Dr. Ian West

I met Porter first.

I was a know-it-all right out of college with my masters, and I had an interview set up with a medical research firm where I was going to show off my hotshot brain.

Porter was seated in the waiting room, her client—a disturbed young man in a bit of trouble with the law—was being evaluated. Standard court order.

“It’s only my second case,” she told me, when I asked about what she did.

I couldn’t help myself. It was tacky to strike up a conversation in a waiting room with a sexy lawyer, but I just had this feeling… If I didn’t make a move, I’d never see her again.

And I had to see her again.

When her name was called, I fought my professional nature (or lack thereof) and chased her to the glass doors, demanding that she have drinks with me that night.

I remember the pink hue that flushed her cheeks, that cute dimple, as she glanced between the receptionist and me. I wasn’t leaving her alone until she agreed.

“Fine,” she said. “I concede, Dr. West. Or should I just call you West?”

“You can just call me.” I handed her a slip of paper with my number.

Smooth.

Needless to say, I didn’t take the job. Oh, I got the offer, but the pay wasn’t to my standards and I was going to have to start at the bottom in the research field. I was a snob back in the day. Still am, I guess. That’s what comes with being the smartest person in the room. I was definitely smarter than my potential boss, with his crooked toupee and limp handshake.

But that’s not what I remember about that day.

I remember the way Porter’s dark hair caught the light with amber highlights, and bounced as she walked her little, hurried walk, her slender hips swaying hypnotically. I remember the way her nose crinkled and her golden eyes creased at the corners when she smiled.

She was…enchanting. Lame to say in this day in age maybe, but I was enchanted by her.

Later, at the bar that would become “our bar”, Porter actually showed up for drinks. She had texted me that she would, but I kept watch from the bar top, staring at the door every time it opened, until the moment she walked in.

We bantered and flirted and drank two bourbons each…and had one near kiss…before she announced that she had actually made plans to meet a colleague there first, and that she hoped I didn’t mind.

It was a fix up.

I’d been duped. Porter brought me there to pass me off on a friend—who was probably a real barker—and I was already scoping out my exit…until she introduced me to Melanie.

“This is my colleague, Melanie Harper.”

Melanie laughed, the sound of her lilting voice encasing me in warmth that rivaled the bourbon. “You mean, partner in crime,” Mel said.

And that’s all it took.

I was in love.

I knew it immediately.

I’m not normally a manwhore who flits from one woman to the next (well, not now anyway), but Porter saw it, too. The way Mel and I looked at each other. She was a matchmaking goddess. Porter and I became friends, as much as any man and woman can, and Mel and I became…everything to each other.

There are many varying degrees of love. So many, in fact, that no one can experience them all in a lifetime.

I loved Melanie with my entire being. What some may refer to as a soul mate. But I also loved Porter. She was my friend, my trusted confidant.

That’s what made her betrayal all the more painful.

After Mel died, I took time off. When I returned to the courtroom fold, and I saw Porter seated opposite me at the defense table, it’s like another part of me withered away.

I tip my tumbler back now as I swivel on the barstool, getting sloshy drunk. The atmosphere in the industrial, downtown bar feels dry, a sort of bland nostalgia that can’t quite evoke the right sentiment. Every table is taken in the quaint but hip establishment, clips of laughter adding to the rock soundtrack. The exposed ducting and beams set the urban mood, but the warm lighting and down-to-earth working class is what gives it that comfortable vibe despite all the brick, glass, and steel.

I’m seated in the same seat I was all those years ago as Porter makes her entrance.

There’s a part of me still waiting for Mel to follow behind her. It’s a bitter part, shriveled and hard. A little spiteful, festering nugget that despises all the couples occupying the bar.

“Just had to pick this place,” I say without looking her way.

She orders a bourbon for herself, then nudges her barstool closer to mine. “I’m sentimental that way.”

I bark out a laugh. This woman—who eats prosecutors for breakfast—is not sentimental. She’s come a long way from the newbie attorney I met in that waiting room.

“How did Mathers take it?” I push my tumbler toward the bar edge and point at the glass. “Hit me again, my man.”

The bartender has a big, bushy beard and a man bun, which makes me confident in his ability to get me nice and drunk. He serves Porter her drink and tops mine up.

“He took it,” she says. “Not gracefully, of course. But I had a favor coming.”

“Said like a true defense attorney.” I take down a long swallow.

She impressively matches me, swallowing the amber liquid in one chug. Porter has never been one to sip when it comes to the hard stuff. “I don’t know why you’re so bitter,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be gloating? Dr. Ian West has gotten his way again. You’re about to dissect one of the most confounding psychopathic minds.” She smirks. “You might even get to write a paper on this. Return to your ego-inflated roots.”

