A/N: Please excuse any typos. casbru, I would love to update more frequently but my schedule doesn't permit me to. I will try but expect an update every three to four weeks. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Thanks to all for the reviews. Tell me what you think.
Chapter 8. Desire
Fitz exhales sharply when he hears the familiar knock on the door. He's not in the mood this morning for another one of Cyrus' unending diatribes. He worked late again last night, not getting home until after midnight. He's still trying to make sense of the crime reports but isn't having any success. He feels like he's going around in circles.
"Good morning, sir," Cyrus says cheerfully as he enters the office carrying a large cup of coffee in his hand.
"Good morning, Cyrus," Fitz says, gripping the mouse tighter as he reads the data on the laptop screen.
"A gift for you," Cyrus says in a singsong voice as he sets the cup of coffee on the desk. "A little birdie told me that you worked late again last night. That's good. Let the word get out that you're putting in enormous amounts of overtime without getting paid for it."
"Thank you for the coffee, Cy," Fitz says, sliding open the center desk drawer and rummaging for sugar. He frowns. He can't drink coffee without sugar.
Cyrus sits down in a chair situated in front of the desk. He crosses his legs and eyes Fitz carefully. "I received an email from that historian."
"Oh?" Fitz says, trying to sound disinterested. He avoids Cyrus' gaze as he looks in another drawer for packs of sugar. But Cyrus is a clever man, an observant man. He's heard about the superintendent's dinner meetings with that woman. There are few secrets at BPD.
"She wants to sit in the next monthly status meeting. Since it's your turn to lead, I wanted to get your position on the request before shutting her down." Cyrus can see Fitz thinking while he's answering.
"Uh — there's nothing confidential discussed at those meetings. You know that, Cy."
"I know. I know. I just wanted to make sure that you're comfortable with her attending. I know you abhor her as much as I do."
"Invite her in. It can't do any harm. Right?"
"If that's what you want, sir," Cyrus says.
"It's what the mayor wants. Remember?" Fitz says, locking eyes with the crafty communications director. Cyrus slowly nods his head up and down.
"One more thing. Davis is making the rounds —running full bore. He's treating the police commissioner appointment like a political campaign. He's out there letting the citizens know who he is. He attended service at the Unitarian Church. He danced in the Latino Day parade for God's sake. He's done everything except sing the national anthem at a Red Sox game. We've got to get you some publicity."
Fitz sighs, his irritation is mounting. He's not interested in hearing again what he isn't doing or should be doing to position himself to be the next police commissioner. Everybody has an opinion, he thinks.
"I know you hate the whole kiss the baby, shake the hand thing, but there's a performative aspect to becoming police commissioner. Davis gets that."
"I can't dance, Cyrus," Fitz says with a playful smirk. Cyrus grimaces.
"You need to get serious, sir. Time is running out. I've contacted a friend at The Irish Times. You've sat down with him before. It'll be a friendly exchange. Are you good with that?"
"I guess I'll have to be."
"I'll work my contacts at the local TV stations. Get you an interview with someone who's on our side. You have to let people see you. Let them get to know you."
"Schedule the interviews, Cyrus," Fitz says, annoyed by the need to play politics.
"Terrrific. I'll get them on your calendar right away. Have a good day, sir," Cyrus says, turning to leave. "Oh—I almost forgot —your sugar, sir," pulling a half dozen packs from his jacket pocket and setting them on the desk. "I hope you don't mind. I got raw sugar. The brown kind."
XXX
Later that morning, Fitz continues to review the crime statistics in preparation for his meeting with Mike Shaughnessy in an hour. He's hoping that Mike can shed some light on the perplexing data that won't stop nagging at him.
"Thanks for stopping by, Mike," Fitz says, standing from his chair and walking around the desk to shake his colleague's hand.
"Of course. Anytime," Mike says, accepting the handshake.
"Have a seat," Fitz says, motioning a hand toward the two thin-cushioned chairs that are situated in front of the desk.
"How's Matty doing these days?" Mike asks as he squeezes his large frame into the chair that is clearly designed for someone half his size.
"He's good. Hanging in there."
"Good. Good. I'm glad to hear that. I guess no more parties, huh?"
