“How are you doing, sweetie?” Marina asks as she embraces me tightly.

I hug her back fiercely for a moment, then step back and dab at my eyes. “I'm okay.”

I've been home a couple of weeks after cleaning up my dad's place, and this is the first chance we've gotten to see each other. It was nice spending some time with my brother but sorting through our dad’s life and packing it into a bunch of boxes was depressing as hell.

We sit down on my couch, and she takes my hands in hers. As sad as it is, and as bad as my heart is still broken, I'm starting to feel a little better about things. While I was up there, I visited his grave every day. I said everything I wanted to say – and everything I should have said – while he was alive.

But, getting it all out was – cathartic. At least, in a way.

I miss my dad. I'm pretty sure I’ll always miss him. But, one of the lessons he taught us, made sure to ingrain in us, is that we can't spend our lives mourning the dead. Yeah, we can miss our loved ones – and we'll always carry them in our hearts – but we can't stop our lives for the dead. They'll still be dead, and your life will have stopped for nothing.

He was very much the keep on and carry on, and always seek your happiness type – and I guess that's rubbed off on me in a lot of ways. Like my dad, I can usually find my way out of the darkness pretty quickly. Or, at least, I try to.

Marina gets up and walks into the kitchen, and comes back with two bottles of pear cider. She hands one to me as she sits down again. I take a long swallow, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my throat.

“So, how did things go up there?” Marina asks. “Your texts were kind of random and all over the place. Something about a guy named Brice?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “A lot was going on.”

She gives me a soft smile. “So…who is he?”

I sit back on the couch and let out a long breath, my head instantly filled with memories of that night. As I think back to what we did, and how amazing it felt, I feel my cheeks flush, and a tightness in my belly.

Marina looks at me, curiosity in her eyes, so I spill it all. I tell her everything – from how I felt seeing him at the funeral, to what happened with Mark, to what happened at my dad's place. Through it all, Marina's eyes grow wider and wider, and her mouth falls open into a perfect “O.” When I finish, she sits back, a stunned, but amused expression on her face.

“Wow, Em,” she says. “That's not what I expected.”

A rueful chuckle bubbles out of my mouth. “Yeah, that makes two of us.”

“Is this the Brice –”

“Yeah, that's the Brice.”

“From when you were a kid?” she presses. “The pro quarterback?”

I nod. “Yeah. That's him.”

She whistles low, but the broad smile on her face betrays her true feelings – which makes me blush harder. I know what she ultimately wants to know. The question she wants to ask. I'm just hoping she doesn't.

“I've seen pictures of him,” she says. “He is smokin' hot.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I guess he's some big-time sports agent now,” she says. “Worth a boatload of money. At least, that's what the papers say.”

“I can confirm that he's loaded,” I say. “The man has money. No question about that. He's got a private jet. That's how he got to my father's funeral. On his own jet. Who does that?”

“Rich people,” she says and laughs. “Damn. He’s rich and hot.”

I nod. “That he is.”

“How is he in bed?”

And there it is. I laugh, my face burning so hard, I'm surprised it hasn't literally burst into flames.

“I'm guessing by how hard you're blushing, it was pretty damn good,” she says. “Either that, or it was horribly awful?”

“Oh no,” I say. “It was – amazing. Utterly amazing.”

“Details!” Marina shrieks. “I need to live vicariously.”

“He was just so – commanding, I guess is the right word,” I say. “I can't even tell you how much that turned me on. I'm so used to indecisive guys who don’t know what they want. Not Brice though, he just – he just took me.”

Marina and I share everything, so without getting too graphic, I fill her in on the highlights. As I’m talking, I realize that as commanding and dominating as he is, Brice is also a very generous lover. He definitely valued my pleasure above his own and did whatever he could to make me come, again and again.

My body tingles with the memories of what we did together. I can practically feel him inside of me, his rough hands running all over my body. The memory of his kisses, his touch, and that glorious cock of his, flood my body with incredible sensations all over again.

