.
Euphoria
Chapter 6: Desire
Friday
5:36 pm
.
Confused. This was how Norman felt on Friday. More than disbelief or anger or fear, he felt confusion. It was the kind of disconcerting disorientation which caused the earth to grind to a halt and the sombre clouds to race by, double-time, in the sky.
Actions which usually felt natural and automatic now felt painfully alien. When Norman Jayden shaved that morning, he had to remind himself of the exact twist of the wrist, the correct amount of pressure required to skim lightly over tired flesh without drawing the precious fluid from within. He touched a finger to the scar across his cheek, as he did every morning, and lingered, absorbed in the perplexing hurricane that was his fate. A hurricane is a marvel of duality – a fleeting, miraculous system sustained by rises and falls – at all times synchronously sinking and floating.
And a hurricane is what his head felt like. As he drove to work, unaware that he was late, barely seeing the other cars on the road, his thoughts were a whirling blur. His poor performance yesterday was nothing compared to the sham of an FBI profiler he had seamlessly transmogrified into overnight. It was sickening to him. How many cases could you have solved already if you weren't wasting time? Time means lives, Jayden.
However, hurricanes are monumental forces of nature impossible for mere mortals to control.
He spent much of the day aimlessly shifting around at his desk, trying to ignore the files spread-eagled like a taunt before him, squirming in his seat, moving in exactly the same restless and meandering fashion as his contemplation. I burnt the letter, I sifted the ashes into the trash. Nobody could find it. Unfortunately a digital copy remained: emblazoned stubbornly, irreversibly, into his mind.
Was it real? His eyes were blank as he sat, caught up in the cyclone of his speculations. Norman was the type of person who, once faced with a problem, was physically unable to leave it alone until he had systematically picked it apart piece by piece, and ultimately solved it. Why would anyone lie? How could they know about ARI in the first place, let alone Tripto? It must be someone within the FBI itself. No one else could have access to such information. And if they know about me, maybe I know about them – I could walk past this Raine every day in the corridor without having a clue. If in some conceivable way it could be true – God, if it is true – why would they tell me? What could be worth the risk? The message wasn't delivered electronically, it was typed on paper so all traces of it could be destroyed. The sender must be afraid of being discovered. But why send it now? What prompted them? He realised that he was leaning forwards, and lowered himself back into his chair in an attempt to restrain his rampant brain. His wrists were beginning to twitch. Slow down, Norman.
Jayden excused himself throughout the day to leave for the bathroom, where, if he was lucky, he would be alone. Fortunately this was one such instance. Nobody was there but his own sordid reflection, eyeing him cautiously through grey mirrors which were regularly polished to perfection but which still held inevitable traces of grime and dirt around the edges. Holed away in the toilets, he did not have to look from face to face, from colleague to acquaintance, and wonder, which of you are the enemy? How many of you know? He did not want to have to make contact with anyone, even Melissa. Especially Melissa.
Who could he trust? This was the question Jayden asked the apparition before him in the mirror. It never supplied any answers.
Things were different today. Everything seemed to be colder. He was stuck in a web of ambiguity, unable to turn around, unable to break free or make any headway. He had a dull headache and was gripped by pangs of Triptocaine craving which had been mercifully absent for several days, but which now returned with a vengeance. The weather had developed into a canvas of malevolent black clouds rolling turbulently overhead. Even the coffee tasted worse than usual. His whole professional life had turned upon its head.
As a young child, Norman had found a perverse sort of pleasure in repeating a single word continually until such a powerful tool became intelligible on his tongue, reduced to nothing more than a humorous string of syllables. He was reminded of the same feeling now; as if he had spent too long obsessing over everything, and that sense of twisted weirdness had come back to haunt him.
Maybe the letter really is true. Oh fuck, if it is, if it is, well… we'll deal with that when we have to. But it could still be a lie. This recognition settled over him like a cooling, balmy breeze, and he eagerly took a hold of the alleviating feeling. It could very easily be a lie, tailored to affect me in just this way. A hoax. Or even a test, fucking hell, knowing the FBI – they could be testing me! An evaluation of loyalty! Jayden closed his eyes with the multitude of emotions that this chilling possibility brought him. For now, until even a shred of proof is produced, I'll treat it like what it is: a lie. Yes, of course, a lie. His mind made up, and a firm decision settled upon as comforting as the steady ground under unsure and unstable feet, Norman immediately felt better; lighter, less erratic, as though the hurricane had rapturously moved away to pastures new.