"Not for a while," Fitz says. It saddens him that his brother must stop doing the one thing he `enjoys.
"I'm sure it's gotta be tough for him."
"Mike, I've been analyzing the monthly and overnight crime reports. I'm seeing some curious movements. I wouldn't say it's a full-blown trend, but the numbers are ticking up. As the head of the Administration and Technology Bureau, I was wondering if you're seeing anything online that might account for the numbers."
"I've been reading the same reports, Fitz. With the mayor wanting crime reduced before Election Day, I don't have a choice," Mike says, chuckling lightly. "I haven't seen any unusual online activity that would suggest something is brewing, though."
Fitz looks disappointed. He was hoping that Mike would confirm his concerns.
"The strange thing is, it's only in certain categories— theft, damage to personal property, misdemeanors …. Small stuff, but increases, nonetheless."
"It's not unusual for crime to spike after a brutal winter. More people come out of their homes when the weather gets warmer. Some of those people do bad things."
Fitz frowns and shakes his head from side to side. "I've thought about that, too. We had an unusually cold winter last year, and the year before. For some reason, this year feels different."
"Relax, Fitz. The mayor has us all on edge. We're all jumping through hoops trying to get him reelected. Maybe this year is just an outlier," Mike says, obviously not as concerned as Fitz about the statistics.
"Maybe," Fitz says, not swayed by Mike's assessment.
"A scientist once said, the cruelest murder man can commit is the killing of a fine theory by a hard fact. Maybe the numbers are just the numbers."
"Data tell a story, Mike. I just don't know what that story is yet."
"I know intelligence and analytics is your wheelhouse. Hell, you're the one with a JD and MBA, so I'm going to listen to you. I'll have my team dig deeper — check for any unusual activity in the chat rooms of known groups. Have you talked to Edison? Maybe he's heard something."
"We're meeting later this afternoon."
"That ought to be fun," Mike says, chuckling again.
"Thanks, Mike. I appreciate you stopping by."
"I think you're overthinking this, Fitz. You need a vacation. Take Mellie and the kids to Punta Cana. You'll love it down there. The family and I were there a few months ago. I can give you the names of restaurants and sights to see."
"The closest I'm getting to a vacation is taking the family to New York City to celebrate Karen's Sweet 16. She's been talking about going down there since she turned fifteen," Fitz laughs lightly.
"Maybe you and Mellie can do Punta Cana without the kids at another time," Mike says, standing. Fitz rubs his forehead with his thumb and index finger. "I've got to get to another meeting. If my team uncovers anything I'll let you know."
"Take care, Mike," Fitz says, slapping his friend on the back.
XXX
All morning, Fitz' office has been like the revolving door to a department store —people constantly flowing in and out. First, there was Cyrus; then Mike; followed by Mrs. Warren, the elderly administrative assistant from the east tower; now Edison. He stands from his chair and walks around the desk when he hears the knock on the door.
It's no secret at BPD that Edison Davis detests Fitzgerald Grant. He also hates small talk. So, there's no handshaking or back slapping when Edison enters the office. All business.
"Thanks for stopping by Edison. Have a seat."
"I'll stand," Edison says gruffly, folding his thick arms across his broad chest. He uses the stance to intimidate his adversaries. He frowns as he quickly scans the bare walls, thinking, bland, just like its inhabitant.
Fitz sits down on the edge of the desk.
"I asked you here, Edison, because I want to get your take on the latest crime reports. The monthlies and overnights have been creeping up for the past few months. Not a lot, but enough to get my attention."
"I'm aware of the numbers," Edison says, not volunteering additional information.
"Do you have any thoughts on what could be causing the increases?" Edison stares Fitz squarely in the eyes, then responds.
"What's this all about, Fitz? You've never once invited me to your office to discuss anything. Now here I am, being grilled by you about crime data. You must really want that commissioner's job."
Fitz ignores Edison's last comment.
"Edison, over the years you've declined every opportunity for us to collaborate. I was hoping this time you wouldn't mind sharing your perspective."
"So, you want to pick my brain? Is that why I'm here?"
"Yes, I would like to know what the man who leads the Investigative Services Bureau thinks. Is that too much to ask?"
The two men glare at each other for a moment. Fitz relents first.