I snap back to reality, realizing I haven’t finished sexy storytime with Marina yet. “By the time he left, I was exhausted. My legs were practically shaking.”

“That sounds amazing,” Marina says. “Damn, I'm jealous. To bag a guy like that –”

“I didn't bag him,” I say. “It's not like we're a thing now.”

“Why not?”

“He's not the kind of guy I should get involved with,” I say softly. “I'll only get my heart broken. He's a player, Marina. The kind of guy who has a different girl on rotation every night. Do you really think I can compare with the supermodels he dates?”

She eyes me for a long moment. “Is that what he wants?”

“Obviously,” I say. “You've seen the pictures in the tabloids.”

“And you should know, better than anybody, how the tabloids twist the truth,” she says. “They make things up to sell papers. You know that.”

I take a sip of my cider and chuckle. “Yeah, that's what he said.”

“And you didn't believe him?”

“I didn't have a reason to believe him, no.”

She takes a long swallow of her drink and gives me that look of disapproval I know so well.

“What?” I ask.

“Did he give you a reason to not believe him?”

I stare at her with my mouth hanging open. “Seriously?” I ask. “I told you what he did –”

“Babe, that was more than a decade ago,” she says. “He was a stupid punk kid, I'll give you that. Do you really think he's the same person? Did he seem like that guy to you?”

“You and my brother,” I say, shaking my head. “You both seem to think he's gone through this amazing transformation. That he stepped into some machine and had the arrogant asshole stripped out of him somehow.”

She laughs. “You know I love you, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Here we go,” I say and giggle. “When you start a sentence with that, I know you're about to start explaining why I'm wrong.”

“I'm not saying you're wrong,” she says. “I'm just offering a different point of view.”

I drain the last of my bottle and carry it into the kitchen. I throw it in the recycling, pull two more from the refrigerator and carry them back into the living room. Twisting off the top, I drop it on the coffee table, and take a seat.

“Okay,” I say. “Lay it on me.”

She finishes her drink and opens her next bottle. “Well, is it possible, that you're letting all of your old feelings color your view of who Brice is now?”

“Well – duh,” I say and laugh. “What other way can I possibly view him?”

“As a new person,” she says simply. “I mean, it's been more than a decade, Em. Nearly two. You're not the same person you were then. Why would you think that Brice is?”

“He's given me no reason to think he's changed.”

“Because you've not given him the chance to show you,” she says. “You're so locked onto who he was, that you're not giving him a chance to show you who he is.”

I scoff. “He showed me who he was already.”

She nods. “From what you've told me, he's shown you that he's protective of you, will put himself at risk to keep you safe,” she says. “And oh yeah, he's a generous and incredible lover, who puts your own pleasure above his own. Doesn't sound like an entitled, arrogant asshole to me.”

I open my mouth to argue but then close it again without saying anything. I mean, what can I say? She's right. At least, if you look at it from that perspective, I guess she's right. I was on the defensive from the moment I saw him though – and with good reason. I've spent a lot of years angry at him, thinking the worst of him. It's not like I can just turn that off at the drop of a hat.

It was an emotional day and night. After my father, and everything that happened with Mark, I needed that human connection. I needed to feel something positive. I needed something that made me feel good. Brice just happened to be there – and now he's not.

“None of this matters, you know,” I say. “It's not like I'm ever going to see him again.”

“How do you know that?”

“He wanted to explore things between us, I said no, end of story,” I reply. “I'm sure he'll move on to his next conquest and forget all about me. Again. He's good at that.”

“You realize that's the root of all this, don't you?” she asks. “That you feel abandoned?”

“Damn right I do. Because I was.”

“Honey, you were a child. You were what, ten?”

“Maybe eleven,” I say defensively, as if that somehow makes the case for me.

She laughs softly. “Fine. You were ten or eleven,” she says. “Maybe Brice was a grown ass man by then. What, twenty-one or twenty-two or so? He was a hot shit college quarterback and a soon to be NFL star. Do you really think hanging out with a little girl with a child’s crush was a priority?”

