Love The Way You Kiss Me

by W. Winters

  I take it.

  This—this is uncomfortable. The moment I’m sitting I don’t know what to do with myself, or with my hands, but old habits kick in and I fold them neatly in my lap. Zander takes this in. His hazel eyes see everything.

  “Kamden says this should be filmed,” I say, though we’ve been over this. We’ve all been over this. “This will be recorded, right?”

  “Everything is being recorded.” He nods and adds, “Always.”

  His confirmation sets something off in me. Something deep, and old. A desire I thought was long gone. A very specific desire, tied to a very specific memory. A warm bar. Fingertips on my jaw, on my throat, on the neckline of my dress. Heat glides up the back of my neck and wraps around to meet the warmth in my cheeks. “Not for the professionals.” I offer a huff of a laugh. “Just if I want it.”

  Zander cocks his head to the side. “For you?”

  “To share with people.” I already feel exposed to him. I already feel like I’m telling him deep secrets, and I’m just saying what I want into the space between us. “I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

  “I’m not sure exactly what—”

  Zander’s calm, even tone is interrupted by the sound of the kitchen door banging open. Kam moves through the house with heavy footfalls. He knows I’m still awake. We were texting not too long ago. But I don’t understand why he’s here. I didn’t ask for help.

  He makes it to the archway of the sitting room before Zander holds up a hand. “We’ve just begun a session.” I don’t miss how his grip tightens on the edge of the chair.

  Kamden’s blue eyes dart between the two of us and I don’t miss how his left brow rises slightly. The man knows me well. Gently he asks, completely ignoring Zander, “Do you have a moment for me, Ella?”

  He crosses the room and crouches down in front of me. “You sounded off. In your texts.”

  “I’m fine.” It hurts to say things in irritation, so I try to pull it back, but it’s right there. I can feel it. Waiting to spill out. “You could have texted if you were concerned.”

  “Or checked in with The Firm,” Zander comments and it takes great effort to keep my smirk hidden.

  “I wanted to check on you … myself.”

  A tingle travels up the back of my neck. It’s from a combination of guilt and unease. Kamden doesn’t trust me. Not only that, but I’m certain the memories that haunt me have taken over a piece of him as well.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re sure?” he presses and the frustration is too great to keep my voice anything but tight.

  “I have people here all the time.” Like the man sitting behind him, waiting to have a session with me. “If something were really wrong, they would know about it.”

  Still Kamden stays where he is, between the two of us, unmoving and not believing me.

  “I promise—” I run frustrated hands over my hair. “I’m trying to do what I’m supposed to do, Kam, can you please leave?”

  Kam’s jaw sets. “I won’t leave. You don’t seem well right now, and I’m not going to walk away until I’m sure you’re all right.”

  Anger fuels an uncomfortable heat that forces my body to move. Not only that, but pain. Am I to be punished and not trusted forever now? He didn’t come to see me nearly as much as I would have liked at the center, and now he comes unbidden?

  This is so ridiculous. So over the top. I get up out of my chair so fast that Kam has to scramble for balance. “Then I’ll be going to bed. We’ll talk another night, Zander.”

  I push past where Kam stands still with disbelief. All day. I’ve waited all damn day for this, and Kam has to rush in like he knows everything. He doesn’t know everything. None of them do. Kam might know the most, but that doesn’t make this okay.

  “Ella,” Kam pleads with me in a tone that brings about a renewed sense of guilt.

  I don’t stop. “Wait. Ella.” I don’t turn around, even though it’s Zander’s voice behind me and not Kam’s.

  I get one foot on the bottom step and turn my head back to look at him. “Don’t follow me,” I snap, not realizing how close Zander is to me. So close my breath is stolen.

  Zander’s a foot away, maybe two. About to catch up with me. At my words his whole face changes into a commanding countenance. A hard one. A no-bullshit, no-nonsense expression that shakes me to the core. “Don’t say that to me,” he orders. “Ever.”

  Dominating. That’s what he is.

  And I like it. I like this about him. I crave that power radiating from him. It’s as much need as it is desire.

  I’m only vaguely aware that Kamden isn’t in sight.

  “Fine,” I answer back. “Please, I want to be alone,” I add and then turn on my heel and rush upstairs.

  Zander

  As part of its protective detail, partners with The Firm may conduct research on clients using record requests or background checks with or without their consent so long as information is attained in good faith and kept strictly confidential.

  The large house is quiet except for the wind battering the sitting room windows. That, and my thundering pulse.

  I listen for her. Of course I do. I strain to hear soft footsteps on the stairs or even the creak of the floor above me, but there’s nothing. I check the security cameras from my phone. No sign of movement, either in the house or outside. Silent and still. If only my heart would settle.

  Not much chance of that.

  The only cameras to watch are focused on her sleeping form. Even with the darkness, her luscious curves tempt me.

  My exhale is uneasy as I lean forward, my gaze moving from the laptop to my phone. I occupy one of the modern white chairs in the room, while my phone sits on the one beside me. Those two fucking songs burn holes in it. As if they’ll whisper more of Ella’s secrets.

