Mind of the Phoenix, page 24
“I’m the innocent one!” shouts Constable Bradford as they force him out into the hallway. “Why the fuck are you arresting me?”
The detective is suddenly by my side with his right hand extended. “Now will you give me the revolver?”
I realize then that I still have the weapon aimed at no one in particular, now that Constable Bradford is gone, so I lower it and tentatively place it in Keenan’s hand. My mind is still fervently trying to understand what just happened. A part of me is convinced that it should have been me screaming and being forced toward the underground prison—at least that would have made more sense in my mind. Yet, miraculously, I’m still alive and unbound.
“Am I dreaming?”
The detective raises one inquisitive brow. “It would be one rather unusual dream.”
I laugh nervously. “Not compared to my usual dreams.” I look into his green eyes and am unsettled when I don’t see suspicion directed at me. “I don’t get it.”
He grabs the blanket off of the bed and drapes it over my shoulders. “What do you not get?”
“Why you had the constables arrest Constable Bradford,” I say, pulling the blanket tight around my chest.
“Would you rather have had me arrest you?”
“No,” I say, annoyed. “But he did tell you that I tried to escape, and I just thought that you would have believed him.” Like the last time you walked in on Constable Bradford and me, detective. He seems to understand my unspoken statement, and his expression softens.
“If you had tried to escape, then you wouldn’t have sent the hotel clerk to the police station.” His brows then furrow into a stern expression, and I can sense his confusion. “Granted, you’re lucky I didn’t ignore the man.”
“Why would you have ignored him?”
“Because he simply barged into the police station and demanded to speak with me. But when I asked him what he wished to say, he only said that he was supposed to tell me something but he didn’t know what.”
I begin to laugh hysterically, which only makes the detective frown in anger.
“I hardly think that’s funny, Moira.”
“It’s not… I–” I break off, unable to stifle the fit of giggles erupting from deep within.
It finally dawns on him then that my laughter is not a product of genuine mirth, but rather the hysteria bubbling out of me. It’s annoying when you’re incapable of responding with the appropriate emotions to stressful situations. People think that you’re crazy or emotionally disturbed, but I like to think I’m neither. I just don’t handle fear well, and my mind responds to it with sarcasm while my body reacts with laughter. Perhaps I am insane, and the detective will turn away from me in disgust. But, surprisingly, he pulls me toward him and forcefully crushes me against his chest. After a moment, his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.
“Moira,” he says softly, breathing into my hair. I’m close to shattering and his strong arms are the only thing holding me together.
When the initial shock subsides, I realize that this time there is no confusion as to what the detective is doing. I know without a doubt that it is a hug and possibly the third one I’ve had in my entire life. It’s an unusual feeling, and I rest against his chest awkwardly. The hysterical laughter has ceased, but my breathing is still ragged. I find myself burrowing my face in an attempt to absorb his scent and memorize it, despite the smell of smoke that clings to his clothes. He swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and then falling. He hasn’t shaved, so there is the hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. Before I know it, I’m trailing a finger down his chin and over his Adam’s apple to rest at the hollow of his neck.
“I’m glad you didn’t dismiss him,” I say quietly. “I didn’t have enough time to tell him anything else.”
He rests his cheek against my temple and sighs. “I shouldn’t have let Constable Bradford escort you back to the hotel.” His guilt bleeds into me. “I should have insisted that I escort you myself, or another constable.”
“But then I wouldn’t have found out that he killed Ginny and Rebekah.”
His body stills against mine. Oops, I had forgotten to mention that major detail, and I can sense his annoyance. I should have told him sooner, but I had been distracted with my determination to not let Constable Bradford get away. And then I had been confused by the detective’s behaviour. Warmth spreads from deep within my chest, bringing a tentative smile to my face. The detective believed me, not Constable Bradford. Perhaps I hadn’t imagined the change between us.
“How did you find that out?” he asks carefully, while still holding me against his body.
“He told me… or technically he showed me.”
