Hold Me by W. Winters
Zander
It feels like several lifetimes have passed since I let Quincy walk away from me into the night. Time seemed to drag on forever after she was murdered. Guilt is a heavy, relentless emotion. It makes the body move slower and time crawl, except during the moments when you think it might be lifting. It always comes back, though. The guilt is never resolved. No amount of therapy has been able to free me from it. I’ll live with that guilt until I die.
If I had stopped her and done what I wanted to do, done what I know she needed, she’d be here. She’d be alive and happy. Probably with someone else, but she’d breathing.
I know all the things to think, and all the things to say. I know how to organize my thoughts from the physical world around me to the emotional world inside my mind. I’ve practiced holding these things at arm’s length and observing them without sinking into them. But no matter how many times I logic my way around Quincy’s death, I still end up at the same conclusion.
I bear some responsibility. It’s not all my fault, of course, though it felt like it at the time. The man who murdered Quincy bears more of that burden. He’s the one who mugged her and then killed her. He took her life.
I can’t describe the hate I have for him to senselessly take her life.
I’m still not ready for the hearing.
It takes a disgusting amount of time for these cases to work their way through the courts. She’s been gone two years and we’re just now reaching the point where the case is before the judge.
Ella and I move gingerly around each other in her house before it’s time to leave. The guilt feels so heavy on days like this. No reasoning my way out of it this time. I have to sit with it, and sit in the knowledge that something new will happen today with Quincy’s case, regardless of whether justice is served or not.
“Are you nervous?” Ella asks me in the car on the way over. I don’t miss how her black heels slip against one another nervously. I haven’t told her much. Only that Quincy was a good friend turned lover and a former submissive, and that she was murdered. Her only comment was whispered, so you’re mourning too, which I didn’t respond to.
“About the outcome of the case?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
She watches me with those beautiful dark eyes, her expression open. “Do you think it’s already decided, then?” She’s gentle with her questioning, which is different for her. It’s a careful tone, like she’s afraid that it’ll hurt me.
It warms something inside of me, knowing she cares. She is good. All things good in this world. My hand lays on top of hers, my fingers slipping between hers to hold her hand loosely.
“There’s more than enough evidence. The DA told someone I know that he’s hoping for a lesser sentence if it looks like he’ll get off. He wants to plea it down.” I keep my eyes on the road and my breathing steady. “No amount of prison time will bring her back. But this is how she gets her day. Other people will be—” I cut myself off with a deep breath and I pull my hand away to pull onto the highway. “Other people will hear about her today, what happened to her, and that seems right. That her death will be acknowledged.” My throat’s tighter than I’d like and the car is warmer than it should be. “It’s a two-hour drive,” I tell her, “so get comfortable, little bird.”
I turn down the heat and we drive mostly in silence.
She holds my hand, though. Every chance she gets. Hers is small in mine, but her grip tells me she’s not going to let go unless I want her to.
When we get to the front of the courthouse and I let go to take her tweed coat, her cheeks are still flushed from the chill of the short walk in here.
It’s nearly ten degrees colder here. I fucking hate the cold.
I’m picking up my phone from the bin at the courthouse metal detectors when the text comes in.
Cade: You doing okay?
It’s the first real communication we’ve had since the coffee shop and my immediate instinct is to ignore him. He knows that I don’t want to talk about it. It also pisses me off that he hasn’t asked about Ella. Not once. Although it’s possible he’s been keeping tabs on everything through Damon. More than likely actually. The last thought softens my resolve.
With Ella’s heels clicking on the marble tile, we take our seats near the back of the courtroom and Ella scoots close to my side while I answer Cade. When she reaches for my right hand to hold, and sees the phone, she politely withdraws, but I make a point to move my phone to the left and take her hand in mine. I can feel her gaze on the side of my face, but I don’t say anything. All I do is run my thumb over her knuckles as I text my brother back with one hand.
Zander: I’m doing all right.
Cade: I know Ella came with you for the hearing.
Cade: I think it’s a good thing.
The defensiveness that spiked at his first message is quickly dissolved by the second. It’s unexpected for him to approve anything at all that has to do with Ella. It’s a relief that he’s being agreeable about this. It’s like one brick in the wall between us is showing cracks.
