“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “Can I call you later Wendy?”
After hanging up with Wendy, I head into the kitchen and find Jim seated at my table with a small woman about my age. Connor has made four cups of coffee for all of us and pulls the only empty seat left next to him where he sits and pats the seat. “Have a seat, baby. You’ll want to hear this.”
“Demi, this Leslie Jenson.”
My brows furrow in question.
“This is the Jenson’s daughter, babe.”
I tense immediately, wondering if this woman has come to thrash me for killing her father. What am I supposed to say here? Nice to meet you?
“She’s come forward with information that may help us,” Jim adds.
“Information such as . . . ?”
“My father sexually abused me,” Leslie pipes up. Her blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment before dropping again. “Until I ran away when I was sixteen.”
“You haven’t seen them since you were sixteen?” I ask. I never knew the Jenson’s even had children.
“Not once.”
We spend the next two hours together, where Leslie shares details of a horrific childhood; a father sexually assaulting her, a mother who called her a liar, and a family doctor that never reported obvious signs of abuse.
“We’re meeting with the prosecutor this afternoon so Leslie can share her experience,” Jim informs me before sipping his coffee.
“I appreciate her willingness to share such a painful experience, but how will this help me?”
“Because he deserved to die,” Leslie states blatantly.
“Leslie, I appreciate how both of us feel in this situation. But the judge may not agree,” I point out.
Jim stands and straightens his tie. “Maybe not. Or maybe he has a daughter or granddaughter and just maybe the thought of something so terrible happening to them at the hands of a sick man will make him think. But we need to go now. We’re meeting the prosecutor in an hour.”
After they leave, Connor and I finish our cup of coffee in silence. I can’t seem to get my thoughts together, my mind is scrambled with what ifs? What if the prosecutor doesn’t care about her testimony? What if I go to prison? I’m a knot of worry and tension, which Connor must sense because he stands and takes my hand, looking down at me with his dark stare.
Again, no words.
He wants me to follow him.
He leads me upstairs and undresses me slowly, kissing me softly. I don’t want to think about the trial or prison or assholes that hurt innocent children right now. I want my mind to go blank, and Connor knows this. He knows exactly how to suck all of the worries out of me, at least for a little while, and I’m grateful for it.
He undresses and climbs on the bed, seating himself upward, his back against the headboard. “Come here, beautiful,” he orders me.
I crawl on the bed toward him, then straddle his lap, relishing the rush that runs through me when his erection slides against my wetness. Cupping my cheek, he slides his hand down my body, squeezing my breast and grazing my nipple with his thumb. I trace the curves of his muscles, wanting to touch every inch of his exquisite body. Our gazes are locked, the conversation flowing between us.
I want you, I say.
You’re my everything, he tells me.