Dirty Little Secrets (22 page)

She glanced down at her watch. It was only ten minutes later than the last time she looked.

Finally it was time to go and pick up James. She was giddy at the thought of spending time with him. She, Megan McCoy, was giddy. She didn’t even know she had that emotion in her limited repertoire. She could only shake her head at herself. She didn’t know what she was doing. Whatever it was that she and James had was unsustainable. But after last night she didn’t care. James was a decent man who made her feel good. She would let herself enjoy it until the natural conclusion presented itself.

Megan looked behind her once more to make sure the paparazzi were not around before she rang the doorbell.

James smiled down at her from the doorway. His blue pinstripe shirt was rolled to the elbow, exposing the tanned flesh of his muscled forearms. “Looking much brighter, wombat. Glad you’re feeling better.” He turned to lock the door, giving Megan an opportunity to freely ogle his backside.

She could not resist giving his bottom a playful tap. “You’re always looking good, man-whore. That is part of the problem.”

James turned around and smiled; his teeth almost impossibly white against his tan skin. “This man-whore has not had sex since the night you left so if you insist on grabbing my ass, I will drag you back inside and make up for lost time.”

Megan’s skin burned at the prospect. She had missed James, everything about him, his touch, his scent, his easy manner. She could forget herself with him, be the person he thought she was. “Well, if that’s all it takes.” She smiled as she reached around him and grabbed the taut muscles of his butt, pulling him in closer to her.

James shook his head before he gently kissed the tip of her nose. “I am a reformed man-whore. I have not gone this long without sex since I was sixteen. I am going to revel in my new-found virtue.”

Megan’s eyes narrowed. “Really?” she asked dubiously. A relationship without sex?

“Christ no, woman,” he smirked. “Celibacy is not a natural state. We will be sorting that right out.”

Megan did another quick look round for photographers before she pulled James’ head down for a kiss. When her lips met his, her body remembered just how much she had missed him. Despite everything that had happened between them, their bodies did not miss a beat, it was like no time had passed, they were doing what they were made for.

Too soon James pulled away from her, leaving her lips bereft, like they were missing a component vital to their wellbeing. Again he leaned down and gave her a chaste kiss, this time on her forehead. “We’re going to have sex,” James announced confidently. “I apologise in advance because you may not be able to walk properly in the morning.” He leaned down and kissed her mouth so quickly it was like he had never been there. “But we need to talk first.”

Megan let out a stream of air. He meant talk about feelings. There were few things worse than talking about feelings, the only one she could think of was actually feeling them.

James’ dark brows knit together. “YouOK? You have the look you get before you run.”

Megan shook her head. She wished he didn’t do that, have the ability to read her mind, or at least read her body. It was uncanny and more than a little off putting. She had to ask, “How can you tell when I am lying?”

James slipped his house keys into his pocket and reached for her hand. “You hesitate and then look to the left. Every time.”

Megan followed him to her car. Did she do that? Why had no one ever noticed that before? “Why did you tell me? Now I know to stare straight ahead and speak as quickly as I can.”

James climbed into the passenger side. The seat was too far forward to accommodate his long legs. Even after he put the seat all the way back, he looked uncomfortable, his size dwarfing her compact car to comical levels. “I like to think we are past lying. I never lie to you Megan. I hope you trust me enough to do the same.”

Megan turned away from him. She pretended to look over her shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. Did she trust him? The only answer she had was a cold knot in the pit of her stomach. If she was more intuitive or did not run from emotion she might be able to read her own body the way James read her face and know exactly how she felt. James would never physically hurt her, she knew that, and anything beyond that was academic because he would never get the opportunity to hurt her. In that respect their cards had always been on the table. He was doing a story on her, on Ben, no matter what. He had been honest. She trusted that.

They drove to the river. Once they parked it was a twenty minute hike. She picked the spot because it was perfectly secluded and because she had always wanted to share it with someone. She had discovered it running one morning. Along the shore of the river was an enclave of huge flat rocks, like a balcony suspended above the water below. Behind them there was nothing but dense trees and above them a field of bright blue sky. If she believed in a god, she would be inclined to believe he had created this space especially because it was too perfect to have happened by accident.

