by W. Winters
Turning the metal knob, the squeak of the old piping is followed by a spray of ice-cold water. By the time I’ve stripped down, steam has started pouring into the stall.
This, at least, is standard for missions. An affordable motel. A series of night shifts. I’m used to places like these, and schedules like these. I know how my brother prefers to put money into family businesses, local places that are less well traveled. I also know that he prefers contracts with clear end dates.
We don’t have one this time. That’s yet another difference with this mission. We’re here as long as she needs me.
Needs us.
I work shampoo through my hair and try to ignore a tension in my back. You’re in the wrong place, it says as I stare blankly at bland white tile and let the hot spray batter against my chest. The fuck is wrong with me? My eyes close and I do what I can to shake the thoughts of her away. She doesn’t fucking need me. She’s only a distraction, although … It seems as if she may need a distraction as well. Someone to listen to. Someone to talk to. Someone to tell her it’s all right to feel whatever it is she’s feeling. That thought is what breaks the dam. I can’t stop picturing her sitting at the island in her kitchen, her bedhead swept back from her face and her eyes looking more alive for the first time, with a spark of mischief and the dare on her lips that there’s no conflict of interest.
Tilting my face, I let the water splash there, condemning the disgraceful images that flick through my mind. I could so very easily get her to talk. One night with her and she would spill whatever it is that I wanted to know.
I can’t stop picturing how she looked when she slept, one hand tucked under the pillow, her expression open and dreamy. I can’t stop remembering the silence of her house. The expansive, open-concept space. All the room we’d have away from the outside world to—
To do nothing. We are not going to do anything. She’s my client, and I am in charge of her care. I won’t cross those lines with her.
But damn it, I want to.
I lean my head against the wall of the shower and sit with this urge the way I sit with my guilt. I feel it. I feel all of it. My palms burn from not touching her. My arms ache from not folding her into them. Glancing down at my cock, I let out a huff of incredulity.
This situation is unbelievably fucked up.
Forbidden.
The kind of shit that could tank a career like mine.
Lathering soap across my body, the scent fills the room and I breathe it in, ignoring the baser instincts. I can handle this case and this woman, Ella. That’s the only option, handle it like I’ve been trained. I ignore the ache below my waist, turn off the shower, and towel off. Washing the two pills down with water, I prepare to pass the fuck out and fall into a much-needed deep sleep.
Back in the small bedroom my phone stares at me from its spot on the table. What I need to do, more than anything, is sleep. I have to be fresh for the night shift. No dozing off when this case is still developing and all her secrets are still there, ripe for the picking. No slipping up because my mind is clouded with equal parts of emotion and want.
I snap the curtains shut over the windows and take my phone off the table. I’m not going to avoid the damn thing just because Ella’s songs are on it. Other than a thin sunbeam slipping through the curtains, the screen is the only light in the room.
Stretching out on the bed brings a moment of relief. I sink into the mattress and let my head fall back. Scrolling through the phone, I can’t help that it feels loaded.
I know that downloading a couple of songs doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t mean I owe less. It doesn’t mean I’m moving on and betraying anyone’s memory.
It doesn’t.
And neither does the attraction I feel for Ella. Because I am attracted to her. Damn it, I am. I take in a long breath and blow it out to the ceiling. Unread emails stare at me from the small screen. Maybe I’m attracted to her because I’m looking for an escape now that the date for the hearing has been set.
The hearing has hauled the weight of the past two years right up to the present and parked it on my chest. This could be my mind’s way of finding a way out from under it. Or at least a way to hold some of it up so I don’t suffocate.
I shove the phone under my pillow, where I can’t see it. It’s dangerous to be having these thoughts. Dangerous to be having any kind of feelings for Ella. The whole damn thing feels risky in a way it didn’t before I stepped inside that courtroom and those eyes met mine.
