongue. But I told myself that if the feds had any idea who had helped Elliot escape or what had happened to Lassiter, they would be the ones banging on my door, not Wilson. But I couldn't help but feel like it was only a matter of time.

“There's also been sightings in Texas and Oklahoma, so the investigation is ongoing. We're just waiting for one of them to fuck up,” he said and I paused at his words. “Which will happen. Pritchard and the guy he escaped with are both violent offenders. There's no way they'll be able to keep a low-profile. They can't help themselves. I just hope they'll be back behind bars before something bad happens to someone else.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, forcing myself to take another bite. “What do you think? About where they are?” I asked after a minute, after drinking more tea to soothe my dry throat.

“Nowhere near here,” he said reassuringly. “There's been no signs that he came this far north.”

“Yet. There's no signs yet,” I said, correcting him. At that point, I was beginning to wonder if it was truly only a matter of time. I was doing everything in an attempt to not be discovered but there were so many different ways to make a mistake. Elliot was already sneaking out of the house. During the day, I had no idea what he did. I didn't think he would do anything that stupid, but it was so hard to stop him when he got it in his mind to do something. He promised he would do everything to keep us together, but the whole world was out to get us. One wrong move and we'd be dead in the water.

Something had to give. Something had to be done.

I just had to gather up the strength to do it.

“Don't think like that,” Wilson said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. The small table shook with the movement and my tea sploshed in my glass. “Trust the system. Trust me.” I couldn't help the rueful smile that spread over my lips. There was no hiding it; I was too much of a cynic at that point. I was too jaded to believe that, no matter how sincere Wilson thought he was being. There was no protecting me from Elliot. There never had been. There never would be.

“I don't trust anyone but myself,” I said and it was the most true thing I'd said all afternoon.

Chapter Four

S
he was lying to me.

From the minute she walked in the door, she was lying. I was sitting in the dark, waiting for her. After another day of fucking around and trying to keep myself busy, I was waiting for her to get home. I was counting down the fucking hours. When she left in the morning, I started my prison routine – hundred of crunches, pushups and squats. I worked out until my muscles burned and then went numb.  Then I took a shower and jacked off because it was second nature. Then I cleaned the kitchen and made the bed. Then I tried to read one of the law books she had on her shelf, like I used to do in prison. But I didn't. Instead, I went into her closet and ran my hand over her clothes. It was becoming a habit but I couldn't resist. I liked touching her things. I liked being in the messy, quiet, enclosed space, filled with her scent. I stood back and stared at it for a moment, taking the chaos in.

Growing up, my grandmother arranged her clothes by color and occasion. Her church dresses didn't hang next to her nurse's uniform, never. Joanie didn't do that, but she also had a hell of a lot more clothes. She had dresses and skirts and blouses, all stuffed in and over-flowing. She had dozens of colorful scarves, competitive swimsuits and skimpier bikinis in clear plastic bins and designer handbags piled up on the shelf. Her shoes were tossed around willy-nilly, some stacked and others in mismatched piles. She had more shoes than she could ever wear. She had some in boxes that she'd never even worn. And everything was expensive because she was used to having money and spending it on herself. The clothes looked expensive and smelled expensive, because they smelled like her and she smelled expensive.

My favorite item in the whole lot was the dress she'd worn on the third day we were back in Seattle. We'd been laying around naked for two days and finally she'd gotten up and showered and put clothes on. She'd chosen a simple blue dress with fluttery sleeves and a hem that hit her calves. I let her dress because I wanted her to think that she was in control. I wanted her to think that she could do whatever she wanted. This was the new life that we were going to build. There were rules. She was my woman, but she wasn't my slave. No leashes. No violence. But when we fucked, all bets were off. So I let her get dressed even though I wanted her to stay naked and available for me. But I soon discovered that it was definitely better when she had something on. The sound of ripping fabric is so satisfying. It makes me feel something deep in my guts, something close to the first time I ever fucked her. But I try not to think about that too much because I know she wants to forget it ever happened. It's better that way.

Afterwards, she pouted and was angry that I'd torn the seam, but she hadn't thrown it out like she said she would when she chastised me for destroying it. I found it in the back of her closet, hanging like any of the other dresses. I slipped it off the hanger and ran the thin blue fabric through my fingers, reliving the memory again. I could see her in the kitchen, barefoot with her back to me, her hair knotted on top of her head and her neck bare. I could feel the warmth of her skin under my lips. I could remember the way her shoulders tensed and her nipples went hard when I thrust my hand between her legs. I could hear her gasp when I ripped the dress and exposed her tits as I thrust my cock into her.

