CHAPTER 6
Melissa
“Perfect”. That’s how Curran described Tess. It’s not true, of course, despite that she’s amazing. Like the rest of us, she’s human and likely flawed in a way that makes her more endearing. But Curran meant it because he loves her, reinforcing my wish to one day be “perfect” for someone, too.
“How are the spring rolls?” Declan asks.
The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to just below his elbows and his tie is dangling on the hook beside his jacket. He’s leaning so far back against his chair and appears so relaxed, I bet he’d have his feet propped up on his desk if I weren’t here and if we weren’t using it to eat our takeout.
I swallow and raise my tiny foil container. “Really good. Would you like one?”
I’m looking at him, but not really looking at him, seeing how I still can’t. He’s been gracious, but I haven’t forgotten the naughty book incident, just like I’m sure he hasn’t either.
He polishes off the Pad Thai and stretches across the desk, using his chopsticks to reach for a roll. “Thanks. So . . . Morris Miller, tell me about the victim. What’s going on with her?”
“Tricia is a tough one,” I admit. “She was in and out of foster care―”
“Tricia Helmsley was in foster care?” he asks.
I don’t blame him for being surprised given her success. She’s head of marketing at a prestigious firm and has accomplished a great deal. But like many who’ve been part of the foster care system, she didn’t escape unscathed.
In fact, she’s pretty screwed up.
“She was,” I answer slowly.
Declan doesn’t miss my cautious tone. He raises his thick brows. “This is why you wanted to meet with me, isn’t it? There’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree.
“She seems so normal. I should have known a somewhat stable victim was too good to be true.” He looks at me. “Should I have another roll before we delve into her dirty little secrets?”
I think about what I have to tell him and place the entire container directly in front of him. “Christ,” he says, reaching for it.
“Now, I’m only telling you what I am because it pertains to her case and it’s highly probable the defense council will try to use it against her.”
“I’m listening,” he says when I hesitate.
“Tricia is a submissive at Club Hurt.” For a moment, he simply freezes. “A sexual submissive,” I explain.
“I understood you the first time,” he says. He tosses the container on the desk and leans back in his chair, covering his eyes until every swear word I know spews from his lips. He drops his hand away. “You’re serious?” When I nod he adds, “You think she might have mentioned this sooner?”
“It’s a lifestyle she doesn’t want her coworkers and clients to know about, but considering Morris Miller has one of the best defense attorneys in the state, with a reputation for hiring private P.I.s to dig up dirt on lead witnesses . . .” I wrinkle my nose. “I just thought you should know.”
“It’s going to be harder to prove Miller raped her,” Declan mutters.
I’m not sure if he means for me to hear him or if he’s simply talking to himself, either way I struggle to catch his words. Regardless, I need to assure he’s on Tricia’s side. “But he did rape her,” I say. “You believe her, don’t you?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe her, Mel. But if this comes up―which it will, given defense council’s pit bull approach to winning cases―it’ll give the jury the wrong impression of Tricia. They’ll ignore her accomplishments and the professional standing before them, branding her a slut who asked for it, especially if the defense spins it as consensual BSMD or whatever the fuck the acronyms are.”
“BDSM,” I clarify. “Bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism.”
He raises his brows. “You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing.”
This time, my smile comes a little easier. “And you don’t seem to know enough.”
He lifts one of the rolls. “Care to educate me?” he asks, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I mean, given my role here at SACU, I should know all the ins and outs, don’t you think?”
He pops the roll in his mouth with his chopstick. His smirk is in place, positive he’ll stir another blush out of me. Not this time, big boy.
I lean against the desk and fold my arms in front of me, my stare wistful, longing, or at least that’s what I’m going for. “The pain inflicted when bound is not meant to harm or punish, Declan. It’s meant to stimulate and free.”
Declan stops chewing, honing in on my face. My hand drifts to my hair to play with the ends, before I lower it slowly and avert my chin as if embarrassed. “The pliable whip teases a woman’s most intimate parts, enticing them to tense and strain.” My gaze grows distant as if I’m remembering. “At first it’s like a cool breeze you’re not expecting. But in each lash there’s a promise.”
He swallows hard. “A promise?”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “Yeah,” I whisper.
My fingertips trail along the exposed skin above my breasts. “With each lash the intensity surges, creating a light sting.” I shudder. “It burns sometimes, creating a heat that reaches deep.”
“How . . . deep?”
With dreamy eyes I meet his face, holding his focus like our lives depend on it. “As far as you allow it, until you’re screaming with need, your body begging for that release. But it’s not domination, Declan.”
