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Chapter 7 – Rick


"Michonne, hey sweetheart, good morning." I yawn, stretching my tired limbs as I sit up on the side of the bed.


"Good morning, Rick."


"I tried to call you last night, you must have been sleep?"


"No, I was awake. I wasn't really in the mood to talk at the time, it was late."


"Oh? Ok… I'm uh, I'm really sorry we missed our date. I got a last minute call last night, and then my phone died. It was a long night."


"No worries, work is work. And I'm sorry to hear that it was such a rough night. Everything ok?"


"Yeah, just work stuff."


"Oh. Anything you want to share?"


"Nah, it's not worth it. I missed seeing you last night. I'm so used to having you with me every weekend, it was odd sleeping alone."


"Yep. Odd. I agree." She lightly chuckles in between her brief answers, and the sound of her soft laughter soothes any errant irritation remaining from my memories from last night.


"I need to see you. Do you wanna come over? I'll make you dinner, make up for last night?"


"Sure. I would like that."


"Great. And what's this I heard on my voicemail about your car not starting? You didn't take it to the shop yesterday morning like I suggested?"


"No, I should have but the afternoon got away from me, and I thought I could drive it through the weekend. I was wrong. My dad just took me to take it to his mechanic and to get a rental."


"Ok, good. Hopefully the damage isn't too bad, but it could have messed up your motor."


Sounding tired despite the early morning hour, she blows out a weary breath. "Good riddance then. Mike bought me that truck years ago, it might be nice to start fresh with a new car."


"I agree. If that's what you want to do, I can go with you to look for a new one. I think it's a good idea."


"Yep."


"Hey, you ok? You sound tired."


"I am, but I want to see you too. Give me about an hour or so, then I'll be over."


"I can't wait. See you soon."


"Bye, Rick." Despite her laughter, there is something off about Michonne's voice in that call. I can hear it. She must really be upset with me about having to cancel last night. Shit.


Placing my phone on the night stand, I drop back on to the bed and rub the back of my thumb over my tired, swollen eye, down my bruised cheek, over the bridge of my nose trying to collect my thoughts and process the last 24 hours. Honestly I don't even know where to begin. Do I go back to when I answered Jessie's call when I probably should have just ignored it? Do I replay the fight I had with her ex-husband? Or do I begin where it all went seriously wrong and I let Jessie kiss me?


There is no good place to start. It's all bad, and the calm, soft cadence in Michonne's voice, the fact that she seems so relaxed, stoic, maybe even withdrawn, creates a twisting cramp in my belly that nearly nauseates me with guilt. It's like she knows. How could she know? The thought is irrational, I know, but… I'm not without my faults, I am a man. A man that has chosen a profession to protect and serve, and for the first time in my life, I wish that I had ignored my instincts to fulfill this mandate. Closing my eyes, I cringe at the memory of what led me here.


When Jessie called my cell last night, right when I was about to head home, something told me to simply let it go to voicemail. I had done so many times before, as she seems to not have completely gotten the hint that I'm not interested. To some degree I blame myself because I never explicitly said the words to her, but I had hoped that by not responding favorably to her advances that she understood. But there was something, maybe my sheriff's intuition, that led me to answering her call this time. Thank God I did.


At first I didn't hear anything when I answered. She didn't say anything. Mere seconds trickled on with nothing but deafening silence, and then I heard it. A child's voice in the background yelling for someone to stop. A woman's scream. A sickening thud. A crash. Then nothing. More silence. The hairs on my arm stood straight up, and before I knew it I was in my truck speeding across town, calling in back up to her house.


When I got there I found her front door wide open, her youngest son on the porch, curled into a ball on the porch swing, crying, tears staining the front of his sweatshirt. Rocking back and forth, seemingly unaware of my presence. Carefully, I slowly walked inside, I called Jessie's name and was instantly met with a sight that I won't soon forget. In a corner, with her ex-husband standing over her, pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself, was a sobbing Jessie, holding her oldest son, moaning, wailing like a wounded animal, close to her.


I slowly approached her ex from the back, and with my gun held high, requested that he raise his hands. From there it was a blur as he whirled on me, and attempted to tackle me to the ground. Catching him around his neck I was able to absorb the blow and remain on my feet, but the force of him rushing me catapulted us both back into the far wall. A scuffle ensued, and after a round of blows to his face and mine, I was able to subdue him, and get him in cuffs.


Shortly after, backup and a squad arrived to tend to Jessie and her children, her oldest with a broken, and dislocated arm, wrenched, twisted at a sickening angle that left the limb limp and lifeless at his side. I needed a moment. To think. To process it all.


Jessie and her sons looked upon me with such gratefulness, appreciation, as though I had done something truly heroic. Been a real savior. The mortifying shock and distress of their situation aside, they found thankfulness for me, for what I had done. What any person should have done, but many probably have not.


Recognizing some of the same trauma I have witnessed in the dark brown eyes of Michonne and Andre, echoed in the haunting void of Jessie's, stuns me. Stills me where I stand. And in that moment, with the ambulance and police back up now gone, I feel that surge of protectiveness rushing through me again. The need to safeguard those who are vulnerable. Like Jessie. Like Michonne.


Hearing Jessie try to ramble out over her busted, bloodied lip, false reassurance to her oldest son that his arm would be fine as she got him situated in the ambulance, promising to meet him at the hospital, was incomprehensible. Watching her cradle her youngest son, a boy of probably 10 years old, in her arms like he was a baby, attempting to soothe him out of his catatonic state, nearly broke me. I had seen this type of thing before. I'd pulled Ed Peletier off of his wife after yet another call from a neighbor who heard him attacking her. But for some reason, this time, the trauma felt familiar, relatable.