It was a good memory. Very good.

After awhile, I slipped the dress back on the hanger and slid it back into place. Then I closed the closet door behind me, just like she'd left it. I'd been away from her for too long. I liked feeling close to her. I was in her house, but that didn't mean I belonged there. Even though it had been a few weeks, it still felt foreign to me. It didn't feel like my place, because it wasn't. This was her, all her. I liked being surrounded by her. Sometimes. Other times I felt too impatient. When I looked out the window, what I saw wasn't familiar to me. There was no sun, no heat, no home. When I left prison, I didn't give a fuck about shit like that. I just cared about getting out and getting back to her. I did anything I could to make that happen. I lied to get what I wanted. I killed to ensure my own safety. More importantly, I killed for her. She wanted me. That was all that was important at the time. I was so fucking desperate. Desperation will make a man do crazy things.

So will love.

But the longer I sit, the longer I watch her leave every morning, the longer I wait for her to  return, the louder the urges get. The bad thoughts that take over everything and make it hard to remember how to be good. The night before, I'd been stupid. I knew it. I shouldn't have left the condo. I shouldn't have caught the bus to her office and exposed my face for strangers to see. But I wasn't thinking straight. I was only thinking about the urges. The urges are what's going to get me in trouble and I know it. But I can't stop it. Running my hand over her clothes and going through her things was one way to cope, but it wasn't enough. I knew it. I could feel it. But I couldn't tell her. I didn't want her to know. I didn't want to admit out-loud what a fine-line it was, between being the man that woke up next to her in the morning and the man that thought about killing and pain and ugliness like it was as normal as reading the Sunday paper. I didn't want her to look at me and see the man from two years ago. I wanted her to see a man that's trying to change, a man who was doing everything he could to belong in her world.

I could feel the shift, though. I could feel the change seeping into me. Something was coming. We were going to have to move soon. I knew it. We couldn't get comfortable in Seattle. We couldn't keep pretend like everything was peaches and cream and not expect it to blow up. We were getting too good at pretending. I wondered if she could see it, too. As I sat in the armchair in the dark and waited for her to get home, I wondered if she was making plans. I wondered if she was already thinking about where we would go and what we would do. I would follow her anywhere. I knew we couldn't go back home. The great state of Texas might as well break off and drift out into the gulf, because I knew I'd never see it again, not in this lifetime. I'd put up a fight and kill as many as I could if they tried to drag me back to prison. I'd die before they could take away everything I finally had with my Joanie. And I would take her with me when I went.

The lamp beside me turned on at 7:05 p.m. Like clockwork. She had the light on a timer, along with lights in the bedroom and kitchen. The house lit up and I woke up out of my morbid thoughts. As much as I couldn't stop the bad thoughts, I couldn't stop myself from selfishly wanting her either. I had ruined her life many times over but I couldn't let her go. I wouldn't. I would give up everything else, anything. It was so shitty of me, and I know that now. When I think back to those days in Seattle, I know that it was foolish of me to keep trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. The funny thing is, she would've been just fine without me. She's beautiful, she's smart, she's rich. She never needed me. She never needed the trouble I brought when I darkened her doorstep.

And I couldn't stop making trouble, even if I tried.

When 7:30 rolled around, I cracked my knuckles, one by one. I could feel my whole body tensing up. I didn't like it when she stayed out late. Normally, by that time, I would've started making some food for her, but there wasn't anything in the house. We'd cleaned it out during our marathon session that weekend. It was amazing how hungry and thirsty sex could make somebody. We'd gone through a whole roasted chicken and two steaks, as well as the fancy little potatoes and the corn and the string beans she'd gotten from the farmer's market. I have no money and I don't want to take money from the secret metal box in the bottom of her closet where she kept a small roll of twenties, so I didn't bother ordering anything. Besides, it was too risky.

For the hundredth time since I'd been in Seattle, I wonder how much longer I can live like this. A man can't stay in a cage for too long. At least not a man like me. I stayed in one already, because they locked me in. I know Joanie didn't want to lock me in, but she couldt help it. She was scared for me. She was angry that I'd left the house and put myself in danger. But she didn't understand. She thought she did, but she didn't. I didn't either, then.

