by W. Winters
The Firm will provide for all necessary modifications pertaining to the security and comfort of each client. These may include, but are not limited to, home renovations and the installation of complete monitoring systems. Modifications are subject to change as the service progresses.
My eyes burn as if I didn’t sleep at all. Which doesn’t make much sense given that last night I slept the most I have in months. It was off and on and took hours before sleep came for me, but still. I slept. A dreamless sleep, thankfully.
I’m busy rubbing my eyes when I hear heavy footsteps walk into the kitchen. I’m grateful my back is to whomever it is so they don’t see the exasperation in my expression.
I’m grateful to be out of the center, grateful for my own bed and an ounce more privacy, but I’d like a moment from under the shadow of these strangers.
Gripping the cardboard box, I tilt it and the clink of cereal hitting the bowl is all that can be heard. The second the box is placed on the counter, whoever has joined me pulls out a stool from the island, the legs dragging on the porcelain floor.
If I didn’t feel as exhausted as I do, if I wasn’t grateful to be out of there and safe in a familiar place, I’d have contempt for all of them. Them telling me what to do, making changes to my home without my consent … it’s never sat well with me for a man to take control of my life. Other than one man.
“Morning.” A deep baritone interrupts my thoughts, soothing them and giving me a much-wanted distraction.
Taking my time, I peer over my shoulder, ignoring the warmth the sight gives me. His broad shoulders pull the collared shirt tight as he leans down to reposition the stool once again and then takes his seat. He opted for a burgundy shirt and black jeans today. The dark tones bring out the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
Zander is a handsome man in a traditional sense. Although he’s clean-shaven today, I most certainly prefer the stubble he came with yesterday. His hair is short on the sides, but there’s plenty to grip on top. His tanned skin is a stark contrast to how pale I’ve become. I’d guess from his appearance he worked a blue-collar job, not this.
His last name is the same as Cade’s—Thompson—and I wonder if he’s related and that’s the only reason he’s here.
“Good morning,” I offer him and ignore the raw pain at the back of my throat. The doctor said I needed to practice speaking again to lessen the vocal strain. After the surgery, I could barely speak for weeks. But then again, I could barely do anything for weeks.
“I didn’t expect you to be up this early,” Zander tells me. His name and his promise to tell me his stories kept me company as I lay in bed last night. I believe I remember each of the men’s names, but Zander’s is by far the easiest.
“I never met a Zander before,” I comment rather than offer up my dry humor with the accusation of how he could possibly know what to expect from me. After all, I haven’t known him for twenty-four hours yet; I probably shouldn’t risk offending him.
“Well, I’m glad to be your first.” The corners of my lips tilt up at his drollness. Perhaps he would have liked my joke after all. He adds quickly, as if second-guessing his choice of words, “How are you this morning?”
“My throat hurts,” I whisper but it goes unheard as I pour the milk into the cereal.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says.
After putting the milk back in the fridge, I move the ceramic bowl to the island across from him and answer politely, “I’m all right.” I mean to ask him how he’s doing too, but my throat burns; the cold milk is too tempting not to drink some of it first.
In my silence, Zander says, “I’ll try not to be obvious.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll give you space while I’m here.”
“Oh,” I say and the word falls flat from my lips. Loneliness creeps between us.
“Unless you’d like the company,” he offers. It’s kind of him, and obvious that he only offered because of my despondency.
“I thought you had stories,” I murmur, peeking up at him from beneath my lashes. There’s a quick spark, one that frightens some side of me I’m not yet ready to confront. It’s too early for such things.
A tall disposable coffee cup hits the counter and I stare at it, rather than the prying gaze that fuels the heat rising into my cheeks.
“We could share stories,” he states lowly. A prick travels along my skin as the tips of my fingers numb. The sugary puffs that float in the bowl come with memories. They dare me to tell Zander why, for two years, I made sure this cereal was always stocked.
At that recollection, I push the bowl away from me. The porcelain protests as it drags against the stone.
“Do you want something else to eat?” I meet his gaze as he adds, “I’m no chef, but—”
“No,” I say and then clear my throat, hating that the simple act makes it hurt that much more. “I’m fine.” What a lie that is. A lie I’m sure this man can read as easily as the written words on the back of the cereal box. I debate pulling the bowl back and eventually give in, my hunger winning out. It’s the smallest things that bring me to the edge. Something as simple as a brand of cereal.
“You all right, Eleanor?”
“Call me Ella … please.”
“Ella,” he echoes, seemingly testing out my name, his deep voice caressing each syllable. It stirs something inside of me, something that buries my previous thoughts, making me grateful for him repeating my name.
There’s a quiet moment before he picks up the conversation again.
“What kind of music do you like?”
With a smirk I think the topic is one step above asking my opinion of the weather. Although given how kind he is, and how pleasant he is simply to look at, I’d talk about whatever he’d like.
“All kinds,” I tell him and finding my own answer lacking, I elaborate before he can respond. “I have two favorites I used to listen to: “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato and “Sit Still, Look Pretty” by … I forget who sings it.”
I peek over the counter at where he’s seated to find an amused expression.
“Daya, I think.”