“It’s not?” he asks, his voice low.
“No,” I say, my voice more a purr. “It’s freedom. Freedom to dig into a primal need women are forced to suppress.” I lean forward, forcing myself not to react when he responds in turn, erasing the distance until only inches remain. “We’re told to be good girls, to keep our legs closed and our fantasies to ourselves. We’re taught sex is wrong, and only meant to reproduce. It’s not supposed to feel good―”
“No?” he asks.
He’s breathing hard. I am, too. “No, it’s supposed to serve a purpose. Except there’s more to sex, than making babies, isn’t there?” I challenge in a breathy tone. “It can feel sweet, delicious, but only once that woman in need opens herself and―”
“Hey, Declan!”
“What?” he snaps, whipping in the direction of the door. He catches himself a little too late, when Stephanie gapes back at him. He clears his throat. “My apologies, Stephanie. Melissa and I were discussing an important case.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, not bothering to glance my way.
Wow. It’ not like I’m even in the same room. Her attention is fixated on Declan. “I wanted to know if you needed anything,” she says, her smile lifting. “Before I left.”
“No, I’m good,” he says, returning his focus to me.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying late,” she pushes. “I do it all the time.”
I glance at the wall clock. It’s almost six. The majority of the clerical staff leaves at four thirty. As county employees, they’re paid a set salary. There’s no incentive to stay unless there’s a pressing matter and many have children to return to.
“It’s really late,” I tell Stephanie. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
For some reason, she doesn’t like me questioning her. “I had work to do,” she says, doing little to hide the annoyance in her voice.
I lean back, frowning. While I don’t expect her to fall all over herself to please me, I’m rather baffled she’s not more polite. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
She stiffens. “No. Why?”
“Because your tone and the way you’re addressing her suggests you don’t respect her or her position here in the office,” Declan answers for me. He could have kept his tone light and easy to keep her apparent awe of him going, but he didn’t. While he wasn’t harsh, it’s clear he’s not happy.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she responds, to him.
I reach for my notes on the case. There’s a lot I can say to Stephanie, but I pick my battles. If I’m going to be labeled a bitch, I’d rather it be for fighting for victims’ rights, not fighting with someone who’s immature, self-serving, and oblivious.
“I suppose I should apologize,” she offers to Declan, trying to make amends with him.
So much for staying quiet. “Don’t bother,” I tell her. “Just watch what you say. We’re all working for the greater good and everyone deserves respect, regardless of their title or physical appearance.”
She presses her lips into a firm line, but doesn’t bother with a retort. It doesn’t matter. Her glare is telling enough.
“Have a good night,” Declan tells her, tilting his head in the direction of the door.
I focus on the list I have to discuss with Declan and don’t bother to watch her leave.
“What did you mean when you told her physical appearance shouldn’t matter?” he asks. I glance up to find him, grinning. “Are you saying she only talks to me because I’m pretty?”
I shouldn’t smile. Of course I do. “You think you’re pretty?”
“You don’t?” he challenges.
I laugh. “Fish for compliments much?”
“I don’t usually have to.” He holds out a hand. “I know that shocks you.”
“Nothing really shocks me about you, Declan, except for your ongoing love affair with yourself.” I return to my pad of paper, adding “must kick Declan’s ass” to my to-do list.
“So are you going to tell me?”
“Whether or not I think you’re pretty?” I ask, underlining the ass kicking and adding a star. “You don’t need me to, do you? I’m sure any one of your groupies would be more than happy to tell you between bows.”
I smile and keep my voice light. I’m mostly joking, ignoring the fact that my yes, Declan has legions of ladies ready to tear their panties off at his command.
“No, whether you were referring to me and what I look like when you made the comment . . . or yourself.”
This time when I look up, I meet his gaze and hold it.
“Do you think Stephanie doesn’t respect you because you’re hearing impaired?” His voice is steady. There’s no apology behind what he’s asking, but there’s no malice either. “Or that she respects me because she finds me attractive?” He plays with the pen in his hand. “Your inability to hear well reflects in your speech, making the unnoticeable, noticeable. So who were you referring to, you or me?”
“Maybe both,” I admit.
There’s more I can say about Stephanie, but I don’t want Declan to mistake my dislike of her behavior for jealousy. There’s nothing of her to envy. I don’t desire her looks, insecurities aside, I’m comfortable in my skin. And if given the choice, I’ll always choose kindness over gain. I’m not certain Stephanie would agree.
“All right,” Declan says, his smile returning as her reaches for his bottled water. “Next question. “How do you know so much about being dominated?”
