by Shandi Boyes
“This will sting a little,” Richard warns while squeezing antiseptic lotion onto the cotton.
Air hisses through my clenched teeth when he dabs the cut in my top lip. The pain isn’t as fiery as my attacker’s hit, but it's still unpleasant. Pretending he can’t see the moisture welling in my eyes, Richard issues the same amount of attentiveness to the cuts on my knees. He picks out the small gravel embedded in them before sterilizing the open wounds with antiseptic. I sit still—stunned into silence. I don't know what's more devastating: the fact I was attacked mere feet from hundreds of spectators who failed to help me, or that Richard is so attentive and kind. Considering muggings are a regular occurrence in New York, I am going to say it's Richard's attentiveness.
After placing a pair of Band-Aids on my gravel-scratched knees, Richard packs up the first aid kit, stores it in the glovebox, then runs around his truck to slide into the driver’s seat.
As he fires up the engine, his shifts his eyes to me. “What’s your address, Cleo?”
Taken aback by his chivalry and still harboring a foggy brain, I mumble, “160 Valley Road, Montclair.”
Richard smiles. “A New Jersey girl, hey? No wonder why you never took any of my crap.” His sounds friendly, but there’s a slight undertone of anger associated with his words.
Unsure how to reply, I return his smile. While Richard directs his truck out of the multistory parking garage, I check my reflection in the mirror of his visor. I cringe when my massively dilated gaze takes in my split lip and the large red welt on my right cheek. I pinch my left cheek, hoping a rush of blood to my skin will conceal my assault from Lexi’s eagle eye. Her threats to cause ill-harm to Chains rang through my ears a minimum five times a day the past week, so imagine how rampant they will become if she discovers one of his staff assaulted me?
Realizing no amount of pinching will replicate the hit of a man three times my weight, I pop the visor back up and turn my eyes to the scenery whizzing by the window. The more my blurry eyes take in the architecturally interesting apartments on a tree-lined street, the more my confusion grows.
“Where are we going?” I query when it dawns on my spent brain that Richard is driving in the opposite direction of my house.
“I need to stop by my place for a minute.” Richard slides his eyes from the road to me. Spotting my wide-eyed response his reply instigated, he adds on, “I left my cell at home this morning. Considering I’ve never been to Montclair, I figured a GPS wouldn’t go astray.”
“Oh. Okay,” I reply softly, expressing remorse for my suspicious glare.
Approximately ten minutes later, Richard pulls his truck onto the curb outside of a large brick and mortar building. If it weren't for the continuous beep of horns sounding in the background, I'd never believed the bustling hive of New York City is only a measly mile away. Although Richard and I talked the past ten minutes, it was just a standard set of questions a security officer would ask a complainant when investigating an incident. It never went to the level it did months ago when his groin and my knee became acquainted.
Unclasping his seatbelt, Richard sweeps his eyes up and down the poorly lit street. His brows lower down his face as his nose crinkles. “Would you mind coming in with me, Cleo? I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you out here alone.”
I hesitate, unsure if I should trust Richard's motives. More times than not, if you pull back someone's lambskin exterior, you find nothing but mutton underneath. Richard’s face is the first one to pop into my head when metaphors like that are expressed. Up until thirty minutes ago, I’ve always believed he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Now. . . I’m unsure what to think.
Sensing my hesitation, Richard says, “Please, Cleo. After what happened, my gut is telling me I shouldn’t leave you out here. It will be a lot safer inside.” The plea in his eyes adds strength to his appeal.
Still rattled from my attack and wanting to give Richard a chance to prove my assumptions about him are wrong, I hesitantly nod. The gleam in Richard’s eyes grows from my agreeing gesture. After placing my purse under the nook of my arm, I follow him down a well-lit sidewalk. I’m ashamed to disclose my knees clang together with every step I take. Clearly, my attack has me more frightened than I’d care to admit.
