Elastic Heart

“This is your place.” I shrugged at his response. So what if I paid the rent? It didn’t make it “my” place. A house is not a home and all that crap. A home is a place where you sleep in a bed, not on the couch. A home is a place with warmth. A home is a place where a dog greets you. I had a place where I could drink and sometimes fall asleep without a gun under my pillow.

Sometimes.

Bingo! I found my keys under the rug, because that makes perfect sense. Why wouldn’t I keep my keys under the rug? I snatched them up like they were gold.

“If you could lock up when you leave, I’d appreciate it.” I ran out, closing the door behind me quickly. Fuck, he loved me? How could he love me when I didn’t even know who “me” was any more?

The sun was up, letting me know I’d lost another night to my fretful, frenzied thoughts. The night had been spent wearing holes in the floor as I’d paced back and forth. Avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces. Trying (and failing) to avoid my own thoughts.

I’d arrived home at three in the morning and Law was gone. He’d locked up and even cleaned up. It was almost as if he had never been there—except I knew he had been; his presence was more than physical now.

He loved me?

He loved me.

It was impossible, but he’d said it. He’d said he loved me.

Taking another lap around the apartment, I bypassed the couch. It was tainted…tainted by Law. Marked with sweat and sex and emotion. I could still picture how he’d held me. I could see the way he drove me to oblivion and brought me back, made me feel safe. I could still see the image of us, absorbed by each other. I saw us unmistakably, the moment he told me he loved me.

I couldn’t use the couch and the bed was still off limits. Slowly my world was being destroyed by a plague I couldn’t fight: memory. Plunking down on the armchair in my apartment, I flipped the card Law had given me in my hand. The embossed “Matthew Jameson” caught glimpses of light, refracting the silver letters as I turned it through my fingers. I’d promised Law I would call him, but that was before he’d said he loved me. Did the fact that he loved me negate my promise, or did it bind me further?

Sighing, I got up to make myself some stale toast, but Matthew Jameson, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, rubbed roughly against my finger. I looked into my dingy, lonesome kitchen and then back down at the business card demanding my attention. The printed ink said he was currently working at The Salt Lake Times. I nearly set the card down, my hand hovering right above the table, but instead I picked up my keys and left.

The receptionist perked up when she saw me walk through the doors. She might have said hello, but I ignored her and went directly to the elevators. If things didn’t work out with Jameson, I didn’t want there to be a record or a witness to my visit.

I scanned the board on the wall that listed the names and departments in the building. Floor eleven, Salt Lake Times. After searching for Jameson on the internet, I had seen plenty of pictures of him. He had the same all-American looks Morris did. I was trying not to let that bother me.

Floor eleven was nothing like you saw in the movies. No one was running around looking for some big lead, reporters weren’t talking fast and furiously. In fact, it was rather boring. Cubicles filled the room and offices dotted the walls. I walked down the rows, looking inside the cubicles and offices, hoping to spot Jameson. I was about to give up when I reached the last office of the floor. Nestled between the bathroom and the water cooler was a small office. The plaque read Matthew Jameson. Without knocking, I entered.

Jameson sat behind a medium-sized black desk. Behind him a window showed the Salt Lake City skyline. It would have been a nice view, if not for the smog.

“Who are you?” Jameson asked, sitting up slightly from his desk.

“I have a story for you,” I replied, getting right to the point. “Law said you could help me.”

Jameson shut his laptop and quirked a brow. “Law? Nick Law?”

“Nick? Who’s—oh, Law. Yes, Nick sent me.” I’d honestly forgotten that Law had a first name. From the moment I’d met Law—or Nick—he was never anything but Law. The unyielding ridges of his face combined with his tacit yet forceful nature meant he was, and would never be anything but, Law.

Jameson beckoned for me to sit in the lone chair of his office. I folded my arms in response.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “What kind of story?” I eyed Jameson. He was dressed simply. Wearing a blue button-up shirt and a single silver band on his left ring finger, he looked harmless. But then so had Morris. His hair was cut short, shorter than Law’s. It was possible that his hairline was receding, but it was hard to tell at the length he wore it.

“I need to know I can trust you first,” I explained, my voice a tad saltier than it should have been. Jameson laughed lightly, shuffling papers around on his desk like it was any other day and I was just some person bringing a story about nothing.

“You came to me,” Jameson pointed out. “I can’t write a story I don’t know.”

I exhaled and unfolded my arms. “It’s about Mitch Morris.”

All humor drained from Jameson’s face. “As in Senator Mitch Morris?”

I shrugged. “The one and only.”

Jameson leaned forward on his desk, face scrutinizing. “What about him?”

I laughed, the motion hurting my chest. “It’s not good.”

“I assumed as much,” Jameson said soberly. “What’s the story?”