A harsh exhale brings me back to reality. She’s nothing but a fantasy. Running my hand down my face, I remind myself that it’s merely a lust-filled diversion and I imagine whatever pull she felt to me is the same.
Even entertaining the idea of more than a quick fuck with a woman makes my chest ache with that same scarred-over guilt. I hesitated before. Pushed back on the idea, and there were consequences to that hesitation. There are always consequences. It’s twice as true now. If I can’t get rid of these feelings for Ella, it won’t just affect me. It’ll affect the entire team, and especially Cade, who’s trusting all of us with this.
I sling an arm over my eyes and swallow those feelings down. Wrestle them into something I can carry. Through sheer force of will I make the intensity fade, at least for a moment. At least for now. If it comes back …
I tried. And I’ll keep trying, because this can’t happen with Ella. It simply can’t. I’m not going to put us in that position. Me. Ella. The Firm. I won’t do it.
“The first days with a client can be like this,” I say out loud, to no one but myself. I justify these thoughts, and why they won’t turn into anything more than a delusion. There’s an adjustment period. We’re in that adjustment period, and it’s more intense than usual because we’ve never taken on this kind of job before. We’ve never had a client with these needs.
I feel foolish, attempting to convince myself, but it’s better than allowing this to get any further. Taking my phone back out, I stare at the two new songs, but scroll past them, deciding on a familiar melody.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Today was a mistake. That’s exactly what Eleanor Bordeu is. A mistake.
Ella
Partners of The Firm will document client interactions and provide status updates to their team members at each shift change. Client records will be maintained by each partner and supervised by Cade Thompson, owner.
I haven’t spoken a single word all day today. My throat hurts, but that’s not why I’ve been silent and avoiding the other men from The Firm. Not overtly avoiding them.
I’m not trying to make it obvious, or draw attention to my mood.
It’s because I want to save my voice for him. On the days my throat hurts, I save my voice for what matters most. And what matters most right now is talking to Zander. It’s not something I can explain. It feels dangerous to talk to him. So risky that I know I shouldn’t be doing it. And yet the sound of him—just the pure sound of his voice, the rumble of it over my skin—it made me crave more.
I’ve been craving him all day.
No, not him. Just talking to him. Just his presence. I don’t crave Zander the man. That’s not why he’s here. He and the rest of the men from The Firm are here to protect me. To … care for me.
I’m certain that’s why I feel this need. He’s obligated to care for me and he reminds me so much of the life I had before.
It scares the hell out of me, honestly. It’s good to be home but it’s terrifying in these ways I didn’t expect. When I was at the Rockford Center, I knew things were bad. How could I not know? You don’t go to a place like that unless the situation is dire. The rules there tell you exactly how bad things have gotten. Exactly how far you’ve fallen. People who are still holding it together don’t need escorts to the bathroom or constant monitoring to make sure you’re still breathing every night.
I woke last night, twice, when they came in to check on me. The creak of the door ripped my eyes wide open and just as
I have for months, I woke with my heart racing. Thankfully, I don’t remember what I dreamed, but I can imagine what it was. It doesn’t take a shrink to point out the obvious.
They’re still checking, the guys from The Firm. I know they are. But there are no harsh lights, and no nurses shaking me awake in the morning, and it’s my house. Which means I have something to lose. A height to fall from. I don’t want to go back. I can’t. All I can do in that place is remember. The white walls are painted with memories. The empty chairs are filled with ghostly visitors.
I won’t go back. I’ll be good. I’ll listen. So long as they’re here, I promise to behave.
Zander feels like a risk because he is. The warmth that moves through me when he looks at me, when he talks to me—it’s dangerous with what it could do to me. He makes me forget it all. It occurred to me last night that it’s because he doesn’t know. I don’t want him to know. If I’m only given the chance for a single line to speak today, it’ll be a plea for him not to read the file. For him to keep looking at me as if he doesn't know I’m so unwell and damaged.
