Chapter 23
brIGIT
The tour turned out to be far more fun than I expected.
Unfortunately.
Aside from the obvious— the obvious being mind-blowing, spine-arching, screaming orgasms all over Cormac’s face, it was great to see him doing what he loves. Wholesome, even, to watch him in his element, exploring what brings him joy.
I probably got a little more drunk than was wise, but I didn't realize the empty glasses were for spitting in after tasting. I've never been the type to partake in alcohol so extravagant that you don't swallow it.
It just seems a bit counterintuitive.
But despite my best efforts, the afternoon didn't suck.
He was fun and accommodating, even after the orgasmic high wore off. He let me wrap myself around his arm and lean against his shoulder without making me feel like it had to mean something, but I woke up the next morning and scolded myself for it anyway.
He let me steal a bottle from the shelf and didn't say anything, even though I know he saw me stuff it in my purse.
It was just compensation for the hours— and orgasms— he stole from me.
Driving through the city to another day at work, I'm almost dreading the mundane, tedious tasks of my job for once.
The benefit of this line of work has been the emotional detachment it affords. That's been the benefit of most things in my life.
But now, that lack of investment in everything around me feels stagnant. Boring.
I'm probably just in my head.
I didn't hear from Cormac yesterday. And that should be a relief. I've told him time and time again that I'm locking him out of my home and my life.
Every time it hasn't worked out that way, there's been a reason.
He left his hoodie. I had to return it.
He was accosted by people who he was very likely going to hurt if I didn't intervene.
He's threatened me. So many times now that I've lost count. With a knife, a fucking gun, and even just vague bodily harm.
I'm under no impression that he'll stop seeing me, but I don't have to see him back.
I’ll just have to mourn all the unbelievable oral sex I won’t get to have again. I can deal with that.
Lie.
Walking through the doors of my office, Kelly stands up, worrying her lip with her teeth.
"Good morning, Brigit," she says with false brightness.
An uncomfortable feeling settles in my stomach, but I smile anyway, "Hi Kelly. How was your weekend?"
"It was good," she nods slowly, looking behind me at someone. "How was yours?"
"Uneventful." Lie.
"Ummm, I don't suppose you've been keeping up on current events, have you?" She walks around the desk, gently tugging me by the elbow into my office and shutting the door behind us.
"Current events?" I chuckle. "Like what? What celebrity drama are we dishing out now?"
"Yours."
Now that feeling in my stomach drops like a rock.
I stumble over the word, "M-mine?'
Nervously, she nods, pulling out her phone. "Look."
Splashed across the opening page of an online newspaper, WRONGLY FREED CRIMINAL SPOTTED AT UPSCALE CLUB DOWNTOWN.
In smaller print beneath it, the descriptive text reads "Known serial killer, Cormac Fomori, better known as Bás Dorcha, was spotted exiting Mingle" with the date written in tiny letters next to it.
The biggest picture shows Cormac, obviously shying away from the cameras, eyes hazy and nearly black, all emotion gone from his face, terrifyingly beautiful and seeming only seconds away from tearing someone apart.
But the real problem is the handful of photos beneath it.
One featuring me guiding Cormac inside, yelling at the reporters, with my exact words written, but twisted into a defense of his misdeeds.
And further down, worse, another photo of me in Cormac's car, with Skyler, playing the part of Cormac perfectly, with his head down, driving through the parking garage.
None of the reporters happened to get my name, calling me a mystery woman and suggesting I'm either representing or fucking him. Or both.
Fantastic.
Neither is technically accurate, but with his history and mine, there's not a doubt in my mind that my name and a million articles about me and my past will be out there for everyone to see within the hour.
"This isn't what it looks like," I mumble, hating how timid my voice sounds.
She puts her phone in her pocket. "So you're not hanging out with a notorious serial killer?"
"No," I shake my head. "I- I've seen him at Mingle. They were accosting him outside and I didn't know what to do."
"They were accosting him?"
A gentle knock at my door pulls us both apart with a jump.
Before she even opens it, I know what's about to happen. Monday mornings are always mine to be left alone to start the week. If someone is here, they've all seen the article.
On the other side of the barrier stands Mr. Brown.
My boss.
Fuck.
"Miss Danaan, can you meet me in my office please?" he asks.