The cool, practiced way that Jessie ignored her own pain, to see after her sons, reminded me of my lady. Of my Michonne. How he always puts Andre first, never allowing herself a moment of fragility. It froze me with immobilizing anger, prevented me from moving on with completing my paperwork for the incident. From offering sincere guidance on how to move on, and leaving, ending my participation in this tragedy while I could. It's what I needed to do. It's what I should have done. But I kept hearing my sweetheart's voice, seeing the ghost of her past, an eerie specter shading her beautiful face, divulging to me the ugliness of everything on the night of our concert date. Everything. While laying in my arms, she recounted how her husband would speak to her. Tell her she was inadequate. Relay mean jokes or comments his family would say about her, then end it dismissively with a flip 'just kidding'. Tell her she was too sensitive. Questioning why she couldn't do even the basics of having a baby right. Even teenagers could do that. Slowly, steadily eroding her confidence, often paralyzing her in self-doubt, shame.


Clear as day I can see my lady, I don't see Jessie. I don't hear Jessie. I see Michonne. I hear Michonne.


So when out of nowhere, Jessie raises her hands to my face, and pulls me down to her, thanking me for saving her and her son when she was so unsure that I would even answer, let alone come, I didn't move when I should have. I didn't retreat soon enough. No, I allowed her to kiss me on the lips.


It wasn't sudden. Her movements were paced, as though she had planned for this moment her whole life. Lowering her hands, and twisting her slender fingers in my shirt, she locked eyes with me, and with every bit of hope she could muster she spoke from her heart.


"Rick, thanks for being here. For saving me and my boys. No man has ever done that for us. In this house a man, a father, a husband, is a person to be feared. But not you. You showed me tonight that there is something else, there are different kinds of men out there. Right here. Thank you for caring enough to save me, Rick."


Watching her lips, and basking in the heroic glow that covered me from her thankful words, she eased up on her feet, and raised her fingers to the fresh bruises on my face. Skimming them along the painful red swelling, her eyes never left my own. And I can only recall that the feeling in that moment paralyzed me, prevented me from stopping what I could see was coming a mile away.


"You took a beating for me. He hurt you, and you protected me… Let me thank you, properly."


And she did. She kissed me tentatively at first, her lips only pecking at my own. Then as though encouraged by my apparent willingness to participate, or at least to not object, she pressed harder, easing her small body into mine. It wasn't until she began to prod at the seam of my lips with her tongue that I snapped out of my daze and pushed away from her.


"No. I just…I just did my job, Jessie. That's all. I just did my job." 


I can see it all happening in my mind's eye with so much clarity, as though my true self hovered above, watching, passive. While I may not have actively participated, I'm guilty. I allowed her to kiss me. Jumping in my truck I drove off, mad at myself, angry, disgusted with how I had failed Michonne. With how this would certainly hurt her, even when I had promised to never do so. Was I any better than her ex? Had I not taken her trust and abused it just the same? Gotdamn it!


When I arrived at home, and plugged in my phone, realizing that it was dead, I saw her text messages…


Michonne: Rick, hey, checking to see how your work thing is going? Have you eaten? Would you like me to bring you some dinner to hold you over?


I heard her voicemail…


"I hate to bother you, I know you're working. I just…I need to hear your voice is all. Call me back?"


What have I done?


In shame, at this point, all I can do is turn away from my memories of last night, and hope to God that I haven't done irreparable damage to my relationship with Michonne.


But in the back of my mind, the faintest of voices poses the questions… How can I keep this from her? Would she ever forgive me if I told her?


Not wanting to give it more energy, feeling the guilt mounting, threatening to further dampen my mood, I launch my tired body from the bed, reach for my glasses in lieu of my regular contacts, eager to get this day started, and see my girl. To move on.




"I love this movie. The guy with the notecards was so cute. I would have picked him instead of the guy she married."


"Wasn't he kind of creepy though? With the wedding video of only her, and the stalking at her house? That would never work in real life. That's the kind of guy I send one of my deputies to arrest for lurking in the bushes."


"I thought he was a romantic fool in love. He told her that he thought she was perfect. I would have run off and married him instead." Wistfully her voice drops off at the end.


Arriving a few hours ago, wrapped up in her wool coat, and scarf, the frost from the cold day covering her warm body, Michonne has been snuggled with me for the majority of the day. Andre left yesterday morning, and is due back tomorrow from a visit to New York to see his dad, and Carl is spending the weekend camping with Lori's sister's family. Meaning we have had this whole day to ourselves. I made a big breakfast, all of her favorites, the stuff she won't usually eat, but lately devours in large amounts. French toast, sausage, scrambled cheese eggs, coffee. I made it all just the way she likes it. I even ran to the store to make sure I had the confectioner's sugar for her French toast. I wanted everything to be just right for her, and delighted in the way she devoured it.


Even though she's thankful as always, surprised at my thoughtfulness as usual, there is something in the pensive thoughtfulness of how she's communicating with me in brief, measured sentences. There is a reverent, tentativeness in her touch. Perhaps it's because of the frightened startle in her frantic questions around the damage done to my face. The bruises, and scrapes that I waved off as a part of the work thing from last night.


On the other hand, I can't keep myself off of her, urging her to get rid of her layers of cozy sweaters, and jeans in favor of just one of my shirts, swallowing the curves of her lean form behind the loose hanging plaid material. My lips keep finding pieces, parts of her skin to kiss. Her rounded, cherubic cheeks. The hollow at the base of her swanlike throat. I need to connect with her. Subconsciously I'm confessing, asking for forgiveness for something I have yet to find the courage to declare.


Even now, as I lay with my head cradled in her lap, I'm soaking up the soft warmth of her naked thighs against my face, my legs stretched out along the length of the couch. The delicate scratch of her fingers feathering through my hair. I simply can't do it…I need to do it. I have to tell her. How? I can't. I'm a coward. I press my lips tightly together to keep it from falling out. Instead I latch on to the playful sentiments she expresses about the movie we're watching.