He falls silent and I continue to breathe in his scent. I want to memorize the smell and the feel of his body against mine because I know he’ll eventually pull away. It will be a memory I will cherish, a beacon shining through the darkness of my mind. I don’t have many happy memories, but that fact doesn’t bother me. This memory will tide me over for a very long time.
“If you knew that he had killed Ginny and Rebekah, then why didn’t you use persuasion on him?” He begins to distractedly caress my hair.
“I did,” I say defensively. “He just kept hitting me afterwards.”
“Then why didn’t you just persuade him to leave?”
I scowl at his neck. “I don’t know,” I say heatedly. “I wasn’t thinking straight with the end of his revolver pointed at me, and I guess I thought I could handle him.”
He exhales loudly. “Dammit, Moira,” he says in an angry rush. “Promise me that you won’t be so arrogant if anything like that happens again.”
I begin to push away from him, annoyed. “I wasn’t being arrogant,” I retort, hating that he speaks the truth.
I had been arrogant. I thought that I could overpower Constable Bradford with my mind, and I definitely could have. I did use persuasion, but what I had failed to remember was that he was only bound to my persuasion and everything else was fair game. I had persuaded him to let me go, and he had released me. In that time, I was able to shoot him, but I had been naïve in thinking that I could kill him successfully with just one bullet. What I should have told him to do was leave, but I had been caught in the rush of adrenaline that was only concerned with the immediate danger of him choking me. I had underestimated Constable Bradford’s ability to recover from my persuasions.
“And there won’t be a next time,” I continue, feebly trying to escape his arms.
He crushes me back to his chest and whispers into my ear, “Promise me, Moira.”
“Fine!”
Should I bite him or hit him? God dammit why won’t he let me go? I continue to struggle against him, but his arms feel like iron bars wrapped around me. He won’t release me until I promise, and I can’t decide whether or not I’m annoyed with him or delighted to discover that he cares.
“Promise me,” he says again, his warm breath tickling my neck and sending a shiver down my spine. I hear a low moan and realize that the sound had escaped my parted lips.
“I promise,” I whisper, falling limp against his chest.
Surely there is a universal rule for the duration of a hug. Thirty seconds? Surely not more than a minute. If it were anyone else, I would have persuaded them to let me go. But I rather enjoy being in his arms, and I begin trailing a finger along the length of his neck. Does he enjoy my body against his? Is that the reason why he hasn’t released me by now? I suddenly wish I was in that clockwork mind of his.
I press my lips against his neck and whisper, “Thank you for believing me.”
His hand travels to the back of my neck and his thumb slowly caresses the skin in small spirals where it connects with my hair. “You’re welcome.” He then plants a tender kiss below my earlobe.
His lips move away too quickly, and I’m desperate to have them all over me. I need something—anything—to erase the memory of Constable Bradford’s hands on me. I suppose I could start drowning the memory away with cheap ale since visiting the memory house isn’t an option. But I’ve never been one to choose numbness as a means to forget. I’d rather replace the memory with something better—like the taste of the detective. Can he sense my desperation? And I can’t help but also wonder when I had become so eager to be close to this man. He’s suddenly handling me so delicately, as if I’m a fragile crystal figurine that will shatter if he squeezes too hard, and I want to know if that’s because he thinks I’m vulnerable now after what happened with Constable Bradford. His fingertips are lightly trailing across the nape of my neck, but he doesn’t move further. Is it from fear that he’ll upset me or is it because he now thinks I’m damaged and is no longer interested? If I were inside his mind, I could read his thoughts and find out if this time he’ll act on his desire. But he hasn’t invited me, so I don’t press. Instead, I plant another kiss on his neck and wait.