That’s what my breath is saved for. It’s why I’m still awake, fighting the pull of the medication I was given at dinner. It didn’t go unnoticed that my pills are different here. Kamden told me what was changed, but I don’t remember. Either way, I’m so damn tired. Too restless. And wanting.
I’m not sure what my emotions are capable of. That’s why I was in the Rockford Center in the first place. I used to wonder what was so wrong with being emotional … now I know.
The sun sinks below the horizon early, an autumn fireburst in the trees outside my windows. Dying light paints the blue sky gold and I drift between the windows, watching. The old restlessness from the Rockford Center creeps through my veins. It used to happen every night there. The sky would get darker, and my heart would beat faster, as if the night were something to be afraid of. I don’t know why that happened. There were always lights on in that place.
Maybe I knew it was because that marked the point when I couldn’t resist sleep for much longer. My worst fear was dreaming, remembering, and waking up screaming.
But this … this is different.
My quickening heartbeat is the same. The urge to walk around, to pace, is the same. Only it’s not anxiousness I feel.
It’s anticipation.
For Zander to get here. I want him to arrive, to start his shift. I want to sense the danger in the air. I want to put myself near the risk of him. It’s safe, although it seems the antithesis. I know it is. Maybe that’s why I feel so brave, and so reckless. He has to protect me. He’s obligated to.
With the warmth of the ceramic mug pressed against my palm, my gaze shifts from the handmade lantern seated near the covered porch to the stone driveaway. My heart races, although I don’t show it. Damon’s eyes are still on me, so I merely sip the tea and return to the blank notebook in my lap. Blank with the exception of the sketch of the lantern. It was a gift from my girlfriend, Kelly, on her last trip to Alaska—she thought it would suit my home perfectly, and she was right. The light is brilliant at night, peeking through the varying sized holes of the glazed pottery. It creates a constellation against the dark wood roof. It’s one of the things I dream of that doesn’t bring the past to haunt me. Staring at the stars, imagining the northern lights I still have yet to see.
His car trundles down the street in front of my house at five minutes to nine. I take the interruption of the quiet night as my cue to stand, gathering my teacup to take to the kitchen. I allow myself a single glance before opening the large glass porch door. I can’t see him, except for the outline of his shadow and his hands on the wheel, but every inch of my body tightens. Air flowing through my house caresses every inch of exposed skin. There’s not much, what with my cashmere burgundy sweater and leggings. Headlights illuminate glimpses of the picket fence and the planters outside as he makes his way to the back of the house.
Where am I supposed to be?
My room? The sitting room? He’ll come through the kitchen, through the door in the back entrance, and I have the urge to present him with a pretty picture. A relaxed woman, waiting on him. Exactly how he’d like me to be. The heat of my skin only adds to the untamed gallops in my chest.
But I’m not that woman. This is not a normal evening, and Zander’s not coming home to me. He’s coming to do his job.
I want him to do that job. Call me a sinner, or whatever name suits me best; I can’t help what I want.
Striding through to the kitchen, I offer Damon a tight smile when he peeks up at me, checking as he’s done all day. When I flip on the recessed lights over the stove, I’m certain Zander will know I’m in here, and I wait in front of it. The tap to the heated water begs me to fill my cup and I do, then add in a fresh sachet. Inhaling the comforting aromas of peppermint and chamomile, I do what I can to calm myself.
My heart pounds with the silence of the day and with Damon’s prying eyes.
Damon steps into the kitchen as Zander’s headlights cut off. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks softly. He’s almost casual about it, the way he might be if he were a guest in my house and not one of my bodyguards. Or prison wardens, as my internal voice sarcastically jokes.
I swallow hard and summon up a sentence for him. Better to get warmed up now, before Zander comes in. “It’s just a cup of tea, so I can manage, thank you.” It didn’t hurt much at all. If I keep my voice low, the vibrations limited, I find it doesn’t pain me like it used to.