"Oh yeah? Is that all it takes to get you down the aisle? Let me get a pen and some paper together, hold that thought." I pretend to raise up from the couch, but she grabs my arm to hold me back.


"Rick! I'm just saying, it was romantic. I think if he had come with those cards before she got married, she would have picked him for sure. I would have."


"I might have to hold you to that."


"Hold me to what?"


"Saying yes if I ask you to marry me with some note cards."


"Very funny."


"I'm not trying to be. I'm serious."


"Sheriff?"


Turning my head to make eye contact with her, pushing my glasses up on my face, I take in the breathtaking beauty of her lips curving in question. Her brows angling in confusion.


"When I was married, I was miserable for a long time, suffering in silence. I smiled and went about my business, doing the same thing everyday. Grinning and bearing it I guess you could say. I put on a front to protect myself from the reality of what my life had become, because I felt like I got what I deserved. I wasn't happy, but I was married, I had my son, my career. It was better than what some people had. I played a role, Michonne, to keep people, to keep myself from seeing the truth. I was a coward who was afraid of starting over, and it took my wife cheating on me with a guy who used to be a friend to set me free. Meeting you, being with you, it has opened me to the possibility of a new life, of being happy, and I don't want to lose that. We have a chance to re-do things, to get it right this time, together."


Something about the way she responds to the movie we're watching, in the contemplative, dreamy way she seems to find happiness in the prospect of the movie couple's theatrical romance, urges me to lay my thoughts out there. They aren't new to me. I've been thinking of marrying her almost since I met her. How could I not? And maybe it's not just her hopeful response to the movie, maybe it's also guilt pushing me…egging me on to lock down this happiness…to move on and gain some secret absolution for my indiscretion.


"Rick, what are you saying?"


"I'm saying that my ex Lori and I were together for a long time before we got married, I thought I knew her, thought I knew what I was getting with her. I didn't. I had no clue. I don't feel that way with you, not at all. I feel like I've known you all my life. Like a piece of my heart has been dormant, just waiting for you to come and unlock it, like it has always belonged to you anyway. So…I wonder if I should try something new. I'm almost 40, Michonne. I don't want to wait around while life passes me by, I don't want to hide from love and happiness any longer."


"You can't be saying what I think you're saying, Rick." Shaking her head, not dismissively, but in disbelief, her eyes scan my face for the truth of my words.


"I'm saying to think about it, Michonne."


"This isn't a movie, Rick. It's not that easy."


"Isn't it? I don't have note cards, but to me, you are perfect. Perfect for me."


"I'm not perfect, Rick. So far from it." A frown turns down her lovely lips, and I catch a shiver at the lack of warmth now found there, in her denying my assessment of her perfection.


"To me you are."


"When you say stuff like that, you have no idea how badly I want to believe you. I need to believe you. I do. I-" She hesitates. She doesn't continue to speak, she only stares at me, I guess trying to figure out how to proceed.


But she's thinking about what I've said, I can tell, the wheels are turning in that pretty head of hers, lighting a twinkle in the depth of her coffee colored eyes. And I recognize that this is hard for her to process. My Michonne may come off as tough and strong all the time, so put together, but I remember what she has told me. I recognize the haunting fragility easing out of her again, rearing its ugly head. I saw it in Jessie last night.


It's in the way she seems slow to believe in my love for her, in the goodness of what's between us. While more easily clinging to negative ideas about our relationship, or our place in each others' lives. So willing to believe the worst of herself. Not only does it fill me with visceral rage, it also makes me want to protect her with my life. To give her the love and affection that she has missed out on while wasting away as that other man's wife. It's a part of what's driving me now. To fix it. To wipe away what he's done. To wipe away what I've done.


She's not the only one I want to cloister away, to protect. Andre suffers as well. With the way he is careful with men around his mother, monitoring, skeptical. What Michonne often characterizes as teenage angst is sometimes him looking for a paternal connection, even if it's as the result of his sometimes snarky comments. I recognized it early on. The way his eyes were always watchful of the way Carl and I interact, lingering with a hint of quiet need for the same kind of connection. It's one of the reasons I try so hard with him. To be firm when needed, but to be loving and accessible more often than not. Overall, I know he supports my relationship with his mother, and when he called me his second dad, I felt my heart bursting with the fullness of such a vulnerable admission from someone so young. And even that must be hard for him. To reconcile his budding friendship with me, my love for his mother, and balance that against his loving devotion to his father. Even when he was the witness to the damage his father did to his mother, I realize that he's still too young to place all of that somewhere, to figure it all out. To make heads or tails of mean words couched behind a father's smile.


Considering all of this I realize that I have to tell her about Jessie. If we're ever going to be able to build, to have a future together, we have to be honest. I have to tell her. Rolling away from her lap, I crouch in front of her, a subconscious kneel to beg forgiveness. Taking a hold of her fingers that rest easily across her thighs, I proceed.


"Michonne, baby, it's me who isn't perfect. I've done something that I hope you can forgive me for."


"We've all done things, Rick. None of us are innocent."


"Perhaps. But I can only speak for myself, and I hope that you will listen to me, really listen to what I'm saying before you respond."


"Ok." Hesitantly she nods, acquiescing to my request to listen.


"Last night when I cancelled our date, I did so to respond to a domestic violence call at Jessie Anderson's house. Do you remember her?"


"The blonde?" She narrows her eyes on me, obviously remembering her. Of course she does.


"Yeah, the blonde. Her ex-husband was at her house. He had assaulted her, and assaulted their oldest son when he tried to step in and save his mother."


"I'm sorry she had that happen to her. Is she ok?" Her voice softens in response.


"She will be I think. But that's not what I need to tell you. When uh, I was about to leave, wrapping things up, she kissed me. And I… I uh… I didn't pull away immediately like I should have. I allowed it. Longer than I should have."