"Look, Edison, I know you and I haven't agreed on anything over the years. I honestly don't think that's because we're so different from each other. I think it's because we're so much alike."
Edison bursts into a feigned raucous laughter and paces around the office.
"Is that what you think — that we're alike? Let me clue you in, Fitz. We're nothing alike. We're a different breed, talking a different language, no way to communicate. If you want answers, do your own damn homework."
Edison turns abruptly and stomps from the office. Fitz shakes his head and walks over to the window. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets and watches the people in the park enjoying another unseasonably hot day. He wonders if Dan is feeding the pigeons. After a few moments, he slides the phone from his pants pocket and sends a text message. He smiles at the quick response.
XXX
"It doesn't matter what I think. I live in New York."
"But you're writing about Boston's police department."
"I'm researching the historical relationship between the Boston Police Department and the communities it serves."
"I'm not asking you to cast a vote, Olivia. I just want your opinion of the candidates. You're one of the few people who gets to spend time with them."
Olivia sighs softly, tiring of the back and forth. "Reverend Norcross, all three men are fundamentally flawed."
"But only two matters. Tell me what you think about Edison. Have you met with him yet?"
"I have. In fact, we're having a dinner meeting this evening."
"Is that right?" the reverend says, his round face full of approval. "Edison is a good man — highly respected in the community. He would make a good catch, Olivia."
"I didn't come to Boston to fish, Reverend Norcross." The reverend chuckles, thinking, Olivia is like her father —witty and sharp-tongued.
"Edison's the obvious choice for our people, Olivia."
"The obvious choice isn't always the best choice," she says. Reverend Norcross leans back in the leather chair and folds his hands over his rotund stomach.
"It sounds like you have more on your mind, Olivia."
"I shouldn't."
"Olivia, I'm just asking for your opinion — another data point. You already know I'm supporting Edison."
Olivia sighs again. She doesn't like to get involved in the affairs of the places she's researching.
"Superintendent Davis is very charming."
"We all know that Edison is affable, Olivia. Say more."
Olivia continues. "He's intelligent, an excellent communicator, and has great leadership abilities."
"I hear a but coming."
"This is just my opinion," she starts, then quickly glances down at her dinging phone on the desk. She has a new text message.
"Do you need to answer that?" Reverend Norcross asks, studying the expression on her face.
"It'll only take a second." She types a quick reply, turns off the phone, and drops it into the tote bag on the chair next to her. "Now, where were we?"
"Do you think Edison will make a good police commissioner?"
"I think Superintendent Davis' zeal to become police commissioner is more about being commissioner and less about doing the job to help solve Boston's problems. At this point in the city's history, Boston doesn't need another white commissioner, nor does it need a Black commissioner. What the citizens deserve is someone who, deep in their soul, is committed to serious principles of justice, diversity, and opportunity."
"You don't think Edison is that person?"
"He could be that person. But he really wants to be mayor in four years."
"Very astute observation, Olivia."
"Edison told me of his plans."
"You can't blame a man for being ambitious, Olivia. Edison knows firsthand the weight of being a Black man in a city with deep racial scars."
"Because of the beating?"
"You saw that keloid scar above his right eye?"
"A result of the beating."
"His white brothers in blue almost beat that man to death. They beat him like he was an animal until he managed to show his badge. Then, they left him lying on the sidewalk for dead. During the investigation, those cops claimed that they thought Edison, a plainclothes detective at the time, was the suspect they were chasing. I guess to them we all look alike."
"Those officers were never punished," Olivia says.
"Of course not. They've even been promoted a few times. The Black community rallied around Edison —stood beside him every step of the way. They'll do it again. NOBLE, the National Organization of Black Law Enforcement Executives, supported Edison when he filed a lawsuit against the city. He received a lucrative settlement, but there are some scars that even money can't heal."
"It makes you wonder why he would want the job," Olivia says.
"Because he has something to prove, Olivia. But that doesn't mean he won't make a good commissioner. He'll make a good mayor, too."
Olivia nods her head. She understands the political game the reverend is playing.
"Now, your thoughts on Grant."
Like Superintendent Davis, Superintendent Grant is as prepared as one can be to take the reins of the department. He understands leadership and policing at a very deep level. He understands the department and how to navigate the politics to get what he wants. He has the gravitas to bring all sides together. He can relate to the rank and file."