Zander: I do too. I’m glad she’s here.
Cade: How is she?
Zander: Quiet, yet full of questions.My response makes me smile and I glance over at Ella, this beautiful woman by my side who’s taking in the courtroom and watching each of the people who file in. I recognize a handful of them, Quincy’s friends and family who offer me nods, quiet hellos and a squeeze of my shoulder from Quincy’s father.
I don’t say much and neither do they. They all notice Ella, though, and their hesitant smiles offer me only a modicum of comfort.
She wears a simple black sheath dress that still manages to look expensive, her hair in a twist behind her head, and she looks exactly as prim and proper as the day I first saw her. Exactly as elegant. Some things are different, of course—there’s a light in her eyes now that wasn’t there before. She’s not so silent. But anyone looking at her now would never know what she’d been through. They’d see a gorgeous, delicate woman wearing a serious expression and sitting at my side. No more, no less.
There are many sides that people show. The broken man. The loyal brother. The confident Dom.
I’m not any of those today. Not completely. I’ve healed enough that I’m not going to lose my shit in the courtroom, but I can still feel the cracks in my heart that were left when that policeman showed up at my door.
I add, after a moment with him not responding, She’s good.
Cade: Let me know how it goes and if you need anything.
The proceedings begin, and it’s mostly a bunch of legal bullshit, the opening arguments and requests for changes to this or that. Which piece of evidence can be admitted. Who is representing whom. It all seems very clinical compared to the reality of the situation. No one mentions what the night air felt like on my face as she walked away from me. No one describes the reflection of the streetlights in her hair or the angry set of her shoulders. All of this is encapsulated with a few quick sentences. A statement from her then-partner Zander Thompson.
Of course I’m mentioned, but that amounts to nothing, just like my relationship with Quincy did. Other than her murderer, I was the last person to see her alive.
Ella stiffens at the mention of my name. I’m quick to move my arm around her, pulling her in and retaking her hand. She molds against me, warm and with a remorseful expression. My name is mentioned again, but those sentences are swallowed up by what happened after. I’m not on trial in this case, and neither is Quincy. It’s her murderer who’s on trial. A guy who’s been rotting in a jail cell since his arrest two years ago. I feel no pity for him. Let him rot forever.
Was Quincy thinking about our conversation when she died? That’s what I want to know. Before the murderer approached her, what was she going to do? Was she going to storm back over and scream at me for not wanting to get married? Was she going to apologize and tell me she loved me, even if I couldn’t say it back?
No one mentions this, either. It’s not part of a legal proceeding. Quincy becomes the body her assailant attacked. No mention of whether her face flushed with anger when he attacked her or went pale with fear. No mention of whether she screamed, or what she said. Signs of a struggle. Lacerations on her temple and collarbone. Fifth metacarpal fracture.
They can’t see her, but I can. She took a swing at the guy. It wasn’t enough.
My throat dries and I have to readjust, keeping back the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. It’s been two years, but there’s no amount of time that could pass and make this right.
I take so many four-count breaths I lose track of them. Ella holds my hand tightly through the whole hearing. It’s the longest we’ve touched each other. She refuses to let go and I’m grateful for her.
Quincy ended up in harm’s way because she wanted more from me than the D/s relationship we had, and I didn’t want that. I couldn’t feel the spark for it, even though she was beautiful and smart. Something in my gut warned me away from that deeper commitment. And now I’m here with Ella, who also wants more than domination and submission. She wants it, even if she hasn’t admitted it. Of course she wants it. She’s been married before. She knows what it means to commit like that.
And with her—
My chest seems to expand with how much I want that too. The vision blocks out the court proceedings. If Ella were mine, she’d have my ring on her finger right now. I could feel it while she held my hand. It wouldn’t be her home, but our home, somewhere else. It would be the two of us looking out at the world together. But then again … would she ever want to move?
Peeking down at her, I know she was someone else’s first. Someone she misses. Someone she hasn’t let go of. I know it all too well.
There’s also the logistics and legal blocks that would stand in our way. If Cade allows me to return to the company, there’s no chance in hell I can be married to a former client. A current client. Trust is our main currency at The Firm. If potential applicants can’t count on us to protect their lives and well-being, then we don’t have a job. My brother’s business will be destroyed. All kinds of suspicions would follow all of them everywhere.
