Chapter 12: Beaten At My Own Game

Rowan's POV

The only person I have ever trusted was myself. Trust was a commodity I could never afford. It's not because I haven't tried. It's because I have learned not to.

I knew how much it costs to trust, just as I knew the cost of betrayal. I have been abandoned by family, and I have watched friends drop me at the first sign of trouble and acquaintances sacrifice me to save their asses. I have learned the hard way that a man’s best friend is himself.

Everyone, to me, was a target. I was a pro at what I do. I was sleek, smooth, and fast. Sometimes the law catches on. Though I have always wriggled free—charged several times and never convicted—I had learned over time that the police most times do not want the culprit for the crime. They want a fall guy, and that was one thing I would never be.

This wasn't the first time I would be accused of something I didn't do, though this was the first time it would be a murder charge. But like always, I would wriggle free by doing this my way, trusting nobody else but me.

The grumpy officer pushed me into the interrogation room for perhaps the twentieth time today. He made a move to smack me across the face when I resisted his push a little. He thought I would flinch. But I looked him right in the eye, grinning against the hate in them. I stood my ground before him. I was taller, and though he was bigger, I was able to grin him down.

I was scared of no one. Not some cops. Not a man or a woman. Not even the devil could rattle me. The only person that could shake me to my core was myself. I was my own devil, and I was my own god.

He lost his bravado as his hand stilled in the air. He pushed me into the room then, and the door shut with a bang. It was then I looked into the room. Depressing to some, yeah, with the bleak walls and bad lighting. It didn't faze me, not even a little. I have been in worse holes than this. And like always, I would get out, trusting just myself.

The detective laid her head on her hands, folded on the table. One would have thought the bang the other officer made with the door would have stirred her up. It didn't. She buried her face into the desk, her shoulders sagging against her slightly thick body.

Now, she didn't look proud, confident, and authoritative as she had always done. Now, she looked fragile, delicate, and helpless. There was something about her that tugged at some place in my heart, just like last night—something about her that wanted me to trust her. But I couldn't. Trust was something I couldn't afford. The only thing I could substitute for trust was leverage. And the fact that she was my alibi was a flimsy one at best. I needed a stronger one.

I dragged my chair forward, and I sat down carefully. The squish of my back on the chair stirred her then, and she raised her head from the table. She cleaned her eyes gently with the back of her hands. She tried to hide it, cleaning it off, but I saw it, the dark imprints of moisture against her smooth olive skin just beneath her eyes. She was crying. Why? What was so serious about her being my alibi that would make her cry? What could have reduced a woman so proud and confident to one that looked helpless before me? And importantly, why do I care? I have never cared about anyone anyway, not even myself.

She dragged a file closer to her chest and leaned back on her seat, carrying her eyes to me—a beautiful pair of pale grey orbs, like frosted glass. They seemed like a cage to her soul, a cage that never lets her out and never lets anyone in.

She wasn't the kind of girl I dealt with. She wasn't glamorous, and she wasn't super pretty either. She was what could be considered average, not too pretty, and not ugly either, just enough to have gotten me to stay yesterday. But there had been something else about her that caught me yesterday, the same thing that made my stare linger now on her face, tracing the razor-straight bob cut, bland cop-like hairstyle she wore, and the serious expression slowly dominating her face. That same thing tugging at some part of me—a mystery I couldn't solve until now.

“Mr. Rowan Drake,” she said. She made me a sad smile, looking more at the file before her than at my face. “Why did you kill, Ms. Cecilia Rosewood?”

I was about to throw my head to relax on my hands behind me again, reclining on the seat, but I stopped. I threw my hands to the desk instead. I grinned at her, masking the sharp tremor that danced through me with it. “Is this the angle you want to take it now, Detective? You and I both know I didn't kill her because…” I paused, turning fast to the camera. The red light at its center blinked on me. Damn, I bit down gently on my lip. She didn't put it off this time. I turned away fast from it. I had to be careful with my words now. “I couldn't have killed her, detective. And you know that.” I said instead.

“I don't know, Mr. Rowan Drake.” She said, still staring at the file. “I remembered falling asleep after we fucked. And when I woke up you were no longer on the bed with me. So you could have killed her while I was asleep. You…”

I stared at her, then at the camera, and then at her again. “You do realize the camera is on, right, Detective? What you are saying is ending up on record.”

Still, she didn't look up from the file. She flipped through it lazily. “Answer my questions, Mr. Rowan Drake.” She said, her voice loud and curt. “After we fucked last night in room 2000, did you jump out through the window of our room onto the balcony when I was asleep? Move into Miss Rosewood’s room to kill her.”

Now for the first time in years, I was rattled. Still, I kept my grin alive. I couldn't let her see she was getting to me. My gaze jumped from the camera to her. This wasn't part of the plan. What was she playing at? She was supposed to be begging me not to reveal her name, not admitting to our night together on camera. “Just what are you doing, Detective?”

“Did you or did you not kill Miss Rosewood right after I fell asleep from the sex we had last night?” she said again. Curt and clear.

