Chapter 3 — Tess
I make it three blocks before I have to pull over.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking, and I'm not sure if it's residual adrenaline or something else entirely, something I don't want to name because naming it makes it real.
I just had sex with James Callahan in the back seat of his truck.
No. That's not accurate.
I just had the best sex of my life with James Callahan in the back seat of his truck, and then I ran like a coward before either of us could say anything that mattered.
I grip the steering wheel and try to breathe normally.
It doesn't work.
My skin still feels hot where he touched me. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, my breasts, between my legs. Can still feel the stretch of him inside me, the weight of his body pressing me into the seat, the scrape of his beard against my neck.
I touch my throat and feel the tenderness there. Marks. He left marks.
Something in my chest goes tight.
I should go back. I should walk back into that station and tell him we need to talk, that we need to figure out what this was, that we can't just keep repeating the same pattern we fell into fourteen years ago.
Instead, I put the car in drive and head for my hotel.
The room is generic and impersonal in the way hotel rooms always are. Beige walls, landscape painting that could be anywhere, bed with too many decorative pillows. I drop my bag by the door and stand in the middle of the room trying to figure out what to do with myself.
I should shower. I should eat. I should review my notes for tomorrow's assessment.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking. That's the problem.
The moment he touched me, every rational thought I had went out the window. Fourteen years of telling myself I was over him, that what we had was just a brief thing that happened when I was too young to know better, and all it took was one kiss to prove it was a lie.
I wanted him. I've wanted him since I walked into that station this morning and saw what fourteen years had done to him.
Made him broader. More settled. Silver in his hair and lines at his eyes and that particular confidence that comes from being good at something that matters.
I wanted him, and when he kissed me in the bay I didn't even try to resist. When he said his truck, I followed. When he got his hands on me I arched into the touch like I'd been waiting for it.
Like I've been waiting for it for fourteen years.
My phone buzzes. A text from my supervisor: How's the Bloomfield assessment going?
I stare at the message.
The professional answer is that it's going fine. The station is well-run, the captain is competent, everything appears to be in order.
The honest answer is that I had sex with the captain in the parking lot and I have no idea how I'm going to face him tomorrow.
I type back: On schedule. Will have preliminary findings by end of day tomorrow.
Professional. Neutral. Giving nothing away.
I set the phone down and stand, suddenly restless. The room feels too small, the walls too close, and I can smell him on my skin. Soap and smoke and something underneath that's just James.
I need to shower. I need to wash him off, wash this whole thing off, and then I need to figure out how to get through tomorrow without making this worse.
The shower is too hot, but I don't adjust it. I stand under the spray and scrub at my skin like I can erase the past three hours. Like I can erase the way it felt when he looked at me and told me I was beautiful.
I close my eyes and the words echo in my head, and I hate that they matter. Hate that after so many years I'm still vulnerable to a man telling me my body is desirable.
Because that's all it was, wasn't it?
Physical attraction. Residual want from fourteen years ago. The particular pull of unfinished business.
It didn't mean anything to him beyond that.
It can't have.
Because if it meant something, he would have said so. He would have asked me to stay, would have said something other than we need to talk like we're two professionals who need to debrief.
I step out of the shower and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
The marks on my neck are darker than I thought. Visible. Undeniable.
I have to finish the assessment tomorrow wearing evidence of what we did.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I've spent years building credibility in a field that didn't particularly want me. Years proving that I'm good at my job, that I'm thorough and professional and not someone who can be dismissed.
And in one afternoon I've compromised all of that by sleeping with the subject of my assessment.
If anyone finds out, my professional reputation is done.
But it's more than that, and I know it.
It's the fact that I'm right back where I was at twenty. Wanting him more than he wants me. Reading meaning into something that was probably just convenient for him.
I was there. I was willing. We have history.
Of course he'd take what I was offering.
That doesn't mean it meant anything.
