Page 5

Dirk doesn't come in for the rest of the week, and I'm sure even if Chloe hasn't blurted out what she saw, my mood being solidly somewhere between sour and sad for the next four days is enough of a hint that mine and Dirk's relationship is somewhat more complicated than it should be.

The protestors get moved on, and from what I hear, they start demonstrating in front of the court building further down the street instead. We're under no illusions, however, that if they get wind of us moving Needler, they'll be back in an instant. The reporters thin from time to time but stay consistently there and patiently waiting. I watch on the small corner screen as Tawill finally gives them a statement, probably in the hopes that giving them something to work with will calm them.

"The fate of Needler is yet to be decided. He's responsible for a number of murders—a fact we can't overlook. If he keeps cooperating with our detectives, hopefully, something good can come of this."

Someone without their microphone attached or working properly asks which officers he's talking to, and at that, Tawill stiffens. "Detective Ginsburg is proving a good contact point with him."

"Is it true the detective had a relationship with the Needler?"

"He posed as an assistant in our lab under a different persona and had many interactions with other staff, that much is true."

"But Detective Ginsburg was romantically involved with the Needler himself, isn't that correct?" The same voice presses. Of course they want to know that. How juicy. A detective fucking the killer she’s on the case of. And the one who killed her own husband, at that.

I can hardly believe myself for being so newsworthy.

"That’s all the comments I'll be making on that topic," Tawill declares with finality, and the reporters know better than to lose their chance at further questions.

"Detective Lancaster is back on the case as well?"

"He's still taking needed time off, but yes, he's a valuable witness on the case."

"Has he expressed gratitude to Needler for saving his life?"

"Detective Lancaster is not in direct contact with Needler."

"But do you think he would?"

I take a deep breath and pull myself away from the screen. Such digging questions.

I wonder if Dirk has watched these brief interviews. If he’s seeing the mentions of himself on all the talk shows and news hours, therapists who’ve never met him conjecturing into his mental state, theorists guessing at why Cassandra targeted him, and why Needler saved us both.

I switch the TV to the weather and try to ignore it for the rest of the day.

By the time I'm scheduled to go and talk to Needler, between watching the interview, over-thinking the questions Tawill was asked and Dirk’s recalcitrance, I'm in a foul mood. Not helped by skipping lunch because I didn't want to have to squeeze past the reporters along with the protestors still brave enough to linger in front of the precinct.

Needler looks across the table at me. A couple of weeks is long enough for his beard to start growing out, dark blond with a hint of red. Soon he'll be looking an awful lot like a more handsome and buff version of the Tristan anyone who has been here long enough remembers.

“You never suspected that the Cocooner could be Cassandra?" I ask tiredly. I know he didn't. I was there; I saw his face when confronted with her. Tawill is watching from the other side of the glass.

He tilts his head. "No."

I look down at the papers that I'm not really paying attention to. A whole plan of what to ask him. Like following a manual will make dealing with Needler more efficient, or easier. The thing is, it’s already easy. Which makes me more annoyed. How is whatever I had with Needler less complicated than my feelings for Dirk? A man who, on paper at least, I should be perfect for.

"But you found me that night."

"I was stalking you, as you’d pointed out, if you recall?"

I sigh through my nose. "Yes, but…"

"I was watching you very closely after the news about Caleb. I suspected you'd get into trouble." Tristan’s lips twitch into a smile. "It’s your style."

"Uh-huh," I mumble, with no small amount of irritation. Because he's right? Or because I'm in a mood for irritation? "What do you think Caleb saw in her?"

Spreading his hands. "The opposite of what he saw in you?" Leaning on the table, the jumpsuit sleeves rolled back past his elbows, Tristan seems closer than the table should allow. "You're off your game today, Little Shadow."

"Don't call me that," I say, reasonably, I think.

He ignores me. "What’s thrown you? It’s not like you to be dour."

I set my chin. "We're not talking about my personal life. And you don't know what I'm like." And I’m supposed to be asking the questions. He’s right, I am off my game; I feel like I’m going around in circles, getting nowhere.

Lips curving, Tristan raises an eyebrow. "Is it a man?" He fakes a frown of thought. "Now who could it be…"

"Stop that," I say abruptly. Because he could very well guess, especially if he was around long enough before saving us from Cassandra to hear Dirk's confession of… something. Fondness feels too lame a word.

Mercifully, with my boss watching, he does stop this time, but his eyes sparkle. "You can't solve Tregam's problems with your own at the front of your mind." He leans back. "Do what you usually do."