Pushing aside my panic as the effects of an exhaustingly long week, my eyes drink in the scenery. Hedged greenery leads the way to an elaborate double-doored entranceway with a chandelier brightening the veined marble tiles. With its postmodern war design being upgraded throughout the centuries, the building is pleasing to the eye. It's a classic apartment that screams of wealth.
“No doorman,” I mutter more to myself than Richard when he opens the large French antique door and gestures for me to enter the foyer before him. I always thought these types of buildings had twenty-four-seven doormen?
Shrugging off my misconception on the envy bubbling my veins, I shadow Richard into the lobby of his apartment building. My eyes bug in wonderment at the rich vaulted ceilings and high thread count drapes. As we pace to a set of elevator banks in the far-right corner, my astonishment grows. This place is lovely, a priceless architectural wonder that adds to the richness of New York.
When the elevator car arrives at the lobby, Richard glides his hand across the front of his body, suggesting for me to enter before him.
“Umm. . . I’m going to wait out here.” My words come out shaky, riddled with guilt that I’m still judging Richard on our previous exchanges instead of the man who saved me from being assaulted.
Richard’s finger traces a cross over his chest. “I swear to God, Cleo, if you’re worried I’m going to hurt you, please don’t be. I’m not going to touch you. I just don’t want you alone right now.” He angles his head to the side and arches his brow. “Give me five minutes to grab my phone; then we will be on our way.”
Detecting that my apprehensions are swaying in his favor, Richard continues with his plea, "You don't even have to come inside my apartment if you don't want to. You can stand in the corridor. That way, if you're feeling dizzy or unwell, you can just shout out for me."
After licking my parched lips, I step into the elevator. “Alright. But if you try anything fishy, we’ll have a re-run of our confrontation three months ago.”
Richard's deep chuckle vibrates some of the nerves out of my body. "I promise nothing sinister will happen, Cleo. I learned my lesson the hard way. I'm still recovering from your first punishment. Believe me, I'm not eager to sign up for round two anytime soon."
Ignoring the way his reply hinted at future battles between us, I move to the far corner of the elevator car. The moisture slicking my skin with sweat gets a moment of reprieve when I spot a blinking red light at the top of the elevator dashboard. If that's what I think it is, our every move is being captured by a surveillance camera.
After riding the elevator to floor fifteen, I shadow Richard to apartment 15C.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” he asks, shoving a key into the lock.
I shake my head, which intensifies my groggy state. "No, I'm fine out here. I. . ." My words trail off when I can’t come up with a legitimate excuse for not entering his apartment other than me not trusting him. Considering he came to my rescue tonight, I don’t think slamming him with distrust would be a nice thing to do.
After swinging open his apartment door, Richard strays his eyes to me. His glare is pulse-racing, and it makes my veins thicken with anxiety. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay,” I reply, lowering my tone to one more acceptable for a grateful woman.
When Richard slips into his apartment, I float my eyes up and down the isolated hall. For a man who works in security, his apartment is quite swanky. Modern paintings line the walls, and decorative lights give the environment a homely feel. It's different than what I imagined his apartment would look like. It's more inviting than the bare-faced demeanor Richard generally displays.
By the time Richard exits his apartment, nea
rly ten minutes have passed, and my dizziness has wholly vanished. Although my cheek is still throbbing from the unnamed man's hit, I feel very much like the usual Cleo I present every day.
Thrusting his cell into his pocket, Richard says, “Sorry it took so long, I searched every nook and cranny for it, and where do I end up finding it?”
“On the entranceway table?” I predict, remembering my hunt for my car keys months ago.
Richard throws his head back and laughs. “Yes! How’d you know that?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Good guess?”
After calming his laughter, Richard guides me back to the elevator by placing his hand on the curve of my lower back. It's a standard maneuver most guys use, but it seems weird coming from Richard. His hand doesn’t move from the small of my back our entire ride in the elevator, during our stroll through his isolated lobby, or our wander down his dead-quiet street.
