This Love Hurts (This Love Hurts 1)

“Why do we do what we do…” Cody’s intonation lowers, becoming more serious as he stares at my nearly empty glass of white.

“That’s what I was wondering?” My question doesn’t bring his gaze back; he’s lost in something reflected in the glass.

“I know I do this because of my brother.” Every muscle in my body tenses. Carefully, feigning a casualness that I’m all too aware is absent from this conversation, I pick up the glass and sip the white wine after commenting, “The one who passed?”

We spent over a year working together before anyone mentioned the fact that Cody Walsh had a brother. It’s one of the very few things I knew about him.

“Yeah, he’s the only brother I had. He was just a kid.”

“You were too, weren’t you?” I question, my memory betraying me. I’m almost certain his brother was seven or eight and Cody was only ten.

“Maybe I should stop. It’s been a long day and I’ve had too much.”

I shrug nonchalantly and say, “Whatever works for you. I do love getting to know you, though.”

I always knew Cody had demons. Something dark and twisted that kept him quiet and guarded whenever his personal information was in question.

The second his guard would start to crumble when I first met him, another would go up behind it, thicker and even more impenetrable. There’s not much about the man’s past that I know.

He’s a workaholic like me. He cusses under his breath when he’s pissed and likes beer on easy days. Jack and Coke when he wants to think about something that’s bothering him. He always says it’s a case. He lives for his job with the FBI and I get it.

My first real job was with the FBI, although not as an agent. I was only a lawyer working the cases with them. Cody was the knight in shining armor, willing to do whatever it took. Last one to call it a night and the first one to gather us in the morning.

Brutal tasks require brutal men. To this day I don’t know what makes Cody the man he is, only that I want to know his secrets. I want him to trust me enough to do so.

“You don’t have to stop. I want to know.” Laying my forearms on the table and leaning forward so I’m closer to him, I add, “You can tell me.” I’m vaguely aware of a couple nearby gathering their things and leaving. The sound of clinking from glasses being collected fades as I fall into Cody’s light blue gaze.

It swirls with an intensity, but deep inside the shades of silver and cobalt are secrets locked away, rattling behind the bars where he holds them hostage.

“What happened to him? You never did tell me the story. All I know is that you two were split up and he passed a little while later.”

“It was years, not a little while. I went with my uncle; he went to my aunt when our parents died.” When he told me the two of them were split up, I assumed his mother and father had split. I didn’t know they split after.

“That’s rough,” I barely speak, feeling a tingle of unease run through me. “It must be difficult to be separated like that… especially after losing your parents,” I offer even though my voice is tight.

“We were never close.” Cody’s response isn’t spoken coldly, but it strikes me still. “He was years younger than me. He was only a kid,” he repeats the last statement in a whisper, finding refuge in his beer and I get the impression that the conversation has come to a halt until he speaks again, surprising me.

“It was a group of three men. They kidnapped and murdered those kids. Fed their remains to the dogs. The one who lived told the cops they had to watch it all. They saw everything happen to the kid before them. One at a time as they huddled together in the cell and were forced to watch.”

“That’s sadistic,” I respond and I don’t know how I’m able to even speak.

“They got off on scaring them,” he responds and his tone is harsh.

“They got them though, right?” Please tell me they got the bastards.

“You could say that. They’re all dead. It never went to a trial.”

How did they die? The question is right there, but that’s not the one I ask. “You were how old?”

“I was twelve. My brother was eight. We were split three years before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“One of the kids they abducted when they took my brother survived. The one who lived said my brother died only hours before the police got there.”

My heart pounds in agony. “So that’s why you do this?”

“Yeah,” he says and pretends like he’s tired, and that’s why he rubs his face down with one masculine hand before looking away.