Norman ran the water until it was a reasonable temperature, splashed his face, and prepared to return to the office.
Agent Donahue walked to work that morning. The FBI had supplied her with a sedan car which she could use as she saw fit during her time in D.C., but something had seized a hold of her as she sipped coffee in the small kitchen of her temporary apartment, encouraging her to forgo the car in favour of her own two feet. Her current place of residence was owned by the Bureau – mostly to be occupied by passing agents such as herself - and was conveniently located only a short distance from Headquarters. As she walked along the streets of Washington she had noticed several raindrops landing on her, a threat from the ominous and overbearing sky.
Once in the office, the agent allocated her time during the day to two main tasks. The first was to research Christopher Abbot, whose fingerprints they had found yesterday along with a stash of heroin at the abandoned dockland warehouses. The second was to watch Norman Jayden.
As soon as she had arrived at HQ Melissa could tell that something was amiss. Norman was having trouble keeping still or undertaking any work at all. He was jumpy, constantly springing up onto his feet, searching for reasons to leave the room. A sign of stress, she identified. It seemed particularly odd that he wasn't immersed in the heroin case, especially after he had been so relieved to find some evidence at long last the previous day. Perhaps a little foolishly, she decided not to make anything of it, but rather leave him to his own devices whilst she busied herself with furthering their knowledge of Mr Abbot. There'll be plenty of time for confrontation later.
And a confrontation did indeed occur, at approximately 6 pm. Jayden had left for the washrooms for perhaps the fourth time, deserting his partner to a stuffy office and the static electricity of an approaching storm which was seeping in through the windows. Donahue bit upon the end of a pencil and narrowed her eyes. He had barely talked to her all day. When she asked him a question, he would provide a monosyllabic answer or shrug his shoulders and move towards the filing cabinets. And we'd been getting along so well. What could have brought about this change? Nothing had altered between them, nothing had happened. Unless… it couldn't be, she joked with her subconscious mind. Not my fall yesterday, at the warehouses? And his lucky catch? What, he's not still embarrassed by my behaviour, is he? The absurdity of the thought caused her lips to twitch into a smile, and she had to glance at the floor to hide her brightened face.
Within a few minutes Jayden had returned. He seemed rather more sedate now – had something happened in the toilets? - and moved at a less agitated pace. He even gave Melissa a strained smile as he shut the door behind him. Nonetheless, she took the opportunity to stand up and pursue Norman back to his desk. As he pretended to poke around for something in the clutter, she crossed her arms and adopted a well-honed tone: kindly, with just a hint of ice.
"Jayden. I know it's probably not my place, but you've been acting a little odd today."
The young man gave up his search resignedly and went to sit in his chair. "Yeah. Sorry about that." He did not offer any further explanation.
Donahue stepped forwards, her eyes earnest and her arms gesticulating loosely. Gotta coax him out of his shell. "Do you… want to talk about it?"
Norman worked his jaw. Today she was wearing trousers and a jacket, navy blue, but he could imagine the creamy skin just underneath the surface. "No, no I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry, but I don't even know you." He intertwined his fingers, glaring at the floor; the blinds; the drawers on his desk; now determined to look anywhere but at her. "There's nothing to discuss."
Several seconds passed, during which time Jayden could feel Melissa's eyes boring into his head.
"Right, of course. Sorry." She relaxed her voice, and Norman couldn't help thinking that there had been something false - rehearsed, almost - in her words before. The notion was speedily waved away as the female agent picked a beige folder from her desk and returned to show it to her partner. "Well, look, Norman. We've got a good lead here. We can't waste it. I did some research on Christopher Abbot, and found an address to an old apartment block on Massachusetts Avenue." She placed a grainy image of the man in Jayden's hands. He looked young, unsmiling, with dark hair, but most of the features were hard to make out. It appeared to be a photo taken for a driver's license.
Melissa raised a light-hearted eyebrow as her lips twisted into a smile. "Now are we going to sit around all day in this tedious office, or are we actually going to go out and do our job?"
Norman didn't have a reply to that. He watched her for a long moment, studying her eyes of wheat and honey and things he was still unable to discern, wondering how his life could have been transformed so immensely in such a short amount of time, and then he picked up his jacket and followed her to the car park.