Knowing full well he's pulled me off topic with too much success, I take a breath. "And what’s that?"

"Well, grab your problem by the balls, of course."

***

By the balls. Maybe he's right.

Maybe I shouldn't take advice from a serial killer

But I'm here, anyway, parked outside Dirk's building. I came straight from the interview, not really admitting that this was my destination. He lives on the eastern edge of Downtown, a couple of blocks from the port. Which is not to say it’s a fancy part of town, since the port is more industrial than aesthetic, but it does get fresher air, and his building looks just slightly better kept than mine, with a fire escape shielded from the elements, and a real person in the lobby to check visitors through.

I know if they call up to his floor, he's likely to not have me sent through, so I flash my badge and they give me a pass to the elevator.

As I approach Dirk’s door down a corridor decorated with fake plants, I have a niggling but still gut-wrenching concern that he's not going to be alone, that there's going to be another woman there with him. Bracing myself, telling myself I can deal with that, I knock.

A few seconds and the sound of footsteps later, the door swings open, the men of Tregam somewhat less obligated to check their peepholes than the women. Using this to my advantage, I step through into his apartment before Dirk can slam the door in my face. Though he shows no sign of doing this, he does hold the door and stare at me as I do a quick visual sweep of the living room. It’s clean, lived in, if lacking a feminine touch. There are a lot of greys and blacks. I've been here before, but only to pick him up.

"Are you alone?" I don't mean for it to be the first question I ask, and I wince at how jealous it sounds.

Dirk softly closes the door as I turn to him. He's wearing grey sweatpants hung loose on his hips, a white long-sleeved t-shirt, a tea towel draped over one shoulder and a wooden spoon with red sauce on the tip in one hand. His hair is slightly damp, the ends flicking up in points like he just got out of the shower. That is all to say, he looks extremely fuckable.

He even smells nice, like spiced soap. "Well, you're here now, I guess," he answers.

There's the unspoken question of why . "I want to talk about our problems. And I want you to admit you're being unreasonable."

"Okay."

I blink. "Okay?"

He shrugs. "The things I blamed you for at the station were unreasonable. Not all of them… but a couple of them."

"Right." I didn't expect that part to be so easy. "But I still want to talk. I'm tired of the limbo we're in. And of you avoiding me."

Dirk sighs, pulling the tea towel off his shoulder, and I'm momentarily distracted by being able to see his chest muscles through his shirt. I probably should have masturbated before coming here. "All right. You hungry?"

"What?"

He points towards the kitchen, separated from the living room by a bar counter. "I don't think this is a conversation I'm up for on an empty stomach."

Well, I am hungry, and he's probably right. Not sure if I should let go of the bravado that brought me this far, I meet his eye. "We eat, then we solve all our problems."

He chuckles, and the sound is sweet, the first real mirth I've heard from him in too long. "Sure."

We eat at the bar counter, him standing on the other side, me perched on one of the two bar stools. "You're actually a good cook," I comment.

"It’s hard to screw up spaghetti."

"Just take the compliment." Never mind that I skipped lunch.

"Good point."

As Dirk clears the crumbs off the bench with a tea towel, I shrug out of my formal work shirt, down to just my singlet. He glances up and asks, "How’s your talks with Needler going?"

I shrug, leaning my elbows on the counter. "Not very productive from a case standpoint. But he does think I should take my problems by the balls."

"Really? What does he think your problems are?"

I avoid meeting his eye, clearing my throat awkwardly. "It’s hard to know what he thinks."

"Hmph."

"I've missed you."

Dirk drops his gaze, idly moving specks of parsley into a pile with his finger. "Yeah."

"I just…"

Looking up, he cuts me off. "Want things to go back to normal?"

Right, that’s what I said last time. "Would that be so bad?"

"What’s 'normal' now?"

"I don't know. Before, we were partners, friends."

"Right. Friends." Dirk runs a hand through his hair. "Sure, let’s go back to that."

I narrow my eyes at him, hardly convinced. "So you'll come back in to work even when you know I'm there?"

"Yeah. Sometimes.” He’s turned away now, beginning to clean the kitchen, and I can tell he’s just being flat-out uncooperative on purpose now.

I stand up, walking around the counter. “Let me help you.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m helping,” I repeat, and take the bowls out of his hands. Looking up at him, I realise how close I’ve come, and his gaze catches briefly on skin now revealed by my singlet before he turns away.

Trying and mostly failing to ignore the electricity between us, I turn and busy myself with putting the bowls in the dishwasher, then wipe down the bench next to it. I turn around at the sound of him loading the pan at the same time as he straightens up, bringing us much too close. Taking a small step back, I come up against the oven. Almost instinctually, he follows, cornering me against the bench, his brow low and dark.

