16. Tara #2
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Jimmy, I think your little sister has a crush on me, and the really messed up part is I kind of like it’?” He shook his head. “I was horrified by my own feelings. You were my best friend’s sister. It was... complicated.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “Forget complicated… this is a full-blown train wreck with no brakes.”
Xander snorted. “Yeah, look at us… sneaking around behind your father’s back, risking both our careers, trying to uncover the truth about your brother’s death. I’d say complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
I turned to look out the window, watching the landscape blur past. He was right, of course. What we were doing was reckless at best, potentially catastrophic at worst. And yet...
“I wouldn’t change it,” I said, surprising myself with the truth of it. “Any of it.”
His hand found mine across the console as we drove on, the miles disappearing beneath us.
The conversation flowed more easily now, veering away from the heavy topics of the past and the uncertain future.
I learned about his childhood. He told me about his first soccer ball, a gift from his father on his fifth birthday.
In return, I shared stories of growing up as the youngest Swanson, always in Jimmy’s shadow but never resenting it. I told him about my mother’s death when I was ten, how Jimmy, only two years older, had stepped up to fill the void she left.
“He would have been happy about this, you know,” Xander said after a poignant story about Jimmy teaching me to ride a bike. “About us working together to uncover the truth.”
The thought had never occurred to me. “You think so?”
Xander nodded, a sad smile playing on his lips. “I’m sure of it. We were his two favorite people.”
We were silent, lost in thought. As we neared the coast, the scenery shifted—more buildings, lusher plants. We stopped for gas and a quick bathroom break.
Back on the road, the mood lightened. Xander found a radio station playing 90s hits, and we sang along to songs that had been popular when we were kids. I discovered he knew all the words to “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls, a fact I promised to use against him at the earliest opportunity.
I was feeling great by the time we pulled over for a late lunch at this classic Florida diner. Think turquoise booths, shiny chrome, and all the comfort food you could want. We snagged a booth in the back, away from the few other people, and ordered burgers and milkshakes.
“So,” Xander said after the waitress left with our order, “what’s the plan when we get to Morrison’s place? Do we just knock on his door and say, ‘Hey, remember that fatal car crash twelve years ago? We have some questions about your investigation.’”
I grimaced. “I was thinking we’d be a bit more subtle than that. Maybe introduce ourselves as researchers working on a book about unsolved or controversial cases in Palo Alto.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And you think a retired detective won’t see through that in about two seconds?”
“You have a better idea?”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I think honesty might be our best approach. Tell him who we are, why we’re there. Appeal to his conscience.”
I considered this. “And if he refuses to talk to us?”
“Then we know he has something to hide.” Xander’s expression was determined. “But I don’t think he will. If he took a bribe to alter his report, it’s been eating at him ever since. People like that, they’re often looking for a chance to unburden themselves.”
Our food arrived, halting the conversation. I took a bite of my burger, surprised by how hungry I was. Across the table, Xander was equally focused on his meal, though his eyes kept finding mine over the top of his milkshake glass.
“What?” I asked after the third meaningful glance.
He set down his glass, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Nothing. Just thinking about how surreal this is. You and me, on a road trip, eating burgers like a normal couple.”
A normal couple. The phrase sent a flutter through my stomach. “Is that what we are? A couple?”
His smile faltered slightly. “I don’t know what we are, Tara. I just know that right now, sitting across from you, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. And I don’t want it to end.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest ache. I reached across the table, taking his hand in mine. “I don’t want it to end either.”
Something shifted in his gaze, a heat replacing the vulnerability. His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “Good to know we’re on the same page.”
The air between us practically crackled. Suddenly, the burger in front of me was replaced by a different hunger. I glanced around the diner—two other tables were occupied, both by elderly couples engrossed in their own meals. The server was nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, my voice lower than I intended. “We still have an hour’s drive ahead of us.”
Xander’s eyes darkened, and he nodded. He threw down money to cover the tab, and led me out to the parking lot with a hand at the small of my back. The touch was innocent enough, but the promise it held made my skin tingle.
The Audi was parked at the far end of the lot, partially obscured by a large delivery truck. As soon as we were around the side of the vehicle, out of sight from the diner windows, Xander pressed me against the passenger door, his body flush against mine.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above mine.
“Don’t you dare,” I breathed, pulling him down to me.
The kiss was hungry, desperate, fueled by the freedom of being away from Miami and the watchful eyes that constantly surrounded us.
His hands were everywhere—in my hair, at my waist, sliding under my shirt to cup my breast through my bra.
I arched into his touch, my own hands equally busy, tracing the hard planes of his chest beneath his t-shirt.
“Car,” I gasped as his lips found my neck. “Inside.”
He fumbled with the key fob, unlocking the doors without breaking contact.
The back door opened, and he lifted me inside, climbing in after me and pulling the door shut.
The tinted windows provided a shield from any potential onlookers, though the isolated location of the car already offered significant privacy.
“I’ve wanted to do this since we left Miami this morning,” he confessed, his voice rough as he pulled me onto his lap, my knees straddling his thighs.
“Then what are you waiting for?” I challenged, my fingers already working at his belt.
There was no slow buildup this time, no gentle exploration.
This was pure need, the culmination of a morning spent in close proximity, sharing painful truths and building a new understanding between us.
We undressed each other with clumsy movements, hampered by the confined space but driven by a desire that wouldn’t be denied.
My elbow knocked against the window as I yanked his shirt over his head, and he let out a muffled curse when his knee banged the center console while shucking off his jeans.
