by M. Leighton
It’s raining now and the grass is slick. I fall twice before I can get to the edge of the water. When I do, I holler at my brother.
“Jeremy!” He doesn’t move. He just floats on the surface like my green turtle raft does. “Jeremy!”
I look back at the house and then back to my brother. I know nobody can help me. Nobody will stand up to my dad. Not even my mom. If I don’t help Jeremy, he’ll die.
My hands are shaking and my knees feel funny when I step into the water. It’s so cold it stings my skin, like when I fell off my sled last winter and snow went up my pants leg. I couldn’t get it out fast enough. It was so cold it almost burned. But this time, I keep going no matter how much it hurts.
When the water is up to my chin and my teeth are chattering so hard I bite my lip, I think about turning back. Jeremy is so far away, I can barely see him and I can’t catch my breath enough to holler for him.
“J-J-Jer–” I try again.
I paddle out farther. My arms and legs weigh so much I can hardly move them through the water. It’s like trying to run in cold, thick soup. I fight to keep my chin up, gulping down the water that laps into my mouth.
I swim and swim and swim, watching the back of Jeremy’s head until he’s close enough for me to touch. It’s raining harder now. Big, fat drops are splattering on the back of my brother’s neck, and it’s running down my forehead and into my eyes.
I grab a handful of his dark hair and raise Jeremy’s face out of the water. His eyes are open, but they aren’t looking at me. They’re looking at something else, something I can’t see. I take his arm. It’s cold and feels kind of like that fish Dad brought home and made Jeremy skin.
My stomach hurts and my eyes burn. I feel like somebody’s squeezing me around the middle, squeezing me so hard I can’t even cry.
I take my big brother’s hand and I pull him toward me, toward shore. He floats pretty easy, so I swim a little and tug, swim a little and tug.
After a while, it gets harder and harder to move, harder and harder to keep my face above the water. The shore, the grass, the back door of my house…they’re all getting farther away, not closer. I’m scareder than I’ve ever been before. Even scareder than that time Jeremy made me watch The Evil Dead.
Jeremy seems heavy now, like he’s trying to drag me down every time I pull on him. “Swim, Jer, swim,” I mumble through a mouthful of water. “Please.”
I go under. When I try to scream for help I know won’t come, water goes down my throat. I try to cough, but I can’t. There’s no air.
I can see light above me and I use my heavy arms and legs to crawl toward it. When I finally get my face out of the water, I grab for my brother’s hand. I hold onto it tighter than I’ve ever held onto anything before, even my favorite G.I. Joe soldier.
I paddle as fast and as hard as I can, pulling Jeremy behind me until I can touch the squishy bottom of the lake. I pull and tug and drag me and Jeremy to the shallowest part of the water and I roll him over.
His lips are blue and his face is still so white. But it’s his eyes that scare me the most. They don’t look like he’s awake. But they don’t look like he’s asleep either. They sorta look like mine feel–scared. Like he saw something that made him want to hide, but he didn’t get away fast enough and now he’s just…froze.
I shake his shoulders. I scream my brother’s name. I cry even though I don’t want to.
I give in and pound on his chest. I know that if he gets up, he’ll punch me in the back of the leg until I say “uncle,” but I don’t care. I just want him to get up. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t move at all. He just slides in the mud until he’s back in the water.
I try to reach for him, but my feet slip and I almost fall in. That scares me so bad, I scream my head off. I can’t go back in. I won’t come back out if I go in the water again. I just know it.
Don’t make me go back in! Don’t make me go!
But what about Jeremy? What about my brother?
I cry as quiet as I can as he floats away from me again. I watch his white ghost face until the only thing I can see is black. And nothing else.
ONE
Muse
I SHAKE OUT the three hundred dollar sweater I just folded for the third time and I start over. Somehow keeping my fingers busy seems to calm my brain. It gives me something to think about other than the man I’m waiting on and how worried I am about taking this step.
When the icy blue cashmere is folded perfectly–for the fourth time–I lay it on top of the others in the stack and check the time on my phone again.
“It’s almost noon, dammit!” I mutter, as if my friend, Tracey Garris, can hear me all the way across town. She’s the one who knows this guy. I should’ve gotten more information from her, but she was in a rush this morning and she’s in a meeting now, so I’m stuck waiting. Information-less. I only know what she muttered so briefly before she hung up, something about a guy coming by and his name being Jasper King.
I let out a growl of aggravation and grab another sweater, flicking it open with enough force to cause one sleeve to snap against the table like a soft crack of thunder. For some reason, I feel a little better for having taken out a bit of my frustration on something, even if that something is an innocent piece of very pricey material.
