Chapter 32: Painting the Raven

Det. Mallard of the Internal Affairs Department would later describe the method by which Drew's confession had been obtained as 'unorthodox, crude, but downright damning'. According to Kerry, when she'd shown him the playback, that bastard had been impressed and entertained by it—not too mysteriously, the feed where Mark beat Drew's face into the table had been redacted; it was as if it never existed. The tidbit about how I was engaged to one of the precinct's detectives had made the interview that much more engaging for him; towards the end, Kerry said Mallard had been giggling. Giggling. Giddy like a schoolgirl.

While he'd been around for the fun, it turned out that Mallard wasn't after just any cop, only one specifically, which was why the precinct seemed more on edge than any other time. Something went down between Matthews and some loudmouth suspect and an investigation into Matthews' conduct had been initiated. The results were kept under lock and key, although Matthews' smug behavior after the fact revealed as much as a PowerPoint presentation would have.

Mallard's opinion of Matthews was shared by many officers: the guy was overconfident, vulgar at times, but he was a fearless cop. When Mallard's investigation was closed, he was out of the precinct, and that was an opportunity for everyone to get drunk because when IA wasn't breathing down on anyone's necks, it was a good reason to celebrate.

It was around six o'clock in the evening when Mark sent me a text, saying that he was on his way home. Once he showered and changed clothes, he and I were going to meet the others at Frank's. Matthews had made especially certain that all of us had RSVP'd so he could get a full reckoning of his massive accomplishment when he successfully shut me down at his game of 'Drink If You've Ever'.

It'd been a couple weeks since Drew had nearly strangled me. Most of the bruising had healed for which I was thankful as I didn't have to cover it with foundation to avoid the questions proffered by the more brazen crowd, asking if I was safe at home. 'My neighbor did this; he's in prison for killing people. Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks' had been my default answer, and that nipped the conversation in the bud.

I'd already dressed, having gotten ready two hours ago. I wore black leggings and matching off-the-shoulder sweater, my hair thrown up in a messy bun while sitting barefoot in the living room, tinkering with Poe.

The prototype was nearly finished, molded with a lime green plastic in the shape of a raven the size of my arm. The blueprints were configured to make him be more like robotic décor than an engine I could utilize, seeing as how I felt guilty for replacing Lyle.

The bot was still sitting in the corner of the room, gathering dust. I hadn't been able to force myself to throw him out, hoping that one day I'd get to replacing those fuses and put him back together.

My phone started ringing; I reached over to the arm of the couch, answering it: "Hello?"

"Hey, Lexi."

I smiled, hearing my father's voice. These days, he always sounded tired and there was no question as to why.

"Hi, Dad. What's up?"

"Not much. Just watching TV. What are you doing?"

"Working."

"This late?"

"Oh, no. I'm working on Poe."

"Excuse me?"

I snickered, "It's a prototype."

"Oh!" He laughed warmly. "For a moment there, er, uh, you know what—Nevermind. Uh, what's this Poe looking like?"

"A raven." I leaned to the other side of the couch, grabbing a handful of popcorn, and cramming it in my mouth, adding, "It's coming along alright."

"Gonna make a little thingamajig?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What happened to that other one you had. The sarcastic one?"

"Lyle broke, Dad."

"Ah, that's a shame. How did that happen?"

"Power outage." I answered, unable to hide my annoyance. "I didn't account for the power to trip him."

"I see."

"He's basically braindead."

"Sounds unfortunate."

"It was."

"Gonna hold a funeral for him?" Dad said sympathetically. "I'd come to it if you did."

"It's just a robot," I said quietly, placing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I started painting over Poe's lime green aesthetic with a glossy ebony. "People don't throw funerals for robots."

"Well, you insisted we throw one when your laptop died."

"I was also 13."

"You were so precious—you wore all black and put a lily on the cardboard box." He tittered. "I thought it was the most adorable thing. You tried to revive it, remember? You were begging me for an AED kit."

