The Dark Game

Nine

Davon woke to the sound of an alarm clock, its shrill ring drilling into his skull. A splitting headache pulsed behind his eyes, slowing his movements to a painful crawl. "Oh, shut up," he cursed, the words gritty in his dry throat.

He forced his eyes open. The room was unfamiliar. The door to the en-suite bathroom opened, and the Texan woman emerged, wrapped in a robe, steam curling out behind her.

"Up early, detective?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

Ignoring her, Davon pushed himself up, his body aching in protest. His detective's mind automatically cataloged the room. It was a distorted mirror of Cassey's—the same dimensions, the same cheap attempt at opulence. But where Cassey's had been a stage for a nightmare, this was a shrine to tawdry fantasy. The walls were plastered with posters: shirtless cowboys, airbrushed movie stars, a faded Playboy centerfold. The comparison was instant and brutal. Claire's apartment was a sanctuary of minimalist elegance. This was a teenager's fever dream.

He threw off the scratchy blanket and stood, his legs unsteady beneath him.

"Yes," he finally replied, his voice a low, anger-strewn rasp. "What time is it?"

She gave a faint smile. "It's 5:55 A.M."

"Perfect," he whispered, the word sharp and bitter. He snatched his clothes from a chair and pulled them on with clumsy, hurried movements. He yanked his wallet from his jacket and thumbed out a hundred-dollar bill, holding it out to her.

She shook her head, her smile turning pitying. "I made an exception. You weren't in control last night."

He didn't care. He threw the bill onto the rumpled bed, a final, dismissive gesture, and rushed out, leaving her standing there, awestruck.

He sprinted to his car, the cold morning air doing little to cut through the fog of his shame and self-loathing. "Fuck," he muttered to himself, the word a sharp cloud in the dawn. He was furious with himself, and a low, simmering kind of angry at her, at the situation, at everything.

He wrenched the car door open and slid inside, jamming the key into the ignition. He turned it. Nothing. Not even a click.

He tried again, pumping the gas pedal. The engine coughed once, a weak, phlegmy sound, and then died. He tried several more times, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt. Nothing.

"Damn it!" he snarled, slamming his palms against the steering wheel. He popped the hood and stormed out. A quick, furious inspection confirmed his fear. It wasn't a breakdown. Key components were missing—neatly, deliberately removed. His light skin flushed a deep, angry red.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Claire.

She answered with a sleepy yawn. "Davon?"

"Did I wake you?" he asked, the guilt immediate.

"Yes," she said, her voice soft.

He felt a pang of regret. "I'm stuck. At the Micheline. My car won't start."

A brief pause. "I'll be there in ten," she said, her voice now crisp and all business. The line went dead.

He dialed an emergency number next, calling for a tow truck. As he gave the details, the Texan woman appeared at the club's back door.

"Everything alright, sugar? You can come back inside, wait where it's warm," she cooed.

He just glared, a look so sharp it made her flinch. She disappeared back inside without another word. He slumped into his dead car to wait.

Soon, the tow truck arrived and hooked up his Civic, hauling it off to a repair garage. Soon after, Claire's Porsche Cayenne pulled into the lot. She stepped out, her expression unreadable.

She didn't mince words. "What were you doing here, Davon?"

He tried to change the topic. "Couldn't sleep. Was following up on a... feeling."

She stared at him, her eyes seeing right through the lie. A hot, unwelcome jealousy seeped through her heart. How do I still have these feelings for him? she thought, playing along. What are these feelings? The case had forced them back together, closer than they'd been in years, and now she felt uncomfortable sharing the same air with him. He smelled of beer and the club's cloying perfume—a stark contrast to the memory of why they broke up.

But the jealousy went both ways, and she hated it. She saw how women looked at him, and she felt a primal urge to cover his gorgeous face from the world. She also thought that he'd be just the same when he got older—still effortlessly drawing glances, still infuriatingly handsome.

She gripped the steering wheel as they drove, her knuckles turning white, her mind a thousand miles away. She was jolted back when she heard Davon yell her name and felt his warm palms on her arm, maneuvering the steering wheel. They swerved, just missing a collision.

