7. Chapter 7
James.
I always thought Oakley was his first name and he’s never told us any different, but now that I’ve learned the truth, I love it even more. It somehow suits him better than Oakley does.
I eyeball the paper bag one more time before going to sit at my small, dining room table, letting Oakley—James—follow me at his own pace. I’m not really sure how this is going to go.
When I came home, I knew I fucked it all up. Blindsiding him like that was not my intention, but I see where my mistake was. I don’t know how connected he is to the case, how he feels about it, and my assumption that he would just be okay to talk about it was self-centered. I was thinking of my own gain and not what it would potentially bring up for him. I’ve written enough shit dealing with the psyche of a person to know there are many facets, and it’s not a cut-and-dry thing. Especially if he was lead on the case. I can only imagine there is a reason he’s here and not chasing down the Tennison Strangler.
“I’m sorry,” he says again softly.
“Nothing to apologize for,” I offer, and I mean it.
He slides the sandwich over, and I waste no time tearing the bag open and seeing the chicken pesto panini he made for me. It’s my second favorite and my stomach lets out a loud growl, expressing its hunger. I may have eaten the one he sent home with me a few hours ago, but stress makes me hungry.
“Eat, please, while I explain.” I shove a bite in my mouth as he continues. “You … surprised me. I think that’s about the last thing I expected you to talk to me about, and I was caught off guard. I’ve done a lot to keep that time in my life hidden. It’s not something I like to dwell on.” He takes a deep breath, and I take another bite to keep the focus off of him. I don’t want him to stop talking.
“The last victim that I saw was the worst, and it broke me in a way I never thought would happen. I’ve run the whole gambit: therapists, ignoring the problem … you name it—I’ve done it. But it all came back to the fact that I couldn’t do my job anymore. I had failed for years to catch Tennison, and each new victim was like a gunshot to the gut. But that last one...” He visibly gulps, and I put my sandwich down, putting a hand on his arm.
“You don’t need to explain. I understand, and you don’t need to tell me all of this.” Do I want to know about the actual case? Hell yes. But I don’t need to know about how the case has affected him if it puts him in a bad headspace. And if talking about the case in general does that, then I’ll figure something else out because I can’t put him in that position.
It may mean pushing my book back, but I’m human and it’s not the end of the world, as much as I despise doing it. That’s a hang-up I would need to get over.
“The last one was the worst of all. There were things we kept out of the media because it was so horrific,” he continues, ignoring my words. Hell, this may be cathartic for him, so I’m letting him lead. “Two weeks after we found the victim, I found out he killed himself. Whatever Tennison physically did didn’t kill him, but whatever Tennison said affected him so much he didn’t want to live anymore.”
Fuck. No wonder he left. I’ve kept up with the case, but what I see is what the media releases. This is actual insight into the case, the people working the case where Alfred Tennison keeps kidnapping people and then releasing them forever changed. People always think about the victims in these cases, but no one ever thinks about the people who work the case. The people who see the damage day in and day out. The failure they feel when another victim is found, knowing they haven’t been able to stop it from happening.
My heart breaks for him and everything he’s been through.
Maybe I should scrap this whole idea. It’s selfish to ask him to do this for me. It’s selfish to ask him questions about protocols or how a murderer would act, when he’s just trying to live his life away from all of that.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. I don’t know what to say to make any of this better. I suspect nothing will ever make him feel better about any of it. He carries the weight of it all every day, and his no-nonsense personality suddenly makes all the more sense with this new information.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I just never expected my two lives to meet if that makes sense. Woodcroft kind of fucked things.” He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Because not only does Sheriff know, but now you as well.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” I quickly tell him.
“I know. If you were going to, you would have already.”
We both sit silently. I’m lost in thoughts about how to make this arrangement work without causing him a full-on mental breakdown. He‘s probably wondering why he came here in the first place and thinking this is all a terrible idea.
“I think I’m going to change the premise of the book,” I blurt out, the thought of causing him any pain making me second-guess everything.
“So, tell me about this book,” he says at the same time.
I giggle awkwardly, not knowing how to act. He leans back in his chair, shoving the sleeves of his flannel up his tattooed forearm, and I have no brain power. It’s like all productive thoughts flee my head because his delicious forearms have distracted me.
“Don’t change the book, Will. I’m fine, I promise. Tell me what you’re working on.” His words take a minute to register.
“So, I really only have a half of an outline, and I’m not even sure if I’m keeping it. But so far, I have a CIA agent as the main character, and he’s forced to work with … someone not in the field.” I cringe at the lack of information. “The main thing I’ve come up with is the CIA agent is the killer,” I say bluntly. Hearing the premise and just how little of the main plot I have makes my cheeks heat, and I feel embarrassed at how lame it all sounds.
