A light glimmers in his eyes as he understands what I’m doing. “I’m Andrew. Andrew Wilson. And I think you stole my line.”
That’s when the women give up, confused by what’s happening. I cross my legs so that my knee is against his and pick up my pint to take a sip from it. Ugh, I missed this.
“So tell me, Andrew Wilson, what do you do for a living?” I ask before bringing the glass back to my lips.
“Hopefully, you. All day, every day.”
I nearly choke on my beer. “Baby, that was so good,” I approve, giggling.
Maybe it’s because we’ve been Alexandra and Andrew for longer than we should have, but the little game quickly dies down, and we become ourselves again. For a solid two hours, we flirt and talk,drinking from our glasses and forgetting about everyone else. I don’t know how we still have so much to tell one another, given that we just spent literal months together 24/7. But the conversation flows and never dies down. Or when it does, the brief silences are charged with looks that speak for themselves.
We’re definitely tipsy when we come back home. I might even be drunk, to be honest. On him and the alcohol. We don’t even make it past the door, as he slams me into it as soon as we enter.
My legs are on each side of his hips as he presses himself onto my heated core. I moan into his mouth, my fingers running through his hair, tugging, pulling.
“Fuck me right here,” I beg, undulating into him. “Then we’ll save the footage from Iris’s camera.”
“You naughty girl…” he groans. “I love you so fucking much.”
“Me too …”
He kisses me again, his tongue hot and bold against mine, and his hands roam all over my body, fondling, grazing, and squeezing.
With hurried moves, he works on the fastening of his pants, and I send one of mine between us to tug the slim strip of lace covering my pussy to the side.
My phone rings in my clutch. We both halt what we’re doing and stare at one another. Any other ringtone and I would have dismissed it. But this is The X-Files theme song. It’s Special Agent Lewis calling us. Fuck, I hope it’s not bad news…
Lex lets me down, and I grab my clutch from the floor to retrieve my phone. “Hello?”
“Miss Walker, hello. Is Mr. Coleman around?”
“He’s right here. Wait… Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“I don’t have enough time on my hands right now to sugar-coat it, so apologies, I’ll just dive right in.” I’m already imagining the worst when she speaks again. “Norman Becker is dead,” she gravely announces.
Those four words leave me confused and disoriented, just like Lex, it seems. “What?” he asks. “How is that even possible?”
“We’re still investigating. Becker was being transferred to another facility tonight, and a truck rammed into the prison van. Becker died of his injuries on the way to the hospital. They have the truck’s driver in custody for interrogation. I’m on my way there right now.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” I insist, refusing to believe it. “Isn’t this some sort of trick he pulled off?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He was positively identified by fingerprints. They had to do it that way, because… there wasn’t much of his face left to recognize.”
“Did he suffer?” I ask next.
“The EMT’s report is that he drowned in his own blood and was conscious the whole time. So, it’s safe to assume he did, yes.”
“Good.”
Becker was a piece of shit, and he’s now rotting in hell, which is exactly where he belongs.
“Do you have any information about the driver?” Lex wonders.
“So far, just a name. And it matches one of Becker’s victims. So, I’m venturing it might be a family member, who was out for revenge.” We’re still absorbing that when she says, “Okay, we’re pulling up at the police station. That information was confidential. His family needs to be informed before it breaks out. Is that clear?”
“Oh, I’m not coming near that mess with a ten-foot pole,” I say.
“Thank you for letting us know, Special Agent Lewis.”