"Walking down memory lane, are we?" I said humorously.

"Well, I was just looking at the pictures and I was thinking of you…"

"Sounds like you have an ulterior motive for calling me."

"I just wanted to hear your voice."

I placed the paintbrush on the newspaper along the coffee table, stopping in my tracks. His voice had taken on a much more solemn tone, one that always plagued him when something meddlesome was on his mind.

"How are the chickens?" I offered to change the subject, knowing he was likely remembering everything he was going to miss when he…Well, when he…because of the cancer.

"Oh, they're riled up." Dad laughed. "I really think that rooster over there is starting some major drama."

"What's it doing?"

"It's being cocky."

I giggled, "That was really corny."

"Yeah, but it made you laugh, didn't it."

"Yeah, it did."

"What else are you doing, hon?"

"I'm painting Poe, eating popcorn."

"Where's Mark?"

"At work," I answered casually.

"How's that going for him?"

"Not bad. He busted a guy that was killing girls."

"I saw that in the papers. 'Drew-something'."

Basically, it was how I'd always referred to him as. He had no idea that Drew lived next to me. And for his peace of mind, he never would.

"Yep."

"Have you planned your wedding?" Dad asked.

"Yeah. Just mining through the details."

"When is it?"

"I told you last week."

"Did you?" He chuckled. "I guess I forgot."

"It's a couple weeks from now."

"Ooh, that'll be nice. Good weather this time of year. Is it going to be outside?"

"Inside," I corrected. "I don't like the sun. The wedding ceremony is gonna be short and simple but 10 minutes in the sun, and I'll have to worry about getting tan lines from my wedding dress."

"Where's it going to be, so I know where to go?"

"At the church on Rinesville. The reception is going to be at Frank's though."

"Excuse me?"

"Frank's. I don't know the name, just the bartender. It's a place that cops like going to around here."

"You're having your wedding reception at a bar?"

"Frank is a good guy. He deserves the business."

"But a bar?" He reconsidered the choice. "Well, I guess you don't have to worry about spending much on the reception. You can spend all that extra money on a honeymoon."

"Our thought exactly." I took another handful of popcorn and threw it in, licking the salt from the corner of my mouth before taking a drink of tea.

It was not only cheaper to do the reception at Frank's, but it held some sentimental value. The precinct was where I'd met Mark, but it was at Frank's where we'd gotten to know a little more about each other.

"If you need ideas—"

"—No, no, I don't need honeymoon ideas from my father."

"I have plenty."

"I'm good." I reassured strongly. "I don't need to hear where you and Mom thought about going to fuck after saying 'I do'. Trust me. It's just easier if I didn't."

"Well, frankly speaking, your mother and I made love anywhere; it didn't have to be—"

"Dad, stop it!" I squeaked. "You're going to make me puke."

"That'll be helpful when you have to fit in your dress a few weeks from now."

"Dad!"

He giggled, "You know I'm just kidding."

"You're a riot. How's Prospero?"

"He's doing alright. Getting really finnicky up here, but Carmine doesn't seem to mind having him over."

"Carmine's watching him?"

"He just wants so much attention and I'm just really tired all the time," Dad said in mid-yawn. "Sometimes, I don't have the energy to do anything anymore."

"Well…" I said carefully as I introduced the topic. "Maybe you could look into an assisted-living home?"

"I'm not going to a nursing home."

"I didn't say a 'nursing home'. Assisted-living isn't the same."

"It's just one step away from it, young lady."

I dropped the subject. Once Dad said, 'young lady' before or after anything, it was as good as him telling me 'no'.

"I hear your restaurant got a 5-star rating last week," Dad continued kindly, changing the topic once again to something he considered less derivative.

"Last health inspector gave me an A-plus, and the last reviewer gave me five stars across the board," I said proudly.

"That's great, honey. Maybe you'll treat me to the full dine-in service."

"If you come down, I might."