The only time his hand isn’t warming my back is when he gentlemanly opens the passenger door of his truck for me. “There you go.”
“Thank you,” I stutter, caught off-guard by his courtesy.
After shutting my door, he jogs around the bed of his truck and slides into the driver’s seat.
“I’m fine catching the train home if you could point me in the direction of the nearest train station.” My voice hints my suggestion was more of a demand than a proposal. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Pretending he didn't hear my suggestion, Richard syncs his phone with the Bluetooth in his car and brings up my home address on the electronic dashboard. Happy he has a general consensus on where he is going, he pulls his truck into the surprisingly quiet street. As his vehicle rolls down the asphalt, I drift my eyes around our surroundings, endeavoring to gather my bases. I must still be disorientated, as I genuinely don't have a clue where I am.
Richard doesn’t speak the entire fifty-minute commute to my home. Although uneasy about his quietness, I also appreciated it. It gave me time to put things into perspective, leaving only two assumptions on the table. Richard's sudden shift in personality is either based on feeling guilty about our numerous improper exchanges the past five years, or he has a hard time separating his work life from his personal life. Considering he still has his taser gun, baton, and handcuffs bound to his hip, I’ll say it's the latter.
Removing his foot from the gas pedal, Richard’s truck comes to a stop at the curb of my house. “Home without a single drop of blood being shed. See, told you there was nothing to be worried about.”
His brows scrunch when his eyes roam over my cut lip. “Sorry. That was a badly timed joke.”
Smiling to ease the remorse in his eyes, I say, “That’s okay. Bad jokes I can handle. Crude comments. . . well, you know all too well how I react to those.”
Richard grimaces as he pulls on the collar of his shirt. “If it didn’t hurt so much, I would have said it was a ballsy move for you to make.” He waggles his brows suggestively when he chuckles out the word “ballsy.”
Laughing, I playfully punch him in his bicep. My measly hit only entices more laughter to rumble up his chest. His chuckle is hearty and full of life, and after the mood-strangling week I’ve had, it's a nice thing to hear.
I wait for Richard’s laughter to die down so he can hear the graciousness in my tone before saying, “Thanks for the ride.”
He smiles, exposing a set of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “No worries, Cleo. I’m glad to be of service,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with honor. “What time do you want me to swing by Monday to pick you up?”
When I stare at him, muted and confused, he adds on, “I know what a stickler you are for turning up to work on time. You haven’t been late in over five years. I’d hate for tonight’s occurrence to break your record-running streak.”
“Oh. . .umm. . . that’s okay. As of a couple of hours ago, I was put on leave.”
Richard’s light brows meet his hairline. “You’re on leave?” he asks, astonishment in his tone.
“Yep,” I reply, nodding.
I don’t elaborate on the fact I’ve been forced to take two weeks leave while the incident of me striking a colleague is investigated. Some things are best left unsaid. And, if I am being honest, I don’t want to give Richard any incentive to add our exchange three months ago to the crosses now marking my previously exemplary employment record.
Richard’s lips quirk. “It’s about time, Cleo. You’ve been at Global Ten for over five years now, and you’ve never had a vacation day.”
My mouth opens, preparing to dispute his claim, but not a syllable escapes my lips. I can’t deny the truth. I have over four months of paid leave accumulated. Furthermore, I’m too stunned to talk. How is it a colleague of mine knows more about my deficient social life than I do?
My attention reverts to Richard when he squeezes my hand. “Let me take you to dinner while you’re on leave. We can celebrate your introduction to the world of the living.”
Smiling to hide my grimace, I reply, “Thanks, that’s really sweet, but not necessary. I’m also more a one-woman, one-man type of girl when it comes to dating.”
Richard cocks his brow. “I deserve that,” he admits, crassly nodding. “What I did to you and Misha from Accounting was wrong. But I’m not the same man I was back then, Cleo. I’ve matured.”
“In three months?” I argue, arching my brow.