When I finally heard her key in the door, I felt a sense of relief, an almost euphoric sense of happiness. It hadn't missed my attention that it wasn't too far off from a dog's reaction when their master returned from a day away. It was pathetic and I hate to admit it, but it made me more resentful. It made me want to grab her hair and make her wince and slam her against the wall and fuck her until she reminded me how much it was worth it. Instead, I forced myself to stay seated in the chair as she bustled into the kitchen, her heels clicking on the tile floor. She tossed her keys on the counter and set a bag down with a thump. I didn't last five seconds. I stood and walked to the doorway to the kitchen and leaned against it, my eyes drinking her in.

I sensed it the second she looked at me.

“Hi,” she said and there was something at the back of her eyes that immediately hit me between the ribs. But she slipped on a smile like she could mask it from me. She'd put on a fresh coat of lipstick, I noticed. Her lips were smooth and pink. Her hair was loose down her back and her trench-coat was belted at her waist, accentuating her perfect hour-glass figure. She looked so fucking good I forgot all about food. I was becoming a Pavlovian dog. I would start salivating at the sound of her keys in the door, at the sound of her car pulling into the garage. I didn't like it, but I couldn't stop it. I
was
her pet, pacing and impatient until she decided to return and grace me with her presence. And after hours of waiting, suddenly she was back. But it wasn't right. After all of my loyalty, she was smiling and hiding something from me. “I stopped by the market and picked up some things,” she said. “You're probably hungry.”

“I'll make it,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. Her smile faltered a bit as I advanced on her and then she took a step back away from me and fumbled with her coat.

“Let me change my clothes and then I'll do it,” she said. “I want to cook for you.”

“I haven't done shit all day,” I said, studying her face. “I can cook.” She dropped her eyes to the floor to avoid mine, then she looked at me again, like she was forcing herself. “Are you gonna fight me over a skillet and an open flame?” I asked her, cocking my head.

“No,” she murmured. I flung out an arm and caught her around the waist. I pulled her close and buried my face in her neck and took a deep breath. She gasped lightly and then looped her arms around my ribs. She squeezed me tight and I closed my eyes, the love I felt for her almost too much to bear. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to coming home and having you here,” she said.  I knew what she meant but it was still strange to hear. A little part of me told me to enjoy it while it lasted. She pulled away first, dropping her arms and pushing at me lightly. “I have to get out of these clothes or I'm going to scream.”

“Fuck dinner,” I said, running my hand down her hip and then squeezing her ass. “Get naked and I'll lick your pussy.”

“I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?” She shifted her eyes and then fumbled with her coat like she couldn't wait to get away from me. “We should eat first.” She walked around me into the living room and I let her go. I stood alone in the kitchen, but I was tempted to follow her. I was tempted to grab her and demand to know what the hell was going on, but I didn't. I wanted to see how long it would take before she would tell me on her own. I didn't know how patient I could be, but I would try. It could be a game for awhile. But I was competitive.

I always played to win.

*****

Lunch ended just as strangely as it began.

I walked with Detective Wilson out into the parking lot, but I told him there was no need to drive me back. He smiled and nodded.

“That won't stop me from watching to make sure you get back okay,” he said.

“I'm sure I'll be fine,” I said. “I've been crossing streets since I was five years old. I think I can manage.”

“Just don't forget to look both ways,” he said, still flirting. “Otherwise I'd have to arrest you for jaywalking.”

“Jaywalking?” I laughed. “You're starting to look a little desperate, Detective.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, then ducked his head like he was a shy little boy. I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He had no idea what tree he was barking up. He had no idea the things I was capable of, the things I could and would do to protect my secrets. But for a brief moment, I had a flashback to another life, a life before Elliot. A life where I flirted and dated nice boys and didn't have a care in the world, except for what I was doing on Friday night. I had to let it go though. Like everything else, I let it go. Because Elliot meant more. Elliot was everything.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” I said.

“I didn't mind, Joan,” he said and my name sounded strange coming from his lips. It felt too close, too intimate. Maybe it was just the way he said it. “You can call me Aaron, by the way. That's my name.”

“Good to know,
Detective
,” I said, emphasizing the word. Then I raised my hand and gave him a light wave, as easy as if I hadn't thought about it beforehand. The problem was, his face changed. His brow furrowed and his eyes got sharp. I knew immediately. My sleeve had slipped down. The wicked red and purple bruises around my wrist were out in the open, revealing themselves at the worst possible time. I'd almost gotten away from the cop with no slip-ups. I was so close. I dropped my arm to my side and smiled brightly, even though I knew it wouldn't make him forget what he'd seen. “I'm late,” I said and then I turned and strode across the parking lot toward the street. He didn't follow me and I didn't dare look back. I just kept walking until I got back to the relative safety of the office.