"You mean he can relate to white police officers."
"The department is eighty-five percent white," she says.
"That will change. It'll take time, but it will change."
"You'll have to push Grant if he becomes commissioner. He doesn't naturally initiate change."
"I won't have to push Edison. He already knows the changes our community wants to see in the police department."
Olivia nods again.
"Olivia, what you see as Grant's strengths, I see as detractions. He's a regressive symbol of the status quo —too entrenched in the old system. When you look at the department's leadership structure, there are only two minorities in a leadership position — Edison and a sergeant who works out of the Dorchester precinct. That structure evokes a stagnant department, impervious to meaningful change. Grant can't lead the necessary change."
"Grant isn't responsible for BPD's leadership structure," Olivia says.
"But he is responsible for the structure of his team. Why hasn't he promoted any Black people or other minorities to a higher rank?"
"That's something he has to answer for. I still haven't uncovered any wrongdoings he's been involved with."
"I told you before about his brother, street name The Hammer. A name like that doesn't instill trust in our community —especially when that hammer is used to crush our skulls."
"That's his brother. What about him?"
"You of all people know that history informs present day thinking. Grant has his father and brother's poison in his veins. I pity his children."
"You can't build for tomorrow if you only worry about yesterday," she says.
"Is that the historian talking or someone else?" They stare at each other for a moment before Olivia decides to move on.
"Sometimes I wonder if Grant really wants the job," Olivia says.
"Why do you say that?" Reverend Norcross asks, leaning forward and placing his forearms on the desk.
"It's just a gut feeling."
"That man is an enigma to me, too. I don't like it when I can't read a person. I know what's in his veins— I don't know what's in his heart."
"Neither do I," she says.
XXX
Later that week, Fitz stands in front of the small mirror that hangs on the inside of the closet door in his office. He stares at his reflection: light-gray two-piece suit, white French-cuffed shirt with gold cuff links, and a white pocket square. For the past few minutes, he's been fumbling with the knot of his tie. He's all thumbs. He's been knotting his tie since Matty taught him at age six, but tonight he can't seem to get it right. His head snaps in the direction of the door when he hears the knock. The expression on his face is like that of a child who's been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Superintendent Grant. I have those reports you wanted. These old reports are stored in the basement. It's so dusty down there. They haven't been digitized — probably never will," says Mrs. Warren."
"Thank you. You can set them on the desk."
"When I started working here forty years ago — you were probably a little older than a toddler," she laughs lightly. "We didn't have the technology that you young people have today." Fitz smiles because she thinks he's young. "We typed everything on those clunky Smith-Corona typewriters," Mrs. Warren says as she stacks the folders on the desk. She turns and watches him fumbling with the necktie. "You look quite handsome, sir. You and Mrs. Grant are going on a date tonight."
"Excuse me?" he says with a baffled expression on his face.
"When a man puts so much effort in his appearance, he's certainly trying to impress a lady. I'm sure Mrs. Grant will appreciate your effort. Have a good evening, sir."
XXX
A light drizzle is falling when Fitz climbs from the back of the SUV cruiser. He makes a beeline for the men's room when he enters the restaurant. He stares at his reflection in the backlit mirror, then grabs a white cotton towel from the rectangular-shaped alabaster box that's on the marble countertop. He dabs the rainwater from his face. Then, he rakes back a few damp strands of hair with his fingers. Frowning at his reflection in the mirror, he yanks the necktie from around his neck and hastily stuffs it into his jacket pocket. He unbuttons the top two buttons of the shirt, checks his appearance once again in the mirror, then heads out to the lounge where the hostess is stationed.
XXX
Seated at the white plush high-back banquette, Fitz chuckles to himself, thinking about the ridiculous amount of time that he spent researching the best restaurants in Greater Boston. After scrolling for hours, he settled on the James Beard award-winning French restaurant located in Brookline, Boston's wealthiest suburb. The online reviews raved about the chef's classic dishes and his new culinary creations. Reviewers also said, like the food, the service and ambience are second to none. Five stars.
