Riding Dirty (8 page)

She didn’t know.

After she disabled the air conditioner, she returned to her desk. She was wearing a gray skirt suit with a sleeveless, floral-print blouse. No garter belt or stockings today. Her bra was bright pink. If she removed the jacket, her bra would be visible through the sheer fabric of her blouse, but the look wasn’t that daring. She undid a few more buttons.

Her strategy was to entice Cole without being obvious. She wanted him to think
he
was chasing
her
, so a certain amount of subtlety was in order. But time was of the essence. He could get pulled from the assignment for failing to cooperate. Damon already suspected Cole of withholding information.

There was another glitch in the plan: she actually
liked
him, and that was dangerous. She’d sympathized with clients before, but she’d never had to recuse herself from an evaluation. Her fluttery-stomach feelings for Cole were inappropriate on every level. They also might compromise her mission if she got too emotionally attached.

She had to act now, before she changed her mind about using him.

Too nervous to sit still, she went to the staff lounge. Her throat was dry as a bone, and she’d forgotten her bottled water. She found a clear plastic pitcher under the sink and washed it. After adding ice, she filled it up. There was a bag of freshly picked lemons on the table, so she sliced one and tossed it in. Very refreshing.

She carried the pitcher back to the office, along with some paper cups, in case Cole wanted a drink. It was the least she could do. The temperature was in the high nineties today. Without a/c, the room would become a sweat lodge.

She distracted herself for a few minutes by making notes about other patients. She’d seen a police officer in Palm Springs with PTSD this morning. She spent Mondays and Wednesdays counseling women at the Ironwood Female Detention Facility. It was interesting, important work, but she wasn’t fulfilled. Because she had no outlet, no comfort. No personal life. No one to come home to and curl up with at the end of a hard day. She didn’t know if she was capable of trusting a man with her body, let alone her heart. She couldn’t imagine starting a family. Not when she felt so unsafe. How could she bring a child into a world where real monsters roamed free, and might come after her?

She didn’t have a normal life. She couldn’t have one. She could have only this cold, satisfying revenge.

After what seemed like hours, Cole knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said, standing behind her desk.

He had his leather vest draped over one arm instead of on his back, probably in deference to her anxiety attack. Otherwise his appearance was the same. White T-shirt, snug around the biceps. Basic Levi’s. Motorcycle boots. He must shower between work and these appointments, because his clothes were clean.

He looked good. Healthy. Handsome.

Heat rose to her cheeks as he gave her a similar perusal. His gaze zeroed in on her cleavage, darkening with interest. What had felt demure a moment ago now seemed desperate. She shouldn’t have unbuttoned so far.

“How are you?” she asked, clearing her throat.

He made a noncommittal sound and helped himself to a seat. His demeanor was less cautious than last week but also more agitated. He took up a lot of space, legs spread wide, expression challenging.

Mia picked up her notebook and crossed the room, sitting down across from him. “Is something bothering you?”

“Just your DA boyfriend.”

She didn’t correct his wording. “What did he do?”

“I don’t see why I should have to meet with him unless I have information. Getting interrogated twice a week for no reason is bullshit. I have to leave work early, and it looks suspicious.”

“It’s not unusual for an inmate with your criminal history to have biweekly visits with a parole officer in the first month after release.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I don’t like being hassled and accused of withholding evidence.”

Mia would be very surprised if Cole
wasn’t
withholding evidence. “I can speak to Investigator Vargas on your behalf.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I take care of my own business. And I don’t want you speaking to him. I don’t want you doing anything with him.”

She tightened her grip on the notebook, flustered. Normally she would offer a gentle rebuke if a male client acted possessive or voiced an interest in looking up her skirt. With Cole, she let it slide. “Let’s talk about your homework.”

“Homework?”

“I asked you to think about how you express feelings other than anger.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Did you come to any conclusions?”

He leaned back in the chair, considering. “I think I avoid feelings altogether. Or I keep a lid on them, bottled up tight. But what I put in there isn’t what comes out. Grief or whatever gets converted into anger. Then it boils over.”