Jayden suggested taking Donahue's car, but she breezily informed him that she hadn't brought it to work today. He edged into the driver's seat and started the engine with a detached concentration, repeatedly reminding himself of the pact he had made: don't think about the letter. Although he was steering the vehicle, Norman remained silent throughout most of the journey, instead allowing Melissa to assume verbal control.
"His apartment's close by. We'll be there soon," she said, shuffling through leaves of paper as they turned onto the main road. "Oh, just take a right here. That's it. Sorry, you know the way, don't you? Massachusetts Avenue Northwest."
She spoke in a hasty tone, vivid and glowing with her newly-found excitement. It appeared that Norman's partner was more than making up for his remarkable lack of enthusiasm. "So, Chris Abbot. He's 29, born in Kentucky. His family, uh, moved to Washington when he was a child. He left school at seventeen and started working at local factories, mainly, but he hasn't kept a job for any length of time. A few years ago he was fined for minor charges of cannabis possession. He's also been in trouble for shoplifting. From the police reports, I've gathered… well, he's not a dangerous criminal, but maybe he's got caught up in the wrong crowd. Maybe he owes someone a debt." As she reviewed her notes she picked at her nails, and sometimes glanced out of the window.
Within fifteen minutes the Ford Taurus pulled up onto Massachusetts Avenue. Donahue got out quickly, and began scanning the closest buildings. Passers-by on the sidewalk wore thick coats and held expectant umbrellas under their arms, waiting for provocation from the charcoal sky which rumbled and growled overhead.
"There. That's the one." Melissa nodded her head towards an apartment block some way to their right.
The partners entered the tall, dull structure. The lobby was merely a lifeless extension of the exterior, all peeling wallpaper and stained linoleum floors. A poster on the door informed them that a Mr Abbot could be found in apartment 3B. As they ascended in the elevator, the stench of stagnant air filled their nostrils. They met nobody during their sojourn through the corridors of the third floor. It was deathly quiet, the silence hanging heavy and rank, giving the building a disconcerting impression of being devoid of life.
Having reached flat number 3B, Melissa drew to a halt. Norman trailed just behind with his hands in his jacket pockets. As they stood together on the threshold, Jayden gave a succinct nod to the female agent, and an unspoken but lucid thread of understanding passed between them. She smiled as if to console him, but he merely rubbed his reddening eyes while she rapped upon the door. I really wish I was in a better state right now. Can't be making much of an impression.
They did not have to wait long before the door was pulled open jerkily to reveal a young man, observing them with mistrusting eyes. He wore old jeans and a white vest over a body which, the female agent noted, looked to be youthful and toned. In fact, he was almost handsome: a shock of thick black hair fell partially over his eyes and his features had a sculpted quality. A cigarette was still smouldering at his fingertips.
"Hello, Mr Abbot," said Melissa. "I'm Agent Donahue, this is Agent Jayden. We're from the FBI." She flashed her badge. "Do you mind if we come in?"
The man took an unnecessary amount of time to scrutinise her credentials. Then he shrugged his shoulders, took a drag on the cigarette, and kicked the door open further. "Be my guests."
The apartment was rather neater than the agents had expected given the conditions of the building in which it was situated. Although the scent of tobacco lingered, dense in the air, and Norman thought he could pick out faint nicotine stains on the walls, the cramped living space was reasonably clean and lit by two windows. Abbot pointed towards a modest sofa and the pair made for it, stealing furtive glances along the way. The kitchen and living room were melded into one single area inhabited chiefly by fridge, television, and couch, with a door to the left revealing a small slice of a bedroom.
Donahue took a seat. Jayden positioned himself at her side. Abbot remained standing, one arm akimbo, eyes a little squinted. "So, agents, what can I do you for?"
Melissa cast her vision around, taking in the quirks of the room: a black ashtray on the coffee table, a curtain rail standing unused against the wall, a wiry shadow upon the window calling attention to the fire escape outside. "This is a really nice place you've got."
"Uh, thanks."
There was a pause whilst she hunted for the correct attitude to utilise in such a situation. Gently, gently. "Maybe you've heard on the news about the shipment of heroin the police seized a few days ago, on the Panamax tanker? At the moment we're investigating the case."