Casually glancing around, he admires the design of the dining room. It's an intimate setting: low ambient lighting, the melodic sounds of a pianist playing somewhere in the restaurant, and a subtle, curated aroma wafts in the air. It's definitely the kind of restaurant where you take a date that you want to impress.
Ten minutes later he politely declines the waiter's request for his drink order. He wants to wait until Olivia arrives. He glances down at the expensive gold watch on his wrist, the one he received last year for twenty years of service on the police department. He never wears it.
She's late again, he thinks, playing with the silver cutlery carefully placed on top of the white linen napkins.
Five more minutes pass and his left leg bounces up and down under the white tablecloth. Self-doubt creeps in and his mind defaults to the worst.
Maybe she won't show up. What the hell was I thinking? A married man pursuing a single woman —a younger woman.
"Sir, shall I bring you some bread while you wait for your guest to arrive?" the waiter asks politely. Fitz shakes his head no. The empathetic waiter bows slightly and walks away.
He dabs the beads of sweat from his forehead with the white monogrammed handkerchief, a present Mellie gave him a few Christmases ago. He reaches into the left jacket pocket for the tin of Altoids. He exhales sharply. The mints are in his uniform pants pocket. Drumming his fingers on the table, he scans the dining room again, observing the faces of patrons delighting in the chef's creations.
Fifteen more minutes pass and he slowly sip a glass of scotch. The burn is punishing, perhaps well deserved. He's about to give up, go home, have a few more drinks, then crawl in bed next to his wife who will pretend she is sleeping. He looks up and sees the hostess escorting Olivia to their table. He stands. He's seething.
"Your guest has arrived, sir," the hostess says. He thinks he sees a look of relief on the woman's face. "The waiter will be over shortly to take your drink orders. Enjoy your dinner," the hostess says, smiling at the couple before turning to leave.
His anger doesn't allow him to see that she is breathless and frazzled. That her bare arms and dress are damp. That her hair has begun to curl.
"I'm so sorry I'm — "
"Sit down," he growls, cutting her off mid-sentence.
Olivia flinches slightly at the gruffness of his voice, thinking it's uncharacteristic of him to speak in such a tone. But she really doesn't know him. Research, interviews, and a few shared meals aren't enough to yield a deep understanding of someone's personality.
She sets her purse on the banquette seat across from him. She sits down, thinking, something must've happened at headquarters today. Maybe Cyrus has annoyed him again. Some women tend to give a man grace, even when they're the ones who are unfairly wronged. She glances around the well-appointed dining room.
"This is such a lovely restaurant. It's way out in the middle of nowhere. I've been driving — "
"Waiter," he yells across the dining room, causing diners' heads to turn in his direction. The skilled waiter finishes scribbling another guest's order then hurries over to their table.
"Good evening, madame," the waiter says with a practiced smile. Olivia returns the smile, which further angers Fitz. "What can I get you to drink?"
"Give the lady a Merlot," Fitz says in a clipped tone. "I'll have another scotch," although he hasn't finished drinking the one that is in front of him.
"Right away, sir." Fitz brings the glass to his mouth.
Olivia says, "The rain is really coming down. If I had known — "
"Sometimes never is better than late," he mumbles in the glass, cutting her off again.
Olivia crinkles her brow, straining to hear the muffled comment. "Excuse me?" she says.
"Just look at the menu," he snarls. "The waiter will be back for our orders. He's already asked me twice," holding the oversized menu to his face. "Do you want an appetizer?"
"Is something wrong?" she asks, confused by his demeanor.
He sets the menu down on the edge of the table and glares at her with dark eyes. "I've been sitting here like a goddamn idiot for thirty minutes staving off that annoying waiter. That's what's wrong," he says angrily.
"If you would let me explain."
"I'm not interested in hearing another one of your ready-made excuses. You're always late. Look at the menu."
"Always late?" she says, surprised by the accusation. "What are you talking about?"
"If you were going to be late, you should have called or texted. Where I come from that's the polite thing to do. This isn't the kind of restaurant where you can just show up when you feel like it."
Her eyes widen at the innuendo. She reaches for her purse.
"I'm leaving," she says, standing and hooking the purse over her arm. She no longer cares what happened at headquarters. He's being rude and she won't tolerate it.
"Sit down," he demands and her head snaps back, ready to give him a tongue-lashing, but she remembers where she is. She stares at him for a moment, thinking he has lost his mind.
