At the most inopportune times, Kean invaded my thoughts and hijacked my mind. It didn’t matter what mundane task I was involved in, my imagination would conjure him, reminding me that his mouth had been in places it should’ve never breached. And every single time the memories triggered an automatic response from my body. My panties would become damp in seconds.

I didn’t like what was happening yet I prayed for it to keep repeating.

It had taken more than ten minutes before I was able to pull myself together and leave the maintenance room at the restaurant. When I returned to the table I found a vexed Stuart glaring at his plate, while the adjacent table where Kean and his date had been seated was empty.

I considered asking Stuart when the couple had departed, but his surly expression strongly advised against it. I silently ate my cold dinner without tasting a bite while repulsive thoughts tormented me with each forkful. Was Kean indulging his date with the same experience he had treated me to?

The uncertainty sickened me, yet I couldn’t stop squeezing my thighs together. The wet material there was cold against my skin.

Skipping dessert, I wished Stuart a quick goodnight and exited the restaurant. All I wanted was to get to the safety of my home and crawl under the covers of my bed far removed from situations I didn’t understand. I was dead set on holding myself together.

It didn’t make an ounce of difference.

My insides fell to pieces every time I remembered the repulsion on Kean’s face as he backed away from my spent body. It haunted me as much as his mouth did. And the hurt it caused was devastating.

I couldn’t escape the mental damage that came hand in hand with the pleasure. I hated him yet at the same I was obsessed with him. And I hated myself for obsessing about him. I didn’t want to crave more and feared I was already addicted from that first high.

Then there was the allegations Stuart had saddled on Kean, which I wasn’t sure I could allow myself to believe. Kean could be verbally cruel but it was the accusation that he treated women with a rough hand that seemed to lack substance. If he was dangerous then why weren’t there charges against him floating out there in the sea of information? I spent hours searching online but came up empty each time.

I needed to get over it and let it go.

I had bigger issues to deal with, such as my disaster of a rough draft. I knew my writing was spiteful and unfair. It wasn’t like me to be so melodramatic. No matter how much I disliked the man, I wasn’t a malicious person. I had to rewrite it.

My cell phone rang, the Wicked Witch of the West tune announcing Melany was on the other end. Grateful for the reprieve from my head, I answered it.

“Hello.”

“Well, it’s about time you answered your damn phone. How did you know I wasn’t lying dead in a ditch?” Her high-pitched shrieks had the same effect as nails on the chalkboard of my sanity.

“If you were dead, you wouldn’t be calling me, right?” I deadpanned. 

“Are you on your lunch break?”

“No. I’m sitting at my desk. I’m having a couple of small issues with my current project so I was taking a minute to gather my thoughts.”

Janice, one of the office interns assigned to mail duty walked in and dropped a plain white envelope in front of me. My name, along with the Polish office address, was scribbled on the outside in black marker. I mouthed a “thank you” and watched as she left my cubicle.

“Always so serious, Ciaran. Maybe you need to release some pent-up tension so you can focus. I would suggest a good orgasm, but we all know that’s not going to happen.”

The memory of a warm tongue sliding between my thighs tried to suffocate me.

Coughing, I grabbed the water bottle sitting on my desk and chugged some back before I was able to remind her our relationship did not include sex talks. “Melany, I told you I’m not discussing my private life with you.”

“Whatever, Miss Prude. I’ll have you know Chris has been making me come multiple times every night and my mind is as free as a bird.”

Rolling my eyes, I picked up the envelope and used the point of my pen to slice it open. An aged yellowed newspaper clipping slid out and landed face down on the desk.

“Is there a reason for this call other than to inform me you’re alive?” I asked, as I flipped the clipping over. Words scribbled in bright red marker across the top grabbed my attention first. “Do your job – report the truth. Report what he deserves.”

He who?

Squinting at the faded print at the top of the article, I read the title: “Plastic Surgeon Investigated for Death of Patient.”

Holy shit. What was this?

Melany continued to babble in my ear but I was no longer listening. “Hey, Melany, I have to go.” I hit the end call button and tossed the cell phone onto the desk.

Rubbing at the raised hairs on my arms, I continued to read.

It was dated fourteen years ago and reported that a Dr. Sean Duarte was under investigation for the death of a patient, a woman named Celia Munich. She had been undergoing breast reconstruction surgery after surviving a bout of breast cancer and went into cardiac arrest while under the anesthesia. The plastic surgeon, who’d had no prior issues, was facing second degree manslaughter charges.

Picking up the envelope, I scrutinized the exterior.

My name was written in messy print on the front along with the sending address. Other than a postmark that reflected yesterday’s date, that was it. There wasn’t a return address anywhere.

Saying a quick prayer that my computer cooperated I typed “Dr. Sean Duarte” into the internet search bar. Several articles came up.

Reading through them, I found pretty much the same information that was in the article. The only difference was a couple of postings included a bit more about the victim explaining how Celia was survived by her husband and three small children. 

I slowly typed “pictures of Dr. Sean Duarte” into the search bar. Only five came up. I clicked the first one open and a picture of the doctor standing beside a tired-looking but beautiful woman emerged. Their hands were clasped tightly together as they smiled at the camera. According to the information on the bottom of the screen, the woman was Eve Duarte, the surgeon’s wife. I closed it and opened the other images one by one.

The last picture that opened was also of the doctor and his frail-looking wife, as they stood on the steps of a professional looking building. The image was dated June 10, 1987, the same year as Celia’s death. They didn’t look happy but that wasn’t what grabbed my attention; it was the small boy standing off to the right that set off a sinking feeling in my gut. Zooming in on the boy’s face, my heart broke at the hollowness of his eyes. His emerald green eyes.

Befuddled, I leaned back in my chair.

Once again, the previous research I had done had failed to supply this information. I had to assume it was because Kean’s last name was “Bennett” and not “Duarte”; however, I was ninety percent sure it was him in the picture.

What was his connection to the adults in that picture? I had a hunch but I needed confirmation. I needed answers. And I only knew of one person who could provide them. It was the same person who had discarded me like a used up condiment package at the restaurant.

I knew the direction I needed to move in next but found myself hesitant. I didn’t want to see him. Not after the way he treated me last night.

Taking a deep breath, I looked out the window. It appeared Dr. Kean Bennett had more skeletons in the closet than I thought. And someone wanted them exposed.

My eyes remained glued to the view of the sky where for the first time in weeks, storm clouds shut out the sun.