"How did that make you feel, Rick? Kissing her?" tilting her head, she keeps me in her sights. Focused. Boring into me as though she can detect the truth even without my words.


"Wrong. Upset. But, I guess in that moment, while she was thanking me, I got lost in feeling heroic. Like I had actually protected and saved someone in a way that I hadn't been able to for…someone else."


"Someone else like who, Rick?" Michonne asks, tears slowly building in her warm, chocolate eyes.


"For you. It's not an excuse, it doesn't make what I've done right. But, I remembered your words, Michonne. What you told me about him."


"Rick, he never hit me." She dismisses with a wave of her hand, as though physical abuse is all that matters. "And, it's over now. I just want to be whole again. To not feel like I let him chip away bits and pieces of me forever. Mike damaged my love and confidence, carelessly threw it away, stomped all over it to make himself feel better. I know this, I know it! But, I'm not her. I'm no one's victim, Rick. Black women are allowed to be victims anyway…"


"I don't understand. What he did-" I swallow thickly, the words nearly choking me.


"Mike never hit me, Rick." She adamantly presses on, asserting her position. "Things weren't always…that way with us, it just got worse over time, as he got more frustrated with things. He was a good man once. He was a good father. We had love."


"Listen, I don't care about that piece of shit. He had the precious thing, a good woman, a great son. He threw that away. Fuck him! I care about you. And I'm telling you I messed up last night. I don't care if he never laid a hand on you. His words and his treatment hurt you, and I want to kill him. Last night when I was fighting with Jessie's husband, it was like I was fixing things for you. For Andre. Every time that son of a bitch calls, every time you mention his name. When Andre is with him like he is now. I want to kill him. I want to break his gotdamn jaw for every hurtful thing he ever said to you. For every time he didn't come home, didn't call you back, put his family over you, discounted you as a woman, made jokes at your expense. For every time he didn't love you the way you deserved, I want to put a bullet in his brain."


"It's ok, Rick. I'm ok now…at least I'm trying to be. And, you don't have to apologize for anything. I understand. I did something too."


"Doesn't matter." I grit out, closing my eyes at the easy forgiveness she's offering me, ready to return the favor. What could she have done?


"It does. Last night I went to dinner with Shane."


"You did what?" My eyes snap open, my breath escaping in quickening pants.


"Please let me explain." Raising her hands in a stopping motion, as if to halt my growing discontent, she continues. "I… He showed up to my parents' house, and he told me he saw you with her, kissing her. It hurt. It's like my brain short circuited or something. I know I'm stupid. I know."


"No you're not. Don't talk about yourself like that."


"I am stupid, Rick, because I let Shane create doubt in me about you. I thought he may have been deceiving me, but I was so upset that I didn't care. I was stupid and when he dropped me off he kissed me. I let him kiss me."


"Is that all he did? Kiss you?" The question knocks around in my chest, rumbles, then fires from my lips. If he did more…


"That's all I swear. I didn't stop him, though. I'm sorry. A part of me wanted to hurt you. To tank this thing the way I knew it would eventually anyway. I'm sorry."


"I don't know what to say right now. I just…"


"I'm sorry, Rick, I truly am. I understand if you want to call this off…I understand." Covering her face with her hands, soft sobs play out in the room, replacing the hum of the constant chatter from the TV. It's all I can hear, her cries. Her sadness. It dampens my anger like water on a fire, transforming the blazing extremity of my fury to a heated smolder.


Finding my words underneath my passionate temper, I wrap my hand around her neck and pull her to me. Dragging her hands from her face, I kiss away the tears raining over her lips. "Listen to me, we both did something we are not proud of. I'm angry with myself, with Shane, with you. But, I don't want this to ruin us…we can be stronger than this. You and me are meant to last forever. This isn't the end of us. I love you."


Stuttering through the hiccups and sadness that fuel her tears, Michonne confesses from her heart. "And I love you. I didn't want to tell you like this. I wanted it to be some grand gesture, but look what I've done. Maybe it should be the end of us because you deserve better than this. I know your ex cheated on you, Rick. I'm so sorry…"


"Me too. I'm sorry too. I never should have let Jessie kiss me either. It didn't mean anything to me. Did Shane's kiss mean something to you? Are you telling me that you feel something for him?" I ask, anxious at whatever her answer may mean for us moving forward.


"No, not really. I uh, there was a time when I thought maybe he and I could have worked out, but it's you, Rick. I love you. But in some way I think…I felt like I don't deserve to be happy, that maybe sabotaging things now would be better than losing you later. I don't really know, but I can say that I'm sorry I hurt you. I know I promised not to... I couldn't even get that right."


"Stop it. We are both going to make mistakes, I hurt you too, and I'm sorry. I'm not blameless here either. Let's not dwell on it. Let's move on, like last night never happened. Can we do that?" I plead, leaving my words in soft drafts on her lips. "Please?"


"I want to deserve you, Rick. I do."


"You deserve more than me."


"I'm trying… I'm going to try harder to believe in us, that we can move on."


"I want to, Michonne. I want our lives to be in sync from here on out, together, me and you. If that's something you would want?"


"Yeah. Yes, Rick, I want that, I do." Wiping at her eyes with the backs of her fingers, the wetness leaves a damp streak over the rounded apple of her cheeks.


Lifting my head, I kiss those streaks. I kiss her lips. I haven't forgotten what he did. What I did. I tell her it doesn't matter. It does. He touched her. He tricked her. He's tasted my lady, and I can't get it out of my head right now. Raising from my knees I rush my body into hers, and press against her mouth with my lips. The pillowy cushion of her lips greets me, her tongue eagerly licking out to meet my own. I sip from those lips that belong to me. I tangle her tongue around my own, greedily roaming the wet cavern of her mouth, seeking to erase any lingering trace of that bastard.


