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18
Ihad a good night’s sleep. Relief is a powerful anaesthetic. Now that I have cleared the air with Amy, and Annie is pregnant and happy, things have become simpler again. There’s no more lying and arguing, late-night sneaking around and leaving work for a quick blow job in the park. I have to keep telling myself I don’t still want her. That her existence alone doesn’t haunt me. My body misses her in ways that are profound. But I need to keep away from her. Focus on my family; she needs to understand that we’re over, and so do I.
The phone on my desk rings, slicing through my thoughts. I reach for it and answer automatically. “Officer Rossi.”
“Hi, Joe.”
Her voice startles me, and I shoot up in my chair, my eyes slinging around the room as if she’s just walked inside naked and sat on my desk. Guilt spills from the handset and coats everything I touch.
“How can I help you?” I try to keep my voice calm and professional; someone somewhere might be listening in, and of course all our calls are recorded. I run a hand over my eyes and squeeze them shut.
“I wanted to talk.”
“Pretty sure I’ve said everything there is to say.”
“Please, Joe.”
“Look, Amy, I’m busy, I have to work. Don’t call me again, we’re done.” I hang up, wiping my forehead with my wrist. It comes away wet with perspiration. I settle back into my seat as my phone rings again.
“Officer Rossi.”
“Don’t hang up.”
I do.
My phone rings for a third time and I let my messages get it. It soon rings a fourth and fifth time, and the longer it rings, the more eyes are cast my way as the message bank blinks with its red accusing light.
The line rings again.
“Detective Rossi.”
“Joe—” I hang up with my finger but keep the cradle tucked to my ear. Any calls she makes will go to my message bank, and anyone looking would think I was on a call.
I suck in a long breath. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I hold the phone to my ear when I feel the vibration in my pocket. The burner phone. Amy’s nickname comes up on the screen, and I stare as it flashes at me before it too goes to voicemail. A missed call banner decorates my screen followed by a voicemail banner. A second later the phone rings again.
* * *
Amy has been relentless for three days. Despite my ongoing silence and brush-offs she keeps trying to reach me.
I get back to my desk after my patrol and find another message from Amy; a hand-written note left from someone at the switchboard. She’s getting creative, or desperate. Either way, that’s a dangerous path. I scrunch the paper in my hand and throw it in the bin.
I keep hoping the silence will push her away – will cement my decision. She’s young, she has so much ahead of her, and I have Annie and the girls and so much more ahead of me. I rub the back of my neck. Another three years of nappies and sleepless nights and tantrums and Annie pushing me away, while Amy goes on to meet someone her age who will fuck her like the wild animal she is.
I grapple with my jealousy and push it out with a hard breath. She might be amazing in bed with her petite body and tight pussy, but there is enough crazy in her box for an entire asylum. I push her out of my thoughts as the phone rings again.
Fuck.
* * *
My phone is silent for the first time in five days. But I am on edge, anticipating, waiting. I don’t trust the silence. And despite the cool air coming through the cracked open windows of the station, a bead of sweat meanders down the side of my face and buries itself into my stubbled chin.
I stare at the phone on my desk in wait, but still nothing happens. I push away the feeling of unease and flip through my paperwork till I am consumed by it, and for the first time in a while find escape in the black ink and greying papers. Eventually I ease myself into my seat sensing the tension fall from my shoulders. It’s probably why I ignore the shadow looming over my desk. I assume it’s Williams. It’s always Williams. But then I get a whiff of a sweet floral scent and my head jerks up.
My eyes widen as I take her in. How the fuck did she manage to get back here? Despite the cool autumn air, she is wearing a short red skirt that rides far too high over her round ass, and a short denim jacket, faded and factory-torn in places, that hangs open showing off a black crop top that pushes up her perfect, perky tits. I tear my eyes away meeting her gaze.
When my brain regains consciousness, the anger creeps in. “What the fuck are you doing here, Amy?” I smile at her and hiss through gritted teeth.
