Page 91 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“Yeah. Oh.”

“My purse was on top of it,” I say, pointing to the side table where his briefcase rests, and my purse still sitting on the floor. “I knocked things over when I was shutting off my alarm, and it fell. I collected everything and put it back in the folder, but…” I look down at the folder for a moment. “I know what it is,” I say quietly. “I saw Frank’s mugshot.”

“I see,” he says.

I stand there, frozen in place for a long span of seconds. Gabriel’s eyes drift back and forth from the folder to my face, brows furrowed pensively and lips pursed. Eventually his face relaxes, and he places the bowls on the table and sits down to pour flakes into them.

“Well?” he says, grinning at me with no trace of concern on his face, and pats the chair beside his. “You just gonna stand there or what? You’ve got the milk and spoons, remember?”

I sit down and pour the milk, but I’m still confused and more than a little concerned. I was worried that if I looked, I might have had to lie to him about it. Since I didn’t look, I have nothing to lie about, but why didn’t he ask the obvious question? Is it because he trusts me? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to lie to him?

I don’t know the answer to that, and it’s eating me up inside.

“I didn’t look,” I say, glancing over at Gabriel.

“I know,” he says, putting down his spoon and taking one of my hands in both of his. “I know you didn’t. I didn’t even need to ask.”

We finish our cereal in comfortable silence broken only by the crunching of flakes and slurped-up milk from the bottom of the bowl, and then I gather the dishes while Gabriel puts away the milk and the half-full box.

“I’ll wash this stuff by hand,” I tell him. “No need to run the dishwasher for just these.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says.

But his body, pressed up against me from behind, has an entirely different message. It’s wordless, but so much stronger than words could be, with his lips on my neck, his hands underneath the borrowed tee shirt caressing my hips and belly. One of his hands strays higher, and the other makes my legs shake as it dips lower.

“What happened to not stopping me?” I murmur, letting my head fall back against his shoulder, giving him clear access to all the sensitive places on my neck and throat.

“I didn’t say Iwouldn’tstop you,” he whispers in my ear. “I challenged you not toletme stop you. We have some time yet. Let’s go back to bed.”

“I’d really, really love… Oh my God,” I gasp, as he finds something particularly sensitive. “I’m going to be late for work, though.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m aiming for,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m the boss.”

“No, I mean, I’malreadygoing to be on the edge of being late,” I tell him. “I have to go home first. I’m not going to work wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“You could wear that shirt,” he says, but he’s not serious: his hands retreat slowly until he’s simply hugging me from behind. “Or something else of mine, maybe?”

“I don’t think this is quite appropriate for work,” I say, then start giggling as I continue: “And if you’ve got a clean bra and panties, and a skirt and top that I could wear, and shoes in my size, then we need to have a talk, buster.”

“Oh, fine. I suppose I can wait until tonight.”

“I wish we didn’t have to,” I sigh regretfully, draining the sink and holding up a clean bowl as I dry it with a towel before putting it away. “The dishes, um. They’re not all that was, y’know, wet,” I say, blushing and unused to being so open and frank about such things.

“I know,” he says, winking at me. “I was there.”

It doesn’t take me long to get dressed. I don’t need to do my hair or makeup and in only minutes I’m at the front door. I bend down to pick up my purse—bending at the hips, not the knees, wiggling a bit to give my guy a little show—and see something under the couch.

“Hello, what’s this?” I say. I can’t quite reach it, and drop to my knees.

It’s a photograph of several flat, white disks next to a ruler, which shows them to be about a quarter of an inch in diameter. Some of them have the word ASPIRIN stamped into the face.

“What’d you find?” Gabriel asks, walking over.

“It was under the couch,” I say, handing it to him. “It must have come out of... y’know. The folder. And I didn’t see it before.”

“Ah. Yeah, that’s what it is,” he says, taking the picture and tucking it back in the file.

“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have looked at it.”

---