Rude Awakenings: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 2)

Chapter Thirty-Two: Al, Monday

Al waited. And waited. And waited some more. It took a long time to collect evidence from an apartment. He checked his emails to pass the time, just in case Rachel had tried to email him from some library or Internet cafe now that she didn't have her phone. She couldn't call him now. She couldn't text him. He checked his texts anyway.

There was the photo. Sitting there like an accusation.

What had he been thinking, taking a picture of Lauren and him, and sending it, or attempting to? He'd agonized over it ever since he'd seen it. He'd wept when he thought Rachel had received it. She hadn't though, or Detectives Reynolds and Parsons would certainly have commented on it; they'd already raised their eyebrows at Al's story and his claim that they were drugged, and a picture of Lauren and him in the missionary position, looking not drunk or drugged, would have muddied the water even further.

What she'd had on her phone, however, had nearly made him fall out of his chair. They'd carefully examined his reaction, and he was sure it was influencing their decision on whether or not he was a suspect in Joe's and Rachel's disappearance.

He sat in the lobby of the apartment building, on a leather couch generally used by guests while they waited for the residents to come down. He didn't want to look like a loiterer, but he really had nowhere else to go without being too far away from the apartment. He didn't want to just leave them in there without at least being on site to clean up after them and lock the door when they left. It wasn't that he didn't trust them... but what if Rachel came back? What if she stumbled, torn and dirty and dying of thirst, back to her home to find the police ransacking it?

He couldn't stop looking at the picture. He should have just deleted it. They hadn't seen it because they hadn't asked for his phone, because he wasn't a suspect. Yet. They'd taken his blood, though, to test for drugs. Maybe he'd get answers then, because what they'd showed him on Rachel's phone had certainly raised more questions than answers.

Lauren. Her face tilted backward, eyes closed, dreamy smile on her face, lips slightly parted, as if she'd just received everything she'd ever wanted. Her dimples popping. Those dimples always drew the eye first, and led you to believe she was up to something naughty. Adultery was about as naughty as you got. Hands gripping his shoulders so hard he could see white marks under her fingers. Smooth, muscular legs clamped around his waist. The suggestion of her breasts squashed underneath his chest. His face had the surprised look of a man who'd won the lottery. He'd probably had that same look when he and Rachel had first had sex, ending a long drought in his life.

As much as he was attracted to Lauren, it had always just been harmless fantasy he could safely enjoy with Rachel on the other side of a screen. It had never occurred to him that he would have the opportunity to explore that fantasy in person; Lauren had even told him as much that it would never happen, and he respected her too much to push his luck, especially since Joe was a looming presence behind her everywhere she went.

He could say he'd been drugged at the time. Maybe Rachel would understand, if it could be proven. If he masturbated to this photo, though, would that make him a liar?

But was Rachel so innocent? She'd never told him about her own affair with Lauren. He was surprised that Lauren had told him, even though he'd suspected it all along. He'd been gut-punched that it had happened the first time only two days after his own first time with Rachel. It had made him feel inadequate at first, as if he hadn't performed well enough to satisfy her and she'd been forced to turn to a woman for sexual fulfilment. When Lauren had confessed her own intense love for Rachel, though, it had changed his mind, and to his surprise it now made him even more tender to her. 

He thought back to the time Lauren had kissed him in Queensborough, when she'd said, "I love her too." He hadn't known what she'd meant at the time, hadn't known they were capable of such love when they were children. Now he knew, and it made him feel humble that Lauren had been drawn to Rachel in the same way he had, that his school boy crush, even all these years later, was justified, somewhat, by this very separate, but equally strong, connection between the two women. In a way, it made him feel more connected with Lauren; they were two kindred spirits, both helplessly in love with the blonde, green-eyed girl who'd captivated them at such a young age. To his amazement, it made him even more willing to share Rachel with her.