Chapter Thirty-Four Sloane #2
Grant pulled into traffic. “The most we could get Brian Fletcher and Susan Westbrook on would be filing a false report. And after thirty-one years, no one would care.”
“Brian is a straight arrow.”
“Even straight arrows will lie to protect their children.”
“Sara told a few lies on my behalf, but that was more to protect herself than me.”
“Many parents will do anything to protect their child.”
“Would you?”
Grant nodded. “I would.” He parked in front of a place called Presidential Burger. “You look like you could eat. You didn’t eat a lot of breakfast.”
“Sure.”
We both ordered burgers, fries, and sodas, and found a booth in the corner. I focused on the food, sensing it was going to be a late night. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to approach Susan, but I needed to wait until the children and parents had cleared out from the studio.
As I sat, I imagined Tristan’s father panicking and calling in a false missing person report. I didn’t have a lot of stats on Susan yet. She could be a legitimate cousin. But I had serious doubts.
“If I get a DNA sample, can you test it against DNA from Brian Fletcher?” I asked.
He wiped his hands with a napkin. “How are you going to get samples from them?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Gently, Sloane. Adults who bodycheck other adults get arrested.”
“I get it.” I glanced at my watch. “The studio closes at eight o’clock. I’ll be there when she leaves.” The burger that had tasted so good now felt heavy in my stomach. “I hate waiting.”
“In your line of work, I’d think you’d be used to it.”
“I still don’t like it.” I picked up a fry. “Do you like waiting?”
“I’ve accepted the wheels of justice can move slow.”
“But you hate it?”
“What I hate is when good work is undone, and bad people are set free.”
“You have no doubts about Colton? At the trial, his attorney made a decent argument that Taggart planted the evidence.”
“Colton is slick. He’s a salesman at heart.”
“What was he like when you interviewed him?”
“Charming. Almost pleasant to be around. He’s popular with the guards and the inmates.”
“Are you sure he’s guilty?”
He was silent for a moment. “He’s never proven otherwise, despite the lawyers who he charmed into taking his case.
And until anyone proves otherwise, I don’t want him released.
His doctors say he’s sick, but who knows.
He could still hurt someone else if he gets out.
He’s had thirty-one years to think about what he’d do to everyone who wronged him. ”
His intensity was attractive. The air between us crackled. At least it did for me. I couldn’t read him well, which made him more interesting. “This is a first for me.”
“What?”
“I’ve learned to key off others’ emotions. But I can’t read you.”
Another unfathomable half smile. “Nothing to see here. I’m a simple creature. I want a bad guy to stay in jail.”
“You’re not simple. Not by a long stretch.”
“Is this the part where we talk about feelings?”
My laugh rang genuine. “God, no.”
“So, what’s the point of this banter?”
“Sexual tension, Grant. You’re not feeling it?”
Blue eyes darkened. “The Dance Studio doesn’t close for hours. And there’s a hotel down the street. That direct enough for you?”
“It is.”
The hotel was generic, uninspiring, but it was clean. I let my backpack slide off my shoulder to a chair angled by a small round table. Grant closed and locked the door behind us.
The two double beds were covered in a light green-gray-blue bedcover. The nightstands were polished. But the buttons at the base of the lamp were ringed with dust.
I removed my shirt as I kicked off my shoes. When I faced Grant, he stood still, staring at me. I stepped toward him.
My fingertips skimmed the top of his belt buckle, and I kissed him on his lips. He tasted like the mint he’d grabbed as we’d walked out of the diner.
His hand came to my waist, and he pulled me toward him.
My fingers slipped below his belt to his erection.
Orgasm was something I could feel. I’d been so stunned by my first, I’d avoided contact with men for a while.
Like a drug addict’s first hit of heroin, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life chasing the highs.
His hands slid to my breasts and squeezed. Energy shot through me.
He removed his shirt as I unfastened his belt buckle.
His pants slid to the floor. He yanked back the bed covering, and I landed on clean white sheets.
I shimmied out of my jeans and kicked them aside.
