Dirty Law

“Yes?” I responded, fiddling with the small tufts of hair on his pectorals. As far as men go, I supposed he was a fine specimen. His abdomen and chest were sculpted like finely hewn marble. His chin could cut glass. My gaze roamed across his body, stopping just short of the sheet that covered his groin. His beauty was undeniable, but it was more than that; his body was like condensed power, each bulge and rivet a reminder of the damage he packed.

Even so, I felt safe with him. Law’s body was another reminder of the discipline he carried, unlike Morris, who was untrained and had relied on brute strength and testosterone to pin me down. The tan valleys and peaks of Law’s hard packs of muscle showed the discipline and respect he had for himself, the discipline and respect he’d shown with me.

He also had brilliant cognac eyes that would catch your breath by the sheer color of them. True to Law’s personality, though, they were always shrouded under his thick, determining brow. I

rarely saw his eyes without that shadow. Right now, he looked at me, gaze furrowed and hazel eyes obscured. I lay down on his body, trying to get a better look at those eyes. Resting my chin on his chest, I frowned back at him.

“What? What are you thinking?” For the first time in months I felt content, yet Law’s shadowed brow hung over me like a raincloud on a summer day.

“I love you,” Law replied.

Boom goes the dynamite. I sat up, feeling like fire ants had infested our tranquil couch. Reaching for the entirety of the blankets, I covered up. I turned away, choosing to stare at a banal painting instead of Law’s face. Law’s rigid, unrelenting face.

“Nami—”

“Law, no.” I shook my head, still focusing on the knockoff Garden at Giverny across from me. It had been a gift from my mom.

“Why did you have to ruin this?” I asked, turning my head slightly. I could see Law sitting up in my peripheral, his naked body like a stone statue from the Parthenon.

“I didn’t think telling you I loved you would ruin anything.”

“Law… I can’t…” I jumped up and quickly threw on some clothes: a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and some snow boots.

“Nami, what are you doing?” Law asked, his voice smooth and level, the exact opposite of how I felt.

“I’m leaving.” I looked around, desperately searching for my keys. Why the fuck didn’t I keep them in one place instead of throwing them to God knows where the minute I got home?

“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?

Sixteen

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.