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“I …” She pauses, looking uncomfortable. “Needed somewhere to go.”
He knows this is bad, but the alcohol numbs his thinking. “Go home, Ellie,” he mutters.
“Don’t you want some company?”
He does. But not her. She’s his DC, she works for him. In the middle of a major murder investigation, when both of them should be getting some much-needed sleep.
But instead, he says, “Sure. Why not.”
“Same again?”
He waves the bottle of beer, and she heads off to the bar. She’s drunk already—he can tell that—and he needs a few more himself. She’s sweet, Ellie Quinn. She’ll do as someone to talk to. For now.
She meanders back toward him, two beers in one hand, and four shots in the other, one finger in each glass. She plonks them all down on the table.
“Shots?” he says.
“Thought you might need to play catch-up. I’m pretty pissed.”
“No shit,” he says, and she laughs.
They down the shots, the bass line thumping in Adam’s chest. He feels the anxiety abate; he’s aware of Quinn chattering on but is barely listening.
He realizes she’s stopped and is waiting for him to reply.
“Sorry?” he says.
“I asked, when did you and Dr. Cole get divorced?”
“Oh. About three years ago.”
“And you still get on?”
“As well as we can.” He feels her staring at him. “She’s with someone,” he adds.
“Ah. And you’re single?”
“These are very personal questions to be asking your boss, DC Quinn.”
She giggles. The alcohol has overridden her usual nerves around him. “Sorry,” she says. “Just curious. From one singleton to another.” She wobbles slightly, and he places a hand on her upper arm to steady her. She looks up, her big green eyes beseeching and eager. Her freckles look black against her skin in the flashing lights of the bar.
“More drinks?” she says.
* * *
He should have said no at that point. Fuck, he should have walked away, from her, out of the bar, gone home. Put Jamie to bed with a pint of water and done the same for himself. But he didn’t. They drank more. She laughed, flirted, pressed her body against his as they talked, her hair tickling his face as he moved closer so she could hear.
Things got worse. All good sense went out the window as she kissed him. As he let her. As they hailed a taxi. As hands went places they never should have gone on the drive back to hers.
She fumbled her key on the doorstep, slurred something about her housemates being away. She kissed him in the hallway, offering him another drink but pulling him toward her bedroom. At every stage he knew he should stop. But he didn’t. He carried on. Desperate to be next to someone. Someone who actually liked him, who wanted to be with him. Who didn’t intimately know his shortcomings and his problems and blame him for theirs.
He feels good with Ellie. As she grabs his bum, pulling him closer to her. As she pulls her shirt off over her head. They lie together on her bed, kissing, groping, him on top. Her trousers are off, her bra undone, and he realizes her movements have slowed. He looks down at her. Her eyes are half closed, her breathing heavy. She looks at him, blinking.
“Oh, fuck,” she says. “I’m so pissed.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. He feels her hands loosen in his hair.
And then he sees it. His consciousness takes a step back; he watches himself from above. Another person, seeing what Adam Bishop is doing. He’s on top of this woman, semi-naked, her legs apart. And she’s out cold.