Laying her on her back, I settle myself between her legs, lifting her right leg to hook it high at the back of the couch. Reaching for the button on my jeans, my eagerness to unclasp them causes my fingers to fumble clumsily.


"Rick, hey, it's ok, baby. Here, let me do it." Brushing my fingers away, Michonne takes charge and easily unbuttons my jeans, and pulls down my zipper. Then pulls me down to her. "I know how to get you out of your pants, Sheriff."


Resting my weight on top of her, soaking up the heat of her body pinned beneath me, I take note of the playful smile now on her face, replacing the melancholy that previously deformed her beauty, and I break out into a wide grin of my own.


"Come here." Removing my glasses from my face, discarding them onto the coffee table, I lift her chin to kiss at her lips again. Dragging my hand lower, over her throat, her breasts, I toss open the unbuttoned halves of my plaid shirt that she's wearing. It dwarfs her tiny frame, and hangs easily over her pink panties. With it open it exposes her full breasts, and flat abdomen to my gaze. Lowering myself, I ease down her body, lacing her breasts, nipples, belly button, stomach and pelvis with a series of reverent, appreciative kisses.


I'm thankful that we could weather this storm together, come out on the other end intact. That the skittishness of her nature, and given both of our indiscretions, doesn't send her in a dizzying launch from my life. An event that would surely kill me. Wrapping my arm tightly around her waist, I use my teeth to pull her panties away from her skin, allowing my tongue to lick at the crease where her pussy meets her thighs. She begins to giggle and squirm on a false attempt to free herself from me. I'm not letting her go. Ever.


On a breathy moan, her fingers lovingly rub over my head, Michonne wonders aloud. "Haven't you had enough of my crazy yet, Rick?"


"Never. Now be still."


"Your tongue is tickling me! You know I'm so sensitive lately."


"I do." I briefly answer, moving in even closer on her, getting to where I really want my lips to rest. Dipping my nose into panties, her womanhood, I take in a deep inhale of the fragrance of her sex. Just as I'm about to lick my tongue out to taste, her phone rings. At first she seems intent on ignoring it, but with a brief glance over to it on the armrest next to her, the screen lighting up and displaying her caller, she reaches for it. With one hand on the back of my head, steadying my tunneling kisses, the other is sliding her thumb across the screen to answer.


"Hey, Peanut! Oh, hi Mike. You're calling from Andre's phone? Is everything ok?"


At just the sound of her ex's name leaving her lips the hopeful and playful sexiness of the mood is dampened, and I relax against her tense thighs. That split second for her to answer his call, dramatically changes everything. Michonne has withdrawn her hand from my hair as though she were busted doing something she shouldn't. Instead her fingers anxiously hover and flitter across her lips as she mumbles one word answers to his questions. Questions that I can hear asked in a smooth, bass heavy voice, clear as day through the speaker on her phone.


Yes, she will pick Andre up from the airport at 7. And no she didn't forget that he will be coming next weekend to take Andre and his friend to see the Falcons in the NFC Championship game for his birthday. Then there is the last question, the one where I can hear Mike ask who is Rick, and why did he accompany his son and ex-wife on parents' night at Andre's basketball game, is the one that really gets my attention, more so than the others. Of even more interest was Michonne's quiet response that Rick's her boyfriend. I'm proud of her, this is the first time she's mentioned me to him, and it's a big step. But her body language is tense. The way I'm attuned to her, I can feel my own body stiffen with tension as well, and I sit up on my knees to give her space to handle her business, absent of my hovering.


My movement registers with her, and she shakes her head no, silently telling me to stay. But it's ok. I gift her with an assuring smile, and pull her nervous fingers from her mouth to place a kiss to the corner of her lips. And there it is, a smile replaces her frown, emboldens her to deal with him.


Getting up from the couch, reaching for my glasses, I can now only hear the deep mumble of his voice asking her more questions, displeasure clear in his raised voice, that she answers with a easier tone than before. Pressing my glasses back on to my face, I'm walking into the kitchen to check on the meatloaf I'm making us for dinner, and take a deep breath to calm my racing thoughts. Shane. Mike. Michonne.


Every day my life seems more complete just knowing that Michonne's in it. It's not an odd feeling, or inorganic in any way. It's quite the contrary. We spend the majority of our time together alone, or with our boys, and everything seems to be falling in place. This new development with Shane, I hate it. I don't enjoy the idea of him toying with her, trying to get at me through her. I know exactly what this is, and I'm going to put a stop to it.


Right now though, today, it's not just Shane I need to deal with, it's also her ex. I despise weak men, that prey on others, the way he traumatized her. People so easily dismiss the effects of emotional abuse. But I have seen the damage it can do. I see it in the men and women who come in asking for protective orders against spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, parents.


Dropping the door to the oven, I take note that the meatloaf is not yet done, then dig into the refrigerator to find a beer. I need something to cool my simmering temper. I can feel it scampering just under my skin, itching to do something. I've been paying attention to Michonne, and like I told her before, I see her. She's a woman who is putting herself and her life back together, her words of love strengthen me. Embolden me to set things right for me and for her, for our future. I will deal with Shane and with Mike.


Sipping down the cool flavor of the hops from the beer, allowing it to put out the flames of the discontent flourishing in my belly the longer she stays on the phone with him, I'm a little startled out of my thoughts by the sound of the doorbell. I can see from my peripheral vision that Michonne's head turns my way, her eyes bouncing in question between me and the front door.


On a reassuring smile, not really wanting to invite her to the irritation probably showcased on my face, I nod her way, and walk steadily to the door. Without even bothering to check who it is first, I pull open the door and find my ex wife, Lori, standing on my step.


"Lori, what are you doing here?"


"Hi to you too, Rick." She dryly offers in response.


"Sorry, I just… Carl is with your sister, so I'm not sure why you're here." I shake my head in disbelief. Her disruptive timing, like Mike's, is impeccable.