Touché. I set my glass down and look at her, noticing for the first time the black, low-cut dress and loose waves tumbling around her shoulders. “Got a hot date?”

“Actually, I do.” She eyes me seriously. “He’s a real asshole, and his ego…” She whistles.

I blow out a long breath. “What game is this, Porter? I didn’t mentally prep tonight to keep up with your head games.”

“No games, West.” She swivels around to face me, crossing her legs in the process. My gaze lingers a little too long on the slit exposing her thigh, and she notices. “Something pique your interest?”

My gaze snaps to hers. “Did Shaver give you a card?”

Her cheery expression darkens. I hate that I just killed the smile I so rarely see on her face. But I have to know, and there’s no sense in pretending this date is anything other than a way to work information from each other.

“What are you talking about?”

“A Tarot card,” I clarify. “Did Shaver give you one?”

She tips back the rest of her bourbon, sets the glass down with finality. “No. But since you’re asking, I’m assuming my client—my former client—” she amends “—somehow managed to give you one…for whatever reason.”

“You know the reason.”

She holds up a finger. “Ah. I know the speculated reason. And we’re not going there, West. We’re not drudging up every interview and witness…” She trails off, the fire in her tone draining. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Then don’t.”

She tilts her head. “What was the card? How do you know it was from Shaver?”

There’s a whole arsenal of questions loaded in her queue just waiting to be unleashed. I take another sip and then put my glass down for good. If I’m going to do this, I need to get my head clear. And Porter’s sexy dress isn’t helping in that department, either.

Just acknowledging her beauty feels like a betrayal to Mel.

“Are you done with your drink?”

She downs the last dreg and plops the glass on the bar. “I am now.”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

I hand Porter my silver flask.

“That’s what I like about you,” she says, as she accepts the bourbon I keep at the ready. “Always prepared. Nothing takes you by surprise. You always see them coming, and every other cliché in the book.”

“I’m a cliché. Noted.” I steal a peek and notice her fighting a smile.

We round the bend in the courtyard through The Yards. The waterfront park is an architect haven, with spongy green grass and a waterfall fountain that cascades into a pool where, in the summer, kids wade and splash while adults soak up the sun.

I hate being here, to be honest.

The park used to be one of our favorite places. Mel and me. We’d get a few drinks in us to warm up, walk the bricked waterfront along the railing, stare at the lights reflecting over the river. Then we’d cross the pedestrian bridge, pausing in the middle to make out like a couple of horny teens.

I don’t know why I brought Porter here.

With the anniversary of Mel’s death, maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Pile another layer of resentment on that grief ball.

Or maybe it’s something deeper, darker. Uglier.

A blatant reminder of Mel, so that I get a punch to the groin every time my subconscious rears with my attraction to Porter.

If I was a mentally healthy person, I might confess that—over the past couple of years—my evolving feelings for Porter is why I’ve continued to keep her at arm’s length. But I’m an unstable bastard, and Porter switched sides…right when I needed her the most.

“She loved it here.”

Porter’s words feel like a knife chiseling at my chest cavity.

I suck in a sharp breath of frigid fall air. It’s all I can do. We walk along the railing, our hands tucked into our jacket pockets (thank God that sinful dress is now hidden), until we reach the grassy mound where cement benches are carved into the earth.

Porter takes a seat on the first bench and rubs her arms. “What’s going on, West?”

I stare at the river, making a decision, steeling my resolve—yada yada—before I face her. “Shaver wants me to diagnose him as insane. Temporarily, that is.”

She blinks up at me. “He told you this?”

“Yes.” I sit down next to her. “Today in the conference room. He might be able to fool another psychologist, convince them of this. He believes he’s smart enough to manipulate just about anyone, but he’s also intelligent enough to know a sure thing beats a gamble. And I can tell you all this now because you’re no longer his lawyer, but Porter…”

She nods. “I know. The pact.”

Back in the day, when I first started my trial consulting agency, Mel, Porter, and I made a pact that what we discussed would stay among us. We were ethical, of course, but it was an impossible situation to think we’d never converse about our cases to some extent. It’s what lovers and friends do, talk about their day.

“It’s more than that.” I groan as I shrug deeper into my jacket and pull out the Tarot card. It’s still encased in the baggie, never processed. I doubt Shaver would leave fingerprints behind, but he did so once in the motel room, and there might be some other evidence planted there.

I hand it to Porter, and she studies the design on the back, then the front. “Five of Cups.”

“The card depicts loss, grief.” I let this sink in; she doesn’t need me to spell it out. “I found it on Melanie’s grave yesterday.”

Porter’s gaze is hard on the card. “That bastard.”

I chuckle, I can’t help it. “Not very ethical of you.” But absolutely adorable.