Abbot gave no visible implication of concern. He stole a deep intake from his stick of tobacco and tar, and continued to watch Donahue with a thin-lipped grimace. Had he even noticed that Jayden was present? Norman shifted where he was sitting, discomforted and annoyed by the way the man's eyes latched onto his partner and refused to let go.
"Yesterday we happened to be at the docks, and we actually found another stash of heroin, which we believe to be related to the tanker incident," persisted the young woman. "But the particularly odd thing is that we also found your fingerprints."
Almost without a moment's delay - "I used to work at those warehouses."
His words were far too automatic. Sorry, no dice. "There's no record of you ever having been employed at the docks." And just like that, her inner resistance was thrust into the light, the brutal timbre of her voice dissipating any mildness she may have evoked earlier.
Now they were teasing a response from the man. He crossed his arms in an attempt to defend himself from the dangerous subtext being hurled towards him. Melissa leaned forwards, creasing her forehead. "We know you're involved in this case somehow, Mr Abbot, we just need to know to what extent." He wasn't biting, so she forged ahead. "You're in trouble, aren't you? Somebody's forced you into working for them, they've toyed badly with you, and now the FBI's on your heels. How are they ever going to understand your association with a bunch of criminals, right?" The man inhaled on his cigarette, although this time his hand shook, and his dark eyes widened. "I know quite a bit about you, Mr Abbot. I know you're not a bad man, just an unlucky one. Tell us about the people you're working for. Help us track them down, and we'll help you. You know these are the bad guys. You want to see them behind bars just as much as we do. We can protect you. We can assure you safety, and whatever crimes they've implicated you in, we can get you off the hook. You must trust us."
Mr Abbot hung his head. Agent Donahue could see his chest undulating as his pulse was regulated. Silence once again swelled over the apartment, and Melissa was left to wonder at the otherworldly hush. Was nobody awake in the entire building? She couldn't even hear the sound of cars passing by outside, or the subdued buzz of a distant television set.
"No, no no no no, you don't understand. He's going to kill me for this. He's going to break my fucking neck… he probably already knows you're here. Oh God!" He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, then spun his body to look around the room hopelessly. His eyes were revolving wildly.
"Mr Abbot, calm down," said the woman. She looked meaningfully at Jayden, who comprehended the significance of such an action and stood up at once. This was Psychology 101: be assertive. Reinforce your strength and stand your ground.
Except things didn't go quite to plan.
Norman edged forwards and to the side, trying to block the door. Abbot took another extended breath of tobacco, closing his lips about the cigarette, cherishing the sensation. Melissa, too, found herself upon her feet. What's he doing? Giving in already? Then the young man leant down slowly, tapping the glowing orange object in the ash tray. He moved so leisurely, so tauntingly. In a flash he had grabbed the substantial bulk of the tray and thrown it, haphazardly, in the general direction of Agent Jayden, barely watching to see where it landed before he raced for the window, yanked it open, and leapt right onto the fire escape.
"Shit!" The ash tray had struck the unsuspecting Norman directly on the ankle with a muffled clunk. The agent staggered, his centre of balance thrown off track. Donahue spared him a instant of her time. She placed a hand on his upper arm, but, upon seeing that his injury was minor, hurled herself instead in quick pursuit after their fleeing lead.
Melissa was immediately hit by a wall of sound. She scrambled inelegantly out of the window frame and onto a rickety steel skeleton, distinctly cold to the touch, to be met with the sound of wheels and car horns and the wind rushing past her ears, which had all been so deficient previously.
Glancing below her, she could see her quarry through the metal slits. The apartment was on the third floor, and already Abbot had nearly made it to the ground. She tore down the stairs. Floor to floor, step by step by step, spinning around when she encountered the next platform, sometimes jumping a few stairs, metallic rattles chiming out at her feet. Come on, come on, he can't get away! Your only lead! Her FBI training was being called unpleasantly to mind.
At the base level, Donahue hit the ground running. She had glimpsed Abbot ducking down an alley, but that had been seconds before. Turning the corner into the dim passage, the agent found it deserted. She sprinted along its length, emerging on the opposite side to an even wider street with multiple offshoots to smaller roads, other alleyways, and shops: so many places to hide. There was no trace of a dark-haired man. Agent Donahue swore loudly. She had to bend over to catch her breath.