Mia couldn’t believe how good he was at this. After two sessions, he was more self-aware than some clients who’d gone through years of therapy. “Do you know why you avoid your feelings?”

“Because crying is weak, I guess. I prefer to stay in control.”

“But you aren’t always in control of your anger.”

“No. I’m not.”

“Has that affected your life in negative ways?”

He glanced out the window. “It has, but I don’t regret the violence I’ve done. The guy I stabbed had it coming to him.”

“Do you believe in the justice system?”

“Do you?”

Mia didn’t want to answer that. She’d had a different outlook since Philip’s murder. Dangerous criminals went free all the time. The rapist Cole stabbed might have gotten away with a slap on the wrist.

She still had the utmost respect for law officers, many of whom were underpaid and underappreciated, but working behind the scenes with them had painted a dismal picture. Their failures and frustrations resonated with her. So did the stories of the troubled women she counseled in jail.

“The majority of convicts come from disadvantaged homes,” she said, acknowledging that the system was flawed. “Poverty, abuse, drug addiction. There’s also a disproportionate amount of nonwhite inmates. Prisons are a huge moneymaking industry.”

“You should put that on a picket sign.”

“I’m sensing some hostility. Why?”

“Because I’m not a victim, helpless to overcome my poor, sad childhood. My parents didn’t abuse me.”

“Neglect is a form of abuse.”

“I’m responsible for my own actions,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But I agree that the system is fucked up. That’s why guys like me join outlaw clubs. Instead of trying to change society, we reject it.”

“Do you want to change yourself?”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Maybe.”

Mia knew then that she couldn’t use him to get revenge on her enemies. He wasn’t the empty-headed thug she’d expected. She’d seen that from the start. He was capable of turning his life around. More capable than she was, perhaps.

There was something to be said for hard-knocks resilience. She’d grown up in comfort, surrounded by love, believing in fairness and peace. She hadn’t been prepared for the rug to get pulled out from under her. Cole didn’t have that safety blanket. He’d been able to roll with the punches.

She took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension ebb. She’d been on edge and obsessed with this crazy plan for weeks. The nervous energy had been heady and revitalizing. She’d embraced the rush of sensations like an addict, wanting more.

Now she had to let it go. Only a madwoman would have entertained the idea she’d dreamed up. Did she really think she could seduce Cole, feed him a few details about her past, and sit back while he hunted down her husband’s killers? If he’d actually done it, and been caught, he’d have spent the rest of his life in prison. This was California, home of the Three Strikes law. He had two strikes already. On the third, they’d throw away the key. She couldn’t have lived with that on her conscience. She wasn’t really living at the moment, but more death wasn’t the answer.

Although she felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, her relief was tempered by sorrow. Abandoning her plan meant giving up on vengeance for Philip. It meant moving on without closure.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she focused on Cole. He was waiting for her to speak, watching her face with concern. “There’s a strong correlation between anger, self-control and prison. I think you’ll see a major improvement if you work on the way you deal with feelings. You might be able to curb your impulses and avoid another felony arrest.”

“The stakes are pretty high,” he said.

“Yes. I assume you don’t want a life sentence.”

“I’d rather die.”

Guilt speared through her. “Talking with me is a good start. You can learn to release your emotions instead of keeping them bottled up inside.”

He seemed unconvinced. “I don’t think talking is the answer.”

“No?”

“This—” he gestured to the space between them “—isn’t what I need.”

“What do you need?”

“Some other kind of release.”

“Sex?”

“Not just that.”

“Intimacy?”

After mulling it over, he nodded.

“Did you have that the other night, with...”

“No,” he said. “We just fucked.”

She considered his suggestion. Having counseled female inmates about sexual issues on a number of occasions, she was familiar with their struggles. “How did you handle the lack of sex in prison? Assuming you didn’t have any. No judgment if you did.”

“I went without.”

“What about friendly contact?”