"Well, I'm coming to your wedding, aren't I? Although, I tell you what, I have yet to receive an invitation."

"You're the father of the bride," I said satirically. "You don't need an invitation. It's implied."

"I know I don't need one. I'd like one though."

I shrugged. "Fine. I'll send you one tomorrow."

"Do it soon. Or else, you'll forget."

"I'll do it today or tomorrow." I promised.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"I'm going out."

"Out to Frank's?" Dad guessed.

"Looks like you're putting the pieces together. Nothing gets by you."

I heard the smile in his voice as he said knowingly, "You know that tone is going to get you in trouble one day."

"It hasn't yet."

Dad said fondly, "You remind me so much of your mother. Well, I'm a little tired, Lexi. I'll let you get back to painting the raven…Hey, that would make a good proverb. 'Painting the raven'."

"Or a euphemism for sex."

Dad said pointedly, "Now I'm going to puke. Good night, Lexi. I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

He hung up first; I tossed the phone behind me to the couch, smiling but at the same time feeling drawn downwards into self-pity. I recognized that there was going to be a day—tomorrow, next week, next year—that I wasn't going to have the luxury of having these phone calls with Dad anymore.

While I did my best not to take each moment with him for granted, there was a part of me that felt that if I continued to take him for granted that the cancer or any other entity above wouldn't think to take him just yet. A lesson had to be learned. The Ghost of Christmas Future had to come and remind me of my past mistakes and give me more time that could be spent with my father…Surely?

It was false hope. Yet, it was a hope I desperately found myself clinging onto.

Maybe he was doing the same. He used to call me maybe twice a month. Not even that often. Now, he called me every other day and talked to me for as long as he could before he started getting irrefutably tired, to a point where sometimes he'd drop off in conversation due to falling asleep.

Carmine had taken to visiting him occasionally, making sure he didn't need anything. According to Dad, he was there a few times a week, and would spend most of the day with him, catching up, talking about the old days when they were fighting crime on the street as young detectives. They seemed to discuss Cody and me often and Carmine had taken a liking to Prospero, despite never having been a real dog person in his entire life (according to Cody).

At least Dad had a friend up there and he wasn't alone. It was one of my many consolations that allowed me to worry less about his well-being, although it didn't do anything for my woe.

There were days where I'd remember something he and I did when I was a kid and I'd damn near fall into the sink, crying uncontrollably. Other times, someone wouldn't think that I was slowly losing my father a little every day.

Grief was a dick.

I looked at Poe, the now blackened prototype that stood on the desk, facelessly staring at me.

"I need to put some eyes on you," I said aloud. "You're starting to creep me out."

Poe merely stayed still. It was as if the prototype beckoned to agree, crackling, 'Then put a face on me, damn it'.

A faceless bird walking around and bumping into random objects and ridiculously bad-mouthing the furniture was something I couldn't not find hilarious, laughing about it a second after.

I was gluing eyes to the raven's face, beady charcoal grays to contrast yet blend with the inky, slick black surface. It got me thinking of how Mark's hair and the prototype were the same hue of black although not the same texture.

Or how the raven's eyes seem so dull compared to his bright blue.

My mind unintentionally went to a dirty place the moment I thought of how he and the prototype were alike, including how when they were at their truest form, they were both hard...ready to perform…doing what needed to be done—

The front door opened and in walked the bearer of my dirty thoughts, looking tired himself but otherwise content, smiling at me when I waved in his direction.

"You're already dressed." Mark commented, looking me over as he routinely took off his badge, holster, and gun, placing them on the kitchen counter after locking the door.

"Yep!" I slid off the couch, moving towards him. "How was work?"

"Long."

"Yeah? You must be exhausted."

"I 'must' be?" He replied good-humoredly, sliding his hands over the small of my back.

A rush of heat passed through his hands, tingling all the places where I imagined he could reach effortlessly just as he'd done many times in the past.

"It's just an expression." I said serenely. "Just like…I could put a pep in your step by 'painting your raven'."