“I’m trying to change?” Richard rebuts, his tone as unsure as his facial expression. “Come on, Cleo. I’m offering you a free meal, not requesting you to accompany me to the Christmas ball.”
I screw my nose up and immaturely stick out my tongue. My one and only exchange with Richard was at the annual charity ball Global Ten Media hosts every year. Although our kiss was heated, if it wasn’t for the mistletoe hanging above my head and a few chardonnays warming my veins, it would have never happened. Richard has always had a vibe that screams “trouble!”
That’s one of the reasons I agreed to his request for a date years ago. All naïve girls like the idea of taming a bad boy. It was only once my parents and Tate passed away did I realize I shouldn’t be seeking a man to tame. I should be searching for a man who complements me and my daily struggles. Someone who will make me feel whole again.
A touch of a smile graces my lips when the first face that pops into my head is Marcus’s. Before everything went south, my weekend with him filled me with hope that he was the man I’ve been searching for. My beacon set to guide me through the storm until I discovered the rainbow at the end of the darkness. My reward for years of misery.
My attention reverts to the present when Richard runs the back of his hand down my blemished cheeks. “I’ve never seen you flustered before, Cleo. Not even when we kissed.”
The lust in his eyes simmers and boils until it becomes so heated it bubbles over into skin-crawling cockiness.
“It’s a nice look for you. One I’d like to see grace your face when you're quivering beneath me.”
My earlier dizziness returns full force. This time, it isn’t associated with being struck. It's from the bile racing up my esophagus from the impish gleam in Richard’s eyes. His heavy-hooded gaze is cocky and blazing with self-assurance. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so arrogant. And that’s saying something, as arrogance is Richard’s middle name.
Mortified he mistook my hued cheeks as fondness for his flirty moves, I throw off my seatbelt and curl out of his car.
“Thanks for the lift,” I mumble.
After gathering my belongings from his white leather bench seat, I slam his car door shut. The hinges on his spanking new truck squeal in protest from the power of my throw. Forcing a fake smile on my face, I spin on my heels and scuttle down the cracked path to my home.
“You never gave me an answer about dinner,” Richard shouts, stopping my brisk pace midstride.
“Umm. . . I’ll text you later about it,” I reply.
I don’t bother looking back as I wou
ld hate for him to see the uncertainty in my eyes. Just like my entire week, my emotions are on vastly different ends of the playing field. Part of me thinks I should accept his offer of dinner as a way of thanking him for his assistance tonight, whereas the other half is warning me not to trust his motives. Considering my intuition has never steered me wrong in the past, I’m left sitting on the fence, confused and overwhelmed.
13
Richard waits for me to reach the front steps of my home before he starts his truck and drives down the street. When his vehicle is nothing but a speck on the horizon, I climb the six stairs of my front porch. Fear unlike anything I’ve ever experienced consumes me when I spot a dark figure lurking in the shadows. My heart rate surges as my knees clang together. With my emotions still on edge from a stressful day, I’m more rattled by the impromptu visitor than I care to admit.
Panicked beyond belief, I dump my box onto the floor and delve my hand into my purse, searching for the can of pepper spray I keep in there. The panic scorching my veins dulls when awareness washes over me. The hairs on my body bristle, and my breathing shallows. There is only one man I’ve met who can cause every hair on my body to stand to attention by doing nothing more than breathing.
Marcus.
“Jesus, Marcus, you scared the poop out of me.”
“Sorry, Cleo,” Marcus mutters, his tone reserved.
I stand frozen for a minute, startled by the brusqueness of his tone. After taking a moment to breathe out my panic, I shift my eyes sideways. Using the shadow of the poorly lit porch to hide my sneaky glance, I rake my eyes up his body, starting at the tips of his polished black dress shoes to his recently trimmed afro. His hands are thrust into the pockets of his trousers, his jaw taut and ticking. From the way his brows are joined, I can easily deduce he witnessed my exchange with Richard. His complete composure is screaming of jealousy.
