Page 11 of The Phantom's Vice

“It’s fine,” I say, my voice a little too sharp. At the look on my partner's face, I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Sorry, Jim. This case has just got me…”

“Worked up?” He grins, causing the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes to deepen.

“That’s putting it lightly.” My lips tip upward in a returning smile. “I wish I was more like you.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t want this face. It’s awful trying to swat the women away all day.”

A genuine giggle pours from my mouth at the cheesy attempt to make me laugh. “You wish, Peterson. And you know that’s not what I meant.”

Jim rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. But you don’t want that either. I’m serious, Brett,” he adds, noticing my expression. “You genuinely care about things. About people. You don’t wanna lose that. Because once it’s gone—” He snaps his fingers, causing me to jolt. “It’s gone, sweetheart.”

“Whatever you say.” I roll my eyes with a grin. “So what’s up? Or did you just come over to talk about emotions with me?”

“Actually…” Jim’s cheeks warm as his eyes dart off to the side. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a drink.”

My mouth pops, about to shoot him down when he adds, “Purely as friends. I know your aversion to dating.”

My lips press into a thin line. “I don’t know…”

“Come on. You need to get out more, Brett. You’ve been in this city for what? Four months? Have you even gone outonce?”

I frown, my gaze dropping down to my hands clenched tightly in my lap. “This case is important, Jim. I haven’t had time to?—”

“No, you have.” He scoffs, crossing his burlyarms over his chest. “You justchoosenot to. You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy the rest of your night, Brett.” He stomps off, seeming more than a little peeved.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as that damn headache comes back in full force. What he said struck a nerve in me, though I don’t want to admit it.

A groan falls from my lips, and I squeeze my eyes tight against the light as I lean back in my chair. It’s not like I don’twantto date. I want to feel the butterflies, to find a partner to go through this fuckery of life with. But every time someone touches me, I?—

My skin crawls just thinking about it. Ihatebeing touched. Always have. Even my own mother would make comments about it when she was alive.

You’re like a cat. You know that, Brett? You only accept affection on your terms.

I was young, but I still remember her words. They always made me like something was wrong with me. Of course, it never made anything better. Never made me want to allow someone to touch me.

Things only got worse when she disappeared, and I was thrust into the foster system, forced into the arms of people who had no place in caring forchildren. I still remember my first—and, coincidentally,last—real foster family and how I was mistreated. The wife, Nancy, was bad, but nothing compared to her husband, Craig Porter.

Craig was a nasty drunk, and he liked to drinkoften,typically ending the night by stumbling into my room and attempting to crawl in bed with me. Of course, a swift kick to his groin and a scream was usually enough to wake Nancy, and he would always blubber, apologizing profusely and claiming he “thought this was his wife's bed.”

It worked on Nancy—not me. And she resented me for it. They both did. The fact that I could see through their carefully constructed lies bothered them, and I knew at the end of the day, they were worried my strong will would eventually be their undoing.

The night of my sixteenth birthday, Craig slipped something into my glass of water during dinner, and I woke up just in time to feel him trying to yank my pants off. I always assumed my guardian angel was perpetually fucked up, but it seems he put away the bottle for the night because as I lay there, unable to do more than slowly open and close my eyelids, Craig slumped to the floor, too drunk tostay awake.

He never got the chance to try again—meeting his demise in a mysterious hiking accident only a few days after that horrible night—but to this day, I still shy away from any physical touch. The idea of being so vulnerable again terrifies me. I much prefer the control of knowing my body is mine and mine alone. All the therapy in the world has yet to cure me of my problem, and now, here I am—a virgin in her midtwenties.

Maybe I should feel ashamed about it, but I’m content without experiencing the intimate touch of a man—or woman, for that matter. I’ve tried, but it seems gender doesn’t hold any weight in my unwillingness to be touched. But I’m okay with it. Ihaveto be okay with it.

My phone alarm blares, breaking me from my thoughts and reminding me it’s the end of the workday. If I don’t set the thing, I’ve found I’ll stay for hours past when all the other agents head home, not even realizing it until my bladder inevitably screams at me. It wouldn’t be such an issue, but I have a hangry cat at home, and he makes me pay when his meals are late.

Grabbing my purse from my desk, I head out of the building and into the dimly lit parking garage, my mind a mess of thoughts and memories. Theonly thing that could cure me now is some cat snuggles.

As soon as I sit in the driver's seat of my light gray Honda, my stomach rumbles with enough force to shake the cabin, reminding me that, in addition to all the shit going on in my head, I’ve neglected to feed myself. With a sigh, I put the car into reverse, my tires squealing as I whip out of the parking garage and veer left, heading in the direction of China 1, my favorite greasy Chinese restaurant. I practically live off their chicken lo mein and fortune cookies at this point even though I’m sure my cholesterol is through the roof because of it. Aside from Venom, it’s the only thing that brings me any joy, so it’s worth the decade it’ll take off my life.

A few minutes later, I pull into the strip mall parking lot and leave the car running while I race inside. The man at the counter gives me a great big smile as soon as I push open the door and rush toward the brown paper bag waiting for me on the counter.

“Thanks, Andrew,” I chirp, reaching into my wallet and placing a twenty in the duck-shaped tip jar. “The card went through?”

“As always, Brett.” Andrew winks, tapping thebag with his weathered hands. “I put a few extra cookies in there for you. Don’t tell Mrs. Lee.”

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