"Yes, Rick, I know that. Carl called and said he left his backpack for school tomorrow over here. I'm just here to pick it up if I can." Eying my naked torso, leading to the opening of my jeans and the display of my boxers peeking over the edge, Lori gives me a slow up and down. I'm instantly reminded of my appearance, and quickly reach to button back up. "So, can I come in? It's cold out here."


"Oh yeah, sorry. Let me look in his room for his bag."


"Ok. By the way, who do you know who drives a fancy Mercedes?"


Somehow in the melee of Lori showing up unexpectedly at my door, her protruding pregnant belly conspicuous underneath her wool coat, and her eyes casually traveling the length of my body, then settling on my eyes, I forgot that Michonne was not fully dressed either. As I'm closing the door behind Lori, Michonne comes around the wall separating the living room and the foyer, my shirt hanging on to her lithe frame by just a button.


"Rick, who's at the door?" Michonne asks, her voice trailing off as she catches the sight of Lori and I standing together.


"Uh, it's Lori."


"Oh?"


For an awkward moment there is nothing but a series of questioning stares being levied around the room. From Lori and Michonne to me, and me back to Michonne. Michonne, my beautiful baby, who doesn't realize how effortlessly sexy she looks right now in my shirt, and a pair of my socks pulled up high on her legs, stopping just at her knees. Even with my ex in the room, and the odd vibe popping off between the three of us, my eyes still always find Michonne.


"So, who's your friend, Rick?" Lori nods her head towards Michonne, who is standing to my right.


"This is Michonne. My girlfriend. She's Andre's mother. Uh, the kid that Carl is going to the Falcons game with next week."


"Oh. Oh! Ok! Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Carl's mother Lori, Rick's wife, uh ex-wife. Nice to meet you." Lori offers her hand to Michonne, with a smile, though it doesn't meet her eyes that bounce from Michonne's state of undress to my own.


"Hello, Lori. Nice to meet you as well" she responds, her eyes casually falling, softening on the bump under Lori's coat.


"Carl talks about you and Andre all the time. He really likes you guys."


"He's a sweetheart. Is he enjoying his camping trip?"


"Uh, yeah. Yep."


In our casual state of partial undress, things are quickly becoming awkward in the silence left behind by the few words of small talk.


"Can I, uh, go look in Carl's room for his bag?"


"Oh I'll go look for it. Maybe throw on some pants too huh?" Michonne laughs, breaking the ice with her self-conscious comments.


"You better not put on any pants," I lean down, taking her hand in mine to halt her departure and growl into her ear. A quiet command meant only for her. She rolls her eyes, and once freed from my possessive clutch of her hand, pads down the hall towards Carl's room.


"She's very pretty, Rick. Not what I expected, but just as beautiful as Carl said." Lori offers, a wry smile twisting her thin lips. "I suppose if I was a different woman I would be jealous right now."


"Jealous for what? We're not married anymore, Lori. Remember?"


"I know. Believe me, Rick, I am fully aware of that fact. And that it's my fault. Mostly."


"I won't argue with you when you're right."


"You both love her. I know Carl does. He's itching to be with you guys, with your new little family every chance he gets. And look at you." Gesturing her hand at me. "It's as plain as the nose on your face how you feel about that woman. And I'm sure you are just bulldozing straight ahead, it's just your way. You see something you want, and you get tunnel vision, but you forget about the periphery. Sometimes I miss that about you, how earnest and true you are with your intentions. So unlike some other men."


Growing uncomfortable with the trajectory of this conversation, especially given the weighty nature of things discussed between Michonne and I today, the last thing I need is drama from Lori.


"What are we talking about, Lori? What's going on?"


"You have always been loyal, Rick. Probably still are." Huffing out a soft breath, she locks her soft brown eyes on mine, a recognition of the lengthy history we have together. "I never really said it, but I'm sorry things turned out so shitty with us. We checked out on each other, and neither of us had enough nerve to just call it quits before it got too far down the road. I hope you have enough nerve to follow through with this lady, though…if that's what you want."


"It is."


"I need a favor, Rick."


"What's that?"


"He won't answer my calls anymore. He won't see me. I'm not on your insurance any longer, and the baby will be here soon. I can't work. I need money, things for the baby. He needs to help me."


"What does that have to do with me? That's between you and him. I have my own beef with him right now." Grimacing at the idea of what she seems to be getting at, I set my hands on my hips, irritation growing with every one of her words.


"I understand. I didn't know if there was something you could- would do. I know I fucked up, but I'm at a dead end now. I-" Halting at Michonne's reappearance, Lori plasters a fake smile on her face and accepts Carl's backpack from Michonne's outstretched hand. "Thank you."


"No problem. That boy's room is a mess! It smells like a foot in there. Yuck!"


"Sounds about right for Carl. I will let you both get back to your Sunday. It was nice to meet you, Michonne." Lori offers. Turning to open the door and leave on her own, her departure leaves an odd caul hanging over the room. Just as easily as she was here, she's gone.


"Whose ex do we talk about first? Yours or mine?" I ask, turning to Michonne, frowning at the sight of her now wearing pants.


"I don't know, Sheriff. I would rather not talk about either. But, for the hell of it, why don't you go first. Is that your baby she's carrying?" Tilting her chin my way, she touches her index finger, gently to center of my chest.


Glancing down at her as she vertically grazes that same finger lower, stopping at the button of my jeans. Hooking her finger there, she allows it to linger, her eyes focused steady on my own.


"No."


"You sure?"


"I'm positive. What did Mike want?"


"To ask about you. I'd rather not talk about him."


"Agreed. I'd rather punish you for putting on those pants after I told you not to."


"I'd like to see you try." Keeping her finger hooked in the front of my jeans, she leads me down the hall to my bedroom.