“I’ve spent a few nights at Club Hurt.”
Water spews from his mouth, drenching the plastic takeout bag in front of him. I rush around the desk when he starts to choke, smacking his back a few times. “Are you okay?”
He swipes his mouth with a wad of napkins. “You’ve seriously been there?” he asks.
“I have,” I say, toying with whether to come clean. My hand slips down his back and away. “Tricia asked me to go so I can understand her lifestyle. Those things I said, about being stimulated and sexually freed are more or less what she and her Doms told me.”
Declan stares at me, his expression split with fascination and shock. “Just so I’m clear, you went to Club Hurt and watched Tricia get spanked?”
“Whipped,” I clarify.
“Whipped?”
“That’s her preference. But I only went because I wanted her to trust me and open up.”
“By whipping her?” Declan asks incredulously.
I throw back my head, laughing. “I didn’t whip her, Declan. And I didn’t watch either. I simply met privately with her and her favorite Doms. No one was in leather, in fact, one of the Doms was dressed in flannel.”
“Why?”
“It was cold in the office.”
He laughs. “You know what I mean. Why did you meet with her and her buddies?”
I return to my chair. “I told you. So she’d trust me. A woman in Tricia’s position wants be understood, but given her history, she has some serious trust issues. She wanted me to be sympathetic to her lifestyle before she’d open up. So I went.” I shrug. “The ball gag made it a little hard to breathe through, but I did okay.”
He laughs again, but then quiets the longer he watches me. “Do you do that a lot? Go to places outside your comfort zone to better understand victims of crime?”
“I do.” I let out a breath when I start to think about it. “I’ll admit, though, sometimes I’ve gone too far.”
“How so?”
I debate whether or not to answer, mostly because I worry who it will get back to. “Will this stay between you and me?”
“Depends. Is it legal?” he asks.
It’s a fair question given his role. “It is. I would just prefer my father not know.”
“You, a grown woman, doesn’t want her daddy to know what she did?” he asks. “I thought you were closer than that.”
“We are. But what I have to say will only upset him.” My voice quiets. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“All right,” he agrees, suspicion drawing his brows tight.
“Okay. Here goes,” I say, slapping my hands against my lap. “I’ve helped social workers search for runaways on the streets, rushed into warehouses known to house addicts to pull young girls out, and driven around in the dead of night talking with prostitutes about giving up their lifestyles.”
“Shit,” he says, completely caught off guard. “Any success?”
“Very little,” I admit.
“Then why do it, especially when you can get hurt or killed doing shit like that? Christ, Mel, invading crack houses, driving around the worst parts of town, that’s nothing short of suicide.”
“At the time, all I could think about was helping those who really needed me.”
“What about your dad? Don’t you think he needed you, too?” He holds a hand out. “I’m not trying to be a dick. But like I said, anything could have happened to you.”
He’s not being judgmental. At least, that’s not how I take. If anything, he seems concerned for my welfare even though the events happened long ago. It’s sweet and I do my best to assure him. “I usually hired a bodyguard to come with me―”
“Usually?”
Okay. He went from being sweet to thinking I’m crazy, not that I blame him. But now that I opened that can, I keep going. “Sometimes even bodyguards packing big guns, big muscles, and big attitudes were hesitant to enter the places I needed to search.”
“So you’d go alone?” he asks, barely able to get the words out.
“Never alone,” I say, thinking back to my more desperate cases. “But sometimes it was just me and another victim services advocate.”
“Another woman?” he asks. “Mel, again, I’m not trying to be a dick, but how do two women stand a chance against dealers and pimps bent on keeping what they feel belongs to them? I love Philly. It’s my home and heart, but I know firsthand how unforgiving it can be.”
In his last words, I catch a flicker of bitterness and maybe pain, too. I want to hug him, knowing those he loves have been hurt despite the A.D.A. title he holds out like a shield.
I don’t of course, watching with sadness as that flicker vanishes, leaving only the shield in place.
“I know what I did was dangerous,” I agree quietly. “But I was young and wanted to give these girls a chance that no else would.” I smile softly, even though these memories are nothing to smile about. They were the suicide missions Declan inferred. But it’s my way of assuring that that despite what I saw and encountered, I’m okay on the inside.
“I don’t get you,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taken aback how upset he appears.
“The odds weren’t in your favor,” he points out. “And like you said, your success rate was low.”
“Oh, my success rate was hideous,” I agree. “I think I only helped three people at most.”