She hands me the card, getting rid of it as if just holding it will contaminate her. “I know who my client is, West. There’s always a well within me I reserve for hope…but someone has to do my job. Someone has to defend him.”

“But not you. Not anymore.”

Her nod is solemn, then she looks at me. “How did you know he was guilty?”

“His earlobes are attached.”

She snorts. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious. It’s a recessive trait that is found most commonly in criminals with antisocial and psychopathic pathologies.” I shrug. “Don’t hate on a guy for calling it like it is.”

A beat of silence fills the air where her laughter drifts off. Then she sighs. “You know, before I changed sides, after Mel died, I asked myself: Was it better to convict an innocent person or free a guilty one?”

I stare at her, watching the way the night breeze sends strands of hair across her face, the way her thick lashes fan her cheeks every time she blinks. She focuses intently on the water, as if it holds the answer.

“Well, you obviously made your choice.” No bitterness there.

She bites her lip, then: “I never did. I don’t know the answer. I started with the firm because I couldn’t work at the DA’s office anymore. Not without Mel.”

God, I’m a dick. “Porter…” What can I say? Sorry I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I overlooked yours? I’m the guy who’s supposed to know what everyone is thinking, and yet I couldn't read her.

Denial.

I didn’t want to.

I was consumed with grief. I couldn’t handle hers, too.

I open my mouth to say…something, but she shakes her head. “Look, I believe it’s right on both sides. Someone has to prosecute, and someone has to defend. I sleep just fine at night doing what I do now. So you can put your hero cape back in the drawer.”

“Again, noted. Should I bench the Superman tighty-whities, too?”

Her laugh trickles through me like a rolling clap of thunder. Surprising.

Man, I hate even more that I’m about to make it stop. “I need to know what the defense might have for exculpatory evidence in the new case. I need to know if there’s proof of Shaver stalking Tillman before her murder.”

Both her laugh and smile are gone. “Are you…what? Accusing me of a Brady violation?”

“No… I’d never think that about you—”

“Then you’re pushing the pact too far by even asking. Your team is still helping the prosecution.”

“I can read this card as a threat, Porter.” I fan it between us. “Hero or not, I won’t be threatened into giving Shaver an insanity defense. He’s not insane.”

She frowns. “You only talked to him once. For like, ten minutes. You’re good, West. But even you can admit that’s pushing the bounds of ethical on your part.” She raises an accusatory eyebrow.

“Okay.” I bring my hands out and situate myself on the bench so that I’m facing her. “How long have we been sitting here?”

“Oh no…” She goes to stand, and I seize her wrist. She glances between my hand and the river, then concedes with a sigh. “I don’t want you to read me.”

“I’ve been doing that the whole time.”

A startled look flashes in her eyes.

“That look right there”—I slip my fingers to the pulse at her wrist—“the slight widening of your eyes… You’re worried about what I may’ve uncovered during our conversation.”

Her mouth twists. “You got to do better than that to impress me.”

I smile. “Earlier, when I mentioned my tighty-whities, you flushed just the slightest. You had a brief image of what I might look like in those sexy briefs.” I cock an eyebrow.

She laughs. “That’s evil! You said that on purpose just so you could prove your point now. Humans are visual creatures. That’s a given.”

Her heart rate spikes. “You’re lying. Which means…” I look deeper into her eyes. Her pupils dilate. “You’ve pictured me like that before. Maybe even naked.”

Her smile falters, and she tries to remove her hand, but I keep hold. “Stop it, West. I’m not doing this.”

I’m not done uncovering her secrets yet. “When you talked about your choice, whether it was better to convict or defend, you bit your lip. A telling signal that the person feels shame. You admitted you didn’t know the answer to that question, which I believe. But it wasn’t the question that made you feel an instance of shame, it was something else.” I duck my head to find her eyes. “What’s the truth, Porter?”

She sucks in a breath, then finally finds my gaze. “When I said I left because of Mel. I lied.”

Dread bottoms out my stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I left because of you,” she says.

Every atom in my body buzzes. A warning. Leave. But I can’t abandon her again.

“Why?” My grip on her wrist tightens, desperate for the answer.

“West…” She bites her lip and immediately releases it. “Well for one thing, this right here. Having you always in my head…knowing what I’m thinking, feeling. It’s infuriating.”

Her attempt to diffuse the tension doesn’t work. I hang on to her, imploring the truth. “Was it working with me? Did my sullen phase last too long?” I was a lethargic, angry man for a good while after Mel’s death. No one—especially me—knew when the grieving period would end.

It never ends, by the way. It just changes. Different stages. Five stages, to be exact. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. And acceptance.

I skipped through denial, and got stuck on anger.

Every time I try to picture what the asshole who killed Mel looks like… I’m right back there.