He quirked an eyebrow. "That sounds like a sex thing."

"Right?" I giggled. "That's what I said."

"To whom?"

"My father."

Mark narrowed his eyes at me as if trying to decipher a code. "Do I want to know the context of this conversation?"

"It's nothing weird."

"Where it concerns you? Somehow, I doubt that."

"Dad called me earlier and I mentioned that I was painting Poe, the raven. He thought it was a good proverb or something."

"And my guess is that you took it in the direction as a euphemism for sex."

"Naturally." I moved out of range to peppily walk over to Poe to pick him up and place him on the kitchen table to dry. "What time did Matthews say they were going to the bar?"

"In an hour."

"That should be enough time to get ready. So… I told Dad for the fourth time where were going to have the wedding reception."

Mark sat on the arm of the couch as he asked with concern, "He didn't remember?"

"Not at all."

"Does cancer cause dementia?"

"I don't think his cancer would. If he had a tumor, maybe, but the cancer is in his bones. Not his brain. I think he's just really tired."

"Did he have the same reaction?"

"Yep. Disapproval 101." I smirked. "I never fail to disappoint."

"Well, you're making at least one person happy."

"You?"

"No. Frank." Mark said comically. "I think he's more excited for the wedding than we are."

"I know. He really comes off as a hopeless romantic, doesn't he."

"He's not the only hopeless romantic around these parts."

"Maybe you're just 'romantic'."

"I'm hopeless too." Mark said playfully. "Don't forget that part."

"How could I?" I leaned into him and kissed him, smiling inwardly when he returned it. "Are you ready for another game of 'Drink If You've Ever'?"

"I'm dreading it, actually."

"'Dreading'?"

"Eric is hopeless where winning that game is concerned."

"A hopeless romantic?"

"No. Just hopeless."

"Another incident where Mallard's looking through every nook and cranny and your man's gonna be 'jobless' as well."

His playfulness sobered up as he said seriously, "Mallard didn't find anything, Lex."

"Yeah, well, he should be more careful anyway. Not every person in IA is as lazy as Mallard. One day, Matthews is going to really fuck up and it's going to come down on him and you."

"We've talked about this already." He said coolly.

I crossed my arms and said in the same tone, "How long are you going to keep protecting him?"

"Cops protect cops. You know how it is."

"Well, while you're so busy protecting your people's careers, who's protecting yours?"

"I'm not on IA's radar."

"Not yet anyway."

"Or ever."

"All it ever takes is one accusation. Suddenly, IA is up in arms. My dad's been through it before, all because our neighbor gave an anonymous tip about him selling drugs."

"You have the worst luck with neighbors."

"Don't I know it. This one was particularly nasty. It's because of her the whole investigation had been initiated."

"How'd that go?" Mark said curiously.

Standing in front of him while he sat on the arm of the couch, we were almost eye-level; I moved between his legs, smiling as one of his hands subtly caressed the back of one of my thighs, his thumb affectionately stroking the material of my leggings.

I responded honestly, "It was a circus."

"Did they find anything?"

"Not a damn thing." I linked my arms around his neck. "Mrs. Parks was just pissed off because Prospero wouldn't stop growling at her cat. IA spent the next three days randomly showing up when Dad was at work, trying to ask me stupid questions about drugs."

Amused, he asked, "What did you tell them?"

"There was nothing to tell. Even if there was, they wouldn't have gotten anything from me. And the same goes for you, by the way."

"Does it, now."

I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key. "100% confidentiality."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"Kathy, on the other hand…"

"She's not saying anything to anyone," said Mark dismissively.

"Not right now." I warned. "Right now, Matthews is protected because she's married to him. Spousal privilege protects him, but there's nothing protecting her. And their marriage is on the rocks. When she's no longer his wife, anyone can compel her to testify against him, and you know she'd tell all."

"She doesn't have anything to tell anyone."