“Do fights count?”

“No,” she said, smiling at his joke.

“We had a monthly football game with the guards. I wouldn’t call the contact friendly, but there was lots of it.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not in a gay way, but yeah. I did.”

“Everyone needs to be touched. It’s a basic human desire, like communicating with others and looking at faces. There’s no shame in wanting sexual contact, or engaging in same-sex contact, even if that’s not your preference.”

“I never got that desperate.”

“Did you have other outlets?”

“Outlets?”

“Ways to cope with being incarcerated.”

“I worked on laundry detail forty hours a week. I lifted weights, wrote letters, read books.”

“You like to read?”

“There was nothing else to do, besides jerk off. And even that gets old when all you have is distant memories of pussy, no privacy and no good porn.”

“You didn’t have porn?”

“Not much. A few wrinkled pages of a dirty magazine.”

“What about fantasies?”

His gaze darkened. “What about them?”

She looked away, flustered. “Being able to engage your mind is a huge asset in this process. Healthy outlets like reading can help you endure the stress of your assignment, just as they helped you pass time in prison.”

He fell silent, drumming his fingertips against the arm of the chair.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t want healthy outlets,” he said. “I want freedom. Escape.”

“You’ve mentioned freedom and intimacy as your pressing desires. Do you think you can attain them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t escape for obvious reasons, so freedom’s out. I can fuck a different woman every night, but I can’t have a real girlfriend. I can’t start a relationship right now. I can’t talk to anyone about what I’m doing.”

She nodded her understanding. “You can talk to me.”

His eyes drifted down the front of her blouse. “I don’t want to
talk
to you, Mia.”

It was clear what he did want, and why. She couldn’t blame him for craving sex and intimacy. They were universal needs. Everyone wanted someone special to touch and care about and connect with. She felt the same ache he did. She’d also anticipated this reaction from him. Encouraged it, so she could use his sexual appetite against him. Although she’d decided not to seduce him, her body hadn’t caught the memo. When he looked at her breasts, her nipples pebbled against the lace of her bra. The lack of air-conditioning was very noticeable now. Her jacket felt stifling, and she was aware of dampness under her arms.

“It’s fucking hot in here,” he said, frustrated.

She stood to check the temperature gauge on the wall. Unfortunately, she’d broken it.

“I don’t think the a/c is working.” She shrugged out of her jacket, cheeks flaming. There was nothing she could do to cool the room. They’d just have to be sweaty together. “We can look for another office, but I’m not sure what’s available.”

“Try the window.”

Although it was still warm outside, there might be a breeze to take advantage of. She approached the dual panes and released the locking clasp. When she attempted to push the lower pane up, it wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck.”

“Let me,” he said behind her.

Mia hadn’t heard him approach. Instead of waiting for her to step aside, he put his arms around her and helped her open the window. He was strong enough to lift the panel on his own, so the teamwork was unnecessary. But she understood why he did it. He wanted to touch her, and he was better at expressing himself physically.

The window gave way with sudden ease. As they both straightened, his body aligned with hers, bringing a dizzying rush of sensations. She felt a slight breeze coming through the screen, rippling through her sheer blouse. His denim fly pressed against her bottom. His well-muscled arms framed hers from shoulder to wrist. She shivered, imagining his hands on her breasts and his lips on her neck.

He didn’t take advantage of her proximity by groping her. He retreated, putting a few inches of space between them. Just enough room for her to turn around and face him. It was difficult to meet his eyes. She was aroused, her heart pounding and her skin flushed. Without the jacket, she felt overexposed. Her cleavage was visible, her nipples stiff. The blouse was damp and practically see-through.

He stared at the provocative display as if mesmerized. She swallowed hard, bracing her hands on the window frame. His nostrils flared with interest. He wanted her—the evidence was straining at the fly of his jeans. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he’d lift her up on the desk and plunder her, right here and now. He’d tear off her panties and unbutton his fly. Then she’d wrap her legs around his waist, gasping as he thrust inside her.