  Snatching it off the chair, I put in a pair of headphones, and lean back in the chair. The laptop sits on the small coffee table surrounded by the four chairs. The screen is still very much lit and the cameras prove to show nothing of use. I blame boredom most of all.

  So—the songs. I hit play on the first one.

  It nearly blows out my eardrums. Cursing under my breath, I stab at the volume buttons on my phone until it’s less skull shattering. I’m grateful at least there wasn’t a soul present to witness that stunt. Readjusting in my seat, I take a gulp of water, wishing it were whiskey, and set back to listen to the first of the two titles Ella said were her favorites.

  My brow lifts as the first one plays.

  The song turns out to be … cute. Even if it is about a love so strong it causes a heart attack. I prefer alternative to pop, but I can’t say that I’m not surprised. It’s the kind of song I wouldn’t mind hearing on the radio, but not one I would turn to myself. Same with the second one.

  Cute. They’re cute, and maybe they used to reflect on her. Maybe these songs are an echo of the woman Ella used to be before the Rockford Center, and before we came on the scene. Before her “misunderstanding.”

  My eyelids get heavy with the beat. Not a usual response to pop music, I guess, but it’s been a long night. My gaze finds Ella’s sleeping form again. The prim and proper presentation she first put on are at odds with this melody.

  She’s not the kind of woman who listens to music like that anymore. Whatever happened to her has weighed her down. So much, in fact, that I can’t imagine her dancing to this music. I can’t imagine her with an infectious, broad smile on her face and a lightness to her step.

  I could, though …

  My eyes widen as the thought strikes me. The information on Ella is out there, as evidenced by plenty of social media posts. Maybe even videos on YouTube or in the depths of Google. If I wanted to spend five minutes searching for it or reading her file, I’m sure I could find plenty of information regarding Ella’s former life.

  At this point, I’d have to go with a broad internet search. I lean toward that over the paperwork Cade gave me. If the file
has been heavily curated by her manager, which Ella hinted at before, then they’ll have left out any unsavory matters. Let alone instances in which “Heart Attack” and “Sit Still, Look Pretty” would rear their jubilant heads. It won’t be the whole story. Nothing will be the whole story—not without Ella telling parts of it. But I could get hints. Glimpses of what she was like before.

  It would mean going against my own personal code for clients. It would mean crossing another line, even if Ella never knows. A hundred justifications fill my mind, but the one that shouts the loudest is the one that’s desperate to know a side of her that may be lost forever.

  Tossing my phone down, I bring the laptop back in front of me and my thumb taps softly on the space bar. I don’t dare press it. I don’t do anything but flick through the cameras once again. Hating that there’s nothing to watch but her. A woman who already occupies too much of my mind.

  I take my time with a few more checks to confirm that everything is under control—and that Ella isn’t coming back down—and I finally settle on scratching that itch and sating my curiosity, opening up a tab to search her name. There’s relative privacy in here to conduct my “research.”

  It’s not unusual to investigate the pasts of our clients when necessary. Most notably if their story doesn’t add up. It used to amaze me how many lies we’d be told that only added to the threat. As if they’d rather die in a lie than live in the truth. This, though … this type of search is unwarranted. My entire body knows this search is different, from the hairs rising on the back of my neck to the uneven beat of my heart. Excitement and adrenaline and trepidation. I don’t feel a thirst for knowledge like this with other clients. I never have. But I knew Ella was different from the moment I first laid eyes on her.

  Four-count breaths. Four times. Then my mind is clear enough to type in her name. My thumb hovers over the enter key for only a split second.

  It’s easy.

  Too easy.

  This is no back-alley hunt through the dark web with exchanges of cryptocurrencies and code words. Every tap of the keys echoes under the sound of the wind against glass. Scroll. Click. Scroll. There are numerous videos to choose from. So many with small thumbnail images of Ella’s face. One of her giving the camera the middle finger forces the corners of my lips up. None of them seem too current. All dating from two years ago and further. A tick in the back of my mind notes that it seems some things have been cleared. I’ll have to dig deeper for those if there were takedown notices issued.

  She has the typical social media platforms. Although I don’t dig through those just yet.

  Refining the search, and clicking away, I scroll past more photos.

  They’re all so different from the Ella I know now. The version of a younger, stronger woman in all these thumbnail pictures doesn’t have dark smudges under her eyes. Even in the photos, she doesn’t appear still and quiet and wounded. I couldn’t picture this past-life version of her before, and now that it’s in front of me, the change in her is stark and jarring.

  A few videos appear in the search, the name of the site flicking on a switch of alarm. Several clicks and my gaze drifts back to her sleeping form, before I go against my better judgment, and follow the link.

  More than the pictures, more than the videos themselves, I’m drawn to the comments.

  Given that the site has subheadings that include “hardcore,” “girl on girl,” and “amateur,” I’m prepared for some type of deviant evidence to appear. Searching her name, more than twenty videos appear. Each of them displaying her face. Her head is thrown back with pleasure written in her expression. One of her leaning forward in the middle of a bar, her legs spread on the sofa, her attitude playful, yet seductive, and both of her hands wrapped around a champagne bottle, the bubbly spilling down the side. She’s clothed in the stills, but I’d be surprised if she remained that way once I clicked on them.