I soothe each of the burning words with a spoonful of milk. My gaze drops to the streaks of gray that marble the pristine counter rather than holding his any longer. I haven’t the energy to keep up with the pretense of yesterday. Regardless of my pride, he’s practically my prison warden.
“You know them?”
“Not a clue,” he answers and a bubble of laughter warms my chest.
He starts to say something, getting my attention but waves it off. “What?” I push him but he taps the empty coffee cup on the counter instead of answering.
“I have a coffee maker,” I say, picking up the spoon and point with it, “if you’d like to make a cup.”
“I’m fine with this. Thank you, though.”
“You’re a coffee drinker then?” I ask him. Yet another topic that’s one step above the weather. Just doing my part in this ice breaking, I suppose.
“I am.”
“Let me guess how you drink it.” He grins slowly, taken aback by my tone. Even I’m surprised by the eagerness in my voice.
“Black with sugar. No milk?”
“Why do you think no milk?” he questions, not telling me if I’m right or wrong.
I shrug and he shakes his head. “Milk, no sugar.”
“Oh,” I say with mock dismay, “so close.” I can’t hide the semblance of a smile.
“Let me guess how you drink yours?” he asks and I nod, biting down slightly on my lower lip. “Lots of sugar and no milk.”
“You just took my guess,” I say accusingly.
“You didn’t say ‘lots.’”
“Well, you’re wrong anyway,” I say between more spoonfuls of milk.
“So how do you like it?” he asks and my body reacts to his words as if the way he posed the query wasn’t innocent. As if he was asking how I like something else entirely.
A m
undane conversation with this man feels just as dangerous as playing with fire. Whispering, and not feeling any pain at all, I confess, “I don’t drink coffee. I drink tea.”
His eyes spark and it’s in tune with a thump in my chest. Then I’m met with a rough huff of humor. “I knew that,” he comments.
Even with the quietness surrounding us, I simmer. There’s something about him that pulls me in, but there’s also something that warns me to stay the hell away from him.
I’ve never been good at obeying warnings, though.
“Did you already eat?” I dare ask, interrupting the quiet moment.
“We bring our own food.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He gives me an asymmetric grin as my spoon clinks against the bowl and I finish the last of my breakfast.
“Not yet. I’m waiting on Damon, you met him yesterday.” When I nod he continues, “Once he’s in, I’ll be on my way.”
There’s no explanation for the reason I suddenly feel loss. I ask, “So you stayed last night?” and he nods. “What did you even do? Watch me sleep?”
The sexy smirk he gives me is utterly sinful. It’s wrong that it sparks what it does inside of me. He nods and attempts a swig from his coffee cup but finds it empty.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that’s what he gets. It’s in this moment that I’m acutely aware of the attraction between us and how very wrong it feels. It’s in the way he looks at me. How his stare seems to sink through me, anchoring me to him and holding me steady. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t hesitate, and there’s a knowing challenge in his gaze. One that feels familiar although the man himself is very much a stranger who has piqued my curiosity.
My dry humor slips out in a deadpan mutter. “That’s not creepy at all.” I anticipate him laughing but he doesn’t. I wish he would, I want to know what it sounds like from his lips.
I change the subject as quickly as I can, gesturing to his empty cup. “You sure you don’t want to make another cup?”
Peering down at the nondescript cardboard cup, he hesitates.
“I don’t mind giving to the needy.”
He questions with humor, “Now I’m charity?”
I give in to the small laughter that comes with it and shrug. “Your words, not mine.”
Instead of answering, he asks, “Cade said last night that you do charity work?”
The mention of Cade and the fact they were talking about me last night makes my throat go dry.
Nodding, I answer, “Kam says it’s good for my image and I love it, so …” With a familiar hollow sensation filling my chest, I take the bowl to the sink and pretend I’m all right. It’s back to real life and no longer getting lost in the handsome stranger seated so close I can inhale his masculine scent. It’s something woodsy yet fresh. Like a forest that rises above the coldest depths of the ocean.
The thoughts leave me without conscious consent as I say, “It’s incredible the things people do. All they ask for is a platform, a chance. I’m grateful I can give them that.”
“So you do charity? That’s your … thing?” I don’t miss how his gaze sweeps over the expansive kitchen and past that to the sitting room.
“I don’t make money from it, if that’s what you’re thinking.” My brow knits and I question, “You haven’t read the file.”
“You know what’s in there?”
I answer without hesitation, “Of course I do. Kam makes sure I approve it all.”
Shock lights his hazel eyes, brightening them but he doesn’t say a word.
Curiosity eats away at me until I ask him, “What do you know about me?” The suspense heats every inch of my body as I wait for an answer.
“Only what I’ve seen in the courtroom and at the briefing yesterday,” he admits.
“And what Cade told you last night,” I point out. I don’t know why I feel so at ease knowing he doesn’t know. I shouldn’t feel relief, but I do.
“Yes, and that.”
Something compels me to tease him as I make my way to the hot water spout, in desperate need of morning tea. “So you don’t read the file and instead flirt with me in my kitchen in the early hours before anyone else is awake … None of this sounds like conflict of interest at all to me.”