"She has plenty to say if you've got an open ear and a full bottle of Chardonnay on hand, trust me. Kathy's like a spigot." (I mimed turning on a faucet.) "If gossip were water, she's Niagara Falls. You're lucky she's too skittish to know any details about his cases. Imagine that train wreck."

Mark rolled his eyes at my accusation, only because he knew I was right.

I'd spent more than enough time with Kathy to know she had a problem with Matthews' late hours and problematic secretive behavior. There was no question she knew he was cheating; she just didn't know with whom. And when she wasn't talking about her marital issues, she talked about everything that Matthews ever told her.

Whether she knew he'd planted evidence was up for debate.

"If Mallard went over to her house, she'd willingly invite him inside." I said slyly. "No warrant necessary."

"For what exactly?"

I said cockily, "Tea. And crumpets."

Mark slid off the arm of the couch and said boldly, "You think you're being cute, don't you? What would you be offering?"

I stepped back when he moved towards me as I said reassuringly, "I wouldn't be so accommodating."

Mark cornered me against the back of the couch as he cradled my jaw between his hands.

"What would you do?"

"You know me: I'm a ride-or-die kind of gal. If IA had questions, I'd cut off their hands and sweetly ask them to clap." I said silkily. "Then I'd tell them to go screw."

He laughed darkly (as well as sounding genuinely pleased) and kissed me, whispering, "That's my girl."

The kiss quickly evolved from warm and tender to burning passion. We were only interrupted by the annoying ringing that came from his phone on the kitchen counter. I took Mark's wrist and glanced at his watch, muttering, "Look at that: Matthews is punctual, for once."

"Looks like he's taking your unsolicited advice, trying to change for the better."

"And yet he still finds a way to make it a complete inconvenience for me."

His phone started ringing again. Mark nodded in that direction, nonverbally giving me the go-head to answer it while he hopped in the shower.

"Detective Hoffman's phone."

"Well, hello there, Mayville!" Matthews sang jovially, even putting on a nice vibrato as he did.

"Hey."

"That's a cute way to answer the phone. It's nice to hear that sweet little voice, especially since you never use it with me."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, what's up?"

"Where are you at?"

"Still at home."

"Where's Mark?"

"In the shower."

"Are you coming over?" He said eagerly.

"In a few minutes."

"Good. Remember: We still have a rematch."

"I remember."

"I hope you got your war paint on because tonight, we wage war." Matthews challenged magnanimously.

"You're already six beers deep, aren't you?" I said knowingly, getting confirmation when he started giggling on the other end to a point where it sounded like he might have lost consciousness. "Matthews? Hello?"

Kerry's voice picked up on the line as she said distractedly, "Hey, it's me. Eric's dying over here—laughing so hard, he's turning purple—Rigg, do you want to get him something to drink, like water?"

"This game is going to be easy." I mused.

"You're not lying." Kerry agreed. "He's not going to make it one round. How are you feeling?"

"I'm in a good mood, at least."

"How's the neck?"

"Healing."

"I'm glad to hear it." Kerry said gratefully. "How's your dad?"

"Tired, mostly."

More than half of the precinct knew about my father's illness. News like that was common knowledge for them. Cops knew what was going on in other cops' lives: either they spoke to each other or the wives, husbands, girlfriends, and boyfriends did.

I knew what was happening with Kathy and Matthews' marriage and their riotous son, Daniel. I knew how Tracy and Rigg were about to start remodeling their house; how Det. Tapp had recently broken up with his girlfriend of three years; and how Kerry had gotten into a fender bender with some asshole who hadn't been paying attention to where he was backing up out of a parking lot.

The point was that all of us knew each other and what the other was dealing with. They were a tight knit group, giving me the same type of family that I had at the Grotto where everyone knew what was going on with everyone else. Just as my staff at the Grotto knew my father was going downhill, so did my family at the precinct.

"If you ever need to talk, my door is always open." Kerry offered warmly.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Time for margaritas!" I heard Matthews sing off-key.

