Page 31 of Only the Wicked
Evie Thompson
Heard you’re coming to town. Time for drinks?
* * *
Interesting.
What does a newly minted assistant attorney in the US Attorney General’s office want with me? I’ve met her a few times. Her father’s a client. A good guy. She’s in the criminal division if I recall correctly.
I hold the phone up to my mouth and dictate: “I get in Friday. I’m open after four.”
I double-check the message and hit send.
One annoying email from Alex about a meeting I declined.
Nothing from Miles. Seems he’s still forcing the holiday on me. It’s just as well. I’m enjoying my break.
When I finish up in the bathroom, I exit and find Sydney is beneath the comforter. A crack of thunder shakes the room. The rain lashes the glass, but the storm might be lessening. It’s been years since I experienced the wrath of a southern quencher. As a kid, I’d sit by the window and watch mesmerized as bolts of lightning lit the darkened sky, and I’d imagine Zeus high above, furious at the wicked minions below who failed to meet his expectations.
“Do you think there’s flooding?”
“Probably not here,” I answer with authority, although the truth is I’m not an expert on this section of North Carolina. But I did read about the catastrophic flood that happened after Hurricane Helene, and while all of western North Carolina felt the impact, Asheville took a much more significant hit than the Highlands.
“Do you have an extra charger?” I wiggle my phone. If she doesn’t, then it’s the fates intervening and I’ll brave the storm.
“Yeah.” The sheet pulls tight over her breasts as she rises to point to her luggage. She’s still clad in only her lace thong and that knowledge has far more appeal than it should. “There’s a small, zippered bag beside my cosmetics bag. Should have extra chargers.”
Open on the luggage rack, zippered bags fill both sides of the open suitcase. Impressive organization.
After plugging my phone into a wall outlet and leaving it silent but charging, I flick off the lamp and head over to the far side of the bed.
“What?” she asks as I pull back the covers, let my slacks fall to the floor, and climb into the plush bed.
“This seems remarkably domestic,” I admit.
It’s one thing to hook up and crash. It’s another to climb into bed beside a gorgeous woman one barely knows and talk.
She settles into her pillow, rolling on her side to face me, her expression a mix of knowing and amused.
The cool sheets surround my legs and torso and as my body relaxes into the cocoon, I mimic her position, facing her. With the rain pattering outside and the wind howling, lying here like this with a stranger strikes me as eerily similar to summer camp. Only then, we were in bunks separated by a narrow galley, and I talked to dudes. Now, I’m across from an insanely attractive woman who I’m apparently not going to fuck tonight. Or possibly this week.
“Domestic? Is sleeping over in my bed giving you flashbacks of past relationships?”
She’s perceptive.
“And summer camp,” I add defensively.
“What?” She laughs and I grin.
Beneath the covers, my leg strays seeking heat. Our legs tangle, removing any similarity to camp.
“Are you scared of storms?”
Minutes have passed since lightning struck, but I can’t help but wonder. She invited me to stay, after all.
“No. I moved around a lot, saw all kinds of weather. I’ve never been scared.”
“No fear?”