Rather than climbing right back onto a ledge of frustration, I purposely tune out everything except the words of the song playing overhead, If I Loved You. It always reminds me of Matt, the guy I left behind. The guy who should’ve hated seeing me leave. The guy who would’ve hated seeing me leave if he’d loved me like I wanted him to. But he didn’t. He let me go. Easily. And now, even after eight long months, it still makes my heart ache to think of him.
I don’t shy away from the pain. In some twisted way, I bask in it. Like most artists, I welcome all kinds of emotions. Good or bad, they inspire me. They color my life and my work like strokes of tinted oil on pristine white canvas. They make me feel alive. Sometimes broken, but still alive.
After I finish the sweater, I move through the store, lost in thoughts of my ex and how much it hurt to say goodbye. I’m straightening a rack of ties when the chime over the door signals the arrival of a customer. I catch movement in my peripheral vision and absently throw a polite greeting in that direction. “Welcome to Mode: Chic,” I say, feeling both resentful and relieved at the interruption.
I get no response, so with a deep sigh I even up the last row of ties and smooth my vest before turning to find my visitor. When my eyes settle on the interloper, all thoughts of Matt and the past and every trouble in the world melt away for the time it takes me to regain my breath.
A man is standing behind me. I didn’t hear him approach, didn’t smell cologne or soap, didn’t sense the stir of the air. He was just coming through the door one second and looming right behind me the next.
He’s tall, very tall, and dressed in black from head to toe. Other than his lean, dramatically V-shaped physique, that’s all I notice about his body. It’s his face that captivates me. From an artist’s standpoint, he reminds me of a bronze sculpture, something strong and ancient that was carved by the talented hands of Michelangelo or Donatello, Bernini or Rodin. From a woman’s standpoint, he’s simply breathtaking.
His face is full of angles and hollows–the ridge of his brow, the slice of his nose, the edge of his cheekbones, the square of his chin. Even his lips are so clearly defined that I find myself wanting to stare at them, to reach up and touch them. Find out if they’re real. If he’s real. But it’s his eyes that I finally get stuck on. Or maybe stuck in. They’re pale, sparkling gold, like a jar of honey when you hold it up to the sun. And they’re just as warm and sticky, trapping me in their delicious depths.
Despite all my worries, worries that have consumed me for several days now, I am only aware of the raw, primal power that radiates from him like heat from a fire. He doesn’t have to say a word, doesn’t have to move a muscle to exude confidence
and capability. And danger. Lots and lots of danger.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at him when I become aware of his lips twisting into the barest of smiles. It’s minimally polite, but somehow anything more would seem a betrayal of the intensity that oozes from his every pore. The tiny movement is potent, though, and I feel it resonate within every one of my female organs like the echo of a drumbeat in the depths of a hollow cave. God, he’s gorgeous.
As much as I enjoy the rubbery feel of my legs, the tingly fizz in my stomach, I pull myself out of the moment. Not necessarily because I want to, but more because I have to. I’m at work. Men don’t come in here to be ogled. They come in here to be outfitted.
Unless they come here to see me. The thought hits me like a slap. Could this possibly be the bounty hunter Tracey was telling me about?
“Pardon me,” I eventually manage, taking a step back as reality and worry and purpose crash back into my mind in a multi-colored tidal wave. “How may I help you today?”
Dark head tilts. Tiger eyes narrow. Silence stretches long.
I wait, part of me hoping this is the man who will help me, part of me praying he’s not.
When he finally speaks, it’s with a voice that perfectly mirrors what he physically projects–dark intensity, quiet danger. “I need to be measured for a suit.”
I let out a slow breath, oddly more disappointed than relieved. “I can do that for you.” I take yet another step away, clasping my hands together behind me, determined to find some equilibrium in his presence. I glance at Melanie the other person working the story today. She’s the owner’s daughter and for the fourth hour straight, I find her holding down the chair behind the cash register, typing into her phone. I should probably tell her that I’ll be in the back getting measurements, but I obtusely decide to let her figure that out for herself when she can’t find me. It won’t take her long to realize I’m gone when someone else comes in and I’m not out here to do her job for her. “This way,” I say turning toward the rear of the store.
All business now, I ask questions as I make my way toward the dressing rooms. Even though his rich, velvety voice warms my belly, I find it easier to concentrate when I can’t see the man following quietly along behind me. He answers all my queries politely, seemingly oblivious to the way he affects me.
I take him to the larger dressing room, the one with a platform that rests in the center of a crescent of mirrors. It has enough space for a desk and computer to one side, so we use this room to measure for tailored clothing. That and for special fittings like bridal parties and other groups.