"You wanted to see me, Sheriff?"


"Yeah, Spencer, come on in." I grouse, clearly displeased by his presence and the topic I need to discuss with him.


"Sure thing. By the way, my mother says hello. She said she needs to follow up with you on a few things."


"Yep. I'll give her a call. But, right now I need to talk to you about this civil suit against you from a civilian. Glenn Rhee ring a bell?"


"Uh…yes?"


"Tell me what happened."


"Well…"


"And before you try to blow smoke up my ass let me tell you something, I already read your report, I already watched the dash cam video, and I already read the report from the DA's office. But, I also have a deposition subpoena here from the law office of Anthony & Associates, asking me to testify out of court regarding this law suit. So, you're not gonna bullshit me, Spencer. You're gonna tell me what the fuck happened the night you arrested civilian Glenn Rhee." I demand, slapping the deposition and file older onto the stack of papers already scattered around my messy desk.


Leaning back, my hands in a death grip on the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white, I'm livid. Instantly, my already agitated nerves are further irritated by the sight of Spencer, and the fact that on top of the nearly fatal drama with Michonne from this past weekend, I now have to deal with this. Bright and early this morning, I immediately was met by my secretary with a stack of mail. This stack included a large manila envelope that was delivered by messenger, and included a subpoena deposition. Browsing over the paperwork, I quickly discovered that Spencer's misdeeds have come back to haunt me.


It's just theatrics that I don't need right now. Michonne and I have spoken to each other every day since she left my house on Sunday evening to pickup Andre from the airport, but neither of our schedules have permitted a mid week date, and it's throwing me off. Not seeing her. Not being able to physically touch her. It has caused a slight disquiet in my spirit that I think we need to rectify. It's not even about the Jessie thing, or the Shane thing. Michonne said she forgives me, and I hope that it's true. I have forgiven her as well. I had to. But, there is a serious stirring in my gut, ready to boil over every time I think about how he preyed on her. Him.


And now I have to deal with this shit.


"Sheriff, I don't know where to start." Spencer nervously stutters, his thin lips mumbling out his excuse.


"How about you start at the beginning." A voice commands from just outside of my doorway. I know that voice, and in recognition I roll my eyes, and clench my jaw and my hands into fists as I search for a strand of restraint. It's only 9 AM, and I'm gonna need more coffee for this shit.


"Shane." I drawl out, making sure to include every inch of bitterness and disgust I can muster this early in the morning.


"Rick. Spencer. I assume you are both huddled here in your little office to discuss the subpoenas for deposition?" Shane asks, lifting his dark eyebrows in question, and raising his hand to reveal a manila envelope similar to the one I received. "I'll accept your silence as a yes. So, what the fuck is going on, and why the hell am I being pulled into this mess? I thought this thing was put to bed under Blake?" Shane asks, taking a seat in front of my desk next to Spencer. Crossing his right leg over his left, propping his foot on his knee, he sits back and waits.


"Spencer was just about to answer some of those questions. By the way, how the hell did you know about this meeting? You certainly weren't invited."


"My secretary talks to yours. They're friends. Seems we're always connected in some way huh?"


Watching the terse conversation between Shane and I play out, Spencer's head swivels back and forth. Seemingly shocked by the addition of the uninvited guest to the meeting, he finally stops and gawks at Shane, then turns back to me as if asking for permission to continue.


"Well go on, Spencer. Let's get this shit over with." I answer, with an irritated flip of my hand.


"Well, like my report said. I stopped the suspect after he pulled out the parking lot of the King County Groves apartment complex. It was dark, but I could see that the inside of the vehicle was lit up. I assumed it was from a lighter of some sort. I didn't pull him over for that, I pulled the suspect over because he made a rolling stop leaving the complex instead of a full stop, as required. When I approached the vehicle and he rolled down the window I sensed the smell of marijuana. I asked the suspect for his license and registration, and for him to step out of the car. He made some sarcastic comments about law enforcement being intense. As I was turning to head back to my squad car to run his information I saw him head back into his vehicle as though he was trying to hide something. I told him to freeze and put up his hands. The suspect did not at first, but then withdrew, and stood by the hood of the car as I proceeded to search the vehicle for whatever he was reaching for. The suspect then began yelling at me about needing consent or a warrant. To which I told him to please remain quiet. He did not. He continued yelling, then approached me. I defended myself by using my club. After subduing him, I placed him under arrest and brought him in. End of story."


"End of story? Why did you ask him to step out of the car? That's not standard procedure for a stop." I ask, needing to understand some of the parts of his story that don't make sense.


"The suspect seemed shifty, as though he was high, possibly hiding a weapon of some sort."


"How the hell could you have figured that from just stopping him and him rolling down his window, Deputy Monroe?" Shane asks, probably picking up on some of the less than rational elements of Spencer's recollection.


"I put together the picture of what was going on from my observations, Mr. Walsh. I only had a few moments to react."


"Spencer, why did you search his car without his permission? You did not, according to your story, or your statement, seem to have cause. And why would you use your club? The dash video, though grainy, does not show him making a move to approach you. So what other excuses do you have?" I ask, growing more and more agitated by the moment. His story simply isn't adding up, and it doesn't fully match some of the documentation from his report, to the internal investigations department, or from the DA's office. But somehow this shit got dismissed. I know how that happened. Money, connections. The Monroes have been politicians in King County for years, and for the most part the mayor, Deanna, seems clean. But I know, as sure as I know my own name, that this is fishy. Between the old Sheriff, Philip Blake sweeping it under the rug, and burying the internal report prior to his death, and the old DA, not even bothering to move on it and bring criminal charges before his retirement, on top of the mayor being Spencer's mother, I'm sure this is all some bullshit. Unfortunately, this is not the first time that this has happened here.


"Sheriff?"