The mattress sagged as he climbed on. Hovering above me, he kissed me on the lips.
I skimmed my fingertips down his flat belly and wrapped my fingers around his erection.
The phantom fist, always in my chest, tightened.
My heart pulsed faster. I could have been speeding down a highway, slipping into a stranger’s home, or climbing on a roof as I searched for an adrenaline release. Impatient, I guided him to me. He pushed inside me. My nerve endings tingled.
A grunt rose in his chest as he filled me. I pushed my hips up toward him. He pumped. My fingers slid to my center. Soon we were both panting and riding a big wave.
The crash came, as intense as it would be fleeting. When I came, he came. And for a moment, my heart pulsed. Okay. This was acceptable. This was what people felt.
I rose from the bed and sat on its edge. This was always the awkward part. The part of sex that I didn’t connect with.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” I glanced back, smiling.
Staring at me, he rolled on his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “You look upset.”
“I’m not. That was great.”
“Did you enjoy what just happened?” he asked.
“I did. I find your company pleasant.”
“Pleasant?”
“It was intense. Freeing.” When I’d orgasmed, the tightness building in my skull had eased.
His expression was hard to read. “From you, that’s a ringing endorsement.”
“Take the win.”
He smiled.
I’d never done a good job of explaining myself to anyone. But I could change that with him. “Sara said that Patty would get frustrated with me when I was a baby. Patty told Sara that I wasn’t an easy baby. I didn’t act like the other babies.”
“Not fitting into the crowd isn’t always bad.”
“Most people like humans that conform. Humans are pack animals by nature and are suspicious of the lone wolf.”
I wasn’t sure why I was trying to explain myself. This wasn’t like me, and yet, I felt he needed to understand. “I’ve tracked down several family members of the victims.”
“And?”
“They’re a little like me. They all have a wound. They see and feel their injuries. Even after thirty-one years, they struggle not to cry. When I watch these folks cry, I wonder what it feels like.”
“Does it bother you that you don’t cry?”
“No. It’s a blessing, given my life and what I do.”
“How do you experience the world?”
This was the most I’d ever talked about my lack of feelings. “I’m in a glass jar. I can see the world. I can see sadness and joy. But the glass keeps it all at a distance.”
“Do you ever want to get out of the jar?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure I could write this article if I reacted like everyone else. So, like I said, it’s a blessing.”
He moved beside me. He didn’t speak for a long time. “But it bothers you.”
“It does. And it doesn’t.” But pain and pleasure are connected. Hard to enjoy one without the other. “What we just experienced is as close as I come to feeling something.”
He kissed me on the lips, his hand sliding to my belly. I closed my eyes because I’d learned when I stared back, my pointed gaze creeped out my partners.
“Do you want to feel something again?” he asked.
“I could be convinced.”
He took my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s see if we can break that glass jar.”
Several hours later, Grant sat behind the wheel of his truck, parked in front of the Dance Studio.
I dug in my purse and pulled out the tracker. “Thought your tracker could come in handy.”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
I slid out of the truck and jogged across the street.
The group inside was breaking up, giving me a few minutes.
I dashed down an alley to the small parking lot.
There were three cars. A small four-door Toyota, a Kia, and a white van.
The van had plates that read “TD Studio.” I took that as my hint and hurried toward it.
I attached the tracker to the back rear tire well.
I walked back to the front of the studio as the last mom-daughter combo was leaving. Susan was closing the door when I pushed back on the glass. “Susan?”
She hesitated. Her gaze grew wary. “Yes.”
“I’m Sloane Grayson.” This time I didn’t bother with a lie. “Do you have a moment?”
“It’s been a long day. Call my front desk for an appointment.”
I didn’t relax my grip on the door. There’d be no easing into this conversation. “Do you know Tristan Fletcher?”
Susan’s face paled. “No. Should I?”
“I think you do.”
She stiffened. “Go away.”
“I can’t. Not until we talk.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I have nothing for you.”
“You look scared.”
She shoved me back, then closed and locked the door.