Dynamite & Whiskey

Chapter 2

"I know you're sweet on Andy Barber," your pudgy, balding editor grumbled at you from the other side of his desk. "But his kid's a fucking murderer. He's going down and he's taking his old man with him. Do your fucking job and cover it."

You tried not to fidget as you sat in the chair across from him, threadbare and uncomfortable compared to the large, leather chair you'd sat in two nights ago...

Stop thinking about that. You fucked up.

"We don't know for sure his son did it," you argued.

"Have I ever been wrong?" Lawrence shot back at you.

"Buster Parsons?" you reminded him.

Lawrence pushed his glasses up his nose, half-reading something on his computer screen. "Fuck Buster Parsons."

You chuckled at that. You'd never not remind him that he'd been wrong there.

Truthfully, you needed to back off the Barber story. Considering that you'd fucked him in his office, then taken him back to your small house and fucked him there too, you were no longer impartial.

Insane but not impartial.

"Maybe," you began slowly. "Maybe I shouldn't continue on this one, Lawrence... Maybe I could take something else."

"Horseshit," he growled, turning his attention to you. "You're my best reporter and this is the biggest story we've had in a while... I need you to do your job."

There was no changing his mind. By the time you made it home, your head was a mess. How could you make this work? How could you cover this story like Lawrence expected you to now?

His kid's a fucking murderer...

You felt so tired as you walked into your house, dropping your coat, purse, and briefcase on the couch. Kicking off your heels, you headed straight for your freezer and pulled your vodka bottle out. You needed something to slow your mind. It was going ninety fucking miles an hour.

Maybe Lawrence was right. Maybe you should just do your job, cover the Barber case...

And forget the other night ever happened.

It had just been sex after all. Mind-numbing, earth-shattering, epic sex granted. But you hadn't gone out on a date with Andy. You hadn't traded numbers or tried to get to know each other.

He was a man with a shattered family. His wife wasn't speaking to him and their marriage was over – he said – and his son was on trial for murder. Andy Barber needed to blow off steam that night and you let him in.

I want to see you again.

Shaking your head, you pulled out your vodka bottle, grabbed a shot glass from the cabinet. The icy liquor slid down your throat. Since you had a light lunch, you knew it would go straight to your head. You wanted it to. You wanted to be numb, to not think about this anymore.

It was all you'd thought about for the last couple of days. He was all you thought about. The way he'd touched you, loved you.

Andy Barber had taken control of you in a way you'd never experienced before. There was a desperation in his eyes, sure, that only hinted of his pain, his fear.

But his touch had been dominating, his desires accepting no refusal.

You took another shot. That one took your breath. A cold swallow. A cold realization.

With everything going on in his life right now, a physical relationship was all he could offer you. He'd left your body aching in the best ways. But the damage he could do to your heart?