Page 62 of Skeletons in the Closet

Without much warning, Tallus cried out, ass clamping around me as his orgasm hit. It was sudden and unexpected, and I worried I hadn’t been paying enough attention to know it was coming. It didn’t take me long to find my own. It was a headyfeeling that melted away the stress I’d carried all day. I rode the wave of pleasure, closing my eyes as I clung to the edge of the atmosphere, trying hard not to vanish.

When I pulled out, Tallus collapsed to his side, groaning. “Fuck me. That’s a lethal weapon you’re packing, Guns. I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.” His glasses were askew, and the look in his eyes showed haziness. He scanned me up and down and chuckled. “One of these days, I’ll get your clothes off.”

I peered down at my barely exposed body. Unsure how to respond, I escaped to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and find a wet cloth because there was spunk on the couch. I tucked myself away, took a few deep breaths, and returned to the other room. I found Tallus sprawled lengthwise, legs draped over the arm, nakedness on full display. He had no shame. But why should he?

He accepted the cloth, wiped his hand and the mess, and tossed it aside before resuming his scan of my person. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to act.

He huffed with an edge of humor. “You’re a work in progress. It was a modicum better. Bravo. Still a touch chilly, but you’re getting there.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t exactly a compliment.

“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll take off.”

I grunted, shifted my weight, and went to find the beer I’d started earlier. It was warm, but I didn’t care. Maybe Tallus expected an invitation to spend the night, but I couldn’t make it. I never spent the night with guys. Sharing a bed was unfathomable. I wouldn’t know how to relax and sleep.

I found another beer when the first was gone, drinking it at the counter. When Tallus got up and dressed, he approached, keeping a few feet of distance. He stood unmoving as though waiting for something. I stared at the floor between us, unsure what to say or how to act.

When he was silent too long, I dared to look up. I dared to meet his eyes.

He smiled. It was soft and full of sympathy. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t respond. My skin felt too tight.

He moved closer and rested a hand on my jaw. I froze, unsure what was happening. He bussed my cheek and backed away. “Good night, D. Don’t be a stranger. I still want to help with the case. You have my number.”

I watched him go without saying a word. The damp impression of his lips on my cheek remained long after he was gone. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed me.

15

Tallus

Monday at work was as boring as ever. I spent the morning updating the department website with the information I’d been given from the several units we housed in the building, then I worked on inputting more files into our digital data bank since we were trying to move out of the Stone Age and do away with paper. It was a tedious process but one I’d agreed to take on, much to my regret.

When Kitty showed up at noon, I abandoned all pretense of working to hang out with her and help with crossword puzzles. She’d made a pan of baked ziti over the weekend and brought enough for us to enjoy lunch. It was heaven. Between Kitty and random trips to my mom’s for dinner, it was how I survived paycheck to paycheck.

Frugal spending was something I’d never learned. I was cursed with an eye for fashion and overindulgence. Memphis was convinced I needed to find myself a sugar daddy and be done with it.

“This is fabulous, Kitty Kat,” I said after my third bite of ziti. “I might need your recipe. Is it hard to make?” I wasn’t horrible in the kitchen, but I was no Emeril Lagasse. The simpler, the better.

“Not at all. I’ll email it to you when I get home. It was Laurie’s recipe. She got it from her friend Gabby, who got it from her mother-in-law, Doreen. Not that I couldn’t make ziti without a recipe. I can, but it’s nice to try someone else’s take on it.”

“Definitely.” I blew on another bite of pasta while Kitty wrote herself a reminder in her planner. She was always writing stuff down so she wouldn’t forget, claiming old age was a bugger on her memory. I didn’t see it. The woman had the memory of an elephant. She put everyone I knew to shame.

“Oh, I called Hazel on the weekend.” Kitty put the pencil down in exchange for a fork.

“Hazel?”

“You know. Diem Krause’s grandmother. We talked about her last week, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“We were on the phone for about five minutes before it fell apart. The poor woman was all over the place. I’m not sure she remembered who I was. Kept telling me her husband was on the front line and would write to her soon. Poor dear. Boone’s been gone for years.”

I recalled the short conversation I’d had with Diem about his grandfather. The same man who’d worn a fedora and trench coat and had worked loosely for the police department until the day he died. It was one of the only times I’d seen Diem open up about something personal and share more than a few mumbled words.

“Maybe you should visit,” I suggested. “Maybe if she saw you, she’d remember you better.”

“Oh, no. I can’t do that. Hazel’s living with her son, and I’ve heard enough stories about that awful man to keep my distance.”

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