Now I could see she was serious. Perhaps I have pushed her so close to the wall. She was damning everything and fighting back. And this was bad. Bad for her, and worse for me.

“Of course I didn't kill her.” I answered. “I left our room just before dawn, and going by what your captain said, she would have been dead well before dawn. And obviously, I left through the door and not the window.”

“But you could have killed her while I was sleeping. We fucked, and I slept, and during that time, there were many hours for you to go over to her place through our balcony, kill her, and then return to our room, wait till dawn, and then leave through our room's door.” She said, cold and emotionless again.

Now I sat up straighter on my seat. Still, I kept up the facade of a grin. “But you are my alibi, detective. We fucked, as you put it, until 3 in the morning before we both slept. I just happened…”

“No. I was drunk. Mr. Rowan Drake. And the last time I remember being conscious was just a little past twelve, and I have a lot of witnesses to prove that I was drunk, the cab driver included. So technically, I can't attest to being your alibi after twelve because my mind was muddled. So we could have been fucking until 3, as you put it, or we were not. Either way, I can’t prove it, and so it rests solely on your words, which makes you a prime suspect in Miss Rosewood's murder.”

I leaned back on my seat. I could already see my whole defense crumbling before me. If she turned on me, as she was doing now. Then I was sunk. I was ending up in the gas chamber, and if I was lucky, doing time for a murder I didn't commit. It would be the words of a detective against that of a con artist, and that gamble I was sure to lose.

“Why are you doing this, detective?” I asked.

But she said nothing, burying her eyes in the file.

At a thought, I leaned forward. I grabbed her jaw and raised her head up to me. Surprisingly, like it happened earlier today, she let me. Her eyes were damp, a watery mist wetting the pale grey pair. She stared up at me through them.

Seeing her like this wrenched my heart apart. I forgot about my own predicament, and I grabbed her arm, my fingers folding over the warm, tender skin. I raised her to her feet gently, walking closer to her. I dropped into the table before her. Then I threw my handcuffed hands over her head, pulling her to me.

She didn't pull away from me. Neither did she fight me. I couldn't tell why I was this drawn to her. Why I care so much that she cried?

I blew gentle puffs of air to chase off the tears in her eyes, since my hands were handcuffed. My eyes fell to her lips then—a little full, symmetrical, and downright kissable. I knew from last night how superb they taste. How wonderful it felt kissing them. I couldn't fight it anymore, and I leaned forward, pressing my lips firmly on hers.

I sucked gently on their fullness, licking and tasting, slow and sensual, loving every bit of the act. She was magnificent. Her lips were made just for kissing—talking was definitely an added afterthought. They held pleasures unlike any I have ever tasted.

I held her curvy waist with my arm, and I pulled her forward, hungry for more, wanting more. I licked and sucked, relishing every feel of her beneath me.

When I pulled back, she was breathless, her breath warm on my neck. The warmth of her body near mine was overwhelming, as if claiming me for herself.

“Perhaps, I should help you a little, Detective.” I said. “Seems like you are my sure bet out of this after all.”

“Well, I am, Rowan.” She said, her voice low. She dropped her head on my chest. A wave of electricity shot through me as I stared down at her, watching her listen to my heartbeat.

“Cecilia Rosewood was a target all right, one I had primed for months, and that night, we met at the hotel just as we both planned too. I had gotten her drunk as I planned too, and we were heading to her room, where I would take her things. But just getting to the elevator, she received a call from someone. The voice was a male, and he told her he was already in her room. She looked afraid and terrified as she jumped away from me and into the elevator, leaving me behind. I figured something important came up, and I called it a day. There would always be another day, I thought, and I left to have a drink at the bar where I found you, detective.” I said.

“So you are saying there was already someone in her room when you left her, and judging by the phone call, it was a male.” She asked.

“Yes.” I answered. “I would bet he is the killer. Though I can’t be sure.”

“Thank you, Rowan.” She leaned away from my chest now, dropping low to a squat to move out of the confines of her handcuffed hands. “Now was that so hard, Rowan?” She grinned.

What… I read her grin, following the mischievous twitch of her eyes. I opened my lips for words, but I could get nothing out. Had she fooled me?

I snapped my head fast to the camera in the room. “But the camera.” I asked, my gaze quizzing her when I dragged my eyes back to her.

“It isn't important.” She said. “I took off the memory card. It records, but just doesn't save.”

Fuck! I muttered a curse under my breath. How could I have fallen for that? I glanced at the camera and then at her. “And the kiss.” I asked again, standing up from the table. “So you just kissed me to get me to talk.”

“Remember the saying, use what you want to get what you want…”

The door slid open with a sharp force, and the lawyer waddled in with his large but small body. “Detective Cross. Your captain is coming towards this area.”

She patted my chest and gave me a half smile. “Don't worry, I am done here, Attorney Richard.” She said, and she strode for the door.

I grunted as I drove my fist into the wall. Hell! How could I have let her get the best of me? I was supposed to be a master at this game. How did I let myself fall so easily?