I exit the house and head straight to my 1969 Chevy Camaro Z28. If I could pick any car in the entire world, this is the one I’d pick. I saved up for months after starting my new job to be able to afford this baby. Of course, a few months of the side business is what really paid for this girl. Otherwise, if I was a regular mechanic, I’d probably still be driving my 1992 Chevy Silverado with rusted out wheel wells.
Sliding behind the wheel, I fire up the three-oh-two engine and let the horses purr. I quickly throw the manual transmission in gear, and pull out onto the road, heading towards my apartment.
Pulling into the small lot behind my run-down apartment, I leave my car and walk down the busy street towards the coffee shop on the corner. My head is down as I watch the sidewalk, yet the entire way I’m taking in everyone around me with precision and skill, without even so much as a glance up.
Inside, I order a large black coffee before finding an empty booth at the back of the coffee house. There are six people at tables throughout the small business and two more in line for coffee. Five women and three men. Ages range from early twenties to late fifties. I just start to glance over a newspaper left on the table when I sense his presence as he enters the coffee shop. Without looking up, I count how many steps it takes him to get to my table, all the while it looks like I’m giving my full attention to the newspaper.
“Afternoon,” he says without making eye contact.
“There’s a deal tonight.”
“I got the details. We’ll watch it and get all we need for the case, but we won’t engage him.”
“Good,” I answer while scanning the article about lower gas prices. After several moments of silence, I finally say, “I’m close, Luke.”
“I know. I read the report this morning. Special Agent in Charge is very happy with how this case is unfolding. You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m ready for this shit to be done,” I confess to my brother. No way can I tell him just how much I want this case to be over. The lines are blurred. I’m starting to not be able to tell where Blake Crisp begins and Blake Thomas ends. They’re becoming one, and frankly, that scares the shit out of me.
“I hear ya, man. I’d love to stay and shoot the shit with ya, but I better get out of here.”
“Yeah.” Our meetings are always few and far between anymore. The text messages are sporadic and his replies, non-existent. I’m feeding him intel, plain and simple. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to sit down and enjoy a beer with my brother again. I have no idea what is going on in his life, nor the lives of our parents. Luke arranged an afternoon meeting with them six months back. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do: walk away at the end of that afternoon, knowing that it would be the last time I saw them until we closed this case.
“Be safe, brother,” he says moments before sliding out of the booth. I nod, keeping my eyes on the paper, all the while watching him exit the coffee shop from my peripheral vision.
I sit and drink my cup of coffee for another six minutes before tossing the newspaper down on the table and exiting out the front door, coffee cup in hand. I make my way back the two blocks to my apartment building, letting myself in to the small place I’ve called home for two long years.
I grab a Budweiser out of the fridge and plop down on the old, worn out couch. Settling on the first sporting event I find, I quickly scan the horizon out of the dingy window. Saying goodbye to my parents that day had definitely been difficult, but it doesn’t quite match the ache I felt inside the morning I walked out of Carly’s apartment.
I still picture her smiling face, those dark brown eyes, and the noises she made while I was buried deep inside of her. I’ve learned to scratch the itch over the past two years, but my body still craves her. Shit, I’m hard just thinking about her, which seems to happen each and every time she permeates my thoughts. My time with her was cut short. Cut short by my job, by my commitment to the bureau, by my need to take down a criminal.
Watching her sleep in the pre-morning light is the mental image I take with me every night to bed. When I find myself with another woman, I replace her face with an olive complexion and black hair. I don’t mean to be a douche bag, but I can’t help it. Whoever she is isn’t who I want in my bed. But she’ll do for the time being.
I never stay the night, nor does she get the chance to warm my bed. I want release, plain and simple, and I make sure she knows the score before we even get to the bedroom. I take what my body needs, and leave before she can even say goodbye. No emotions. No future.