I can already feel the tears forming in the back of my eyes, but I follow behind him, accepting my fate.
Every pair of eyes follows us down the hall until we disappear into his massive office overlooking the entire business park.
He breathes out heavily, "Do I need to tell you why you're in here?"
Probably not.
"I think legally you have to, Mr. Brown," I ease my hair over my shoulder, searching for the strong silence Cormac always channels, hoping to carry just a little bit of it with me until this conversation is over.
"Whatever you do in your personal life, as ill-advised as it may be, is none of my business," he begins.
"But, part of our agreement was complete exclusivity.
In order to ensure you remain wholly committed and don't work against us, any practicing law outside of this firm breaks that exclusivity clause. "
"I wasn't representing him," I plead. "We were just in the same place at the same time, and I could see them breaking a thousand statutes. All I did was tell them to back off."
He sighs, "And then you got in his car and took off with him."
"I did."
"You can see how it looks to the company. How it will destroy our reputation and drag our name through the mud." Running his meaty fingers through his hair, he adds. "An argument could be made that your public cavorting goes against our ethical standards, too."
"He was never found guilty,” I shrug, knowing the semantics and details don't matter.
Firing me is at their sole discretion. Even if I had the means to take it to court, all they'd have to do is get the reporters to say on the stand that I was making legal arguments for Cormac, and my case would be over. I'm not going through that again.
"I'm really disappointed that it came to this, Brigit," he sighs. "If this all blows over, you can count on me for a letter of recommendation wherever you go next."
I nod, pressure building at my throat and behind my eyes. "Thanks."
"You have until the end of the day to empty your office and turn in your keys," he says as a dismissal. Not cruel or angry. Just matter of fact, like he didn't shatter the last thing in my life that still made sense.
It won't take me longer than an hour to clean it all out. I don't have anything here. It'll take me longer to give them all the info they need to scrub my passwords and take over my cases.
I'm not sure why I'm so upset, fighting the urge to literally throw my few things, including my useless license and a plant that died last month, into a little cardboard box. I was just thinking about how bored I'd become here.
That doesn't mean I wanted to lose my job.
Everyone has phases when they get bored with their lives. Adulthood is fucking boring, and it's supposed to be.
You sleep, work, eat, find some fulfilling hobbies, make time for your loved ones, and you do it over and over and over.
My drive home is dead silent.
No music.
Not even the roar of an engine to match the throttling inside my head.
Fucking silent battery car.
Oh, my god, I have a car payment. I have rent.
I think I have four months of savings, which is a lot, but not enough if this bullshit doesn’t disappear from the news, so I can start over at a new job soon.
God, at this point, I might just go back to making coffee.
No one at Bean's World would care if I wanted to fuck a murderer. I've seen the guys they've been with, believe me, a serial killer would be a step up.
Slower than usual, I pull into my parking spot, devastation dragging me into exhaustion.
Leaving behind the box of my stuff I won't be needing any time soon, if ever, I walk home, barely managing a wave to Clark, pouring myself into the elevator to collapse against the wall.
On my phone, I turn off the alarm system and unlock my front door, throwing my purse and everything in it on the floor, kicking off my shoes and leaving them just inside the door.
The very last of my strength is used to trudge across the wooden floor, over my fluffy rug, and fall face-first into the couch.
Only then, once I'm safe, in the quiet confines of my home, do I let the tears fall.
They pour out of me, straight onto my throw blanket, great heaving sighs that only stop when I fall into a fitful sleep on the couch.
A loud bang wakes me, god knows how much later, well past the sun sinking behind the mountains.
My foggy, crusty eyes painfully open, surrounded by darkness.
The only bit of light in here is coming from the clock on my stove. 8:33.
Fuck.
I slept on and off all day, waking occasionally to drown my sorrows in the stolen bottle of Honey Boy.
The sound that drew me out of the horrible, restless sleep repeats, a rhythmic pounding on my door.
I groan, rolling onto the floor and climbing to my feet.
Flicking on a table lamp, I rub the sleep from my eyes and trudge towards my door, peeking through the peephole.
I can't catch a fucking break.
"Miss Danaan, open up," my mystery officer says from outside the door. "It's the police."
I can't believe I'm putting up with this shit today of all days.
I could just ignore him. Eventually, he'll probably get tired of waiting. If he had a warrant, he'd start with that.