Turning on my heel, I go back to my car and wait. My cell keeps lighting up with calls from Snow, but I ignore them and wait. Time goes by so fucking slow. My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel when two figures come into view, moving toward her apartment. The hue of the streetlight brings them into view. It’s Lola, but she’s not alone. Some punk has an arm draped over her shoulder like he owns her. Why the fuck did I think she wouldn’t have a boyfriend? Look at her.
She didn’t call him to come to the hospital, so maybe it’s a casual thing. I’ve never wanted to kill a man without warrant before, but my hand shakes with intense jealous rage. I’m not fucking crazy, but what I’m feeling is. This isn’t me. This is a spell of some sort. She’s bewitched me. I need to get my fucking self together.
Jumping out of my car, the complete opposite of what I should be doing, I follow them. By the time I reach her front door, they’re already inside. Placing my ear against the wood panel, I listen, hearing Lola’s laugh ring out.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I bang my fist on the door, and within a few seconds, the door opens and the guy with stupid blonde spiky hair and neck full of tattoos eyeballs me up and down with a smirk on his fucking face. “Can I help you?” He quirks a pierced brow.
“Detective,” Lola voice calls out from behind him. Why call me “Detective” and not Adams like last night?
“Detective?” The guy asks. His eyes enlarging, he backs away, letting Lola come to where I’m standing. I’ve never felt such disdain toward someone without knowing them before, but here I am, wanting to make an excuse to pull my weapon out and shoot this punk in the balls.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her features pinched.
“Can I come in?” I ask, my tone gruff.
She looks over her shoulder at the punk. “This is my friend Simon. Simon, Detective Adams.”
I hold my hand out and ask, “Simon what?”
“Hodgman.” He jerks his chin up, and I take a mental note of his name so I can look him up later.
“Should we maybe go out here?” She ushers me out of the front door and closes it behind her with Simon still inside.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, my tone harsh, biting and unreasonable.
“Friend, like I said.” She folds her arms over her chest, and it’s then I take notice of what she’s wearing. It’s clubwear again. This time, it covers more of her flesh.
“You’ve been to a bar again?” I query, and her eyes narrow.
“I wasn’t the criminal last night, Detective. I shouldn’t have to hide away like a frightened mouse because pigs can’t keep themselves from attacking women.
Guilt flares inside me. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Her brown orbs bore into me, that thick bottom lip sticking out. Damn, I want to taste her so badly. “Is there a reason you’re here?” she asks, letting me off for the previous question.
“There was a witness that night.”
She steps back, her head tilting slightly to the side before shaking no. “No, I would have known.”
“We have them on camera at the entrance of the alley.”
Her chest begins to rise and fall. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Lola?” My palms twitch, my brow dipping low, jaw as hard as granite. Why is she so panicked? Did things not go down like she said they did? Without thought, I reach out for her and bring her against my chest to soothe her.
“It’s okay. Breathe.” Her body begins to jerk with silent sobs, and I cup her face, swiping at her tears with the pads of my thumbs. “It’s going to be okay. He hasn’t come forward, and if he did—”
“Then he’ll tell you why he didn’t help me. What kind of man does that make him?” she murmurs, her glassy eyes ripping at my soul. Taking my hands in hers, she places them against my body, steps away, and grabs her doorhandle. “Bye, Detective.”
Chapter Six
Lola
Closing the front door, I inhale a needed breath. My heart is racing. Goosebumps litter my skin.
“Everything okay? I sensed some weird vibe between you two,” Simon queries, lighting a cigarette.
“Just sexual tension,” I breathe out on a soft laugh. He doesn’t need to know what Detective Adams means to me. I’m not sure myself. What I do know is I feel safe in his company, like I can be me and he will understand.
“So, are we going to do this or what?” he asks, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his jeans.
“Yes.” I smile, pointing to the couch. “Get comfortable.”
Waggling his brows and letting out a puff of smoke, he says, “Oh, I intend to.”
Adams’ words bounce around in my mind, and I try to search my memories. I didn’t hear or see anyone. I was preoccupied with being attacked. Why would he not come forward, go straight to the police? Maybe he was coming from town, drunk and unclear on what he saw.
“Lola!” Simon barks, startling me out of my stupor.
“Sorry.” I shake my head and go to get my canvas. We’ve been working on Simon’s painting for over a year. He can only sit for an hour at a time, and I only get to see him when our paths happen to cross. Unlike my commissioned work, for Simon, I’m working for free. He, like me and all my clients, has past trauma. We shared a bond and became friends through those traumas. We recognized the shadows in each other’s souls. It’s rare to find someone who knows you without having to ask questions. We accepted each other’s battle scars of the dark life entwining us.
Adding paint to my pallet, I dip the brush and stroke red over the skin on his hip—self-harm wounds, deep and