In the apartment, Jayden had lowered himself back onto the sofa. A bass grumble of expletives was tumbling from his mouth as naturally as rain. He felt his ankle, prodding the swelling with his fingertips. Why the fuck is it that the most superficial wounds hurt the most? The irritation which he had tried somewhat fruitlessly to curb earlier in the day was returning in full force, throbbing and tingling through his leg, accompanied by a pounding headache. Before he could stop himself - before he could care, even - he reached into his pocket and extracted a vial of aching cerulean.
Up, up. The tube locked in his tremulous fingers like it was always meant to be. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled, a profound breath, striking through the very edges of his skull, like aquamarine flooding the unfathomable depths of a black cavern.
The apartment was now very still. It had been so noisy before.
The agent lay back until he was sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Every nerve was awake, nudging him, reminding him of each hair upon his body and all the places where his skin was in contact with impressionable fabric. He could almost feel his pupils contract. His ankle was all but forgotten. He let out a dwindling breath and closed his eyes, simply listening to the sound of a part of his soul drifting away.
Donahue walked with furrowed eyebrows back up the fire escape. When she ducked once again through the window, she initially thought that she had entered the wrong apartment. Where's Norman? A feeble movement caught her eye and she dashed forwards, only to be greeted with the bizarre sight of Agent Jayden collapsed on his back on the sofa. Shit, he's not actually hurt is he? And yet he was smiling: he was happier than she had ever seen him. His fingers were just retracting from his jacket pocket.
"Norman?" Her voice was of a higher pitch than she would have liked to admit.
He sat up unhurriedly, resting his arms on his knees. His eyes had a sort of glassy quality which emphasised the overwhelming blue residing there. "Christ, I thought you said he wasn't dangerous." He grinned as he gestured towards his ankle.
Melissa was dazed. "No, he's… he's just scared." She sat down too, assembling her thoughts. "He's not running the heroin operation, that's for sure. He's been forced into doing some dirty work and someone really dangerous has threatened him, or, or blackmailed him, and now he's being implicated in a serious drug case. He's terrified." What could make him so afraid that he would desert his own home?
Jayden nodded. "He got away." The agent wasn't even angry. In fact, to Donahue's ear he sounded quite calm about the whole thing.
But the woman was less forgiving. "Shit, I'm sorry. I messed up. He was too fast." She sighed and rubbed at her temples. Norman, seated quietly beside her, gazed at her with something akin to awe. Her auburn hair was tousled and some of it was sticking to the side of her face with sweat. The running had caused her to flush with a delicate afterglow. Her lips were parted as she took fragile breaths, drawing in air, which, like everything else, could not escape her charm. She was full to the brim with the sweet essence of life; it flowed through her veins and poured the honey into her eyes, fashioning a creature of pure light, an intoxication so delectable that he marvelled anyone could resist.
Donahue stood up out of the blue, and Norman, in a schoolchild yearning to be close to her, followed suit. He realised the foolishness of this sudden act as his foot crumpled beneath him, forcing him to fall straight back onto the settee.
"Oh, here, let me help you." Melissa bent to his level and supported his frame with her arm around his shoulder. As her skin grazed his, and then her warmth seeped into his flesh, an unwanted flush came over her cheeks. They moved at a slow pace; slow, but together. Jayden kept the weight off his right foot and in an ungainly fashion they headed for the door.
"Wait," said Norman. As the Triptocaine wore off, he was remembering to be problematic. "I should search the apartment. There could be clues to his employer."
"Norman, it's getting late, and you're hurt. The clues will still be here another day. Come on." How could he resist a voice of liquid nectar?
Although the pain was returning to the young man in jarring jabs and pokes to his ankle, the woman was doing an excellent job of cleansing the thought of it from his mind. His brain kept looping back to the feeling of her palm on his shoulder, and her waist pressed next to his own, like a broken record stuck on the particularly idyllic bridge of a song.
Outside, darkness had fallen. Streetlights were beginning to stir to the melodies of roosting birds in a nearby park. As Donahue lead her partner to the car, she looked to the heavens and saw not an inch of sky. The clouds were snarling in a barely-audible menace.
Norman gave the keys to Melissa. She unlocked the doors. Before he could clamber into the front seat, she interrupted him. "Nope, I'm driving." He protested lamely but it was easy enough to steer him to the other side of the Ford and push him in.