She shakes her head. Looks away, back out to the glimmering river.

“The catch of your breath…that little intake.” I draw closer to her. “Your heart is hammering. That means you’re scared, Porter. And the tremble of your lips tells me that you’re preparing to tell the truth, that you don’t want to lie, despite the fear.” I clasp her chin and pull her face toward me, so I can see her eyes. “You can tell me the truth.”

“Can I? What kind of person would that make me if I say it aloud?”

The suspense is doing a number on my head.

“I was scared,” she admits.

“Of what?”

“That I wouldn’t be able to hide my feelings for you without Mel there. And God, I loathed myself for that, West. Trust me, I still do. But I never, not once, harbored any jealousy. You two were my ideal—I envied what you had, and I loved you and her for having it. But without Mel as a buffer to keep my feelings suppressed…” She trails off, leaving the rest unsaid. But I know what belongs in that blank.

She stares down at my hand that’s still wrapping her wrist. Her pulse speeds, thumping against the pads of my fingers, triggering my own heart rate to jack. I push the words past the ache in my throat. “When?”

Just one word, and maybe not the best follow-up to her confession, but she latches on to the meaning.

“You know, for all your abilities, you’re pretty unobservant when it comes to women.” She finally pulls free of my hand, and I let her. “The waiting room, West. That’s when.”

All this time, and I’m an idiot.

I was convinced that Porter invited Mel that night because she wasn’t interested in me—that I wouldn’t take a hint. And it worked out spectacularly.

But that’s more convenient for me, isn’t it?

Then I went MIA when Melanie died. I couldn’t look at Porter without seeing Mel’s face; the memories too painful. My grief is an asshole.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “It is what it is. But I can’t let my feelings cloud my judgment. I can’t give you inside information on the case.”

Yeah. Because that would make me king of the assholes.

“But I can tell you that, if Shaver really did give you a Tarot card, you should withdrawal as an expert witness.” She looks at me then, her golden eyes shimmering with the lights of downtown. “Get Eddie off the case, too. Let another ADA prosecute.”

“I’m not giving Shaver a get-out-of-jail-free card.” My mouth flattens. “Sorry for the pun. I’m not letting another doctor get on that stand and declare him insane, Porter. When he pleads innocent, I want to look into his eyes as I testify to his premeditation. I know how his mind works, and I want the whole world to know it, too.”

She frowns. “Your vanity always did get the better of you.”

“This isn’t vanity.” I tilt my head, shrug. “Okay. Not entirely. I do like to be right—but Shaver is a sadistic predator who stalks and mutilates his victims and evades authority over and over.” I take her hand. “Be on my side on this one.”

“West…”

“No. For three years I’ve watched you defend the dregs of society, and for what? Because ‘someone has to do it’? Bullshit. You just admitted it was more personal than that. So…” I lace our fingers together. “Come back.”

Her hand trembles in mine. Her gaze seeks to latch on to something other than me, avoiding. I keep pushing.

“Come back to us, Porter. You don’t belong there.” I palm her cheek, my skin aflame at touching her, feeling her. How have I been so fucking clueless? “I can’t do this without you.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and I swipe it away with my thumb. “I can’t… I have to think about it.” Her hand covers mine against her face before she pulls away. “It’s late. I need sleep. I need a clear head.”

“Right.” I clear my throat. As she stands, I say, “I’m interviewing Shaver to give a preliminary diagnosis. But I’m firm on this. When I take the stand, Shaver is going to be put away.”

She nods, solemn. “I’m not asking for anything,” she says, wrapping her jacket tighter against the wind as she stares at the river. “I know right from wrong. I know there are lines we don’t cross. But if I don’t do this at least once…”

She looks back at me, and—before I can take my next breath—she moves in. Her soft lips capture mine, taking me by surprise, and all I can do is taste her, inhale the sweetness of the kiss, before she pulls away.

That near kiss in the bar…

Would things have been different if I’d known how Porter felt?

I can’t think that way.

“Another thing I like about you,” she whispers against my mouth, “your convictions. See you tomorrow.”

Dumbfounded, I watch her walk off. There’s an overwhelming ache in my chest, but it’s not painful. It feels too full, overpowering. Then I glance at the bridge, and the damn niggling of shame sets in. A guilty pang when I remember Melanie.

For just a brief moment, she was gone. Out of mind. I forgot her.

“Dammit.”

I pull my jacket closed and make the trek to my apartment building, self-loathing in full swing. I just asked Porter to join our team. Where I’ll have to see her every day.

Where I can’t escape her.

And I don’t even know what I feel.

Or what I’ve done.

When I get inside my apartment, I crank the heat and bury myself in a healthy dose of bourbon to bring on a blackout.