“Three?” he stresses. “After all that you only helped three people?”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much, and it’s not given the absurd number who remained on the streets, selling themselves and wasting away. But to me, they were three people who didn’t die.” I shrug. “They got their chance at life.”
“Do you still go out like that, into those neighborhoods and abandoned buildings?”
Because I’ll officially kick your ass if you do, he doesn’t add.
My stare travels to the wall behind him, struggling to admit what I do. “No. Although I’m thankful I was able to help those that I did, I stopped going when I realized exactly how much I was risking compared to what I was getting.”
He lets out a breath, as if relieved. It takes me by surprise as does the kindness in his stare. “Good,” he says.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply slowly. “It’s like so many are on this sinking ship and there aren’t enough life preservers or boats to save them. Sometimes, I still want to be that person out in that ocean, pulling people onto my rowboat or tossing them a life preserver. But I can’t, not when I risk them pulling me under.”
“Or stealing your boat?” he offers.
I laugh a little. “Yes. That, too. But if I’m struggling to reach someone or get them to trust me, like with Tricia, I attend these ‘field trips’ as I call them.”
“Why is victim services so important to you, and don’t tell me it’s because it’s your job.” He threads his hands behind his head, scrutinizing me closely. “What’s your story?”
My lips part. Declan doesn’t know about me, only what he’s sees on the surface. I was sure Dad had mentioned at least a little about what I’ve been through. I guess I was wrong.
I adjust my position in my seat, that awful sense of unease I bury deep crawling uncomfortably along my skin. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised Dad didn’t say anything about my past, he’s always been protective. But for some reason, I am. Probably because he adores Declan.
For a moment I don’t answer, wondering if I can trust this man that only days earlier, I could barely stomach. But when something softens in his features, I take a chance. “There are too many like me in the world, Declan. But most never get the help I received on that sinking ship.”
He pauses, dissecting each word. “You’re not talking about kids with special needs, are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Considering I was ready to come clean about why I do what I do, I almost immediately clam up. Probably because I’m about to add another layer of imperfection. “Did you know I was adopted?”
His eyes widen slightly. It’s a subtle gesture, and if I wasn’t watching him closely, I might have missed it.
This news probably wouldn’t be a big deal to anyone else. But Declan is smart. He knows where I’m headed and that it’s not someplace especially good. “I guess not,” I answer for him.
“I never saw a family resemblance,” he replies. “But I never gave it much thought, assuming you took after your mother.”
“Maybe, I do. I don’t remember much about her,” I confess. “I could be Latina or Caucasian, maybe both or something entirely different. I really don’t know or have anyone to ask.”
“It doesn’t say on your birth certificate?”
“There’s no father listed and no mention of my mother’s ethnicity,” I answer. I take him in, curious about what he’s thinking and maybe what he thought before now. “What did you think my childhood was like?”
“Before I realized you were adopted?”
When I nod, he stares back at me like a man who’s been given a test he can’t possibly pass. “It’s okay,” I add, smiling. “There’s no wrong answer.”
I’m not sure if he believes me, but he tells me anyway. “I figured Miles had a wife, your mother, and that she died when you were young.”
“You assumed a lot of negative things,” I say, quietly. “I’m not offended, but may I ask why you thought Dad was widower rather than a divorced man?”
“If you want to know, I’ll tell you,” he answers, his tone serious. “But you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Tell me anyway,” I reply.
He lowers his arms so his elbows fall against the armrests. “You both always seemed a little sad, like you lost someone important to you.”
I try not to react, but I’m stunned by what he says and how he easily summed up our lives in a few simple words. Declan is insightful and sensitive, too. In a way, it scares me. It’s not a side I expected to see.
He’s right, though. My father and I did lose something precious. Dad lost his opportunity to fall in love with someone and have children of his own, and I lost the opportunity to have a real mother I could cherish.
The mother I did have, wasn’t warm or compassionate. There were no gentle touches, no kind gestures, nothing I could recall that demonstrated any semblance of love. I knew only harshness and fear in her hands. I only knew pain.
Is it a wonder why it’s so hard for me to trust, when the person who was supposed to love me most did nothing but harm me?
The pain . . . it’s still raw in a way. Not just because of how I was treated, but because I’ve never understood how people could be so heartless. Yet as much as I’m feeling, and as deeply as it haunts me, I don’t dare admit as much to Declan.
What I do reveal is the truth. “My birth mother was an addict. She tried to sell me when I was little to maintain her habit.”
Declan stops moving. “What do you mean she tried to sell you? For adoption?”