I make my living off of this, and I sound like I have no idea what I’m doing. But that’s exactly how I feel with this book. It’s been so unlike my usual process that I’m not sure how to get back on track. But that’s why I’m talking to Oakley, because he sparked the inspiration I was desperate for.
“That’s different.” He leans in closer, appearing interested.
“Umm, yeah. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling with it so much.”
“What else do you have?” he asks, excitement in his eyes.
I jolt back, wide-eyed. “That’s it,” I whisper. My outline consists of how the two characters meet and the details of how the CIA agent kills, but as far as the story is concerned, I have nothing.
“Gotcha. Well, I don’t really know the process of writing a book, but you’re more than welcome to stay after closing at Grind Time, or we can meet somewhere once it closes, and you can pick my brain about processes and cases.”
“Just like that?” I ask.
“Just like that. I’d like to help, Willow. If this helps you, I’m in.” He shrugs, but he doesn’t realize the amount of relief I feel right now.
Sure, I still have a shit ton of work to do, but I think this will help. God, I hope it helps. And his sheer selflessness makes me need for this all to be worth it.
“Okay, then. Let’s plan on me being at Grind Time when you close up. I seem to have a clearer head when I’m there for this project.” I won’t tell him it’s only clearer because I’m imagining him doing all sorts of things to me when the coffee shop closes up.
Jesus, I need to focus. This is why my deadline is up my ass and I’m begging Oakley for help.
“Sounds great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans.
I scramble to follow him, remembering to be polite. “Thank you. For helping me, I mean.”
Our eyes lock, and I see so many emotions in his—understanding, fear, and some heat that makes goosebumps pop up on my arms.
“Anytime, Will.” With that, he turns around and walks back to Main Street.
It’s one in the morning, and I’m wide awake. Not just wide awake but horny as hell.
After Oakley left, it took a while for my head to clear and realize that he said yes to helping me. I felt uneasy the entire conversation, and I am still genuinely shocked he wants to help my introverted ass.
The overthinking began when I first lay down. I was thinking about how to keep all the personal stuff out of it, so it was easier for Oakley, before moving to what kind of details he could give me on other cases he’s worked—the closed ones that aren’t an open investigation. Would they be super gory? I kind of want to hear all the gross details. I like that kind of stuff. And then my head took a drastic turn, wondering what he looked like in uniform. Did he wear a uniform? Would he roll up his sleeves like he does at Grind Time? Show off the tattoos on his forearm? Where else did he have tattoos, I wonder? Do they have any symbolism to them?
And now, I’m here thinking about stripping him out of his clothes in order to study the intricate artwork on his body while also examining his well-built muscles.
I am a writer; it’s only natural that my imagination is top-notch. What it’s not helping is my resistance to get off to thoughts of Oakley—James.
I should start calling him James.
Fucking overthinking. Maybe I should just cave and have an orgasm in the hopes it knocks me out.
I watch the ceiling fan create a pattern as it goes around, trying to get my brain to quiet.
It never works. I’ve tried everything in the book. And usually, I just get up and write when I feel like this, except I have nothing to write. Because I’m stuck, and Oakley is the only one who helps.
What an absolute clusterfuck.
Oakley is hot as sin, though. It’s not just the tattoos; the man is just straight muscle. Well over six feet, but he isn’t super bulky. It’s like he has the practical muscles that blue collar workers have, except he runs a coffee shop. I wonder how he stays in shape.
Does he have a whole setup somewhere that he spends hours in after work? Doing pull-ups, shirtless and all sweaty?
My hand snakes down my soft stomach, under the waistband of my panties. Closing my eyes, I picture walking in on him while he’s working out. Leaning against the doorway, just watching his muscles flex with every new exercise. Hell, he wouldn’t even need to acknowledge me. I think watching him would do it for me.
Kind of like it’s doing it for me now.
I see an imaginary drop of sweat trail down his abs, into his workout shorts, and my fingers circle my clit without my permission. If he wasn’t so damn attractive, this wouldn’t be an issue.
But because he is, I’m already so fucking close to coming, and I’m just picturing him working out. Jeez, desperate much, Willow?
I pull up in my head the image of him at my door earlier this evening , wearing jeans that clung to every muscle. I’m a little sad I haven’t made it a point to remember what his ass looks like, but I imagine it’s got a nice roundness to it.
I circle my clit one more time, and that’s all it takes. A weak and not at all satisfying orgasm pulses through me, and I sag in disappointment.
I need to call this a one-off because I have too much to get done and a distraction is the last thing I need.