I feel his lips against my skin once more before they’re gone again. So, I plant another kiss and this time I let my tongue taste him, the mixture of salt and his smell sending a nervous flutter to the pit of my stomach. I think I hear his heart too, but it could be that my own is so loud that it echoes. His fingers have stopped caressing my neck and he doesn’t move. My embarrassment slowly creeps up to redden my cheeks and I realize that I was mistaken in his feelings. Perhaps his desire was a fleeting emotion that had already passed. I suddenly want him far away from me, and I’m about to push him away. But then his other hand trails down the length of my neck and down to my shoulder where the sleeve of my chemise falls down my arm. He kisses my shoulder, and, just when I might beg him to keep kissing me, he does. His tongue and lips slide against my skin, his warm breath sending an arousing shudder through my body, but then he stops abruptly as if uncertain. Damn, I had moaned again. This man has seen me in too many vulnerable situations. He continues, and I can sense that my moan has satisfied him. Now who’s arrogant, detective?
My first thought is to let him think he has complete control, but then I remember that he had said he was a just man. So I kiss his neck again, letting my tongue trail across his skin, and finish by tugging lightly on his earlobe with my teeth and lips. He inhales deeply, and this time I know that it isn’t only my heart that’s beating loudly, for I can see his pulsing in the vein at his neck. He gently grabs a fistful of my hair to pull my head back, and I know in that moment he intends to kiss me on the mouth. His stubble grazes against my cheek as he moves toward my lips. I close my eyes because I’m scared of what I’ll see in those green eyes. Would it be pure lust, anger, disgust, or affection?
His lips meet mine and his tongue slowly slides forward to part my lips. I greet him eagerly, but he pulls his tongue away as if he intends to tease me. He wants me to the point where I will beg, and a part of me hates that that moment isn’t far away. He continues to tantalize me with his taste, his tongue leisurely gliding against mine before retreating once more. My submission is a lot easier to swallow when I realize that he is carefully memorizing the taste of me. His desire tastes glorious and sweet—much like an éclair—after days of bitter meals, and I greedily devour it with every intention of getting more. The soreness of my neck now pales in comparison to the shivers coursing between my thighs, and any moment now I will plead for more…
A knock echoes through the room and the door swings open. “Oh, I–” Constable Jamieson breaks off abruptly, red creeping along his neck and face. “I– sorry, I’ll come back later.”
He begins to turn around, but Keenan has already released me. “No, it’s quite alright Jamieson,” he says. Is it just me or does the constable hear the roughness of arousal in the detective’s voice as well? “I was just leaving.”
I glare at him. No, you weren’t, detective. You were kissing me, not leaving. I debate on whether or not to call him out on his lie with a teasing reply, but decide against it. If he wants to pretend that nothing was just about to happen between us, then I will too. I have pride after all, and I don’t like how he has so casually wounded it.
“Yeah, Rick, it’s not like you were interrupting anything interesting,” I say, pulling away from the detective. I realize that my nipples are hard and visible through the thin fabric of my chemise, and I hurriedly pull the blanket tight around my chest. Thankfully, any other sign of my arousal is hidden further beneath the blankets where neither man can see.
Those green eyes dart to my face, loaded with unbridled emotions. I sense anger, suspicion and…
“You should clean up. Constable Jamieson will escort you back to the police station,” he says, any hint of his previous arousal gone. “The Chief will want to speak with you.”
He then walks out of the room. My heart plummets to my gut, for I think that I saw hurt before he walked away. No, that can’t be. I suddenly want to call after him, but then just as quickly I’m angry with him. Why did he have to dismiss me so quickly then? I want to growl at the infuriating man.
“I honestly didn’t mean to intrude,” says Rick, and I realize that I’m pouting.
I relax my face into a smile. “It’s alright, Rick.”
I grab my clothing and head toward the bathroom to bathe. I had forgotten about the blood, and I’m now grateful that Rick had interrupted my kiss with the detective. When I look back on it, it seems wrong that there had been so much desire while I was tainted with Constable Bradford’s blood. Perhaps it is the same reason why Keenan hadn’t been bothered by the intrusion. I hurriedly wash away any remaining blood and quickly dress. Constable Jamieson greets me in the hallway, and I’m amused when he hands me a brown bag. I already know without looking inside that I will find an éclair. I know that it’s probably inadvisable to consume so many pastries, but I take a bite anyway. I had almost been killed, so I deserve to taste the cream-filled dessert, especially now that I won’t have the detective around to satiate another kind of hunger.