I pull on sleep clothes and climb into bed even though it's barely eight o'clock and I know I won't sleep. The sheets are cold and too crisp and nothing like the back seat of his truck, which was cramped and uncomfortable and somehow exactly right.
My phone buzzes again.
For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it might be him.
It's not. It's my brother, sending me a meme I don't bother reading.
I set the phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
James hasn't texted. Hasn't called. Hasn't reached out at all since I left.
Which is fine. Expected, even. We agreed to talk tomorrow.
But the silence still feels like confirmation of everything I'm afraid of.
That it was just sex. That it didn't mean to him what it meant to me. That I'm going to spend tomorrow finishing this assessment and then leave Bloomfield and in another fourteen years I'll still be thinking about James Callahan and wondering what would have happened if I'd been braver.
If I'd been enough.
I roll onto my side and pull the pillow over my head.
Sleep doesn't come.
A few hours later
Thursday morning arrives too early and too bright.
I didn't sleep. Maybe got two hours total, scattered across the night in fragments that weren't restful.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw him, the way he looked at me before he kissed me, the way his hands felt on my body, the way he said my name when he came.
I feel exhausted and wired at the same time.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and assess the damage. The marks on my neck are still visible. Not as dark as last night, but dark enough that I can't hide them without makeup I don't have.
I settle for a silk scarf tied loosely at my throat. Professional enough. Plausibly fashionable. Completely unconvincing to anyone who looks closely.
My reflection looks tired. I look tired. And I have to walk back into that station and face him and pretend everything is fine.
I can do this. I've done harder things.
I've conducted assessments in hostile environments. I've dealt with captains who tried to intimidate me, crews who resented my presence, situations where my competence was questioned at every turn.
This should be easier.
It's not.
Because those other captains didn't know what I sound like when I come. They didn't know what I taste like. They didn't leave marks on my neck that I'm currently trying to hide with a scarf.
I arrive at the station at eight-thirty, fifteen minutes later than yesterday. Later than I should be for someone trying to maintain professional distance.
The bay doors are open. The morning is already warm, promising another hot June day. I can hear voices from inside, the crew, probably having breakfast, the easy rhythm of people who are comfortable with each other.
I take a breath, grab my bag, and walk in.
Murphy sees me first. "Morning, Investigator Holt. Coffee?"
"That would be great, thank you."
He heads toward the kitchen and I follow, acutely aware that James is going to be in there. That I'm going to have to see him and talk to him and act like nothing happened.
He's at the kitchen table with Travis and Garrett. All three of them look up when I walk in.
James's eyes find mine immediately, and for a second everything else disappears.
He looks tired too. Like he didn't sleep either. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and he's wearing a clean station t-shirt that fits him well enough that I have to actively not stare.
"Tess." My name in his mouth does things to my nervous system I'm not prepared for. "Morning."
"Captain." I keep my voice level, professional. "I'll need to finish the personnel interviews today, if that works with everyone's schedules."
"Of course. Whatever you need."
The conversation is perfectly polite. Perfectly professional.
It feels like glass.
Murphy hands me coffee and I take it gratefully, needing something to do with my hands. Travis is watching me with that particular quiet attention he has, and I wonder how much he sees. How much any of them see.
"You get settled okay last night?" Murphy asks, and the question is innocent but it still makes my stomach tight.
"Fine. The hotel's fine."
"Which one are you at?"
"The Comfort Inn off the highway."
James's jaw tightens slightly, and I realize he didn't know where I was staying. Didn't know if I'd even left town or just sat in my car somewhere processing.
Good. Let him wonder.
I take my coffee and head for his office before anyone can ask more questions. I need space. I need to focus on something other than the way he's looking at me.
The office feels smaller this morning. Or maybe I'm just more aware of the fact that the door closes, that there's a chair where I sat yesterday asking him questions while thinking about touching him.
I set up my laptop and pull out my files, determined to be productive. To get through this assessment and get out of Bloomfield before I do something else I'll regret.
The door opens.
I don't have to look up to know it's him.