12. Closeness
Closeness
S unlight filtered through the curtains, and I groaned. I rolled to the side and grimaced at the pounding headache. It wasn’t like me to drink to this point. Not anymore.
Everything hurt in a dull ache, and I slowly opened my eyes. My makeup crusted over my eyelashes, and I swore under my breath. Why hadn’t I bothered to wash up when I got home?
“Ugh...” I swung my feet over my bed and stared down at my naked body. It felt oddly satisfied in a way I couldn’t make sense of. With a shrug, I trudged to the bathroom and closed the door behind me.
The mirror told the story of a drunk who’d regretted her life choices. The mascara had leaked down the side of my face, and my eyeshadow was smudged. I looked like a clown.
The shower was nice, but as I washed my hair, I frowned at the low ache between my legs. Why was I a bit sore? Had I used my dildo the night before? I couldn’t recall much of anything.
I grabbed the makeup wipes I’d brought into the shower with me and cleaned off my face.
Last night seemed to flash through my mind.
Bits and pieces―some blurred―but it all came back.
I dropped the pad and gawked at the pipes in front of me, blinking fast. No.
That couldn’t have happened. I hadn’t made a fool of myself.
Pushing my face under the water, I was tempted to try drowning myself. Instead, I took a few steps back, spitting out and trying to breathe again. I could die of embarrassment.
I got out of the shower and dried off as I continued fighting against the nausea. What had I been drugged with, anyway? From what I recalled, all the pain―physical and mental―had vanished, and it was as though I’d been floating. It was like codeine but without the drowsiness.
At the thought, my skin crawled. No. I’d worked so hard to get rid of the cravings, and it was as though I started at square one again. The air was suddenly cold, so I grabbed the robe hanging behind the door and slipped it on before heading back out.
“Good morning,” Jack said from the armchair.
I yelped, “Fucking hell.”
He turned in his seat and shot me a dark look. “One of these days, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“How long have you been sitting there?” I asked, ignoring his comment and trying even harder to ignore the way he looked at me.
He rubbed his face with his hand as he got to his feet, his beard bristling. “All night. Wanted to make sure you didn’t end up throwing up and choking.”
Part of me wanted to cry at how considerate that was; no one had ever done something like that for me before.
Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them away as fast as I could.
He approached me, but I took a few steps back.
That didn’t seem to deter him. If anything, he reached me in seconds and grasped my chin, keeping me in place.
“Why are you crying?”
I wiped at my cheeks, surprised tears had managed to fall; I wasn’t usually a crier. “It’s nothing.”
He tilted my head back, his gaze boring into me. “Don’t lie.”
I wrenched away from him and took a few more steps back until I hit the wall.
“I’m just... This is the third time I’ve been drugged in two nights.
I don’t appreciate it, okay? It took forever for me to get off codeine, and now.
..” I shook my head and let out a sigh. “What did Michael drug me with anyway?”
“It’s known as Liquid Ecstasy,” he said in a softer tone than before.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I muttered, knowing all too well what that drug was used for. “What... Did you kill him?”
“I did.” He took a few steps closer. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” I motioned to the front entrance. “Mind if I take some notes?”
He moved to the side and motioned for me to go ahead. It was strange to see him without his mask or gloves, although the thought of those made my recall the night before a little too vividly. My cheeks heated as I walked past him, but he grasped my arm, stopping me in my steps.
“You never told me.”
I arched an eyebrow as I glanced from his hand to his face. “Told you what?”
“The question I apparently asked you last night. Whether or not you’ve squirted while being with a man.” He pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear, and I shivered. “Well... did I make you squirt?”
I muttered several curse words under my breath as I marched away from him. “Please don’t remind me of that. I’m already mortified as it is.” I grabbed my messenger back and rummaged through my things until I found my notebook.
“Why? Do you have any regrets?”
“Regrets? I’m supposed to keep things ethical... Professional, and I―”
“You were drugged and horny.”
I turned to face him. If it wasn’t for Jack, I knew what Michael had planned to do to me.
The realization seemed to hit me all at the same time, and I burst into tears.
I barely raised my hands to my face before Jack held me against his chest, just letting me cry.
Between him murdering someone when I was in the same room to staying awake all night to make sure I’d be okay, my emotions were a mess.
For a split second, I wondered if Jack had taken advantage of me considering my drugged state, but I dismissed that thought faster than it appeared. I’d wanted him to touch me before the drug was in my system. But it was done, and I had to stop it while I was ahead.
I backed away, drying my face with the back of my hand as I mumbled apologies. Before he could say anything, I grabbed my notebook from the bag and made my way to the counter island. Once down on the surface, I opened it, ready to start taking notes again.
“Why did you kill Michael? Why him?” I asked, then stared back at Jack.
His expression was stony, and for a moment, he almost looked as though he wouldn’t answer. “Why not?” he asked.
“Well, for one thing, he seemed to know you. I didn’t think you’d murder someone who could be connected to you.” I noted down Jack’s reluctance to answer questions this time.
“I work as a bouncer at several nightclubs and a few bars.” He shrugged. “Michael was a regular, so he eventually caught my name.”
No wonder he was so muscular―if he had to throw people out for being too rowdy, carrying me back into my apartment was probably a bit easier for him than most.
“But you killed him almost right after Patrice... Don’t you usually wait about a month?”
He chuckled as he approached, one hand in his pants pocket as though he was taking a leisurely stroll. “You believe you’ve discovered some sort of pattern with the way I kill?”
It was almost a challenge.
“Usually, it’s around once a month, isn’t it?” I asked, flipping back through my previous notes. I took out a few of the crime scene photos I’d printed out and laid them across the counter.
“And where did you get these?” he asked in a curious tone.
“A classmate of mine, Trevor, works for the Ottawa Police Department. He took some photos of the evidence for me.”
Jack frowned. “Why would he risk his job and jail time to do that?”
“Because men like blowjobs.”
He walked around the counter, and I stiffened to keep from backing away. “I see.” He grabbed the side of my neck, his thumb tracing along my throat as I swallowed hard. “Don’t do it again.”
My eyebrows shot up, and I wondered if he meant doing something illegal or giving blowjobs. “All men or just Trevor?”
“Whichever ones you don’t want dead,” he said darkly.
I pushed his hand away and put my hands on my hips. Looking authoritative was difficult when he stared at me hungrily, though. And when he stood so much taller.
“Look. I’m sorry about what happened last night and me crying just now. It won’t happen again. But this”—I motioned between the two of us—“is supposed to be an ethical relationship. I ask questions, you answer.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you give me my ask of the day.”
“Glad we’re clear on that, then.” But I had the feeling it was anything but clear.