10. Janet
JANET
Mike finds me at the bar before I've ordered.
"You came," he says.
"My turn to surprise you."
"I like it."
"Did you have a problem getting in?"
"No, your doorman remembered me."
He flags down the bartender, orders my drink without asking.
A man appears at his shoulder. Big, quiet, dark eyes.
"Janet," Mike says, "this is Nico. He runs security here."
I remember him from the photo in Mike's apartment.
Nico nods. Not unfriendly, measured. "Mike mentioned you."
"Should I be flattered?"
"He's never mentioned anyone before."
"You're not supposed to tell her that," Mike says.
"Nice meeting you." Nico glances at Mike, something passing between them I can't read. "Enjoy your night."
He moves off into the crowd, and I watch him go.
Mike picks up his glass. "We served together."
The music shifts. Someone across the room laughs too loud. Mike turns, so he's facing me fully, the noise of Nocturne dropping back like it does when he does that — when he makes the room feel smaller.
We finish our drinks.
"Do you want to go upstairs?"
"Sure."
He takes my hand off the bar, holds it, and I let him lead me to the elevators.
The second the elevator doors close, he kisses me.
His hands are in my hair and I pull him closer and it's not tentative like the first time.
Not careful. His mouth is urgent and I match it, my back against the elevator wall, his body against mine, and by the time the doors open I'm not thinking about anything except getting through the apartment door.
We make it to the bedroom.
He pulls my dress over my head and takes a step back. Long enough that I feel it everywhere.
His mouth is at my throat. My collarbone. He works down slowly, deliberately, like he has all night and intends to use it, his hands sliding the straps of my bra off my shoulders, unclasping it, his lips following the path his hands cleared.
I thread my fingers into his hair and hold on.
He takes his time at my breasts. Tongue and teeth until I'm breathing hard. His hands slide down my hips, fingers hooking into my underwear and pulling it down slowly, mouth following, and when he gets where he's going I stop thinking entirely.
My hand tightens in his hair. He doesn't stop. Doesn't rush. Works me until my thighs are shaking and I'm saying his name in a way I barely recognize.
He comes back up the length of my body and I pull him to me, my hands at his shirt, his belt, nothing between us.
I'm on the pill now.
He nods. "Permission to enter?”
“Permission granted.”
He slides into me slowly and I exhale against his neck, my whole body adjusting to him, and for a moment neither of us moves.
He does.
Deep and steady. His forehead against mine, watching my face, and I let him watch. I stop holding on to the careful, measured version of myself I've been hauling around since Joe died.
I dig my nails into his back and pull him deeper.
It builds slow. He keeps the pace until I'm desperate, until I'm asking him for more without words, until he gives it to me all at once — harder, faster, his mouth at my ear, and I come again with my face pressed into his shoulder, his name in my mouth.
When I come it breaks over me hard, my back arching off the bed, his hands pressing my hips down, holding me through it.
He follows not long after, his whole body going still against mine.
We breathe our way back together.
After, his forefinger moves slow circles on my hip. Neither of us says anything for a while.
"Stay," he says.
"I have work tomorrow."
"Stay anyway."
I turn my head and look at him. The low light from the window, his face open in a way it isn't downstairs in the club. I think about my empty apartment. My empty bed.
"Okay," I say.
"Janet, this isn't a casual thing for me. I don’t do casual and you don’t either.”
"No.”
“Let’s stop pretending we don’t want this or feel what’s happening between us.”
“So what do we do?"
"We're doing it."
"I just come over and you take me to bed."
"I like that plan."
I put my head on his chest and breathe into it.
Peter stops me in the hall Monday morning, coffee in hand, like he's been waiting.
"Graham." He falls into step beside me. "Are you ready for the Mazulla deposition?"
"I am."
"Good. I won't be able to make it. I'm trusting you to handle it alone."
"I've got it."
He pushes open the door to the bullpen and holds it.
I smile. Keep walking.
"You seem good," he says.
"I am good."
He studies me a moment the way Peter does, like he's reading a brief. "Something's different."
"I dyed my hair."
"No, it's something else. Whatever it is, keep doing it. But I’m not hitting you.”
“Peter, I‘ve never once thought you were hitting on me.”
“Good,” he peels off toward his office and I stand at my desk a second before sitting down.
Rosemary is waiting by my door at lunch.
"Let's go," she says.
I grab my purse.
“Hey, Peter seems very concerned about me thinking he’s hitting on me, what’s up with that?”
“Oh yeah, me too. The Governor’s up on charges of sexual harassment. Didn’t you hear that?”
“No, that makes sense.”
We take the stairs two flights down. "I have to be back by two for a Zoom with a judge."
We cross the street to a cheap Chinese restaurant.
"You were humming in the stairwell."
"No."
"Yes."
"I think I'm going to put some toiletries and clothes at his place."
She gasps. Tears well up in her eyes. "Janet." She takes my hand. "He's rocking your world, isn't he?"
"You have no idea."
"Alright, don't piss me off."
"Rosemary."
"Janet." She grins. "You're happy. You're allowed to say it."
"I'm happy," I say.
She sits back like I've given her the verdict she wanted. "Good. That's good."
"He's got a friend."
"I like friends."
"Hot?"
"Would I be telling you if he wasn't?"
"What else?"
"Ex-Marine. Like Mike. He's head of security for Mike."
"He's a protector. When can I meet him?"
"I'll have to be casual about it. You know, do a little recon."
“Yeah. I like a man who can take charge. Someone who knows where we’re going, makes the call, handles things when they get messy. I’m tired of guys asking me what I want to do every five minutes.”
She takes a sip of her drink.
“And honestly? I get the feeling when we get to bed, he’s going to be the same way. I can speak up just fine. But I don’t want to be the one steering the whole time. I want him to give it to me.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of describing Mike, he’s intense.”
“I know, you can see it in his eyes. I’m so jealous.”
Mike is making pasta when I arrive.
The smell of garlic fills the apartment. He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there — which he does, this is his place — but it still catches me sometimes. How easy this is. How little effort it takes.
I put my bag down and go to the bathroom.
His things are on the left side of the vanity. Razor, cologne, a single bar of soap.
I take out my moisturizer. My toothbrush. Face wash. Line them up on the right side of the sink.
I stand there looking at them.
There it is.
I close the cabinet and go back out.
"My stuff is in there."
"Good."
"And you're sure it's okay? You're not freaking out?"
"Do I look like I'm freaking out?"
"You could be one of those people that's good at hiding."
"You want to cross-examine me?"
"Oh, I'd break you on the stand," I say.
"You think so? How?"
I walk closer to him.
"Mr. Trent, I'm pretty sure it was you with Colonel Mustard, in the library—" I kiss him on his neck.
"No, it was Professor Plum."
"Lies, all lies."
I continue kissing his neck.
"It's true, I confess. It was me."
He kisses me on the lips.
I pull away. "See. Like that."
I go to my laptop on the kitchen island, open a case file, pour a glass of wine.
I reach for the glass.
I type away, rewriting my opening statement.
He opens his laptop. We work in silence for a while, side by side in the kitchen light, and I think: this is what it's supposed to feel like.
Thirty minutes later, we put the computers away and he plates the pasta, sets one in front of me, takes the chair across the table. Mike refills my wine glass.
We eat. "Shit, you are good."
"Thank you."
"That's better than mine."
"You're going to fall for me," he smiles.
I stop a moment because it's not a joke.