  Slipping the headphones into place, I do another check of the monitors, before returning to the site. I have … specific tastes so I’m not unfamiliar with websites that cater to a certain clientele.

  Each video post has hundreds of comments underneath. These are the digital footprints of people who have sat where I’m sitting. They watched these videos in the glow of a hundred different screens, in different sitting rooms and bedrooms and basements.

  My body hums with the recognition that this is technically research, but still … jealousy and possessiveness threaten to piss me off. My skin pebbles with goosebumps and my breathing comes fast and shallow and my hands—

  My hands are clenched into fists so tight that my knuckles are white above the keyboards.

  It’s all because of these fucking comments. Men and women who watched her and discussed it freely. With anxiousness, I shift in my seat, noting each of the videos falls under the category labeled “Exhibitionist.”

  There’s an enormous variety in the types of comments made. Some are completely irrelevant, a simple thumbs-up or emoji. Then there are other, more detailed comments and conversations. Feminist opinions. Misogynistic ones.

  And summaries of what happens within the clips.

  Summaries—and reactions.

  I can’t help lingering on those. The first few comments are written in all caps. Ten, twenty exclamation points. They urge the viewers to keep watching. It gets hotter, the comments read.

  It only takes ten minutes to start recognizing names of the users. Some have returned to the videos again and again, the comments providing that evidence with the dates beside the comments. I recognize two usernames in particular—two men in conversation across multiple videos.

  One conversation in particular gives me insight I didn’t imagine I’d ever find on a site like this. Dated four years ago.

  Where’s the one with her on her knees?

  Deleted. :(

  Fuck me. That was one of my favorites. This one’s close, but not the real deal.

  It went down with the others when they got engaged. He decides what stays and what goes.

  Selfish bastard.

  Engaged. Ella was engaged before. A concoction of emotion stronger than whiskey hits me all at once. She was engaged, and from the looks of it, the two of them had a shared proclivity to be watched.

  The Dominant side of me shifts in my seat from the uncertainty of their relationship. My preference has always been for discretion when I indulge. The level of discretion displayed in these videos is obviously a different boundary than I have ever committed to.

  I almost close the laptop, my mind reeling with more questions than answers, but I stop myself short, one thumbnail calling out to me more than all the others.

  The thumbnail is a still of Ella, like the rest, but in this one she wears a bright, innocent smile. When I click through it has the most comments of any of the videos I’ve searched for in the last half hour.

  I can barely focus on them. The first line I read several times, and still the words don’t register. I’m not a fool; I know what I’m going to see when I click the play button. Still, I know I shouldn’t. And yet, I know I will.

  Ella’s simper reaches right through the screen to me. Her teeth are sunk into her bottom lips, painted a cherry red as she sits on a man’s lap. The man’s hand wrapped around her waist splays across her hip. It’s a loose hold on her, not at all possessive. The black man smiles, his focus elsewhere as she stares at the camera, a beer held in his right hand. It’s not hard to tell that they’re at a bar. In public. The mischievousness that glinted in her eyes yesterday morning is there in this photo. Begging me to play.

  I have to click play. That’s part of the research. Witnessing this is my job. A barely audible voice whispers that it’s not my job. That watching these videos—labeled as pornographic in no uncertain terms—could be avoided. No, should be avoided.

  I don’t want to avoid it, though. I’m damn sure of that.

  The comments under this particular video are about how it’s the beginning. The commenters say
it over and over. This is the beginning. This is how it started. How the incident began and to keep watching.

  From one of the familiar names, I read the comment, It’s her foreplay.

  I hover my cursor over the video, and it plays a few seconds in a loop. She’s not alone in this three-second clip. Far from alone. I know the place—it’s a Hard Rock in Vegas. The background is crowded with patrons coming and going. There’s no possibility that anything salacious could happen within this public venue. But whatever did happen, it’s clear the other woman in the video was involved.

  Because she has her fingertips on Ella’s jaw. I’m caught for a long minute watching the three-second clip of her tracing her pale pink painted nails down Ella’s jaw, down her neck, and even lower, to where her black-sequined dress barely covers her. The hemline skimming her thighs makes my mouth dry up. Clearing my throat, I check the empty room again. Comforted by silence, I return to the two women.

  A hard swallow, watching them, in what I would guess is their midtwenties. The second woman’s caramel skin is a few shades darker than Ella’s. Her black hair is loosely curled and as Ella leans into her touch, she plays with her friend, or lover’s, curls.

  The video begins with the other woman, dressed in black leather leggings and a burgundy crop top that shows a sliver of her olive-brown skin, tracing her fingertips over Ella’s skin. Over her neck, where I want to touch her. And lower, to where my entire body wishes to be. The two women are standing close to a high-top table, their backs to the crowd. And the way they’re looking at each other, the way they’re touching—

  I scroll back down to the comments. Someone identifies the woman as Maggie, her friend. The name suits her, with her girl-next-door smile and expressive eyes. The comments are also right that the scene is hot, but it’s not just hot.