Page 3 of Fragments of the Past

At this filthy request, I explode. Anson coaxes the last violent shudders from me. He drags his pants from where they landed on the couch cushion. The only fumbling he’s done the entire night is removing his wallet from the back pocket. Inside a foil packet glints. It doesn’t stay sealed long.

Chapter Two

________________

RAE LEE

“Are you sticking around?” Anson’s body covers mine. His nose travels the length of my clavicle, ending with a soft kiss he places on my shoulder.

The medal on the necklace he’s wearing is smooth. I play with the chain, swirling my fingers in the fine hair at the base of his skull.

We never left the couch. I’m not even fully naked. My rumpled skirt is flipped over my belly and my bralette is stretched out of place. My neck and left breast have beard burn, though there’s something soothing about the warm, firm skin of his bare pec that flattens my tit to my chest.

Pinned, I shrug in a “why not” manner.

Anson sits, pulls his boxers over his hips, and pads to the bathroom. After cleaning up, he stretches out beside me on his side, taking the spot on the sofa closest to the cushy pillow back. There’s not a lot of room for two people on the couch. He makes sure I’m comfortable on my back. Then he flips off the side lamp and drapes an arm over me.

Minutes later, Anson’s chest rises and falls in a soothing rhythm. However, I’m wide awake, trying not to fidget.

I don’t dislike being held afterward, but the awkwardness of staying until the sun rises and bumbling goodbyes aren’t enjoyable for anyone. I slide out from his embrace and grab my shirt from the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice is sleep laden.

“Bathroom.” I slip my shirt on while tip-toeing towards the stairs, where I saw him go before. “Go back to sleep.”

Coming up short at the threshold to the kitchen, there is a blonde woman hovering inside the room. Her expression isn’t readable. At first glance, I thought she was content. But the jealousy emanating from her is undeniable.

“Oh, shit,” I gasp. Recognizing who she is, my fingers stretch out in front of me. “Angeline?” I whisper, but she’s gone.

I step into the kitchen, momentarily glad that Anson is a conscientious leave-a-light-on kind of guy. When I see the gold crest of his badge sitting on a laptop as quiet as a mouse, I decide to disappear, too.

I prefer quality friendships over quantity. The people who know the real Rae Lee are few. If anyone asked Layla, who I sent the selfie of Anson and me at Sweet Caroline’s to, she’d be the last to say I was reckless, especially not with my heart. Yet, she’d be the first to say my infrequent hookups with men—whom I don’t necessarily want to discuss world events over breakfast with—were cavalier. Hence, her insistence on an in-focus headshot to ensure my safety.

Though if she had to give the photo over to the police or pick the guy out in a line up, there’s probably not much hope for me, is there?

Failing to correct Anson when he misheard my name was foolhardy. In retrospect, I had a lot of audacity. Exactly whose eyes was I thinking I could pull the wool over on?

Besides mine.

I can’t blame the booze. And my resentment about not feeling normal won’t gain me sympathy when my hasty, but panty-melting amazing, fucking mistake figures out who I am.

Detective Anson Ames of the Brighton Police Department contacted me last week. I’ve assisted in a dozen cases in Eastern North Carolina but stopped years ago. Whether their duty is to remain impartial as they collect evidence or not, I don’t particularly like the suspicion I’m met with by the police. Not when they are the ones who seek me out, anyway. Just because skepticism is their job doesn’t mean I have to subject myself to it. Guarding not only my health, but my mental health in situations where grizzlier crimes have taken place takes precedence.

My abilities are no good to anyone if I’m run down. Opening up to the spirit world has lasting effects. It left me with medical diagnoses I wouldn’t wish upon my enemies—if I surrounded myself with adequate people outside of my small circle of friends to have any.

I’d broken my rule, refusing to get involved for two reasons. First, I’d consulted on a case with Angeline McCuller. At the time, she was with a neighboring police department and the viable leads were dwindling. She’d been scrupulous but kind. Quite honestly, everything about her mannerisms screamed of the golden rule.

It’s also why I somewhat forgive—and also don’t fully comprehend—her reaction to me earlier this morning. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Angeline is protective of Anson. He identified her on the phone as a reliable friend. I got the sense he was devoted to her, or at least to honoring her memory.

Second, Detective Ames stated the victim’s family had pushed for a medium to get involved. I’m not interested in handing out a business card proffering my services and trying to pump up business. However, I’d question my own humanity if I didn’t have sympathy for people who believed you were their last-ditch effort to gain closure.

How can you say no to another human who has had the courage to hold onto hope in the bleakest of circumstances?

I walk the quiet downtown streets with my thumb poised over the emergency call button on my cell. My apartment isn’t far from Anson’s place. He lives in one of those shiny new live/work/play complexes that are all the rage. I live in the only loft unit on the second floor of an old mansion. It’s located in the historic district on the opposite side of the street and a few blocks down from the concert hall.

At home, the door bounces off of an unopened box of kitty litter. I shower, change, fall into bed and sleep until my alarm goes off past noon. I pour milk over a bowl of strawberry flavored shredded wheat, then sit alone at the small table, letting the biscuits go soggy. I throw them down the sink and flick on the loud garbage disposal, which eats my breakfast for me.

Stumbling back to the facilities, I accidentally—or intentionally—kick the bag of cat food that needs to go to the animal shelter. I stand under the shower stream. Hot tears of frustration trail down my cheeks. I wipe the snot from my nose. The water from my body. Finally, I slip into a professional black pencil skirt and scoop the tan and cream retro-style kitten heels with a buckle over the bridge of my foot from the pile of shoes by the door.

---