The driver they'd almost hit stuck his head out of his window, his face purple with rage. "Fuck you! You blind or making out that you can't see?!" he screamed, sticking out his middle finger before speeding away.

Davon faced her as she regained control of the car, her heart hammering. "The hell Claire? You okay?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Don't look at me like that or I'll drop you here and leave," she said.

He smiled then. That same, devastating smile. Claire felt turned on by his smile, something she had always loved about him. She felt like cupping his face and kissing him right there, but that would've been awkward and they'd probably end up in the hospital. If asked by the doctors what would I say? 'Got seduced by his smile, kissed him and we had an accident?' she thought to herself and grinned.

"Now, now Prince Charming, look the other way or I'd not be able to concentrate and we'd make out while our lives flash before our eyes," she said.

"Thanks for that, ermmmm... the heart-breaking Barbie of LAPD. I should probably keep this face to attract a Cinderella. Coz barbies aren't meant to be with Prince Charming," he said, looking forward.

The words, meant as a joke, landed like a blow. Claire felt hurt. She knew he was right, and a fresh wave of jealousy washed through her. Throughout the investigation she'd noticed how most of the women stared at him and she wanted to slap them, but controlled herself, reassuring herself that it was their right.

"Where to..... Your apartment or mine?" she asked, forcing a neutral tone.

He looked at her. "Mine."

"I'm going to play my favorite music so thou shalt not complain."

"Jesus Claire? That's shitty music," he told her.

She turned up the volume. Davon shut his ears, making noises to ward it off, but she turned it up louder and stared intently at the road, though a smile played on her lips. Seeing his face like this made her wonder if they could ever be a thing again.

They soon reached the apartment building. Davon was resting his head, asleep. Claire looked at his peaceful face, the one she had once always kissed goodnight and good morning, and felt like kissing him. Just one more time, she whispered to herself.

"One more time for what?" he asked.

She jumped, hitting her head on the car roof and bending forward. "Fuck, Davon Deshaun, you almost killed me."

"Please don't die. I don't wanna go to jail and have some wannabe shitty writer use me as a topic. Can you imagine? 'Claire's case?'"

She smiled a genuine smile for the first time since they were paired. "Lemme guess. That shitty writer is you..?" she said, still smiling.

"Why no. Why'd you say that?" he folded his arms across his chest.

"Coz I've seen you try writing and honestly you suck at it. This suits you better. Also that's a terrible name for a book," she said.

He frowned. "Thanks for the feedback, dear miss Irish Barbie."

She rolled her eyes. "Out of my car now or I'd take you both to the car wash and order for both you and my car to be washed."

He stared at her with mock horror. "Oh noo... I'll be rough handled."

They finally got out and went up to his apartment.

Davon fumbled with his keys for a moment before finally unlocking the door. He pushed it open and stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. "After you."

Claire took a step inside and immediately stopped, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a gasp that was half shock, half laughter. The apartment was a hurricane of paper and prose. Books were scattered across every surface—piled on the sofa, stacked precariously on the armchair, and forming miniature skylines on the coffee table. They were nestled between empty coffee mugs and case files, a chaotic library born from a restless mind.

"Christ, Davon," she breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. "Are you studying for an exam, or has a library exploded in here?"

He smirked, a familiar, roguish glint in his tired eyes. "Welcome to my den. It has a certain... lived-in charm, don't you think?" He closed the door behind them, the click echoing softly in the book-filled space.

He moved past her with a purpose, navigating the clutter with the ease of someone who knew the exact topography of his chaos. He went to the armchair, gathered a towering stack of hardcovers into his arms—a mix of true crime and classic literature—and deposited them onto an already burdened side table with a soft thud. He waved a hand at the now-cleared seat. "Sit here. I'll, uh... make some more space later." His tone was dismissive, a clear attempt to downplay the disorder. "BRB!" he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down a hallway leading to what she assumed were the bedrooms.

Left alone, Claire slowly lowered herself into the armchair, her eyes still scanning the room. A small, fond smile touched her lips as her gaze landed on a familiar spine nestled between a forensic textbook and a worn copy of "The Maltese Falcon." She reached over and carefully extracted it, her fingers tracing the title.