She had told Ben that they should have a picnic there sometime, but it had never happened. He had always been so busy. And now she wasn’t sure she would want to bring him here anyway. She shared everything with Ben but this place was something just for James. Something she could look back on once they had both moved on.

Megan shook off the sudden sentimentality and laid out the thick blue and white check blanket over the smooth rock. She set down the hamper and unpacked the contents. She had brought pastrami sandwiches courtesy of her favourite kosher deli as well as grapes, brie cheese, an artichoke quiche, and sparkling apple cider.

“Looks great. I won’t ask if you made anything. I know you don’t cook.” James smiled as he reached for a grape and popped it into his mouth.

“I did a lot of cooking growing up actually; it was just horrible. My specialty was Top Ramen with frozen vegetables, cheese and Heinz 57 sauce. I know it sounds awful but my brothers loved it and it covered the basic food groups. I am counting starch and MSG as food groups by the way.” Megan unfolded the white waxy deli paper of her sandwich.

“Sounds like my kind of food pyramid, as long as the base is made of alcohol and red meat.”

Megan shook her head. “How do you stay so fit? You have a far nicer body than you deserve.”

James shrugged his shoulders. “Genetics? My height might help too.”

Megan nodded her head in agreement. There was no room for fat on his body because every square inch of his 6’4” frame was covered in rock-hard muscle and sinew. She marvelled again how she could feel so at ease with someone who could inflict limitless amounts of pain if he chose.

James popped another grape in his mouth. When he swallowed he said, “I love cooking. My grandmother taught me. She was first generation Australian. Her parents emigrated from Sardinia.”

“You’re Italian? That makes sense, it explains your colouring. Was that Myrtle who you are naming your daughter after? Myrtle doesn’t sound very Italian.”

James smiled. “You remember about Adelaide?”

Megan nodded. “Yes, I remember you want to name your daughter after the serial killer capital of Australia. Apparently they also have the worst water quality in the country.”

James held up his hands in defeat as he grinned. “How do you even know that? It is also the city of churches too. Did you know that?”

Megan shook her head. She had indeed read that but she didn’t want him to think she had taken that keen an interest. She had had a moment of weakness after she left, where she tortured herself by looking up everything she could find about him. She thought it would be cathartic but it was just excruciating, a reminder of just how emotionally incompetent she was. She shook off the memory and changed the subject to neutral territory “So how did your Italian grandma end up being called Myrtle?”

“My great-grandparents wanted a proper Australian-sounding name so they bought a name book. Unfortunately they bought it in a secondhand shop and it was dated from the turn of the century. Immigrants, what can you do?” James smiled.

Megan opened the sparkling cider and poured a glass for James and then for herself. “It’s not just immigrants that name their children unusual things. When I first started working in DC, I had a client with a baby girl called Meconium.”

“No?!” James said dubiously.

“Yes, and it was even spelled correctly so at some point she would have had to look it up, because trust me she would not have known how to spell it, and yet she did not realise she had essentially named her daughter ‘first poop’. Compared to that, Myrtle is a beautiful name.”

James nodded his head in agreement. “I suppose it is all about perspective.”

“It really is. Compared to the people I prosecute I am sweetness and light.”

“You are sweet, Megan.”

Megan nearly spat out a mouthful of pastrami. She had not been called sweet since she left school. Her report cards always commented on how kindhearted and maternal she was. That was before she took control of her life.

“You are, Megan. The picture you gave me was the most considerate gift anyone has ever given me.”

Megan eyed him suspiciously. He was being serious.

“And all the pills and potions you bought me. That was a seriously nice thing to do. You could have just left me.”

“I nearly blinded you,” Megan protested. It was hardly sweet, it was damage limitation.

“We won’t dwell on that part. And don’t forget about the first night. We would not be together now if you hadn’t waited for me for hours at the hospital. The sex on the counter didn’t hurt either. Here’s to sex on the kitchen counter.” James held up his plastic glass to toast.

Megan clinked her glass against his. “To kitchen sex and nice guys who think I am sweet when I clearly am anything but.”