"I don't know who you think you're talking to, Superintendent Grant, but I don't appreciate your tone of voice. Good night." As she turns to leave, she almost collides with the waiter carrying the glasses of wine and scotch on a small silver tray.
"Your Merlot, madame."
"Can't you fuckin' see I'm talking to my — "
The waiter gasps. He looks at Olivia nervously.
"He ordered it, let him drink it," Olivia says, pushing past the waiter and marching across the dining room toward the front door. The waiter quietly sets the drinks down and hurries from the table. He wishes he had five dollars for every time he's caught in the middle of a lover's quarrel.
Face crimson from anger and embarrassment, Fitz chokes down one course of the five-course meal. Unable to enjoy the rest of the chef's culinary talents, he tosses several one-hundred-dollar bills on the table and storms from the dining room. Who the hell wants to eat alone in a restaurant that's clearly designed for intimacy.
Trying to outrun the rain, he dashes to the SUV, climbs into the backseat, and slams the door behind him. The rain is falling in sheets, pelting the SUV relentlessly. The windshield wipers swish back and forth, working hard to clear the blinding rain. Ferguson glances in the rearview mirror at his boss' twisted face, waiting for instructions. After several minutes pass, he asks, 'where to, sir?'
XXX
Mrs. Shoffener's apartment is by the front entrance. She sees and hears most things that happen inside and outside. She cracks open her door and peeks up the steep staircase at the man taking two steps at a time. She clutches her chest as he bangs on Dr. Pope's door, harder than he should. If he breaks that door, somebody's gonna pay to fix it, she thinks, already regretting renting the apartment to the single woman.
Olivia has pulled her hair up in a bun, changed into a periwinkle-colored waffle robe that stops mid-thigh. She has opened a bottle of wine and is getting ready to remove her makeup when she hears someone banging on her door.
"What are you doing here? she says angrily when she sees him standing in the hallway. "Why are you banging on my door like a mad man?"
"We need to talk," he says with a look of penitence.
"How did you get up here?" clutching the lapels of the robe together to cover her décolletage.
"You don't lock the front door. I noticed the night I brought you home from DiMaggio's," he says with a forced smile.
She sneers at him, thinking not only is he rude, but he's sneaky, too. She doesn't like sneaky people and she doesn't want to look at his arrogant face for another second. She wants him to go away so she can remove her makeup and finish drinking the bottle of wine she's already started.
"You need to leave!" she says, glaring at him with fire in her eyes.
"Can we talk? Just for a minute," he says in a pleading tone.
"We have nothing to talk about, superintendent."
"We do — you know we do," he says, pushing past her and stepping into his new reality.
Olivia sees her nosey landlady peeking up the stairs. She slams the door with such force the overhead hallway light rattles. Mrs. Shoffener frowns, thinking that door can't take much more punishment.
His eyes instinctually sweep around the space. It's a shoebox, the tiniest apartment he's ever seen: a small living area, an even smaller kitchen, and a bedroom that's only a few steps away. He wonders who thought it was a good idea to use glass doors for a bedroom. A candle on the kitchen countertop flickers, filling the air with a sweet aroma. Soft music flows through the JBL speaker sitting upright, next to the candle. An open bottle of wine and a half-empty glass are on the coffee table. Her tote bag and purse are tossed haphazardly on the sofa.
"Get out!"
"I want to apologize. I'm sorry."
"Your apology is weak like your bid for police commissioner," she snaps at him.
"What happened at the restaurant … I was wrong to speak to you that way."
"By breeding or bearing, you think you're special —but you're not. You're lazy and unimaginative, that's why you're running third in what everyone in this city knows is a two-man race," she says, expertly wielding her sharp tongue.
"You care if I get the position?"
"Pfft", she says, walking over to the coffee table and picking up the glass of wine. She takes a long sip. "Edison is building support with people who have the mayor's ear."
"I know. He's a member of Reverend Norcross' church, who supports him wholeheartedly. He marched and cha-cha'd in the Latino Day parade. I bet he has a terrific singing voice. He's making all the right moves."
Olivia's eyes widen, thinking he's never shown any signs that he knew about Edison's tactics and Reverend Norcross' allegiance.
