Walking over to the side table, I set my bag down with a little more force than necessary. Then I head over to the kitchen to put some space between us and grab a glass of water.
He removes his jacket and tosses it over the back of my couch, as though settling in. I sigh internally, tapping my fingers against the countertop.
I’m of half a mind to fuck him just so he’ll go, but I can’t summon the energy.
“Look, Mason, I’m not in a good headspace right now.” I turn to face him fully. “I have a ton of prep to do for a big interview tomorrow with a fucked-up inmate. It’s really not a good time.”
“Well, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going to be okay?”
I shrug off his concern, along with my twinge of guilt for being so distant with him. It’s the only way I can do relationships. If you can even call it that.
“I will be. I don’t have a choice,” I say. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”
“That’s weird. Why?”
“Wish I knew.”
Mason comes around the counter, trapping me as he steps close and rests his hand on the curve of my waist. I go rigid at his nearness and immediately scold myself. Physical connection is all I’ve ever asked from this man. I can’t be upset when he seeks me out for that very reason.
“You know, I’m more than happy to rid you of the stress you’re feeling.” After tugging me toward him, he grazes my ear with his lips.
My heart beats faster at his touch. Not with anticipation. With a vague sense of dread.
He presses his body to mine and kisses me, his lips firm. Insistent. It’s a kiss of lust. Of a man wanting a woman.
Except I’m not that woman tonight.
I gently push him away. “I’m not in the mood.”
He frowns at my sudden rejection. “What do you mean?”
“I told you. I just want to relax tonight.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”
Mason studies me, his gaze narrowing. Intensifying. I scrutinize him in return, my brain rapidly firing data through my synapses, giving me insight in seconds. The slight furrow of his brow, an almost imperceptible crease, signals anger brewing beneath the surface. Then his eyes darken with intent.
This swift, but significant, change puts me on edge. However, I don’t take a step back as instinct demands. I hold position, my stance challenging.
Mere seconds feel like hours as I wait for him to react.
Mason clears his throat in a deliberate effort to regain composure. A quick shake of his head follows as though he’s attempting to dismiss troubling thoughts or aggressive impulses that have momentarily broken through his usual demeanor. I squint at him when he squares his shoulders and fists his hands at his sides, a clear sign of suppressed aggression.
While never taking my eyes from him, I grab my abandoned glass and take a sip. If need be, I’ll chuck the water in his face to snap him out of whatever emotional state he’s in.
Mason blows out a breath. “You’re such a bitch, you know that?”
I shrug. “Maybe I am, but did you really think you could show up unannounced and try to fuck me? Because that’s just what happened. I told you twice that I’m not having sex tonight, so you don’t have the right to be pissed.”
“I don’t know why I try with you.” He glares at me. “You’re obviously not worth my time.”
“Go home.”
He grabs his jacket and stalks toward the door. I don’t say goodbye. But I also refrain from saying “fuck you.” A win in my book.
A few seconds later he slams the door shut. I roll my eyes and walk over to lock it.
Another “relationship” down the drain.
Not that I put much effort into it. However, I can’t deny it’s a pattern too familiar, too predictable.
I exhale deeply, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders as I retreat into the solitude that has become my fortress.
It’s not just Mason, or the ones before him. It’s a series of emotional barricades that I’ve meticulously constructed over the years. Men come and go, their presence temporary and their impact minimal. I find myself unable to forge anything deeper than superficial attachments, an emotional aloofness that I wear like armor.
Something I’ve both cursed and cherished.
As I pour myself a glass of wine, the bitter truth settles in: My inability to emotionally connect isn’t just a facet of my personality. It’s a scar, a deep-seated residue from the trauma of my childhood. The murder of my parents, a brutal and senseless act, left me orphaned and alone, thrusting me into a world devoid of warmth. That coldness settled deep within me, shaping my interactions, freezing the potential for genuine intimacy.
It also created my need to understand the criminal mind. To understand how someone could rape, torture, and then brutally murder two innocent people.
Living through such horror at a young age, I learned to shut down, to protect myself from the vulnerabilities that open hearts endure. The fear of losing someone else, the potential of another devastating heartbreak, has kept me at arm’s length from anyone who might stir deeper emotions.
Except my best friend.
I grab my phone and my wine glass before settling on the couch. Then I dial Sarah’s number. She answers on the second ring. Thank goodness.
“What did you do?”
I laugh at her greeting. “I threw Mason out.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
She laughs quietly, a mix of exasperation and amusement clear in her voice. “Geneva, what are you going to do? It’s like a revolving door with you two.”
I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor dancing on my tongue as I consider her words. “I don’t know. It’s always the same with him—or anyone, really. I get bored after a while. Then, I push them away.”
“I know you’re the one with a doctorate, but I hate to tell you that’s unhealthy behavior.”
“I know,” I admit in a whisper.
My gaze drifts to the city outside, the myriad lights a stark contrast to the darkness that feels like it’s creeping in around the edges of my mind. Did I project that same darkness on Mason? Wanting to paint him as an overly aggressive person so I could walk away without a backward glance? Sure, he could be an asshole but he’d never shown a possibility of violence.
“Every time I think I might be able to change, I end up right back here.” I sigh. “Alone.”
“You’re not alone, Gen. You have me.”
I smile, grateful for her understanding. “I know you’re here. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine.” I pause, gathering my nerve to give voice to my question. “How’d you do it?”
“What? Move on after being raped?”
I flinch. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”
Sarah cuts me off gently. “No, it’s okay. It’s not something I enjoy doing, but it’s good to talk about it sometimes. Especially with you. If you hadn’t gotten on the witness stand, that asshole would still be on the streets.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.”
There’s a moment of silence as she gathers her thoughts.
“It’s not like there’s a formula, Gen,” she starts, her voice steady. “For a long time, I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone, not even myself. But then I realized, staying stuck in that pain wasn’t what I wanted for my life.
“I started therapy,” she continues. “And I mean really committed to it, not just going through the motions. Which I’m sure you can appreciate, given your occupation.” She chuckles briefly, but then her voice turns serious. “It was difficult, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But over time, it helped me understand that what happened wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have to let it define my entire existence.”