A little thrill jumps into my throat. “Dirk…” I don’t have anything to say next, and the tone I was trying to keep light, like maybe he’s only accidentally towering over me, expression somehow deep and blank at once, comes out husky instead.

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, head staying dipped down.

“Don’t want to what?” I ask, resisting the urge to clear my throat and bring my real voice back as my eyes catch on the hollow of his throat.

Lifting his head, he rests his hand on the bench by my hip, coming closer. I’m not sure I ever appreciated the broadness of his shoulders enough in the past. He’s an imposing figure, and now, coming so close, cornered by him, a little thrill flips in my stomach. “Be friends,” he says, voice low, close enough now that I brace a hand on his chest.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I’m mesmerised as his other hand rests on my hip, so warm and sure and right. Wetting my lips, I stare at his, at the same time pushing back on his chest, though that appears to have little effect, since he pulls me against his body, anyway. He’s all steel, hot unforgiving hardness. Of their own accord, my hands slide up to the crest of his shoulders, feeling the muscle slide under his shirt as his arms close tighter around me, pulling me onto my toes.

I could just touch him for hours, but something tells me I couldn’t stop him from pinning me down for that long.

We only just reached a kind of truce, agreed we’re not good for each other like this, and it’s turning out to be the shortest ceasefire in history. This time he’s moving slowly, leaning towards me, eyes on my lips. My attempt to save myself and push back out of his arms is rewarded only with his grip tightening, and he leans down, closing the distance suddenly, claiming my mouth.

All resistance dissipates instantly, replaced with need. My fingers are in his hair, gripping, my body arched to feel his even more through our clothes. Dirk groans, low and animalistic, against my mouth. Pulling me back from the bench, he steps against me, bringing my back against the fridge. A handful of fridge magnets fall down.

I'm not sure if this, in particular, is solving all our problems, but I let him leave me briefly to tug my pants roughly down my legs, bracing my hands on his shoulders as I pull my feet free of them. Coming back up, Dirk lifts my knee to hitch over his hip, leaving my other toes just barely on the ground. I'm wearing only the singlet now, which his hands pull askew, curving the lip of my bra inwards as his mouth trails down my neck, my chest, triggering explosions through me as he lightly bites my nipple. The fridge rocks backwards and settles again.

"Here?" I gasp, more of an invitation than a question. Like last time, the need to be consumed is everything. I can feel the need in him too, but he lingers another beat, sucking my nipple harder, and I gasp as heat rushes between my legs. Pulling back, Dirk positions himself and wastes no time as my hips tilt to invite him. In one long thrust, he pushes into me, jamming me back against the fridge.

Panting, I lift against him, feeling my sensations lift too towards ecstasy, so suddenly and abruptly. My head tilts forward, feeling his collarbone against my cheek, his own groan hot against my temple. My fingers tangle in his hair, still slightly damp, pulling his head back enough to find his mouth with mine. We're linked like that, him thrusting hard and slow for several moments before he breaks off, voice strained, "Fuck, I can't last. I'm too close."

I'm about to tell him to keep going anyway, regardless of everything, but he pulls me off the fridge, my legs wrapping around him, and we stagger, still making out, to the couch. As I land on the firm seat, I don't know what I'm expecting, but when he kneels in front of me, it’s not his mouth, covering me so hot and wet where I'm already hypersensitive. Lying at an angle across the seat, my knee is curled over his shoulder as he chases me in my jolt backwards, not letting me escape the intensity of his mouth as his tongue slides along me.

"Oh my god." I'm writhing, gripping his shoulders, overstimulated so much that my climax comes almost against my will, but very much with a welcome release at its peak. My tension, my need, finally falls away.

I'm sliding off the seat to kneel with him on the floor before I've had time to languish in the aftershocks, before his touch can start to tickle. His dark hair has fallen across his brow, eyes hungry as I press to him, from our knees to our chests, and find him hard and still wet in my hand.

His breath hitches as I slide my grip along him, and I relish in the feeling, finally of gripping his thickness, twitching and responsive to my fingers, bobbing sharply upwards when I touch his head. Hands gripping my upper arms, I realise he's resisting his urges to control and take, swaying slightly as I bring him closer, eyes half closed, and brow drawn together. I’ll remember his face like this forever.

When his fingers tighten against my flesh, head dipping down, I know he's close, and I feel his pulse through my palm, twitching, before he groans and releases into my hand.