I closed the file and observed him over the top of my glass as I sipped more wine.
He opened the refrigerator.
“You got any Redhead, Babe,” he asked. He was referring to a Fireman’s Brew. It seemed like every firefighter in LA wanted a Fireman’s brew now. It was an amber red ale with a caramel taste. I didn’t really like beer, but I did like a Redhead now and then. I usually stocked some for him, but we hadn’t seen each other in over a year.
“No, Jer. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. What are you drinking?” He sidled up behind me, still naked, of course, and hugged me from behind. His muscular arms held me close.
I’d always felt safe with Jerald. Whether it was at dinner or a movie or a concert. Who wouldn’t feel safe with a guy who ran into burning houses and saved people?
Now, however, he’d talked with someone about me. With a woman. Nothing he had said was too out of line, but still he’d talked with someone about our personal life. About our sex life. What else had he said that didn’t make it into the report?
I turned in his arms so I was facing him. I placed my hands on his and pulled them down to his sides, and met his gaze.
“So, did you get contacted by someone asking a lot of questions about me? Say in the last two weeks?”
He scrunched up his eyes, and his brow furrowed. “No.”
“Are you sure? There wasn’t anyone you gave some information to about me.”
“Not in the last two weeks. Never. I swear, Reggie.” He tried to pull me close, but I placed my hands on his chest and held him at bay.
“Think real heard. I’m going to ask one more time. You didn’t talk to anyone or answer questions about me to anyone in the last two weeks?”
“No, I’d swear on my life.”
“Would you swear your Eric Dickerson signed football on it?”
He looked at me like I’d just drowned his puppy.
I felt I was an expert judge of character and I felt like he thought he was telling me the truth, but that file said differently. My chest hurt as I reached for the file. I flipped the pages up and over until I got to the page with his interview information. It had his name, Jerald Swain, his address in Torrance, his employer in Inglewood.
Using as even a voice as I could, I motioned him to read the file. “Tell me what this is, then?”
He put two hands on the kitchen counter, palms down, and read the one-page document. I saw his shoulders sink slightly.
“Shit,” he said, followed by a deep intake of breath.
“It’s not what it looks like, Reggie.”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is, then?” I asked, my voice only slightly agitated.
“The only person I talked to about you was Hayley. And it wasn’t an interview.”
“What was it then?”
“I picked her up at Darcy’s on a Saturday night.” He looked embarrassed. We never really talked about any other relationships. We weren’t exclusive.
“And?”
“We hit it off. She came back to my place. And let me tell you, it was a…”
I raised an eyebrow, not wanting to hear about how messy his apartment was.
“… right. TMI. So, anyway we went back to my place. Had some more to drink. Ended up in bed and then talked afterward.”
“And?” Guys are the worst at telling stories. And he’d slept with Dirk’s detective.