The prosecution has brought out more evidence. Pictures, this time. Of the street where it happened, a yellow arrow pointing to where Quincy’s body was found. Another photo. Another yellow arrow. This is where it happens.
Photos of Quincy.
The rush of blood fills my head, and Ella’s grip on my hand tightens. I’m not going to lose control. I’m not going to sink into this firestorm of guilt and hate. I can witness it from a distance, the way I have to witness these photos. Rage slowly consumes me. Breathe.Breathe.
“Do you want to leave?” she murmurs into my ear. Both of her hands firmly around mine.
I offer her the single word although it comes out harsh and ragged. “No.” I don’t want to stay, but I’m not walking out now. I won’t walk out now. I have to face this as much as Quincy's murderer does. I have to look at the consequences of my actions. Forcing myself to restrain every emotion, I tell her calmly, “We’ll stay.”
“Okay.” Ella sounds even and sure. She’s not disappointed that I want to stay, though I do glance over at her face in profile. Should I have brought her here? She’s under the care of The Firm because her past caught up with her. Overwhelmed her.
“What about you?”
Ella’s eyes come to mine, and I don’t see an ounce of indecision there. “It’s hard to look at,” she says, keeping her voice low. “But I want to be with you for this.”
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
I’m so damn grateful she’s here, and it brings back that overwhelming sense that she should be mine. In every way possible. Using the D/s relationship as the only framework for us seems like a cop-out, in a way. Saying that’s all we can have is a lie. It’s not true. There can be more. Another layer. If Ella wants it. If she really does want it, once all of this is over and she’s not in The Firm’s care. Not a minute before.
There’s a brief recess where Ella insists I eat a granola bar, and then we’re back in the courtroom for the defense to respond.
And that’s when I see this is going to be different.
Murder cases like this often have trials that stretch out for days. Weeks, even. There’s a shift in the energy in the room when we come back, the defense attorneys consulting in low voices at the front of the room. One of them approaches the bench, and the judge listens. Nods.
“What’s happening?” asks Ella. “Can you hear?”
“No. But we’ll know soon enough.”
We do know soon enough. What happens is that the defense puts the murderer on the stands.
He’s a tall guy, too thin and pale, with dark bags under his eyes. He’s lost weight since they put his picture in the news for killing Quincy. I’d expected to feel pure fury when I saw him on the stand, but looking at him now, all I feel along with the rage is …
Emptiness.
I’ve been staring at the back of his head all day, and seeing his face doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that Quincy is gone and never coming back. She’ll be dead forever, and it will always have begun with our conversation.
Justice can be healing, though. We have to own our actions, but we cannot own anyone else’s. This will change something. It will bring a sense of closure. There will be no more open case, no more phone calls, no more text messages. Quincy can rest and her name will be spoken by people who knew her beyond those photographs. The memories of her smiling will be the context of those conversations. And I’m ready for that. Fuck, I need that.
No more of this.
There’s a brief back-and-forth between the murderer and the judge, and then the defendant, her murderer, a man named Elijah Edwards is holding a sheet of paper in his hands, staring down at it.
“Your Honor. Jury. Ladies and gentlemen in the courtroom.” He sounds tired. “We’re all here today because of what I did, and I won’t sit in front of you and deny it. I killed Quincy Davis.”
My next breath fails to come. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as I sit still, barely contained and listen to him speak.
“I was high, on meth, when I encountered the young woman on the street that night. I don’t say that to make an excuse, but to offer an explanation. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I killed her. I—” He covers his mouth with his hand, then drops it down again. “I am truly, truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused to her friends and family, and I know that nothing I say here will ever make up for that. All I can tell you is that I live with the horror of what I’ve done every day. That I became a person who would take a life under the influence of drugs. It’s not what I intended, and it’s not the way I hoped my life would be. Your Honor, I understand that I don’t deserve a second chance. All I ask is that you grant me mercy when you make your decision. I was in the grips of something I couldn’t control.” He puts the paper down. “That’s all,” he says. “That’s all.”