"'It Ends With Us'," she muttered softly to herself. She cracked the spine—it was clearly well-read—and began to read, quickly becoming absorbed in the familiar prose.

She was so engrossed she didn't hear Davon return. His voice, now closer and clearer, startled her. "Wow. Never thought you'd be the type to read books."

She looked up, the retort on her lips dying as she took him in. He stood before her, having changed into a fresh black shirt and grey sweatpants. His curly black hair was damp from a quick shower and tousled, as if he’d just run a towel through it. A few stray droplets clung to his neck. Claire felt a sudden, unwelcome flutter in her stomach and thought she might actually faint.

"I should be the one saying that to you," she managed, her voice slightly tighter than intended. She gestured vaguely at the surrounding literary avalanche. "Look at all this."

He just shrugged, a lazy movement that made the fabric of his shirt stretch across his shoulders.

"Hello, Mr. 'Hot, Wanna Seduce Me?'" she asked, falling back on their old, flirty banter to mask her discomposure.

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. "Nah, I'll pass. Too much work. Eaten anything yet?"

She nodded, regaining some composure. "I grabbed something earlier."

"That means I get my leftover pizza all to myself," he said, turning and heading toward the small kitchenette that was visible from the living area.

She frowned. "You know, you shouldn't always eat that junk. You'll end up with a gut like Gerardo's."

He pulled a cardboard box and a cup of yogurt from the fridge. "Says who?" he challenged, popping the pizza into the microwave.

"Says me," she replied, her tone firm but laced with amusement.

The microwave hummed, filling the brief silence. He leaned against the counter, watching her. "I decided we should go meet Cassey's family today," he said, the playfulness leaving his voice, replaced by a professional gravity.

Claire felt a surge of approval. "Good," she said softly. It was the right next step. Her eyes followed him as he peeled the lid off the yogurt. "Careful, or you'll mess up that clean shirt."

He smirked, just as he brought the spoon to his mouth. The motion was a little too confident. A dollop of white yogurt dripped from the spoon and landed with a soft plop right on the center of his black shirt.

"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, looking down at the stain in comic dismay.

Claire couldn't suppress a smirk, quickly looking down at the book in her lap to hide it. A moment later, something soft and warm landed squarely on her face, engulfing her in the fresh, clean scent of his laundry detergent and his own distinct, masculine smell. She pulled the fabric away. It was his shirt.

She looked up, and her breath hitched. Davon stood there, smirking and completely shirtless. The man was an Adonis. His torso was a testament to incessant workouts—a landscape of well-defined pectorals, a sculpted abdomen, and the sharp V-line that disappeared into his sweatpants. A intricate, dark tattoo curled over his right shoulder, adding a layer of raw, dangerous appeal to the perfection. Her mouth fell open, and she shut it with a click.

"Davon Deshaun, go put on a shirt! Now!" Her voice rang out, sharper than she meant it to, a frantic attempt to regain control of the situation—and her own racing pulse.

He just gave her a boyish, unrepentant grin. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, his voice a low rumble. He turned and sauntered back toward his room, giving her a full view of the powerful muscles shifting across his back.

Claire slumped back in the chair, the discarded shirt still clutched in her hand. She wasn't sure why she had told him to cover up. She admitted to herself, in the privacy of her own mind, that she had wanted to look at him for a little while longer.

Soon, he emerged wearing another identical black shirt. He went to the kitchen, retrieved his now-heated pizza from the microwave, and finished it in a few hurried bites at the kitchen island, washing it down with the last of his yogurt. He disposed of the box and cup with efficient movements.

"Alright, we move now," he said, grabbing his leather jacket from a hook by the door.

"Where to?" Claire asked, setting his book aside and standing up, his shirt still in her hand. She held it out to him.

He took it, their fingers brushing for a fleeting second. "To Cassey's family," he said, his voice low and serious as he gulped down the last of his yogurt, disposed of the box and the paper cup. "It's time we learned who she really was."

They walked out of the apartment to go visit the address that the dancer gave them.