Elastic Heart

“Red Sox,” Law replied, taking the exit for the airport.

I glared out at the gray-white moving picture. “I’ve survived this far without baseball.”

I’d let myself get excited about the idea of a romantic getaway with Law. I knew we had a mountain of issues to work past, but if Law was willing to try… I exhaled and removed my gaze from the window. We were nearing the airport and whatever was in Boston had my attention now. More cryptic crap.

“There’s more to Boston than baseball,” Law said, placing his hand on my thigh.

“Oh yeah?” I replied, my snark getting the better of me. “What’s that?”

“My past.”

Since meeting Law, thorns had formed in my side, thorns borne from his lies. Since the altercation with Becca Riley, though, it felt like Law was methodically attempting to remove them. He told me his truths, and then ripped the lies from their place without any anesthetic.

Still, one thorn remained: Jameson.

“So…” I said, turning my view from the airplane window to Law. “Will this trip explain how you know Jameson?”

Law took a sip of his bourbon and faced me. I’d never flown so nicely. In first class, we were given complimentary drinks, towels—basically anything our hearts desired. I’d taken a bottle of water and Law had ordered a glass of bourbon I couldn’t pronounce. Then again, most of my whiskey came with a sale sticker.

“I was wondering when we were going to talk about that,” he said after another long, slow draught.

I quirked a brow. “So you knew that I knew?”

“Nothing much gets past you, Nami DeGrace,” Law said with a smile. The slow, easy grin punctuated his sculpted jaw, as if it wasn’t chiseled enough. Law was past handsome. He was the type of raw masculinity that could only be portrayed in carved marble. Paintings were too soft a medium; photography dulled its power. Still, I wasn’t so easily swayed.

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me you were friends?”

“At the time it was the simplest option.” Law took another long drag of his bourbon. “I was never supposed to fall in love with you, Nami.” He pinned me with his cognac gaze and I reached for my bottle of water. I felt itchy and dehydrated from just his look. As the water slipped down my throat, I felt little comfort. Nothing could ease me and nothing would distract me from the intense, carnal gaze Law ripped into me.

“You know he didn’t take my story,” I rasped, setting my nearly empty water down.

“I know.” Law kept his gaze locked on mine. I felt strangled by it.

Still trying to control my voice, I said the thing that had been bugging me for days. “You know he’s Mormon.” Jameson was the enemy, so why did Law think he could be ally?

Law took another slow sip of his drink and faced me. “Are you upset that I knew Jameson, or are you upset that Jameson is Mormon?”

“Are you accusing me of being xenophobic?” Before Morris, I had been painfully open-minded. I was champion to every marginalized group in the world. The fact that I was wary of Mormons didn’t make me xenoph

obic, it made me smart. Once you’re burned by something, it’s stupid to continue to trust it won’t do it again.

At least, that’s what I thought. I mean, if I had a nickel for every time I heard someone try and use 9/11 to justify their misgivings about Muslims, or even dark-skinned people…well, I’d be pretty well off. Was that who I’d become?

The cabin was quiet; only the faint sound of air blowing and magazine pages rustling could be heard. I felt queasy as I thought about Law’s question. I looked to him, but he only raised an eyebrow.

“I overheard you both talking,” I said, shaking off the gnawing in my gut. “It has nothing to do with his religion.” Law shot me a look and I folded my arms. “Fine, it has a little bit to do with his religion. But can you blame me? He said I was a stalker and that Morris was a ‘good guy’.” I huffed just thinking about it. “How can you be friends with someone like that?”

“What you heard was only a snapshot of the man I know. He never used to sit in an office. He never used to have a desk job. He was out in the shit. He was digging up what others buried. Now he’s…”

“He’s what?” I demanded.

“He’s lost himself.” Law set down his drink, empty save for the ice cubes wet with brown liquid. “I met Matthew years ago when I was just out of Quantico. It was my first sex trafficking case and he just happened to be reporting on it. He nearly got himself arrested trying to break into the company.”

“I still don’t see how…” Law gripped my arm, forcing the words on my tongue to die. Reluctantly I quieted, instead listening to what he had to say. As Law continued, the grip on my forearm lessened, but only a little.

“When you’re a man of law, you’re tied by it. So tied that sometimes it feels like a noose around your neck. You learn to rely on others to pick up what you can’t. Matthew was that man. He called out the shitbags that hid behind bureaucracy and red tape and lawyers. He got the truth out. He might have saved more lives than me.”

Law released me and I quickly turned my glare back to the window. I didn’t want to combat the fury in his golden gaze, so instead I stared at the clouds below. The Jameson Law described was a far cry from the man I’d met.