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Sean kisses me again, a deep, slow, passionate kiss, before sliding out of me and gently lowering my legs back to the floor. He brushes the wet hair back from my face, then rotates me into the spray. He gently shampoos my hair, then washes himself. I’m leaning against the wall, eyes closed, completely blissed out when the water turns off. I open my eyes and see him staring at me with a smirk.
“What?” I say.
“You look good like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He winks. “Freshly fucked.”
I grab the washcloth to throw at him, but he ducks out of the shower just in time. He reappears with a fluffy towel, which he hands to me. I dry off and wrap it around myself.
Sean pats the counter next to the sink. “Let me check your stitches.”
He proclaims that it’s healing well, but they aren’t ready to come out yet.
We stare awkwardly at each other for a minute.
Finally, Sean breaks the silence. “I need to make a call about the situation.”
I nod. I’m assuming he’s referring to the dead body with brains splattered all over his guest room situation, but I could be wrong. He does lead an exciting life.
After several minutes, he returns and hands me a set of neatly folded clothes. Leggings and a t-shirt, bless him. I dress and work at digging tangles out of my hair with a comb. Exiting his bathroom, I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, also dressed casually. I internally pout at having the gorgeous man covered up again.Good lord, Rocky, he just fucked you six ways to Sunday. Stop ogling him.He ushers me out of his room and to the kitchen. I take my customary seat at the island. He picks out a wine and two glasses, pouring both and handing one to me.
“We need to talk,” he says ominously.
“As the only vagina in the room, I feel obligated to complain that is typically the female line,” I say with a smirk.
Which falls flat. Serious Sean is back.
“Ok.” I take a sip of the wine and nod to him.
He proceeds to reconfirm several details about my story that I shared earlier today and then begins to fish for new information.
“Why would you risk your life like this?” he asks.
I take a sip of wine, and then two more for good measure. “Because what’s happening to those girls is horrible. Someone needs to do something. Someone needs to tell their story.”
“So why didn’t you go to the cops?” he asks me.
“What are the cops going to do that they aren’t already doing? Besides, NYPD has their murders being handled by an organized crime guy. I’m not feeling like the girls are a priority to the department.”
“So, you basically assumed a false identity, a separate life, went undercover, and hoped to find enough evidence to prove that Popov was involved? You know he would still kill you.” A muscle ticks in Sean’s jaw. He’s pissed.
“Ok, in my defense, at the time I figured the press coverage of the story would trigger a police investigation, something they couldn’t sweep away, and between that and the publicity, it would be enough motivation for him not to kill me. Having since met him, I think he’d enjoy killing me slowly just for fun, on live TV if the opportunity presented itself.”
Sean nods. He walks into his office and returns holding a bottle of whisky. He pours a glass. Apparently, we’ve moved past the wine portion of the evening.
“Walk me through everything, and be specific,” he says.
So I do. Most of it he already heard, but I add in as many details as I can recall. When I’m finished, he asks, “Do you still have access to the port records?”
I nod. “Yeah, the files are in my Dropbox, so all I need is a computer and internet and I’ll have access to all of my notes, photos, everything.”
“Ok. I want to see if some dates line up.”
He walks me to his office, plops me into his chair, and unlocks the computer.
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.” He gives me a cold stare.