"And you're doing what, giving lackluster interviews to The Irish Times," she chuckles mockingly, "that'll certainly guarantee you the position. Now go!"
XXX
He didn't come here to discuss who the next police commissioner might be or his perceived slothfulness or his entitlement. He wants her to forgive him. But the road to redemption is fraught with challenges. A simple apology isn't good enough to erase the damage he's done.
"What can I say to make things right between us?" his voice full of remorse.
"You send me on a wild goose chase in the middle of a rainstorm, searching for a restaurant in an area I've never been to. The phone service was awful. The GPS kept rerouting me, taking me in circles. I had to stop twice for directions. And you have the nerve to be angry because I was a few minutes late. Why didn't you just go to DiMaggio's?"
"Because I wanted to go on a real …"
"A real what?" she demands with frustration in her voice.
"I really don't know how to do this. I thought I did but I don't. I— I —never …."
"Leave, now!"
"I think about you, Olivia— a lot — at the most inconvenient times I might add. You're in my head all the fuckin' time."
"You should go home and take your potty mouth with you," she says, turning her head toward the door.
"Something is happening between us. We have a connection."
"I can assure you, superintendent, nothing is happening between us."
"Our dinner meetings —all of our meetings —they're more than that — at least for me. I look forward to them. I look forward to spending time with you. Do you like me?" he asks quickly, his heart jackhammering inside his chest.
"What?" her eyes stretch wide in disbelief.
"Okay, fine, I'll say it first. I like you— a lot. I'm so fuckin' attracted to you it's driving me crazy."
"For once can you utter a complete sentence without using vulgar language?"
"Can you stop admonishing me for one minute?"
"Then stop talking like you're still some working-class stiff from Southie. Edison and Mike don't speak that way — at least not in public. You're a trained lawyer —speak like one. Clean up your disgusting language or prepare to die as a superintendent because you won't go any higher."
He sighs softly, shaking his head from side to side. He's conflicted. He knows that his circumstances are problematic. That he should turn around and go home, but he desires her. He wants to be with her.
"For obvious reasons I shouldn't like you, but I do," he says in a low and sincere voice. Olivia rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest.
"And what am I supposed to do with your likes, superintendent?"
"I don't know. I really don't. Tonight, I just wanted to have a real date with you, not another pretend meeting. I'm sorry you got lost," he says in earnest.
"A date? Are you out of your mind?"
"I wanted to take you someplace away from prying eyes. Someplace where we could really talk. I got anxious when I thought you weren't coming. I got angry. It's all my stuff. I screwed up."
He gazes down at the floor, feeling exposed and uncertain. Her brow crinkles when she realizes he's not in uniform.
So, he has been flirting with me all this time, she thinks, staring at his damp hair and suit.
"I don't think I'm taking too much for granted — but I think you feel about me the way I do about you. Tell me that we're not acting like a couple of kids who don't know when they're really fighting or just amusing themselves. Tell me you don't feel the same and I'll never mention this again."
A pause hangs in the air, thickening with each passing moment. They stare at each other for a long while.
"You're married."
"I am."
"You have children."
"Two."
"But you want to what … screw me?"
"Look at who has the potty mouth. I — I — want to be with you, yes," he stammers, and she smiles internally. There's something endearing about the nervousness in his voice.
"Have you ever slept with a Black woman?"
"No."
"Go home, superintendent. I'm not interested in fulfilling your fetish desires."
He takes a step toward her. "I'm attracted to you Olivia because you're beautiful and amazing and smart, not because of any kind of curiosity."
"What happens afterwards?"
"Whatever you want. It's your call. You make the rules."
She stares into his eyes, searching for a glimmer of deception. After a moment, she slowly unties the robe. His face blooms red. The flower belly-button ring is unexpected. He takes another step toward her, caresses her cheek with his large hand. His eyes silently asking for her consent. She nods and he slides an arm around her small bare waist, pulling her close to him. His tongue is in her mouth. She tastes like the nectar of the gods. He wants to kiss her for all of eternity.
Lips fused together she pushes the suit jacket down his shoulders. The jacket hits the floor with a thud —keys and phone spill from the pockets. She whispers in his ear, then leads him by the hand to the bedroom.