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Yeah, definitely don’t like where this is headed. “Please tell me you decided to take a class in criminal justice, and this is for research purposes.”
She slants a look at me and sips her water. “No.” She picks up her knife and slices into the ham steak but doesn’t take a bite. Instead, she sets her knife and fork next to her plate again.
“After we…” Her cheeks redden. “After I broke up with you...I don’t know. I felt so guilty and thought maybe if I spoke to him, found out what he wants to tell me, it could…I don’t know, maybe help fix me?”
“Emily, there is nothing wrong with you.” I slide my hand over hers and squeeze.
This is a simple problem to solve. She did this as a reaction to breaking up with me. We’re back together and things are good. Therefore, she doesn’t need to do this.
End of story.
EMILY
“The letter explains the procedure for visiting his facility. I’m not family. Obviously,” I add with a dose of dark sarcasm.
“The fuck are you going to see him.” Dex slaps his palm against the table and jumps out of his chair, scraping it against the floor.
I understand his frustration, but this isn’t his decision to make, and I won’t be talked out of it. “I’m not asking for your permission. And this isn’t up for debate. I’m going.”
He stops his caged-animal-style pacing and stares at me. Several arguments seem to flicker over his face. His jaw clenches tight. Whatever decision he’s come to pisses him off. “Okay,” he finally answers. “But I’m going with you.”
“You can’t,” I argue. “I already—”
“Not inside.” He stops and stares at his hands, maybe imagining wrapping them around Zach’s neck. “I’ll drive you, though. You shouldn’t go alone.”
Relief washes over me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been dreading the long drive there. The trip home—after learning whatever Zach wanted me to know—well, I tried not to imagine that part. One step at a time.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’d really appreciate your company.” His strength, his calming presence. Everything about him will make this so much easier to endure.
He stops and stares. “Did you actually accept my help without arguing with me?”
“Now who’s the smart-ass?” I stand and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his chest. “Thank you.”
“I wish you weren’t doing it,” he says, rubbing his hand over my back. “But I can understand why you think you need to. I’ll be right outside waiting for you when you’re done.”
My eyes sting with emotion and I hug him tighter.
We stand there in my kitchen, just holding each other for a few minutes.
“Breakfast is getting cold,” he says. “And whatever you made looks really good.”
“Let’s hope for the best,” I joke.
We sit down to eat and thankfully find other things to talk about besides visiting murderers in prison.
As we’re finishing up, his phone buzzes. He yanks it out of his pocket, taps in a code, scowls at the screen, and then flicks it off. “I’m not answering that,” he mutters.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, squeezing a wedge of lemon into my water glass.
“Nothing. Work stuff.”
“Do you need to—”
“No. Just one of the girls with something dumb. I’m not rewarding her by responding. Unless they’re on death’s doorstep, I don’t want to hear from any of them this early in the day.”
Wow. That has to be the most information Dex has ever voluntarily verbalized about his job.
What he actually said sinks in and my inner jealousy gremlin yawns to life.
“Wait, the girls text you? The strip…er, dancers.” I set my water glass on the table with a harder thump than I intended. “Personally? Like, your personal phone? Send texts to you?” Why does this bug me so much that I can’t form a coherent sentence?
“Well, I manage the place, so, yeah,” he answers slowly.
“What kind of stuff do they text you about?” I ask in a slightly less microwave-your-balls tone.
“Work stuff.” He shrugs but glances away. “Sometimes other stupid shit.”
“Like?”
He unlocks his phone again and hands it to me.
Kira (W, Th, Sa-Blonde): I cut my own bangs and they look awful I don’t know what to do Dex. HALP!
“Is that her name, the days she works, and hair color?” I raise a confused eyebrow.
He nods. “Otherwise, I won’t remember who it is. We get a lot of girls in and out of there.”
“Huh. Clever.” At least Dex isn’t the type of man to use her cup size or some other sleazy way to identify the women who work for him.
I stare at the message again and laugh—been there, done that, burned the photographic evidence. Although, I never would’ve texted my boss to tell him about my hair mishaps. “Why is she telling you about her hair?”
“I don’t fucking know.” He blows out an exasperated breath. “She’s probably setting up an excuse for bailing on her shift tonight. Some of them think they’re more clever than they actually are—they’re like kids with the damn excuses.”
