Dirty Little Secrets. Kierney Scott

at the clock on her phone. It was nearly midnight. She should be tired, but she was just hungry. She had had a bag of Fritos and a Snickers bar out of the vending machine, as well as some tar-like substance they were trying to pass off as coffee.

      She should have gone home. But she didn’t. Instead she phoned Ben and explained the situation and told him she would be staying to drive James home and then get a cab back to her house.

      She had made it as far as the parking garage before she realised James would not be able to drive home with a cast, so she turned around and went back to the ER waiting room. She kept her head down most of the night. The last thing she needed was to be recognised by a former defendant or complaining witness, and the Emergency Room was the most likely place she would see either.

      “Mrs. McCoy, Mr. Emerson is being discharged if you want to go back now,” the nurse on the front desk informed her. Three times the nurse had asked Megan if she wanted to go back to the examination room with James. And three times Megan had declined. She suspected the nurse kept offering to see if Megan would provide an excuse. But she didn’t because she didn’t have to.

      When she pulled back the curtain, Megan found James fumbling with his phone. He was trying unsuccessfully to balance his mobile on his leg while he dialled with his right hand. When he lifted his head, a look of confusion flashed in his moss-coloured eyes.

      “I thought you might need a ride,” she explained.

      “Have you been here the whole time?”

      She nodded.

      “Thanks. I could use a lift. I can’t even manage to dial a cab so chances are I’m not safe to drive a motor vehicle. This is surprisingly heavy.” He pointed at his arm.

      “I thought you just broke your hand.” The cast extended nearly to his wrist.

      “I did. All this for a broken metacarpal. The child prodigy, I mean my doctor, said it is called a Boxer’s Fracture. Apparently I should have wrapped my hand before I punched that asshole. Seriously, that was his advice.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “I’m just glad boy wonder was able to get it back in place. Otherwise I would have needed surgery. And I think it was past his bed time.”

      “I am sorry about tonight,” she said again.

      “Stop apologising. You didn’t break my hand.”

      “I know. But I sort of dragged you into something. And I was a bitch.”

      “I never get dragged where I don’t want to be. And nothing wrong with being a bitch. Sometimes that’s just the way it has to be.” James rose from the bed and grabbed his suit jacket on the back of the chair.

      “Yeah well, I’m still sorry.”

      “Apology accepted. Thanks for waiting.”

      “Well, it was kind of the least I could do after what you did for me.” She paused before adding, “It was really…um…great of you…and I appreciate it.” She clamped her mouth shut before she could say anything else. She was not used to expressing gratitude towards anyone but Ben. With her husband it was easy, nothing said thank you more than the latest issue of Fist ‘accidently’ left under a pillow. But James did not seem the type to appreciate gay porn.

      “Any man would have done the same. You don’t hit women. And if you do, there is going to be a bigger man to beat on you.”

      Megan could not think what to say, which was unusual for her, to say the least. The issue was too close to her, the incident too fresh. She knew from experience that there were far too many men ready to hit a woman and very few who would step in and stop it. They might think they would, but when it came down to it, most men—no most people—chose to ignore things that made them uncomfortable.

      “So where do you live?”

      “In Georgetown, not too far from you actually.”

      James had not been kidding, he lived just over a mile from her in an impressive redbrick colonial.

      “Come in for a drink,” he said as she pulled into the drive. The lights from the patio came on from a sensor, illuminating the path to the front porch.

      “I should get home.”

      “You need to call a cab anyway,” he said. “Unless you feel more comfortable waiting here in the car. I get that. I’ll call a cab. Just put the keys through the letterbox when you go. Nice meeting you, Megan McCoy.”

      He offered her his hand to shake. She stared at it, momentarily forgetting social etiquette. He thought she was scared of him. She stopped being scared of men years ago. She was wary, she was safe, she was pragmatic, but she was not scared. Intentional or not, his words were an explicit challenge to her. “I would love a drink.”

      James’ eyes widened, clearly not expecting her to take him up on the offer. “Great.”

      James struggled with his keys as he adjusted to using his right hand for the task.

      “Let me.” She took the keys without being offered.

      “A woman who takes charge.”

      “Always,” she said.

      She was surprised by his décor. She expected a typical bachelor pad with leather sofas and a flat screen television the size of a compact car, or fully kitted out in IKEA. Thankfully, the reality was entirely different. The house was classic and understated, hardwood floors with pale throw rugs dotted about. The walls were covered in paintings that ran the gamut of artists: impressionists, modern, to neoclassical. There was no television in sight, instead there were bookcases crammed full of works. She was impressed; few people had more books than she. Ever since she had had a disposable income, her biggest monthly outgoing had been books, and she didn’t part with a single one. Once they were read, they were placed on the book shelf, never before.

      “Red or white wine?” James asked as he laid his suit jacket on the back of a chair.

      “Red, please.”

      “Good, cause I have a bottle open. Not sure I can manage to open the white. That is one way to slow down an Aussie, break his bottle opening hand.” Half of his mouth hitched in a crooked smile.

      Her back stiffened, “Do you drink a lot?”

      “By Australian standards? I would say I’m verging on teetotal.”

      “And by American standards?”

      “The Yanks are a funny bunch. A couple drinks with dinner and they start staging an intervention. I reckon most people who drink are alcoholics by American standards.”

      She was not going to let the issue go. Alcohol misuse was not something she took lightly. Not that she took much lightly. “So you would say you drink to excess by American standards?”

      “Shouldn’t you swear me in before you cross examine me?” When he smiled, crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes.

      “Sorry. I don’t make small talk as much as I interrogate.”

      “Occupational hazard?”

      “No, it’s all me,” she admitted.

      “Well then I suppose it was a good thing you found the law.”

      She nodded as she sat down on a blue chambray couch.

      “I’m starving. Do you fancy a bite to eat? I know you said you have cereal waiting for you at home, but maybe I could tempt you with chicken and salad. Don’t want to brag but I grill a damn fine chicken breast,” he called as he walked through to the kitchen.

      Megan thought for a minute. He was only offering to be polite and if she was going to return the favour she should just make her apologies and let him get to bed.

      He returned a few minutes later carrying a glass of wine in his right hand and another glass