"Sounds like you need to call for back-up," I joked.

"He's just getting started."

"Don't I believe it."

"I'll see you in a few."

"Sounds good." I hung up.

Mark came out of the bathroom, hair all wet and naked, sending me a wolfish smile before he left for the bedroom.

I stood in the doorway, watching him get dressed. It was weird how watching a man put on clothes was just as sexy as watching them strip down. His arms and back muscles flexed putting on a shirt, and it was just downright appealing.

"What does it mean when Matthews starts drinking margaritas?" I asked arbitrarily, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed and one foot on the hinges behind me.

Mark quietly laughed as he buckled the belt on his jeans, looking at me. "It's going to be a long night."

"For you or for me?"

"You. He's pacing himself."

"If I roll in, guns blazing, I think I'll stand a chance. I learned from the last time we played."

"Just as long as you learned."

"If I win this game, we should go to a titty bar."

Mark looked as if he'd misheard me before he chuckled, "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

"I'm not." I stepped inside the bedroom completely. "I've been thinking about the scenario we discussed before."

"What scenario?"

"The threesome. With the blonde."

Mark smiled impressively, his eyes lowering to mine.

I stood in front of him as he said with a tone of intrigue, "I thought that was just pillow talk."

"Maybe it was."

"And if it wasn't?"

"Then I'd invite you to keep your mind and eyes open for any sweet little thing that might catch your fancy at Frank's." I licked my lips suggestively, adding, "It's seven o'clock on a Saturday night, and Matthews isn't going to last long in this game, so my guess is that we'll have plenty of time to window shop."

"I feel like this is a trap." Mark said carefully.

"Why, do you think I'm a jealous woman?"

Without any hesitation, he responded, "Absolutely."

"Jealousy comes from insecurity."

"Inviting another woman to our bed won't make you jealous?" He said quizzically.

I pointed out, "The only time you'll make me jealous is if I think you're going to pay more attention to someone else and I start feeling left out."

"Well, I can tell you right now. There's no chance of that happening." Mark assured before he caressed my face and kissed me.

"Is that right."

"Trust me, baby." His hands slid to my neck and shoulders, before moving down to squeeze my hips before they followed up via the same pattern. "You have my undivided attention."

"You don't want to pick up another woman?" I asked incredulously. "I thought that was, like, a universal guy's fantasy."

"I like the idea of it more than the practicality."

"So, you're telling me that if a pretty blonde was sitting next to me, you wouldn't want to hit that?"

Mark said amusedly, "In the entire time I've known you, I've never heard you sound more skeptical of anything."

"I just don't get it. You're telling me you'd have this girl with, like, long blonde hair, expressive eyes, and great tits, standing naked in the room and you wouldn't want to see what she's all about?"

"To be fair, I'd be more interested in seeing what you'd do with her."

"I don't believe you."

Mark grinned widely. "Well, you should."

I thought more about it, and when I did, I couldn't see him wanting to fuck anyone else, not at least when he was in a monogamous relationship. I felt how attracted he was to me—I felt it behind every kiss, every caress, and I saw it in every glance he sent my way.

Thinking back to when I first met him, he'd have barely touched me if it weren't the fact that I came onto him first. Everything about him was private; his life, his work, his sister—even his darkest fantasies had to be extracted out of him with surgical care.

"Has anyone else ever offered to do this for you?" I asked curiously, following him casually into the living room and watching him put on socks and shoes.

"You're meaning to ask if any of my exes have ever offered to get me laid?" Mark rephrased, clearly entertained.

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking."

"None of them ever have. To be fair, you're the first to even broach the subject." He looked up at me and said as though he recognized the depth of our intimacy, adding, "You're the first to do many things."

"Like what?"

He quietly laughed, "Is this you wanting to know my relationship history?"

"It's just that I've offered to bring women in my bed with other people I've been with and they've always been happy to get on board. You're the first that actually doesn't seem interested."

