Page 1 of Skeletons in the Closet

1

Diem

Inever should have fucked him.

I wouldn’t be in this predicament if I had left well enough alone. We would be practically strangers. As it should be. I would have no trouble approaching him and asking for help. It would be a business opportunity, cash in his pocket, and maybe I’d get some answers for my client.

If I hadn’t fucked him, I wouldn’t be sitting in the parking lot of his building for the third night in a row like a goddamn stalker, fumbling over words in my head, trying to compile a meaningful sentence without sounding like an aggressive or rude asshole. I wouldn’t be flooded with the memories of what he looked like when he came on my dick.

I wouldn’t be stuck in the Jeep, unable to move.

I wouldn’t be sweating.

A low growl resonated in my chest.

Who was I kidding?

It made no fucking difference. Approachinganyonefor help was not in my skill set.Wordswere not in my skill set. Engaging in meaningful conversation was like speaking a foreign language I didn’t know. The few inside contacts I had were people I’d bribed or ones who managed to ignore my less than flowery demeanor.

But fucking him had added an extra layer of discomfort to this task. Hence, there I was, crossing the line into criminal harassment.

The subject left work at five thirty-seven, stopped at the liquor store, purchased a bottle of wine, and drove home, parking his fancy-schmancy Jetta in its designated spot at six twenty-three.

When the subject swaggered to the back door of the apartment complex—it was the only way to describe the purposeful walk—he was on the phone, laughing and chatting with whoever was on the other end. His obliviousness to his surroundings was concerning. If the idiot had an ounce of common sense, he would have noticed the Jeep parked a few car-lengths down. I wasn’t exactly hiding.

However, his perpetual distraction meant I could shamelessly take him in. His fitted trousers—molded to his ass—mauve dress shirt, and silver tie screamed suave and sophisticated. The tousled, just-been-fucked style of his auburn hair, and the sexy-as-sin dark-framed glasses spoke to his playful, flirty side. A side with which I was shamefully acquainted.

It wasn’t often a guy ticked all my boxes and turned me stupid. I adhered to strict rules when it came to bed partners, which included no names and no second helpings. Anonymity was the key to survival. But Tallus fucking Domingo, Toronto Police Department’s records clerk, had managed to hijack my system six months ago. Like a barb on a fishing hook, he’d snagged the reasoning center of my brain and given a good hard tug. I hadfound myself unable to resist crossing lines and mixing business with pleasure.

Which was why I was in this current predicament: uncomfortable, anxious, and toeing the line of creepy stalker behavior.

All I had to do was buzz his apartment and explain the situation. He would be willing to help, or he wouldn’t. End of story. Easy-peasy. Done and done.

But I couldn’t get out of the Jeep. I couldn’t organize the right series of words inside my brain that didn’t paint me in a negative light. Communication was my downfall. It was why I avoided it. It was why I said nothing most days. Most of the time, clients didn’t notice since they were too busy getting their stories out, more concerned I understood what they needed than what I was saying or not saying.

Minutes ticked by.

My mind spun.

I mentally broke down the case that had recently landed on my desk, listening to Faye’s account over and over, wishing I could find a workable loophole that didn’t involve asking Tallus Domingo for help. But there weren’t any. I’d been over it a thousand times. Logically, I could try to take the next step on my own, but I knew without a doubt I’d fuck it up. My social skills were nonexistent. My ability to act was embarrassing. Schmoozing and chatting with strangers made my skin crawl.

But Tallus had a flare for the dramatic. He could do it easily.

Twenty minutes.

Forty.

One hour passed.

I needed to go ask him. Enough was enough. But I still didn’t move.

I picked at my nails. I drummed a beat on the steering wheel to a song I didn’t know on the radio. I tugged a loose thread on myT-shirt until the seam unraveled—then I cursed because it was one of the few good shirts I owned, and I couldn’t sew for shit.

I needed something to do with my hands. Four months ago, I’d sworn to myself I’d smoked my last cigarette, but the cravings—especially in times of stress—were unbearable, so I’d caved a handful of times. Not for long, and I always managed to get back on track. But it happened more often than I liked.

The craving itched under my skin where I couldn’t scratch. It burned in places I couldn’t douse in cold water. It worsened my temper, which was the bigger issue since I’d spent years in therapy ensuring I didn’t turn into my father.

What a waste of fucking time. Who was I kidding?

---