“You were fairly quiet today. I hope you know you can come to me whenever you want to talk.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“And the notebook? Is there anything you’d like to share?” he questions and my smile is genuine in response.
“I’ve done a poor drawing I wouldn’t want to bother you with.” My shoulders relax and with the rough laughter from the man across from me, I smile into the cup of tea. A cup that needs to sit longer so the tea can steep.
Damon’s got an easy smile. He’s not like Zander. Zander has a seriousness that follows him like a thundercloud. Like a dark suit, though he doesn’t wear one when he’s here. He wore a suit for court, but that’s not what he wears on the night shifts. Dark jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt. Clothes he can be comfortable in. It was my request. I remember staring Cade straight in the eye when I told him I didn’t want to be outdressed and they were putting too much pressure on me. It was a joke, but the poor man took it seriously until I apologized for my dry humor. I’m grateful he allowed the change in dress code. They still read as professionals, and it does put me at ease, a little more than before.
Cade is the most serious and the least inviting; luckily, he’s also rarely with me. Damon’s casual outfit of a plum button-down shirt and jeans puts me at ease. As does his warmth. He’s kind, although I’m more than certain he’s capable of brutality. They all are. Yet another reason for them to wear anything but the harsh professionalism of suits.
The comfortable silence is broken with the click of the back door opening.
Zander greets us on a breeze that carries the scent of night air and crisp leaves. The amber in his hazel eyes flares low in the dim light from above the stove, deep like whiskey in a glass, and those eyes burn into mine for a beat too long. “Evening, Ella.”
“Hi, Zander.”
Damon crosses the kitchen to meet him, and the two men confer for a moment in low voices while I busy myself pretending to stir something nonexistent in my tea. I’m used to this. When they change shifts, they update each other on how the hours have gone. I imagine it’s a boring conversation. Three days of this have passed and the most I’ve done is slept long hours, sketched in a notebook and stared at the sky from the lounge chair in the back.
Even through their lowered voices, I catch glimpses of their conversation. I’m welcome to add my own notes, but I haven’t yet. My pulse races through the short update. I read in the sitting room, and I spent time in various area
s of the house. Thinking and waiting. Waiting and thinking. Passing the long day. I know I’m supposed to begin therapy sessions with Damon. Or else the professionals will be called in, which I’d rather didn’t happen.
But I want to talk to Zander. I’m curious what it would be like to hear his secrets. I’ll show him mine, if he’ll show me his. The wicked thought curls up my lips and my moment of perversion is cut short by the farewells between the men.
Zander reaches out and claps Damon on the shoulder, a warm, familiar gesture, and then Damon leaves with a wave directed at me. The way he glances between the two of us when Zander isn’t looking is knowing, and it pricks my nerves. Not so much, though, as it does when Zander’s gaze reaches me.
The door closes behind him and I breathe in a new magnetism. With that boundary between Zander and me and the outside world, it feels like anything could happen. Electricity runs rampant in my veins but I don’t react to it, except to say what I’ve been waiting to tell him since I woke up this morning. “I’d like a session.”
He blinks before narrowing his gaze, hazel eyes deepening in the shadows near the door. An almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth tells me he’s surprised, but otherwise he doesn’t let on. Zander stands straight and tall in his hard body, his hands at his pockets, his posture alert but not rigid. “Where would you like to talk?”
“The sitting room.”
It’s nearly a dance. That’s what it feels like to me. A give and a take. Each judging the other with every small step. Maybe I give myself too much credit, maybe I’m carried away by it all, but it gives me a reason to want, and I’m unwilling to give that up.
Zander gestures for me to lead the way, then falls into step next to me. My heart climbs up into my throat inch by inch until it flutters there like a trapped bird. He’s the one to enter the sitting room first, flipping the switch to turn on the fireplace and then moving to a lamp in the corner. It’s not very bright. The perfect complement to the fire burning brightly in its grate. He sits in a chair facing away from it and gestures to the one across from him.