"I'm genuinely not interested in sleeping with another woman." Mark pointed out logically, gesturing to me. "However, that doesn't mean I'm not interested in seeing you with another woman. It's a big difference."

"What if I wanted to sleep with another man?"

Mark's actions of putting on his shoes were paused as he straightened, looking at me. "Do you want to sleep with another man?"

"No." I shook my head, sitting on the arm of the couch. "I just wanted to know what you think about that since we're on the topic."

"I'd like to think I'm enough for you, but I'm pretty sure that's my ego talking." Mark said honestly.

"But what if I wanted it?"

With some due consideration, he listed off his conditions: "Interview first, background check second, I'd be in the room the entire time, and he wouldn't be coming inside of you."

I snorted, "'Background checks'?"

He said seriously, "If you're going to have someone else's dick inside of you, I'd rather it be someone who doesn't have pending criminal charges."

"Those are acceptable terms. I'd ask the same if you were going to be balls' deep in another woman."

"Glad we got that out of the way."

"I want to ask another question. This one is about your relationship history."

"Fire away."

I stood and, in turn, I sat on the coffee table, facing him. He looked up at me, acknowledging our new positions, but he readily awaited my query.

"What was your last girlfriend like?"

"Before I answer that," He said lightly. "Why do you want to know?"

"The things you do and don't do tell me a little about her."

"What kind of things?"

"Like…The first time we slept together, we were drunk," I recalled gently. "You put your hand around my neck and choked me without thinking about it. When we were sober and fucking, you hesitated, like you'd crossed a boundary even though you'd already choked me once before. You also hesitated to tell me about your rape fantasy, like you'd tried it once already and it didn't work out." I shrugged, adding, "Plus, your sister said she liked me a lot more than the 'other one'. I'm curious who I'm being compared to in all of this…just like I've been comparing you to all my other previous lovers."

Mark straightened, socks on and tennis shoes all tied, peering at me with an expression that seemed tied between fondness and mixed discomfort.

"I'll tell you the ways you two aren't the same." He said decidedly, sitting forward so he placed his hands on my knees, his thumbs tracing my caps with a slow but intentional circular caress.

"So that I can draw the comparisons for myself, how clever."

"Like I said, you're intuitive as ever. That's number one."

"Ooh, the count begins." I smiled modestly. "You're saying she wasn't intuitive? Couldn't read between the lines?"

"It's not that she couldn't. She wouldn't."

"That can be infuriating."

"It was." He agreed. "Which brings us to number two."

"Which is?"

"You're temperamental."

I smiled in spite of that comment, saying, "But you like that, don't you?"

Mark said carefully, "In some form or fashion, yes."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're easily pissed off, quickly riled up. But as quick as you are to lose your temper, you're just as quick to get in a good mood." Mark smiled at that, adding, "I can handle explosive. Passive-aggressive—Not so much. And you're honest to a fault. You say what's on your mind, whether you mean it or not."

"All the guesswork is done for you," I said proudly.

"I don't mind that at all."

"Which means she thought you were a mind-reader and would get passive-aggressive, at best, when you weren't on the same page?"

"In hindsight, it wasn't her fault. I wasn't open with her either."

"Seems like miscommunication was a huge problem."

"I assumed what she liked based on my past relationships and she assumed the same about me based on hers. It led to some uncomfortable situations, one of which was—"

"—Stonewalling any fantasies that she or you had." I guessed.

"Exactly."

"So why does Angelina like me more than her? What's her deal?"

"She didn't think Elizabeth understood me. Angie was convinced that she only liked the idea of dating me. Not the real me."

I cocked my head to the side and said softly, "It's hard when people fall in love with the idea of you instead of what's really standing in front of them the entire time."

Mark leaned back on the couch, saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "She was half-right."

"'Half'?"

"Elizabeth was a news reporter."

"Ah. She fell in love with the inside information." I said crassly, shaking my head.