“Bloody hell, this car’s not built for tall guys,” he grumbled, but his grin was wicked, eyes blazing with heat as he finally freed himself, his cock springing up hard and thick, already glistening at the tip.
I laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a moan as his hands shoved my shorts and panties down in one rough tug, my ass bumping the ceiling in the process.
“Ouch—watch it, soccer star. You’re supposed to be agile.
” But the teasing died on my lips when he opened a condom wrapper, equipped himself before gripping my hips, and positioning me over him.
God, the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in his world—made my core clench with anticipation.
“Agile enough for you?” he growled, thrusting up just as I sank down, sheathing him inside me in one slick, mind-blowing slide.
We both groaned, the fit so tight, so perfect, but the angle in this damn backseat had me half-twisted, my head grazing the roof every time I tried to move.
I bit my lip to stifle a giggle as I adjusted, rocking experimentally—only to have my foot slip off the seat and kick the door handle.
The car let out a beep, the hazards flashing once before he slapped the button to kill them.
“Shit, Tara, you’re going to get us arrested before we even finish. ”
“Shut up and fuck me,” I demanded, but I was laughing too, the absurdity of it all mixing with the raw heat building between us.
His hands dug into my thighs, guiding me as I rode him harder, the leather seats creaking under our weight like a bad soundtrack.
Sweat slicked our skin, the windows fogging up faster than a teenage make-out session, and every thrust sent jolts of pleasure spiking through me.
He leaned forward, capturing a nipple in his mouth through my bra—wait, no, he’d shoved that up too, exposing me to his hungry gaze.
His tongue swirled, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch, which only drove him deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
“Fuck, you’re so wet, so tight,” he rasped, his accent thickening with lust, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit with rough, precise strokes.
I ground down, chasing the friction, but the limited space turned every movement into a comedy of errors—his elbow hit the seatback release, nearly flattening us both, and I had to brace one hand on the foggy window to steady myself, leaving a perfect handprint like some erotic crime scene.
We burst out laughing mid-thrust, the sound vibrating through our joined bodies, but it only fueled the fire, making everything hotter, more urgent.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of control, cupping my face to lock our gazes.
I met his eyes, drowning in the intensity I found there—the raw need, the vulnerability, the way he saw straight through to my soul.
In that moment, with his body buried deep inside mine, the car rocking subtly with our rhythm, a terrifying clarity washed over me: I was completely, irrevocably in love with him.
Not the obsession I’d nursed all those years, not the revenge fantasy I’d constructed, but real love—messy and frightening and exhilarating.
The realization pushed me over the edge, my release crashing through me with unexpected force, my walls pulsing around him in waves that had me crying out, muffled against his shoulder.
He followed moments later, thrusting up hard one last time, spilling into the condom with a guttural groan, his face buried in my neck, my name a prayer on his lips.
We stayed like that for several minutes, our breathing gradually slowing, my forehead resting against his.
The reality of what we’d done—having sex in a public parking lot in broad daylight, complete with accidental hazard lights and foggy windows—should have horrified me.
Instead, I felt a giddy rush of liberation.
I’d acted purely on impulse, driven by desire, and it had been hotter than hell.
“We should probably get back on the road,” Xander murmured eventually, though he made no move to release me.
I nodded reluctantly, and we dressed in silence—though not without a few more mishaps, like me nearly putting my shirt on backward, and him struggling to zip his jeans in the confined space. Once presentable, we moved to the front seats, and Xander started the engine.
As we pulled back onto the highway, his hand found mine across the console again. “No regrets?” he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
I squeezed his hand, offering a smile. “Not a single one.”
The rest of the drive passed in a comfortable haze. We talked about our favorite movies and dream vacations. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, being with him like this.
As we approached Naples, however, the mood in the car shifted. The reality of our mission reasserted itself, the weight of the past settling over us once more. Xander’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and I checked the address on my phone with increasing frequency.
“Turn right at the next light,” I instructed, my voice more clinical than it had been all day. “Then it should be the third street on the left.”
Xander nodded, following my directions without comment. We turned onto a quiet, suburban street lined with modest single-story homes. Palm trees and well-tended gardens spoke of a peaceful, middle-class neighborhood—the kind where people knew their neighbors and kept their lawns neatly trimmed.
“Number 1542,” I said, scanning the houses. “There. On the right.”
The house was unremarkable—pale yellow stucco with white trim, a small front porch with a pair of rocking chairs, a neatly kept lawn with a few decorative shrubs. A mailbox at the end of the driveway confirmed it: “R. Morrison” in simple black letters.
Xander pulled the car to a stop at the curb in front of the house. We sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the innocent-looking dwelling. It seemed impossible that the man inside held the key to the truth that had defined both our lives for twelve years.
“What if he’s not home?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“Then we wait,” Xander replied, his voice steady despite the tension showing in his posture. “Or we get a hotel room and come back tomorrow. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”
I nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady myself. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to us?”
Xander turned to face me, his expression serious. “Then we make him listen. This isn’t just about clearing my name anymore, Tara. It’s about finally learning the truth… for both of us.”
The conviction in his voice steadied me. He was right. Morrison’s words could change everything, but the prison of not knowing was worse.
“Ready?” Xander asked, his hand finding mine.
I met his gaze, drawing strength from the determination I saw there. “Ready.”
We got out of the car and walked up the driveway side by side. The concrete path to the front door seemed much longer than it actually was, each step bringing us closer to answers we’d sought for over a decade.
At the door, we paused, exchanging one last look. “We’re in this together,” he hissed.
I nodded, squeezing his hand before releasing it. Then, before I could lose my nerve, I raised my fist and knocked on Rick Morrison’s door.