The very moment I begin to second-guess myself, I feel his dominating presence behind me and when I turn to face him, I’m disappointed he wasn’t there caging me in. Instead he stands two feet too far from me, tossing away his trash. A sharp tension snaps between us as the implications of what I’ve said hit me. The front door creaks open, alerting us to someone else’s presence and Zander ends the conversation succinctly by saying, “So many interests. So many conflicts.”
Zander
Twenty-four-hour care is the standard for each client contracted with The Firm. A partner will be on the premises at all times, with additional detail on standby within a thirty-minute radius of the property. If at any time more security is required, it will be addressed immediately and without hesitation.
The door of the rented room sticks on my way in. Its resistance in the new autumn sunlight, slanting down the motel wall, echoes what I felt leaving Ella’s house twenty minutes ago. There’s a magnetic pull to her I can’t fathom. She’s a beautiful distraction who’s mesmerized me. I could’ve listened to her talk all day, or even longer, about virtually nothing. It was as if a door had cracked open, letting in a little light. Her eyes hadn’t seemed so haunted. Guarded, yes. Cautious—especially when Cade was mentioned.
This may be a different kind of case, but her reaction isn’t unlike other clients. My reaction, though … is certainly unusual. It’s typical for our clients to react that way—relaxing a bit, once the initial awkwardness dissipates. Although I hardly interact with the clients. That’s Cade’s job. It’s rare that I’m required to be social, and more than likely for the best. I’m a bodyguard, plain and simple. What makes our company, and our talents above the competition, is the attention to detail. The monitoring, the research. Knowing who the threat is and more importantly why. What motivated the need to call us. Emotions don’t factor into it nearly as much as simply knowing people.
When it comes to Ella, though … The first day has certainly been different from all the others.
My gaze drops as I toss the keys down on the barren dresser that doubles as a TV stand. It must’ve been a bit of a relief, sleeping in her own house with us to watch out for her.
I wouldn’t know much about that. I’ve been alone for a long time now.
Inside the room, I close the door and lock the dead bolt. Cade secured a row of rooms in a mom-and-pop motel on the edge of the city. It’s cheap but homey. Well cared for. You can tell the owners take pride in the place. My room has a queen-size bed with stark white, fresh bedding. A table and two chairs sit by the front window, the table decorated with a few stems of some pink flower in a vase. Fresh flowers, not fake. It’s a nice touch, but the feminine flair is lost on me. They’ve repainted recently, because the new paint smell still lingers. I fall into one of those chairs and kick my shoes off, one at a time.
Alone.
Part of me relaxes at knowing there’s nobody watching me. All night at Ella’s, I felt eyes on my back. Maybe I was anticipating the moment she’d come down the stairs and say my name into all that quiet.
Maybe I was hoping she would do just that.
But Ella slept all night, and then this morning she lifted that spoon to her lips like it wasn’t the most delicate, graceful thing I’d ever seen and told me about those songs she liked. I’ve already got them downloaded on my phone. They’re already taking up space there, waiting for me.
Old guilt crashes in at the thought.
I let it hit. The waves bring exhaustion with it.
I can keep it shut out for the most part. I’ve had two years to learn to live with it. And I do live with it. There’s no other choice. I’m alive, and I live with this hole, a wound, where someone
else used to be. It feels like a deep gouge, but I know better. I’ve been to doctors about physical pain.
This is something else. Something I’ll have for always. Even the psychiatrist said so. Two little blue pills may help me sleep, but when I’m awake and conscious, that pain will never leave.
It’s the pain of hesitation. Of the loss of strict focus. Once upon a time, I fucked up. I wasn’t honest about what I wanted because I was afraid of the outcome.
Now, even thinking about exposing that truth—to anyone—feels like acid in open wounds.
Those wounds are best kept hidden. Tucked away like the words inside a closed book. Though I don’t know how long that will work, either. Cade’s been making noises for six months about how much time I spend on my own. I keep telling him that’s how I like it. No demands on my free time, except for when I spend the weekend with Damon. We’ll grab a beer every now and again. We’ll work on some project or another. Go to the shooting range or gym to have company. He knows loss as well as I do.
Even Damon’s made a few comments. I don’t know what they want from me. I work for The Firm as much as I can, and in my downtime, I try not to think about the shit that almost destroyed me.
It might still destroy me. The heat kicks on as I unzip my duffle bag. Two suits are already hung in the three-foot-wide closet. I go through the motions of this part of the job without much mental effort, just as I have for the past few years. The job keeps me moving. The requirements are all-consuming. So I take them all. Falling into place and performing as needed. This one, though …
It’s more complicated, what with the news I got about the trial.
Stripping off my shirt, I drop to the floor and do a set of twenty push-ups. Then another. Followed by four-count breaths. Twenty more push-ups and the burn seeps into my muscles, stiffening my shoulders. I hold the position and do twenty more, faster, letting the heat break along my skin. Holding the upright position and then I break in another four. After eight sets the crush of guilt around my lungs eases up, and I head into the tiny bathroom for a shower. My chest rises and falls deeper, needing to steady, but my mind still races.