"We were together a couple years." Mark answered. "Got her career off the ground, at least."

"That's a long time. Who broke it off?"

"I did."

"Are you saying that to save face or is that the real answer?"

"Both." Mark said with a sheepish smile. "But I have to say…She never came anywhere close to knowing what you know about me."

I moved off the coffee table and onto him, straddling his lap as I ran my hands up his chest, whispering, "I guess that's just her loss, then."

"Now, I have a question for you."

"Ohh, the tables have turned. Cross-examination begins."

Mark tilted his head back as he said lightheartedly, "Tell me about your last boyfriend."

"My last boyfriend was about 4 years ago. But before you, I was dating a woman."

"Do tell."

"I'm not sure you want to know this."

"Oh, now I really need to know." His hands moved from my knees to my waistline, his fingertips dipping just beneath the elastic of my leggings while his palm warmed the small of my back.

"She and I were on and off, admittedly for several years…since I'd been about 17."

Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's a long time."

"Like I said: on and off. She's basically always been my rebound. And I've been hers."

"And why wouldn't you want me to know about this?"

"Because I met her when I was in Juvie." I admitted. "She's not crazy or anything, at least not like Drew. I've not seen her in a year or so."

"Why is that?"

"Because I broke it off. Permanently."

Mark volleyed my words back to me, "Are you just saving face or is that the real answer?"

"Both. We had history. We were in Juvie together, graduated high school together. She dated a few girls, and I dated a few guys, and when either of us got dumped or had to break it off, she was there, or I was there to pick up the pieces."

"So, what was the deal breaker?"

"She hurt my dog."

"Prospero?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "We were having dinner and Prospero likes to lick people's legs and he kept licking hers, wouldn't stop when she told him to. She took a stick the size of my arm and beat him with it."

Mark scowled. "That's unacceptable."

"I know, that's what I said! Anyway, Prospero had to get surgery to repair his pelvis and I ended it with her permanently. Worked on myself a little while, had a few one-night stands to rebound from her. I was getting ready to go meet this guy I was talking to online when I came out of my office. Before I knew it, an asshole customer had just finished putting a broken bottle in the back of my security guard's neck."

"And you became a murder suspect in a homicide investigation."

I beamed, saying, "Thanks to that, I met you coincidentally. Do you think that'd be a good review for online dating?"

"If I was the CEO, I don't think I'd approve it."

His phone started to ring. I realized we'd been talking for over an hour. Mark reached for it but I pushed my hand against his chest, keeping him in place so I answered it instead.

"Detective Hoffman's phone." (Mark grinned at my greeting.)

"Mayville!" Matthews slurred. "Are you c…coming, you are coming o-or what?"

"You're already drunk, I don't see how you're going to win the game."

"You gotta be actively pffft…participating to win anything, you've—hey, hey, are you listening? Are you listening…"

Mark took the phone after seeing my odd expression and he said firmly, "Eric, put Kerry on." A second after, he said in the same tone, "Take him home."

I heard Kerry say, "You got it."

Mark hung up and tossed the phone to the other side of the couch, looking up at me.

"Do you still feel like going out?" He asked.

"I honestly feel like staying in and watching a movie. What about you?"

He said gratefully, "I would love nothing more."

"Well, I know you'd rather have sex."

"If we watch a scary movie, that's bound to follow."

"Aww…You know me so well." I said happily. "I think it's your turn to choose. I chose last time. I'll make popcorn."

"And I'll get the blankets."

"Sounds like a good plan. Meet back in 45 seconds?"

"On my mark." He said playfully. "One…two…three."

I rushed to get the popcorn in the microwave, and he took off towards the bedroom, bringing back two sets of blankets. He plopped them on the couch and said victoriously, "That's how you win a race."

I complained, "I'm waiting on the microwave."

"Technology slowing mankind down, one kernel at a time."

"You're such a dork." I muttered, rolling my eyes, but I couldn't help giggling at the same time.