I know I have no way to rebut the argument, so I fall silent, and take a long swallow from my bottle instead. As simple as that explanation is, and as much sense as it makes, it's something that never occurred to me before. Not in those terms. I've been so caught up in my own feelings, in my own anger, that I never broke it down like that for myself.

It's such a simple explanation that I'm embarrassed and ashamed I never thought of it myself.

“I don't mean to hurt you, Em,” she says. “I just –”

I shake my head and cut her off. “No, you're right,” I reply. “I just – I never thought of it like that before. I got caught up in my own head and...”

I let my voice trail off. There's really no reason to continue with that train of thought. I mean, it's over. Brice and I had our thing, but I'm not going to see him again, so it doesn't even bear thinking about anymore.

My cell phone rings, so I grab it from the table, and look at the caller ID. I look at Marina as confusion sweeps over me.

“It's the Times Daily,” I say.

“Maybe they're calling to beg you to come back.”

I snort. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“Well, put it on speaker,” Marina says. “I want to hear.”

I laugh, but answer the call and put it on speaker, so she can listen in.

“This is Emma Simmonds,” I say.

“Ms. Simmons, my name is Ava Drake,” she says, her tone clipped, with a hint of a British accent. “I'm the new editor-in-chief of the Times Daily.”

“Oh,” I say, exchanging a look with Marina, who just shrugs. “What happened to Helen?”

“Ms. Simmonds, I would like it very much if you came in tomorrow morning,” she says. “I'd like to have a conversation.”

A rush of adrenaline floods my body as I rack my brain, trying to figure out how I could possibly be in trouble after being fired. Assuming I did something wrong is my default setting, and automatically trying to figure out what I did is almost a reflex at this point.

I can't think of anything I've done wrong though. I mean, it's not like I work for the paper anymore. But, her clipped, proper tone, has me worried. Did they find some horrible mistake I made in a past article? Are they going to accuse me of plagiarism or something?

“Can you tell me what this is about, Ms. Drake?”

“I'd rather have the conversation with you in person, if that’s acceptable to you,” she says. “Does nine o’clock tomorrow morning work for you?”

“Uhh – yeah, sure,” I say. “I can be there.”

“Excellent. I'll see you then.”

The call disconnects, and I'm left sitting there, staring at my phone. I share a look with Marina, who gives me a shaky smile.

“See? She's going to beg for you to come back,” she says with a nervous chuckle.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm sure that's it.”

“What else could it be?”

I shrug. “I don't know, but I don't have a great feeling about this.”

Later that night, I'm alone in my place, feeling slightly buzzed. Marina and I went through a whole six-pack of ciders and most of a bottle of wine. I'm not thinking super clearly, but I'm feeling pretty damn good, so I just roll with it.

I look at the whiteboard hanging on my wall and all the pictures and notes I've taped up. It resembles a giant puzzle, with all the pieces spread out, just waiting for me to snap them into place to form a cohesive picture.

At the center of the puzzle, at least in my mind, is Carlyle Hawkins.

No matter what I do, or how many different avenues of research I venture, I come back to him. Always. I'm almost certain he's the guy. I just need to find a way to prove it. And that is going to be difficult.

I know I can't go around flinging unfounded allegations out there. I can't name him as a serial killer without proof – not unless I want to destroy my reputation and open myself up to a massive libel lawsuit.

Like that old saying goes, if you're going to take a shot at the king, you better not miss. Or something like that.

I stifle a yawn and look at the clock. It's closing in on midnight, and I'm exhausted. If I'm going to be fresh and on my toes for Ms. Ava Drake in the morning, I should probably get some sleep. But first, a shower. Now that we’re in October, the days are starting to cool down, but they're still warm enough that by the end of the day, I feel sticky and grimy.

