The Girl With No Name

Chapter Sixteen

I awoke to a still and fuzzy calm, face buried in the softness of a pillow, hair askew and shielding my eyes from the sun's red gleam as it rose above the skyline. My brain felt foggy, lethargic, and in desperate need of substance. Cognitive thoughts were difficult to process.

Beneath the sheets, my body felt sore in the most wonderful of ways - hips aching, muscles tense. Every limb was light and airy but, at the same time, felt as though they'd been pumped full of lead. I stretched, rolling like a wave, and cringed slightly at the sharp sensations that erupted in my lower half.

Still, despite the twinges, I felt satisfied and fell into the sheets, content.

Then memory kicked in.

My placation slowly morphed into horror as my mind replayed images of echoed gasps and gyrating bodies and oh sweet Jesus what did I do?

Rolling onto my back, trying my best to ignore how the sheets clung to my skin. Slightly fearful, I looked around, peeking from behind my quilted aegis, and assessed the situation.

I was naked - bad.
L was not in the room - good.
But I could hear typing - bad.
I could also smell coffee . . . inconclusive

With a groan, I yanked the sheets over my head and wished that I was dreaming. When I pulled the sheets back and stared at the same clean white ceiling, my groan only got louder.

This was bad. This was so bad. Why? Why had I done that? Jesus, what even was that? Sympathy sex? Emotional coercion? Who knows.

It had been something that, in that moment, I had wanted. God I had wanted it. I'd never admit it (especially not to the detective) but some part of me needed it. All the stress, all the late nights, all that built-up tension - gone. I felt like a new woman; refreshed and invigorated.

But was it worth the consequences I'd brought down on myself and the detective? We could never be the same after this. His powers of repression may have been excellent but mine certainly weren't. I didn't think I could look at him without thinking about what we'd done and, considering we lived in pretty close quarters, it wasn't possible to avoid him until the case's completion.

Refusing to think on it anymore before I'd had my morning coffee, I hauled myself from the bed with a wobble, the floor cool and crisp beneath my toes. Gingerly, I danced around my shameful trail of tossed clothing, stopping with a sigh when I noticed my bra dangling off the lamp shade.

Unsurprisingly, all of L's clothes had disappeared - as had he - leaving only mine scattered wildly across the room, the one remaining sign that something raunchy had gone down.

Frowning, I wondered what had encouraged the detective to leave. He was still there when I fell asleep, laying off to the side - not one for cuddles clearly - but he was there. Heart sinking, I wondered if perhaps he felt guilty; that he'd somehow taken advantage. I did cry after all, and we were both so tired. Needless to say, our sense of judgement wasn't as rational as it could have been.

What if he felt used? A means to an end. Something to be consumed and then discarded when it wasn't needed anymore. I hoped he knew me better than that. I might've been an emotional trainwreck but I was by no means a user.

Oh God, would he expect more from this? Did I just acquire myself a needy girlfriend?

Tugging on the hoodie I saved only for drug-busts and menstruation, I quickly got dressed, shimmying into the ensuite as quietly as I could. The sounds of computer tapping persisted, as did my palpitations.

The second I switched on the light to that bathroom, I nearly gasped at the sight of myself in the mirror.

Hickies littered my chest like a *Pollock painting, making me look like I'd just lost three rounds in an airsoft game. My skin was flushed and shining with sweat, the bags under my eyes more pronounced than ever. My hair was very much doing its own thing, ends sticking out and standing to attention.