“We’re partners,” he said. “That’s what we’re supposed to talk about.”
“Come on, Mason. You know what I mean.” I wanted him to tell me that everything would be fine, that something else was bothering him and that’s why he’d been keeping me at arm’s length. I wanted him to tell me that he didn’t think what Amber said was true.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Tell me what’s going on with Gia and the baby. Go have a beer with me like we used to. Let’s talk about what an asshole my dad is. Anything but this stick-to-the-facts bullshit.”
He waited a moment before responding, and when he did, it was with a look full of strangled disgust. “I can’t do that, man. Too much has changed. I can work with you, I’ll do my job, but that’s it.”
This time, I was the one who needed to wait before speaking. I kept my eyes glued on his, trying not to look away. “Because of what happened at the party.”
He bobbed his head. “I can’t pretend that I didn’t see how shaken Amber was. How she’d been crying. How she didn’t want me to touch her. I should have realized she wasn’t just drunk. She was in shock.”
I slumped back in my seat and dropped my gaze to my lap, feeling sick to my stomach, when a thought crossed my mind. “I take it you’ve told Gia about all of this.”
“She’s my wife. I tell her everything.”
I looked at him again. “So is this coming from her? Some kind of female solidarity thing? Did she tell you we can’t be friends anymore?” The words came out nastier than I meant them—like something my father might say—and witnessing the stormy look in my partner’s already dark eyes, I realized that I’d crossed a line.
“Screw you.” He spat the words. “It has nothing to do with Gia. It’s coming from me. I’ve been doing this job way longer than you. I’ve seen women right after they’ve been attacked. They look just like Amber did that night.”
I waited, trying to absorb what he meant. “You think I raped her.” My voice was quiet, full of fear.
This time, my partner didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, man. I do.”
Fuck. Even though I’d worried all along that he felt this way, I hadn’t let myself believe it until now. Until he said the words. “So I guess that’s it,” I said, fighting the rising tide of nerves tingling beneath my skin.
Mason didn’t answer; instead, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, back onto the street. We didn’t speak, even as he parked the rig in its spot at the station house, where we would wait until another call came in. As we walked up the stairs to the lounge, I thought about what I should say. I wanted him to tell me that he’d made a horrible mistake. But the only thing that came out of my mouth was one question, to which I wasn’t sure I really wanted the reply. “What do you think I should do?” I asked, and he stopped at the top of the stairs, turned around, and stared at me, long and hard.
“Admit what you did,” Mason said. “Deal with the consequences. And then get some fucking help, so you never do it again.”
? ? ?
We didn’t have any more calls that afternoon, so at the end of my shift, around nine o’clock, I drove toward my apartment, the buzzing undercurrent of energy beneath my skin convincing me that being home alone was the last thing I should do. I kept hearing Mason’s voice, a record stuck on repeat: Admit what you did. Deal with the consequences. Get help. I thought about driving to the police station and asking to speak to a detective. I imagined describing the events of that night, taking the blame for what went wrong, even if the details were still disjointed inside my head.
I can’t do it, I thought, as I directed my truck downtown, eventually parking near the Royal, a popular bar. I can’t say I did something I didn’t do.
I strolled inside, and saw that the establishment was already full of students and a few twenty-and thirtysomethings playing pool, shooting darts, and dancing to what sounded like eighties cover hits. Winding my way through the tables, I found an empty stool at the bar and sat down.
“What can I get you?” the young male bartender asked. He couldn’t have been much over twenty-one himself.
“Pyramid Hefeweizen,” I said, taking out a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and setting it on the counter. “With lemon.”
“Coming up,” the bartender said, throwing a white towel over his shoulder and grabbing a clean glass pint for my drink.
“You know only girls take lemon in their beer.”
I turned to see where the voice was coming from, and smiled when my eyes landed on an attractive woman with wavy black hair who had dropped down onto the stool next to me. She wore a blue dress with a short, fringed skirt, and high heels. Her long legs were tan and bare. She looked too polished and professional to be a student, possibly a few years older than me.
“Is that so?” I asked. I told myself I’d come here for simple distraction, that I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, but I knew that was a lie. I’d already taken a long run that morning, and half a Valium before my shift. Clearly, I needed something else, and since Whitney hadn’t moved back into my building when school started again, I needed someone else.
“It is,” she said with a mocking, solemn nod. “You might want to change your order.”
“No, I’m good,” I said, leaning my head a little closer to her.
“Comfortable with your masculinity, are you?”
“I am.” I grinned at her, letting the rush of pheromones I felt sand away my sharp, nerve-racked edges. The bartender delivered my beer, and I made a show of taking the quartered lemon off the edge of the glass, squeezing it, then dropping it into my drink.
The woman laughed and held out her hand. “I’m Kylie.”
“Tyler.” I took a swig of my drink, and then glanced around the bar. “You here alone?”
“No,” Kylie said, and she nodded her head in the general direction of the pool table. “I’m supposed to be having a drink with my boyfriend.”
I ran my eyes over the four men she was looking at. Two were younger college students in baggy jeans—obviously not her style—and the other two were clean-cut, banker types, wearing black slacks and dress shirts with their long-sleeves rolled up. The one with blond hair looked back at her and waved.
“He’s not doing a very good job of it,” Kylie said, lifting her glass in response to his gesture. “He didn’t even give me a glance before turning his attention back to his pool game.”
“So you’re trying to make him jealous?”