Shutting everything down in the living room and making sure the doors are locked, I head into the bathroom, turn the shower on, and strip down. I adjust the water so that it's mostly cool, and step into the tub. I pull the shower curtain but leave just a little gap so I can see out. Call me paranoid, but ever since seeing Psycho when I was a kid, I've hated showers with curtains instead of glass doors. They creep me out.

I turn my face up into the spray and let the water rain down over me. The cool water washing over my body feels amazing and starts to clear some of the fog in my head. It's slightly chilly, but it's invigorating.

I stand beneath the fall of water – if there's one good thing about my shitty apartment, it's the excellent water pressure – and enjoy feeling my skin cool down. I close my eyes and let the water soothe me, as it washes away the cares of the day.

I'm feeling more relaxed than I have in days and am just about to turn the water off when images of Brice unexpectedly fill my mind. When I see his face and remember how he bent me over the island counter in the kitchen, my body suddenly fills with endorphins, and a warmth spreads through me.

I bite my bottom lip and slide my hand down my breasts, and slip it between my thighs. In my head, I'm imagining standing in a shower with Brice – not this crappy, cramped one, but a nice shower that has plenty of room for two people. I watch the way the water falls all over his sculpted pecs and abs.

I picture myself running my hands up and down his muscular torso. I feel Brice lean forward and kiss me, pushing his tongue past my lips and into my mouth. I shudder as I feel his hands slide down my back, and cup my ass, squeezing it hard before pulling me to him.

In my fantasy, our kissing grows hotter. More intense. His beard is scratchy against my face, but pleasantly so. I plunge two fingers past the velvety folds of my lips into the warm, wet center of me. I move them in and out, slowly at first, but then settle into a steady rhythm. Bursts of pleasure flare up within me, pulling a soft groan from my lips.

I rub my clit with my thumb as I pump my fingers in and out of my aching pussy, moaning with pleasure as I imagine Brice on his knees before me. He's pushed me up against the wall of the shower. He puts my leg up over his shoulder, and as the water rains down over us, he buries his face between my thighs.

A shudder ripples through my body as I remember how his tongue felt on my clit. How it felt inside of me. I moan his name low as I reminisce how amazing it felt to feel him fuck with me his tongue.

My fantasy shifts and Brice is standing behind me. He's forced me to bend over, bracing myself against the shower wall with my hands. He's pounding his cock into me without mercy. I'm working my fingers with the same, steady rhythm, biting my bottom lip to keep from crying out too loudly. I can't help the moans that escape me, though, and they echo around my tiny bathroom.

My fantasy is fueled by the memory of the things we did together. As I finger myself, I recall how his long, thick cock felt deep inside of me. My body tingles and my cheeks flush as I picture him fucking me, the water from the shower raining over our slick bodies.

I picture Brice picking me up and holding me against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my hands behind his neck. My body is crushed beneath his, and I'm pinned against the cool tile as he drives his cock into me again, filling me completely.

The moan that erupts from my throat echoes loudly around the bathroom, and at that moment, I don't really care. I picture Brice's cock impaling me over and over again as I pleasure myself.

I softly call out his name as the tingling inside of me grows, and the pressure builds to a crescendo. In my fantasy, I kiss Brice passionately, as a powerful orgasm shatters me. I throw my head back and cry out as my body spasms, and a wave of pleasure crashes down over me.

Gradually, my breathing returns to normal, and my heart begins to slow from its torrid pace. I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, and my body buzzes with pleasure.

Although not nearly as good as the real thing, my desire is sated for the moment. My lust has been quenched – for now. I turn off the shower and take a quick peek through the gap in the shower curtain. Finding myself alone – as usual – I climb out and towel myself off.

With my body dry, I slip into a camisole and a pair of boy shorts, and crawl into bed. With the fan in the window going, the night air is surprisingly cool as I slip beneath my blankets.

Even though I’m exhausted, unwanted thoughts about Brice, as well as the meeting with Ms. Ava Drake in the morning, float through my head. I'm half-afraid they will keep me up all night, but after a few minutes, I drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.