Chapter 9 #2
Our plates arrived, and we made a show of eating.
I asked questions when I could think of them, let her lead the conversation when I couldn’t.
I tried to anchor myself in the here and now, but my mind kept drifting back to the kitchen table, the spread of photographs, the way Spade’s eyes followed you even when she wasn’t looking straight ahead.
At one point, Cara reached across the table and touched my wrist. Her hand was warm, nails painted a careful neutral, the kind of touch that would have meant something if I’d been capable of feeling it.
“You know you can talk to me,” she said.
I nodded. “I know.”
She held the look for a second longer, then let it go, refilling her glass. The rest of the meal passed in a kind of practiced rhythm—her talking, me listening, both of us pretending there was a future in it.
After the check, we walked out together. She looped her arm through mine, a reflex more than a desire, and we stood outside for a minute, letting the desert night dry the sweat from our faces. She kissed my cheek, light as air, then slipped her keys from her purse.
I gave her a key to my apartment and told her to meet me there. There was something I needed to do first.
***
When I got back to the apartment, Cara was inside, shoes off and sitting on the edge of the bed. She’d let her hair down and was scrolling her phone, face lit in a blue rectangle of light, foot bobbing at the end of a long, crossed leg. She looked up when I came in.
“Hey,” she said, tucking her phone away. “Do you have any water?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Kitchen’s that way.”
I went to the galley and found a couple of clean glasses. The light from the table hit me first—the folder in the exact center, a neat rectangle of obligation that radiated gravity. I poured the water, kept my eyes off the file, and brought the glasses back to the bedroom.
“Nice place,” she said, though the tone was more polite than sincere. She took a sip, eyes never quite leaving mine. “You always bring your dates here?”
I smirked. “Only when I want to scare them off.”
She laughed, teeth flashing. “I think you’d have to try harder.”
It could have gone a couple of ways from there, but in my experience, once two people crossed the threshold, it was just a matter of waiting for the inevitable.
Cara set her glass down and stood, closing the gap in two steps.
She kissed me hard, hands going straight for the collar, and when I didn’t resist, she pushed me backward until my knees hit the bed.
Her body was lean and practiced, a little muscle under the office attire, the quick, assertive movements of someone who liked to set the rhythm.
I let her take the lead, and for a minute it almost worked: her mouth at my throat, her hands on my chest, her breath hot against my jawline.
I responded out of habit, rolling her underneath me, hands in her hair, her hips grinding up.
She liked it rough—biting at my shoulder, nails across my back—and I was happy to give it, or at least simulate the impulse.
But somewhere between her mouth and the skin, my mind wandered. It was a familiar problem, one I thought I’d solved in my twenties, but now it was back with a vengeance. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Spade’s face, the details from those goddamn photos crowding out everything else.
The scar. The angle of her jaw. The flat, feral intent in her expression, the certainty that never wavered.
My hands kept moving—thumb tracing Cara’s clavicle, palm splayed across her lower back—but I wasn’t there.
I was in the security cam footage, the parking garage, the moment just before Spade turned toward the lens.
I was cataloging the geometry of her face, the way she’d looked past the camera as if she could see me waiting on the other side.
Cara noticed. She started to slow down, movements less certain, eyes searching mine for something that wasn’t there. She pulled back, catching my chin in her hand, forcing me to look at her.
“Jason,” she said, voice sharp. “Where the hell did you just go?”
I blinked, tried to recover. “Sorry. Long week. I—”
“Don’t,” she said, pushing me off her. She sat up, hair wild, breathing fast, but the mood was gone. “Just—don’t.”
I waited, but she didn’t move. After a moment, she swung her legs off the bed and started gathering her things. Her dress slipped over her head in one practiced motion, zipper pulled up with the efficiency of someone who had done this before. She didn’t look at me as she put on her shoes.
“Who is she?” Cara asked, back turned.
“What?”
She faced me, arms crossed. “You’re not here. You’ve been somewhere else all night. If you want to fuck someone else, just go do it.”
I should have told her the truth. That there was no one, not in any way that mattered. That my whole life was just a series of cases and closed loops, and every time I tried to step outside that, I ended up right back in the middle of my own head.
But I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, naked and stupid, watching her pull her purse tight across her shoulder.
“Don’t bother calling,” she said, voice flat. “I won’t answer.”
The door slammed with enough force to rattle the frame. Afterward, the silence expanded to fill every corner of the apartment.
I sat on the edge of the bed, heartbeat slowing, the taste of her still on my tongue.
For a long time, I didn’t move, just let the blankness settle in.
At some point, a thought surfaced—unbidden, ice-cold, more animal than conscious.
I pictured my hands around Cara’s neck. Not in the way some women liked, but in the way I’d seen a hundred times in crime scene photos: the bruises perfect, the pressure just enough, the body limp and compliant.
The image didn’t repulse me. It was clinical, even comforting, a demonstration of control over the narrative.
I sat with that for longer than I should have. Then I stood, pulled on my pants, and went back to the kitchen.
The folder was right where I’d left it.
I opened it, spread the photographs across the table, and stared down at Spade’s face, waiting for some revelation that never quite arrived. Then I did something I’d never even considered before Spade.
I shuffled through the pictures and found the image of Spade with her legs spread, her juicy little cunt glistening. I took it to the bedroom and crawled onto the bed, my eyes never leaving hers.
I shoved my pants down and freed my cock. Fuck, I want this woman.
Staring at the image, I got off in less than two minutes, careful not to shoot my load on the picture. I was certain I would need it again and again, at least until I had the real thing.
I stayed there until the sun came up, the room washed in new light, each image rendered even sharper than before. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even try. I just kept looking, waiting for the pieces to fit.
“I’m coming for you, Spade, and there’s not one fucking thing you can do about it.”