"What the fuck really happened, Spencer? I want you to listen to me good, ok? I'm not going to perjure myself for you. So, I suggest you figure this shit out. I'm the sheriff now, so if your story is legit I will protect you, this department will protect you. Something tells me it's not though." Pointing a finger at him, I can feel bile rising in my throat as I hold the file with the pictures of the suspect, Mr. Rhee, in my other hand. Bruises, purple, black, red, cover his fair skin, all over his ribs, and back.


"Well, I don't what the hell this has to do with me. I wasn't the DA at the time, so I'll just have to let this lawyer know that. I hate to agree with the Sheriff on this one, Monroe. You better lawyer up, boy. See what your mama and her money can do for you. I mean, I've been a deputy, I know you only have a moment to figure shit out and protect yourself, figure out how to proceed. And sometimes these junkies have it coming to them. The guy looks like a pot smoking punk. I get it. But I'm trying to run a clean DA's office now. Grimes is right, don't put us in a bad position on this." Shane offers, sucking his teeth to punctuate the finality of his statement.


"I'm going by the book on my testimony, Spencer. I think you need to contact your union rep and your lawyer, this could get messy."


"Yes, sir. I understand." Spencer looks at me as though I've grown another head, completely clueless as to how serious this actually is.


"You can go." I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, ready to be done with him for the day.


Watching him walk out, Spencer holds the door open for Shane as though he expects him to leave out behind him.


"Ah, you can close it, Spencer. I need to talk to the DA about an important matter."


"Ok. Thank you, sir."


Tenting my fingers on my desk, I calm my nerves before I proceed. Sitting back in his chair, Shane's face holds a smug smirk, and it's taking every inch of restraint for me not to launch myself across the desk to kill him.


"Don't talk to her again. Don't go to her parents' house again. I won't repeat myself."


"I'm sorry, Sheriff, are you talking about Michonne? Because I just saw her Saturday night. Can't wait to see her again, so I don't know if that is going to work for me. She'll soon forget about you. It's happened before." He shrugs nonchalantly.


Ignoring his comments, I continue, needing to say my piece, to get my point across before I snap. "She told me about your little date. Let's not pretend this is about her. You really think if she knew what kind of man you really are, a woman like Michonne would even speak to you?"


"How about that kiss she let me get, huh? Wait, it was two kisses. I see why you want me to stay away from her. Those lips… I can't wait to take it even further next time." Stopping to rub his hand over his lips, his smirk transforms into a more sinister sneer. And for a brief moment I feel pity for him. For this hollow shell that no longer resembles the man who was one my best friend. "She's exquisite, Rick, she is. And I can't wait to give it to her. Fuck her like we're having an affair. That's the best sex, Rick. When it's a little dirty, taboo, worried you might get caught, but that's a part of the thrill of it. Yeah, I can't wait for that." He taunts, dropping his lewd comments about Michonne into the air, baiting me.


"Watch your fucking mouth! You're talking about the woman who's gonna be my wife someday. You better tread lightly, motherfucker." I respond. I'm trying to remain calm, but I can feel myself shaking with fury, utilizing every ounce of discipline to abstain from breaking his jaw to shut him up.


"Your wife, huh? Then you and I both know she'll definitely fuck me then. Your wives seem to like that."


Jumping up from my chair, I've lost every semblance of control. I can't stop myself, and I do reach across my desk and grab the lapels of his fancy suit, jerking him to me. He didn't expect it, and sputters at first, but I can tell he doesn't want to appear ruffled by my erratic actions. Grabbing at my hands, he attempts to pull my hands free of his suit jacket, but he can't. My grip is tight, steadfast.


"Listen, I know what you're trying to do here. I've known you a long time, and I'm not interested in your bullshit, Shane. I will fucking end you if you go near her again. You know I will do it. Now get the fuck out of my office." I promise, and toss him away from me, propelling his body back into his chair.


Straightening his jacket, his face turning red, Shane blusters, and huffs, bristling at my command. "You can't tell me what the fuck to do, Rick. If Michonne wants me -"


Walking around my desk, I've had enough. The sound of her name on his lips enrages me past rational thought. Jerking him up out of his seat, I'm wrangling him out of his chair. He's heavier than me, got me by about twenty pounds. But, my anger, adrenaline is driving me, and I gain leverage over him, tossing his body into my office door.


Falling to the ground from the forceful impact of his body hitting the door, Shane tries to scramble to his feet. But I'm on him. Moving quickly, I raise my foot and step on his hand with the heel of my boot, pinning him back down to the floor. Leaning over his body, deligighting in his agonized screams, I wrap my hand around his neck and squeeze. Hard. Feeling the satisfying decrease of his rapid breathing, I squeeze tighter. It's a delightful sight, his eyes bulging, his hands scratching at my own, a futile attempt for me to release him. Just before I sense he will pass out, I loosen my hold, and make eye contact with him. I whisper calmly into his face, close enough so that I'm sure he can hear me loud and clear. "Stay the fuck away from Michonne. Or…next time I will end your miserable life, end this rivalry between us for good. I promise."


Stepping away from him, I straighten myself, and fix my tie. Smoothing my hair back into place, I blow out an exasperated breath. Opening my office door, I watch from the corner of my eye as Shane ambles to his feet, huffing, sputtering to regain his breath. Gathering himself, he remains silent, but if looks could kill I would be dead. His state of dishevelment is pleasing to me, and even though I hope that he listens to me, follows my guidance, I welcome the opportunity to end him just the same. And I'm sure this isn't over. The back and forth between Shane and I began over twenty years ago, and I'm certain this isn't the end. Not yet.


"This ain't over, Rick." He snarls, and turns to leave.


"For your sake you better hope it is, Shane. I meant what I said. And you know I always keep my promises. Matter of fact, I think you need to be worried about tending to the baby you have on the way, and that baby's mother. Don't make shit harder on you than it already is."












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