Page 7 of 2nd Strike
That’s my plan, until I walk past the spare bedroom. I flip on the overhead light and the filing cabinets—lined up like diligent soldiers—gleam like magnets. I feel their pull.
Twenty minutes later, I have the Havers’ files spread on the floor. I grab a glass of wine and start reading.
4
Meg
By nine, I’m on the George Washington Memorial Parkway with sunshine streaming through my windshield as the remains of rush hour traffic winds down. I’ve already been to the office and helped myself to a few pieces of information from Charlie’s file on Ethan.
Now, I’m off to Alexandria for a visit to Jerome. Otherwise known as my weed dealer.
He’s actually not one, per se. He buys medicinal grade pot from someone he trusts and shares with me. That’s what friends do, right?
Jerome texted at seven—he’s a morning person—to let me knowthe goodswere available.
This arrangement works well for us since I’d like to avoid getting busted buying pot. I’m chicken that way. I’m in a partnership with a beloved sister, which means I have a responsibility to her. That includes not bringing embarrassment to a business that deals with law enforcement—and a U.S. attorney—on the daily.
As I pull into the right lane, a car roars by and I tap my brake. I’ve been in D.C. long enough to know Mr. Mercedes is about to cut in front of me to get to the exit first. Which is exactly what happens. People. Always in a rush.
Afterward, I come to a stoplight. The Mercedes is right in front of me and I shake my head. If Jerome were here, we’d make snide comments about how far the idiot got by cutting me off.
It’s one of the things I love about Jerome. We share a sarcastic humor. It doesn’t hurt that we’re both creatives interested in forensic art.
And, hello? We also turn to the occasional pot brownie or joint to settle us down. Where my issues are anxiety based, Jerome has ADD. His attention span is zero and for someone in our field, that’s an issue. Weed relaxes him. Helps him focus.
I pull into the small parking lot of his single-story apartment complex and park near his unit.
His front door swings open and I get a sick thrill, that fleeting buzz in my core, from the fact he was waiting for me. He stands there in torn track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His honey-blond hair is slicked back—wet from a shower probably since he doesn’t blow dry—and his cheeks show at least two days of stubble.
My mind skitters back to the first time I saw him at a workshop on the anatomical method.
Something happened.
That something being attraction. Not like JJ/Charlie, let-me-rip-your-clothes-off attraction, but a quiet pull that made me insanely aware I am A.) female and B.) like an orgasm or five every now and again.
Worse, he was funny and smart and I enjoyed him way beyond the sexual aspect. My rotten luck, because all that respect for his brain threw the idea of multiple orgasms out the window.
I haven’t had a ton of relationships, but I know sex screws things up.
Big time.
And I’m not sure I’m willing to lose his friendship if any intimacy between us bottoms out. I actually care too much to risk it.
Twisted asthatis.
Plus, I don’t have time to devote to a man. And Jerome deserves devotion.
So he’s my friend instead of my lover. My go-to guy when I need someone to talk to.
Or do a sketch when I can’t be objective.
I keep my gaze on his until I reach the lone step to his doorway. “Good morning.”
As I approach, his hazel eyes lock on mine, a touch of mischief lighting them. I often feel naughty when our “drug deal” goes down and he likes to tease me about it.
“Good morning,” he says. “You look tired.”
He slides the door wider and I breeze past. “I am. Couldn’t sleep and I was out of brownies.”