"It's only bruised -"
His limp determination made her want to smile. "Norman, just let me drive you home, okay?" The woman walked round to the driver's seat with so much fluidity that he thought she might be mocking him.
This time Melissa remained quiet for the majority of the journey, allowing Jayden to direct her accordingly. He also took the opportunity to call Headquarters and inform them of the whereabouts of Christopher Abbot's dwelling. A request was logged to have a police officer stationed outside the apartment block, remaining on the alert should their escapee choose to return to his home.
Their progress through D.C. was slowed by the tail-end of the day's commuters jostling for space on the road, but in less than half an hour they had reached Norman's residence. He too rented out an apartment in a block of flats, albeit a much more hygienic and hospitable one.
"Déjà vu," called the young woman as she got out of the car.
They stumbled into his apartment with self-conscious smiles. Jayden felt a lurch as he recalled: he had done almost the exact same thing only three days ago with a very different type of girl. As he clung to her side he wondered if he would ever be able to go back to the way things were.
The apartment was on the seventeenth floor and overlooked a grand portion of the metropolis, which was currently illuminated by the neon spark of a thousand city lights. To Norman, a good view was far more important than the size or condition of a flat. Maybe that's why I like ARI so much. The front door opened onto the living room, with other doors leading to the kitchen and bedroom respectively. The place wasn't exactly roomy, but that suited Jayden just fine. He probably spent more time at work than at home, anyway. His décor looked like it had come straight out of a catalogue, mainly because it had: he was no good at furbishing or accessorising, so he'd picked an economical furniture collection he'd liked and ordered the whole set. It was all chrome and minimalist colours, a little futuristic for Melissa's liking.
The only thing that really stood out was his grand piano. Like a great black mountain it rose out of the terrain of the room, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming in the way that only a well-loved piano can. Donahue dreaded to think how much it must have cost.
By contrast, the rest of the apartment was cluttered and disorganised. A bookshelf against the wall was stuffed with books on criminology, psychology, history, and great works of literature, and several binders full of newspaper cuttings, and old scraps of paper; some shirts lay on an armchair in the corner; a quick look into the kitchen revealed plates piled up by the sink. It was easy to see where Norman's priorities lay. The piano was polished to perfection but the television cowered under a layer of dust.
Melissa let down her partner onto the sofa. She made to sit, then thought better of it. "Do you want a drink? I could fix us something…"
Jayden raised his eyebrows. "Sure. There's some Chardonnay in the fridge, if you don't mind."
By the time the woman had found the wine bottle, poured two glasses, and returned to the living room, the TV was on and CNN was delivering its breathless relay of the latest headlines. She handed Norman the tall wineglass and then stared at the vacant space on the sofa. Her colleague turned his head to regard her, and suddenly she found herself sitting down beside him.
"Thank you," he said. His fragile smile looked washed out in the all-encompassing virtual phosphorescence emitted from the television set. The news was babbling faintly to itself in the background. Melissa gulped and took a sip of the sparkling white wine. The cityscape to their left provided a dreamlike urban backdrop of yellow lights, softly out of focus.
As she raised her eyes, catching in their depths the dazzling reflections of television and city alike, she set her sights on Norman Jayden. He was looking past her. His face was a little tired, a little fatigued, hatched by memories of sorrow and joy. Brown hair sat neatly but struggled for freedom along the hairline itself, and eyebrows too rebelled as best they could. At the moment they were vaguely crumpled, like he was endeavouring to solve an exceptionally difficult mathematical equation. A shadow of facial growth darkened his chin. And then of course there was the enigmatic scar, whispering secrets just longing to be uncovered, to be listened to. Donahue felt an urge to rectify the day's shortcomings: her shortcomings.
"I'm really sorry about today. About letting Abbot go. I know we're pretty much back to square one now, and it's my fault. I'm going to work harder, I swear. We're going to solve this case."
"Melissa. You're not really going to blame yourself, are you?"
She stared at her wineglass.
"If anything, hell, it's my fault for getting hit by that goddamn ash tray. I mean, jeez, what an injury. I'll be a laughing stock if anyone finds out about it." He smiled and looked her squarely in the eye. "So you gotta promise not to tell anyone, alright? And I mean nobody, this can't be allowed to damage my valuable reputation."
The woman smiled in return, grateful for his levity. "It's a deal."