“Why don’t you want me to think you are nice? You are. When you’re not running scared, you are lovely.”

Megan shrugged her shoulders. She turned away and looked down into the white foam of the river. “I don’t want to disappoint you. Just like you’re honest, I like to be honest about who I am. I know I’m messed up. You should know that better than anyone else. I can’t do normal relationships. I can’t enjoy sex without alcohol. I find it easier to have sex with a man than have a proper conversation. The idea of being anyone’s girlfriend again scares the hell out of me. I can’t do it.”

“Are you done?”

Megan shook her head. “Isn’t that enough?”

James smiled. “It would be if it wasn’t all bullshit. You have been telling yourself you can’t do stuff so long, you have started to believe it. Megan you graduated first in your class. You can do anything you want to. You’re already a girlfriend, so that one is bullshit. You’re my girlfriend and you have been for a while, I just didn’t tell you. And the first night in the hotel we had sex and then talked. You say you can’t do that, but clearly you can. Again I didn’t point it out because of your propensity to run, but you did it. You’re not fooling me, woman.”

Megan bit her lip as she remembered their first night in the hotel. He was right, they did talk. “But I had been drinking,” she protested.

James nodded. “Yep, you were drunk enough to forget to pretend to be a bitch. That was a good night.” A wicked smile pulled on the corner of his mouth.

Megan took another bite of her sandwich as she considered his logic. “Or I am just a bitch and alcohol masks it.”

James put down his glass. “Why do you want me to see you as a bitch? I see your flaws. Trust me, sweetheart, even a myopic octogenarian wouldn’t struggle to see them. But you’re not a bitch and you don’t have any of the limitations you think you do. Those are all in your mind.”

James brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Megan bit her lip. “James…” she started but she did not know how to finish. She wanted to tell him that she only knew two roles for women, victim or heartless bitch. Women that were better than her, stronger, than her could strive to be something else, but she couldn’t. She would never risk going back to what she was before she met Ben. “I will only disappoint you.”

James shook his head. “You won’t disappoint me, Megan. I know you. Stop putting limits on yourself. Stop telling yourself what you can’t do. You’re already doing half of them. And if you stick with me, wombat, we will cross off everything else on your list. If I push you too hard, tell me you don’t want to, or tell me to fuck off, but don’t tell me you can’t.”

Megan took a deep breath. She did not answer right away; she let his words wash over her. “OK.” Megan hit his arm playfully. “Look at you, a smart and honest journalist. Will wonders never cease?”

James encircled her hand and brought it to his lips, placing the faintest kiss on her wrist. Her pulse rewarded the small action with a hurried cadence. “Still hate all journalists. We will have to work on crossing that one off the list soon.”

Megan laughed, remembering the advice he had just given her. “Fuck off,” she said sweetly before she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“Really, Megan? I give you an out and you use it on the journalist issue?”

“Do I only get to use it once? Well, that changes things.” She stopped speaking to pretend she was reflecting on the matter. “No wait, it wouldn’t. I would still use it on the journalist issue.”

“Honestly, woman, you are difficult.”

Megan made a sound of exasperation. “Exactly! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She cut off a piece of cheese and squished it as artfully as she could on a grape before she gave up and popped the whole thing in her mouth.

“Am I at least an exception to the all-journalists-are-scum rule?”

Megan sighed. He was pushing the issue. She supposed he was right in doing so. She wouldn’t be happy for someone to denigrate her profession. “It’s not fair for me to say all journalists are scum. I only personally know one journalist and he is the most moral person I have ever met. I hate journalists in the same way I hated Lauren Grant in fifth grade for telling everyone the reason I always wore long-sleeved shirts was because I had bruises from my stepdad, and the same way I hated Francesca Dickens at Columbia for telling everyone I slept around. Both of those things were true by the way, but they are nobody’s business. So much of the press is cattiness and gossip. People are entitled to their secrets. Being married to Ben means opening up the papers every morning and being scared about reading something about myself. I have things I want to keep private like anyone else, but because I’m in the public eye people think they are entitled to know everything about me, to judge me. I hate that. I hate being judged. I judge myself enough; I don’t need anyone else to help.”