I glance to my left as we enter the scope of the mirrors. My gaze falls immediately on the figure behind me. I look quickly away, but not before I notice the lithe way he moves. With the fluidity of the jungle cat his eyes remind me of.
Like a tiger. Surefooted. Silent. Deadly.
Without turning, I sweep my arm toward the dais. “If you’ll stand there, I’ll get the tape and be right with you.” I don’t doubt that he’s following my instruction, even though he doesn’t respond. I still can’t hear him, still can’t even detect a disturbance in the air, but now I can feel him, as though my body has become perfectly attuned to his within the five minutes he’s been in the shop. It’s beyond ridiculous, but it’s the absolute truth. I’ve never been more aware of a man before. Ever.
I busy myself gathering the cloth tape, a small notepad and a pencil, doing my best to keep my mind on the task at hand until I’m able to control my thoughts to a small degree. Those wayward thoughts scatter and my mouth goes bone dry when I turn and see him standing on the platform, muscular arms hanging by his sides, long, thick thighs spread in a casual stance. It’s not his posture that catches me off guard. It’s his eyes. Those intense, penetrating eyes of his. He’s watching me like a hunter watches prey. I feel them stripping me bare, asking all my secrets, exposing all my weaknesses.
“Ready when you are,” he murmurs, startling me from my thoughts.
“Right, right. Okay,” I say, dragging my gaze from his and focusing on his body. As disconcerting as it is to appraise him so openly, it’s not nearly as disturbing as eye contact, so I go with it.
As I take him in, I realize that he’s a magnificent male specimen. I’d wager that his dimensions are perfect for every kind of clothing, from formal to sleepwear. And, dear God, I can only imagine what a striking figure he’d make in a tuxedo. He’d look like a model. For guns maybe. Or bourbon. Something dangerous and thrilling or smooth and intoxicating.
I clear my throat as I approach, careful of my feet as I step up to stand beside him. I sense his eyes on me as I move, making me feel clumsy and slightly off balance.
I lay the pad of paper on the thin podium to my right and I clamp the pencil between my teeth as I stretch the tape out straight. With movements that I’m relieved to find swift and sure, I measure his neck and over-arm shoulder width, his chest and arm length. I jot down the numbers then make my way to his waist, cursing the fine tremor of my hand when my knuckles brush his hard abdomen.
I note his measurements, mathematical proof of the flawless way he’s put together. What I don’t write down are things that no numbers could convey. I don’t need to. They’ll be seared in my brain for all eternity, I think.
Wide, wide shoulders, the kind a girl can hang on to when she’s scared. Strong, steely arms, the kind that can sweep a woman off her feet. Long, hard legs, the kind that can tirelessly chase down what he wants.
It’s when I get to his inseam that things get...tense. Surprisingly, despite all the other worries that hover at the back of my mind, I can’t overlook the heaviness that presses against the back of my hand as I measure. My belly contracts with a pang of desire that rockets through me. Good Lord almighty!
I snap into a standing position, turning away to write down the last of his measurements before he can see the blush that heats my face. Normally, I’d love all these “feels,” but not now. Not today. Not like this. It seems like a betrayal.
Without another word or glance, I take my pad and step off the platform, moving to the computer to enter them into a New Client form. My pulse settles more and more the longer I keep my eyes to myself. “What’s your name, sir? I’ll set up a profile for your order.” Still, I don’t glance back at him. I keep my gaze glued to the lighted screen.
“King,” he replies, his voice so close that I jump involuntarily. I don’t turn when I feel his hulking presence behind me; I just stiffen.
I type in the name. It’s as I’m hitting ENTER that it clicks. King. The last name of the bounty hunter Tracey told me about.
I whirl to face him, ready to pin him with an accusing stare, but I stop dead when I see that he’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at what he’s holding. Between his fingers is the pencil that was stuck between my teeth. I can see the tiny bite marks as he rubs over each one.
I watch him move his thumb over the indentions, gently, slowly. Back and forth, like an intimate caress. It’s hypnotic. Erotic. A fist clenches low in my core causing me to inhale sharply at the sensation. It feels as though he’s rubbing me with those long fingers. Touching me, arousing me. It’s so physical, so tangible, so real that I have to reach back to steady myself against the edge of the desk.
“What sharp teeth you have,” he says quietly, Big Bad Wolf-style. When he glances up at me, his eyes are a dark and serious amber. “Do you bite?”
“No,” I whisper. “Do you?”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
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Table of Contents
DOOR NUMBER ONE
DOOR NUMBER TWO
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