It’s what he asks, but the darkness shadowing his features reveals he knows better. Part of me wants to spare him, worried what he might think of me. But I take a risk and trust him a little further, even though a more vulnerable side of me warns I’m making a mistake. “Not for adoption,” I admit quietly.
Disgust spreads along his handsome face and I’m certain he’s stopped breathing. When he speaks, I almost expect him to change the subject. “How old were you?” he asks, instead, his tone harsh.
“Almost six, I think.”
Anger overtakes his features, making it hard for me to hold his stare. “Tell me what happened,” he says.
I cross my legs and place my hands over my knee, speaking carefully so he hears me and because a part of me knows there’s no going back. “There was this man . . . I’m not sure if he’d seen me before and asked for me, or if my mother simply offered to get what she needed. Regardless, he came to our apartment one morning while I was watching cartoons.”
“Jesus,” he says, already anticipating what was coming next.
I want to stop, and end the story. Somehow, I keep going. “I felt his footsteps marching toward the bedroom before my mother grabbed me and yanked me out of my clothes. I didn’t know what she was doing. But I was scared by how rough she was and tried to resist. She slapped me, trying to subdue me. When I was finally naked, she shoved me into the room where the man was waiting.”
“Please tell me you got away. That you weren’t hurt.” His breath releases in stiff motions as if in pain. “Tell me you got away.”
Because his little brother didn’t.
The compassion and sympathy he demonstrates threatens to release tears I thought had dried long ago. “I got away,” I assure him.
He closes his eyes, long enough to release a breath and steady his breathing.
“It was summer and the window was partly open. He was drunk or high and stumbling. I was able to escape before he could hurt me.” I try to smile. “Dad was the assistant D.A. in charge of my case. He told me that from the first moment he saw me, he didn’t want to let me go.”
Declan’s gaze sweeps along my face. “I don’t blame him,” he tells me.
My heart stalls. He continues to take me in, like he needs to or can’t stop. I think he’s going to say something sweet.
“Your mother was a piece of shit,” he adds.
Or perhaps not.
I glance down. “I won’t argue with that.”
In the heavy silence that follows, the universe disappears, leaving us gently tucked within the soothing peace enveloping us. It shouldn’t feel this tranquil, my story after all is one of nightmares. But it is unbelievably serene, and despite that neither of us move, I feel Declan close in, the warmth of his body reaching out to stroke me.
We lose ourselves in each other’s stare. I can’t move and I barely breathe.
“Mel,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling.
“Yes?” I manage.
“I . . .” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you got away.”
“I am, too,” I tell him gently. Our moment is gone. I know it. I reach for my notes and skim through them. “Before we get back to Tricia, I need to ―”
“About your dad,” he begins.
“Yes?” I ask, lowering my pad.
“He’s―look, there are seven of us kids in the family. Six boys, and one girl who could kick our asses if we pissed her off enough. My mother raised us in a tiny three bedroom row home. She owned her own dry cleaning service and worked herself to exhaustion to put us through Catholic school. She’d take us to church every Sunday so God wouldn’t strike us dead for all the sins we’d commit Monday through Saturday. If it wasn’t for her, none of us would have made it out of the neighborhood we were raised in alive.”
He reaches for his pen, appearing pissed. “We barely knew our father. When he wasn’t working his part time job at the post office, he was in bed with his mistress. Those baseball games dads take their kids to? It was our mother who took us, and paid for our popcorn and drinks because that’s all she could afford. Those sports we were all in, the ones fathers are supposed to attend and cheer you on at? That was my mother yelling, and my brothers and sister cheering.” He looks up at me. “Ideally we’re supposed to have parents, a team that works together for their kids. But sometimes the team sucks, and only one parent steps up. That’s okay. You have one good one, you can take on the fucking world. That’s what your dad and my mother were to us.” He starts scribbling. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”
For a moment, all I can do is gape. Declan isn’t unloading to unload, he’s trying to bond with me.
He glances up when all I do is sit there. “Melissa, what else is on your agenda?”
“Your sister-in-law.” It’s what I say, because that area of discussion is professional, unlike my insane desire to kiss him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like you to consider Tess for SACU.” Again it’s what I say, and what’s relevant. So why am I focused on his shirt, and how I’d like to ruin it by ripping it open so I may trace my initials on his chest with my tongue?
“No. Tess is bright, but she doesn’t have enough trial experience yet.” His voice cuts off when he realizes I’m blushing. “Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” I answer although something clearly is. Within a span of a few minutes and with just a handful of words, Declan has turned me into one of those ridiculous women who pant after him.
Holy heavens. I want to have sex with Declan O’Brien.