By the light of the television they sat for some while longer, their bodies radiating with a shared warmth. They were close enough that a small misjudged movement could cause direct contact, but neither seemed willing to initiate such an encounter. The partners drunk their Chardonnay and the taste of lemon and vanilla filled their heads. Joking comments were directed at the news presenters; Melissa eventually kicked off her shoes and curled her feet underneath her; and through the course of the evening both agents at one time or another realised this is comfortable. This is natural.
When CNN announced it was 9 pm, Donahue stretched her arms above her head and stood up. "I really should be leaving."
"Are you okay getting back home?"
"Yeah, I'll take a taxi."
"Wait, wait, let me escort you to the door." Norman rose to his feet and found that he could limp about with only minimal indignity. Pleasure and wine had dulled the hammering in his ankle to very tolerable levels.
Melissa walked behind him vigilantly. "Are you feeling better?"
"Oh sure, I'm right as rain. I've been far more wounded than this in my time, let me assure you." Jayden found a sarcastic snigger at the back of his throat as he was reminded of countless instances when his life had been in direct danger. Where to begin? Nearly being flattened to a pulp by a car crusher, or the glasses that make me bleed through my eyes?
He leant himself against the wall and opened the door. Now that there was a physical gateway close at hand whose only purpose was to draw them apart, both Norman and Melissa were at a loss for what to say.
The woman tried first. "Thank you, Norman. Thanks for the wine." A fleeting smile managed to break across her features, then was gone.
Those lips and teeth were Jayden's entire word for a dizzying second. Oh God, it's not fair… She was going to leave him now, and who knew when she'd be back again. She would walk out of the apartment, out of the building, and sooner or later straight out of Washington, and forget all about the broken agent who had nothing to offer but heartache and empty promises. He couldn't bear to imagine letting such unfathomable beauty slip right though his fingers. Why should I have to give you up?
"Melissa," he murmured.
He took an unsteady pace forward until his face hovered close to hers. She was less than an inch shorter than him, giving him an unparalleled glimpse into sunshine eyes. Norman thought she might back off, but instead she held her own, gazing back at him with a soothing confidence. He could pick out each eyelash and even the tiny pores across her cheeks.
I've never wanted anything as much as I want this.
Expert hands came up to meet her waist. He dipped his head and caught her lips in his own. She tasted of pure ambrosia, sweet and life-giving, and as the divine aroma simultaneously bewitched his mouth and nose he was burning to deepen the kiss; but he wanted to be gentle; I owe her that; but inside him was stirring a beast, and now that flesh had met flaming flesh it had broken free of earthly restraints and drove her into the wall, craving her body with bestial intensity.
She made a guttural noise as her back met forcefully with solid concrete. Every place that she touched him - arm, neck, chest - was left with a cruel burn as potent as the rays of the sun. Struggling to control her reeling mind, she discovered herself automatically responding to his passion. She returned his desire with a lust of her own, gliding her tongue into his mouth, gripping his shoulders. His smell, of musk and the lingering vanilla tones of the wine, enclosed around her irrepressibly.
Her fluttering eyes tickled the skin of his cheek. He held the back of her head in his palm, pulling her closer, his other hand digging into the supple tissue of her upper arm, needing to devour her whole. Now she struggled to break her mouth free: once their lips were torn apart she pressed herself to his torso as she inhaled erratically, heartbeat speeding away into the horizon.
Although his arms were wrapped around her shoulders and the sense of safety was astounding, she knew in the pit of her gut that she had to escape. Melissa dislodged their intertwined bodies. Norman rested an arm against the wall and gasped with difficulty, overcome by confusion, unable to speak.
"I'm sorry," said the young woman in an undertone, slipping through the door.
She ran for the elevator before he could follow her. She knew it was unfair, and malicious, but there was no other way. As she reached the ground floor and called for a taxi her head was spinning. What have you got yourself into now? Trouble seems to chase you, doesn't it, Melissa? Oh God, oh God… of all the people in the Bureau, in Washington, in the world, you had to want him. Have you completely forgotten why you were transferred here? Does your job mean nothing to you? Have you lost your dignity?
Soon she was stepping inside her ride. Eagerly the taxi sped away into the artificial haze, bearing its distressed cargo, until she disappeared as just another yellow light twinkling along with countless others against the endless vista of capital city.