Page 99 of Skeletons in the Closet

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“I think,” Memphis gestured with the pointy corner of his sandwich, “you empathize with his past.”

I stole a fry from my best friend’s plate. We’d met at a cheap diner for lunch, but my expenses were limited, so I’d ordered a simple bowl of soup and was still hungry. The topic of conversation was Diem, of course, since I hadn’t been able to get him off my mind since I left him looking forlorn sitting outside his office the previous day.

“My father never beat me.”

“Abuse is abuse. A person doesn’t have to lay a hand on you to cause damage. I think you commiserate with the ice giant.You have a miserable past, and so does he. It’s both cute and disturbing. What is it you want from him?”

“I don’t know.” Memphis swatted my hand when I reached for another fry.

“Babe, please tell me you don’t want to date him.”

“Haha. You’re funny.”

“Is it his monster dick?”

“No.”

“Is it the sleuthing?”

“Maybe… No. I don’t know what it is.”

“Are you attracted to him?” Memphis made a face that suggested the notion would be unfathomable. He couldn’t see beyond superficial beauty, so it didn’t shock me. He was shallow like that.

“So what if I am?”

“To each his own.”

“Anyone ever tell you how callous you sound?”

Memphis bit into his sandwich with a shrug.

“Diem appeals to me in a way I can’t explain. He gives off serious alpha vibes while at the same time, he’s this tight ball of anxiety who second-guesses himself when it comes to anything sexual and can’t figure out how to be intimate.”

“Amazing qualities. I can see why you’re troubled.”

“Stop being a sarcastic dick.”

“Stop stealing my lunch.” He smacked my hand again as I tried to sneak a fry. “Sex doesn’t have to be intimate to be good. Seriously, take the dicking, sweetheart, and leave it at that.”

He didn’t get it. We weren’t the same. Memphis’s long list of sexual encounters consisted of bathroom hookups at Gasoline. He was happy to exchange blow jobs with barely legal college students.

It wasn’t that I was looking for anything permanent, and it wasn’t that I was against impersonal hookups—I liked thevariety—but was it too much to ask to have a guy pay attention to me? Put his hands on me? Worship the moment we shared, even if it wasn’t meant to last?

I liked kissing. I liked groping, and grinding, and fondling. I liked lying sweaty together afterward. Sue me.

I checked the time on my phone. “I gotta run.”

“When will you be done with the ice giant tonight?”

“Don’t call him that, and I don’t know.”

“Text me if you’re home early.”

I doubted I would be, but I agreed to Memphis’s request.

The afternoon dragged on. Without Kitty, the records room was depressing. I input more data into the system and researched the hit-and-run from 2010. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that I got confirmation that Roan Guterson was indeed the victim of David Shore’s vehicular homicide charge. I didn’t go hunting for details. I didn’t hound Doyle since Diem and I were clearly on his shit list, but the website updates came through as I expected. Unfortunately, they were vague.

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