“Thanks, Rick.”
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I shrug. “My neck hurts, but otherwise I feel fine.” That’s a lie, but I’m not in the mood to elaborate.
He glances at me sideways, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. He’s curious to know how far my relationship with the detective goes and, in fact, I’m beginning to wonder the same thing. A lot of people would ask, their inquisitiveness getting the best of them, but Rick doesn’t. He doesn’t request or demand an answer, and I’m grateful. For one, I don’t think it’s his business, and, secondly, I don’t even have an answer. I suppose I could say that we sometimes flirt, hold hands, awkwardly kiss each other’s necks, argue a lot, and share our thoughts with one another. But that would only confuse rather than clarify. I would know, because I’m involved and I’m confused.
I sigh, because I’m desperate to have him near me again. I shouldn’t have responded so flippantly, and I instantly pout at the memory of those green eyes darting to me in anger, suspicion, and perhaps pain. He probably thinks I was trying to seduce him and that my moans of pleasure had been faked. What I wouldn’t give to have him back alone to tell him that all my physical responses had been real and that with him I’d gladly give over my control—something that I rarely do.
We walk to the police station in silence, and I’m greeted with suspicion from the other constables the moment I arrive. They assume I had tried to seduce Constable Bradford and that the poor man is guilty. They have no idea that the man they believed was serving the law alongside them was a rapist and a murderer. Rick leads me to the Chief’s office, where we find him and the detective waiting for us.
“Moira, please sit,” says the Chief. “I’d like to hear from you what happened.”
I tell them everything: how I had found out that Constable Bradford was the one who murdered Ginny and Rebekah, how I had failed to fully persuade the hotel clerk, how I had tried to persuade Constable Bradford, and, finally, how I had shot him before the detective had entered the room. The Chief stares at me with a stunned expression, his face reddening with suppressed fury. He’s not angry with me though; he’s furious with Constable Bradford. He’s not the only one…
“I just can’t believe it,” blurts Rick behind me. “I worked alongside him. I saw him pretty much every day. He was a constable, for Christ’s sake.” He shakes his head in disgust. “He was supposed to be protecting people, serving justice and exacting the law. Not… not…”
I sigh. “Oh, Rick, if only every constable was like you, then Braxton would definitely be a better place.”
“I feel like I should have known who he was,” he mutters in despair.
“I know,” I say awkwardly. I like Rick and hate seeing him so upset. Despite everything, he is one of the few good people out there. “I think we all feel that way.”
“None of us knew,” says the Chief. “Don’t blame yourself, kid. I had a blocker read Bradford’s mind the moment the detective told me what happened. The empath found both the memories of every woman Anthony raped, and the ones where he killed Ginny and Rebekah. What he saw confirms what you told us, Moira.”
“Anthony Bradford will be executed for his crimes,” adds the detective, his gaze carefully avoiding mine.
“Though I’m glad that we finally caught the person responsible for Ginny and Rebekah’s deaths, I wish it hadn’t been at your expense.” The Chief furrows his brows, and his guilt slowly drifts in my direction. “I must say that I feel sort of responsible for what happened, Moira.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I was the one who suggested that Constable Bradford escort you back to the hotel,” he answers. “So you see, I feel like I owe you an apology for what he did to you.”
I squirm in my chair because no one has ever apologised to me, other than Keenan. I find myself at a loss for words, debating whether I should respond to him with sarcasm. I decide against it.
“It’s not your fault.”
He nods as if he understands. “So, in light of recent events, I have decided that it is no longer safe for you to stay at the hotel.” He glances at the detective as if daring him to interject his opinion on the matter.
