by Shandi Boyes
My pulse pounds my ears as I await her reply.
Thankfully, she doesn’t keep me waiting for long. “Your leash is extremely short.”
“A leash is a leash, as a spade is a spade. I won’t let you down.”
Stealing her chance to reply, I disconnect our call and return my phone to my pocket. I enter Regan's curtained-off room ten heart-thrashing seconds later. When jumping from one dragon to another, swiftness is the only option. It's just a pity I want to take this dragon for a ride instead of slaying her as I do Theresa.
Regan stops sipping water from a plastic cup when she notices me standing in the doorway. The thin stitches holding together the split our bump caused don’t dampen her appeal in the slightest. The blood darkening her manicured brows enhances her green eyes, and the crinkle in her cheek proves some of her time in the emergency department was restful.
I’m not surprised by her eagerness to nap. I’m exhausted from all the tasks she undertakes every day, and I’ve only been shadowing her the past six weeks.
When a curious crinkle pops into her brow, I move to her bedside. “How are you feeling?”
She gestures to the nurse she’s had enough water before her eyes stray to mine. She looks as if she is about to chew me up and spit me out.
My assumptions are accurate when she snaps, “I thought I said no needles?”
I shouldn't smile, but I do. You can't see what I am seeing. Her tiny—although still provocative—body is swamped by a hospital gown three sizes too big. Her face is stark white, and the faint tremble of her top lip is more cute than concerning. She's putting on a brave front even though she is petrified.
She’s done similar the past six weeks. Her blank stares into space at precisely 10:03 every night when she thinks no one is watching, the mouthed promise she sends to heaven mere seconds later, and the way she runs every morning as if she is outrunning her fears reveal she is strong enough to hide her pain from the world, but not quite strong enough to completely erase it.
When Regan coughs, reminding me I’ve failed to answer her, I say, “You weren’t given any needles.”
"So how did this get in my arm?" She jangles her arm that has a cannula attached to it. It looks extra dainty since the enticing swell of her breasts is hidden by her hospital gown.
I twist my lips. “It’s plastic; it doesn’t count.”
"A needle is required to insert a cannula into a vein, isn't it?" she murmurs frailly, proving the extensive smarts that had her graduating law school with honors doesn’t extend to the medical field.
"Usually," I agree, stepping close to her. "But when I told them how much you hated needles, they shoved the cannula into your vein without one."
I praise the lord for my brilliance of thinking on the spot when I stump her. It is only for a second, but she’s still stumped all the same.
Her gaped mouth doesn’t dangle for long. “So they magically pierced a plastic tube into my arm?”
It is the fight of my life not to smile. She’s extra cute when she’s angry. Her top lip does this wobbly snarl thingy, and the fire in her eyes matches what you’d expect to see when she’s in the midst of ecstasy. She’s a fucking knockout—even after being knocked out.
After suppressing my guilt with a quick swallow, I continue my ploy of deception. "Other than your ability to blow spit bubbles in your sleep, no magic tricks were performed this evening."
Anger broadens from Regan’s gut to her face, the mirth in my tone agitating her even more.
“They did cut you,” I disclose, hating the look she is giving me.
Even being responsible for adding a scar to the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of this look. She’s not angry or embarrassed. She’s disappointed. That guts me more than any amount of yelling ever could.
“Did they give me a needle?” she questions with an impressive gulp.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “They used a scalpel.”
I rush to her bedside when her gills turn green. She sways so uncontrollably, I’m glad the safety rails are upright, or I may not have saved her from tumbling to the floor this time around.
Her eyes look like silver balls going to war in a pinball machine when I ask, “Not a fan of scalpels either?”
She swallows harshly before shaking her head. This is true pain, one that can’t be hidden by her bright smile and a go-get-‘em attitude.
I wait until the sorrow in her eyes moves to sincerity before asking, “How’s the head—truthfully?”
It pains her, but she grumbles, “Throbbing.”
I gesture for the nurse to get her some pain medication before wetting a washcloth in the sink.
“Let me,” I request when she attempts to remove the cloth from my hand. Not waiting for permission, I gently dab it on the angry bump above her brow. “It’s the least I can do.”
My last words were meant for my ears, but I clearly expressed them out loud when Regan assures, “This isn’t your fault, Alex. I shouldn’t have been so defensive. I’ve just been. . .” Her words are swallowed by a soft sigh.
“Been?” I prompt, not at all discombobulated that I’m forcing her to share something she wants to keep secret.
This is my job. Whether it occurs in the ER or a concrete cell with steel bars, this is what I do. I interrogate people. It is one of the reasons I love my job. You can learn a great deal about someone when they are placed in a hostile environment. I guess that is why I jumped into the elevator when I did. I wanted to put myself in the pressure cooker, to prove the inane thoughts I’ve had about Regan the past five years were just that—inane.
All I discovered is that years haven’t matured me. I’ve been as reckless and idiotic the past six weeks as I was in the field five years ago.
Regan locks her massively dilated eyes with mine. She seems to be evaluating whether to tell me the truth or not. She reaches her conclusion quickly. I don’t know if it is a good or bad thing. Even more so when she discloses, “I think someone is following me.”
My throat dries. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling,” she whispers with a shrug.
“How long have you been suspicious?” I try to remove the interrogation from my tone. It is a woeful waste of time. I am an agent as much as I am a man.
My father was an agent. His father was an agent. Even my younger brother is an agent. The only members of my family not associated with the Bureau are the ones missing dangly bits between their legs. That isn’t by choice. My great grandfather was set in his ways, which means his father was set in his ways. . . Can you see the pattern emerging?
I secure my first breath in what feels like months when Regan stammers out, “Around five or six weeks.” –That’s how long I’ve been tailing her— “But before that—”
“Before that? There’s a before?” I interrupt, my tone as low as my mood is nosediving.
Forgetting about the washcloth I’m holding to her brow, she nods. “Yeah. The first time was years ago.” She sounds as if she is in pain. I don’t know if the cloth nipping at her fresh stitches is the cause or painful memories.
There is only one way to find out. “You said the first time. How many others have there been?”
Regan screws up her nose as her eyes flicker. “Three or four,” she casually murmurs, as if it’s perfectly normal to be stalked.
“Three or four, Regan? There is no in-between. It is either one or the other.”
I don’t know why I’m scolding her. I’m not angry at her; I just have no better way to disperse the anger incinerating my veins to black ash. I either yell or go on a rampage. Yelling seems the more appropriate response for two strangers who only met hours ago.
“Jeez. Calm down, Elevator Man. The vein in your forehead is throbbing so fast, it looks seconds from bursting.”
Regan laughs, aiming to ease the tension teeming between us. It works—somewhat. Her laugh suits her perfe
ctly. It is husky and sweet, brimming with wicked naughtiness. It could only sound more pleasurable if it were happening because she is happy—not sad.
Once my anger has lowered from a boil to a simmer, Regan asks, “What did you say you did for a living?”
I smile, admiring her attempts to interrogate me. It takes gall to question anyone, much less a man you’ve just met. “I didn’t. There wasn’t a chance between you giving me my marching orders and us bumping heads.”
She arches her uninjured brow, revealing she’s well aware I hadn’t disclosed my field of expertise.
“I work in accounting.” My words are barely audible.
Lying has never been my specialty. My career requires the occasional mistruth, but I’ve never straight-up lied in my everyday life before. Although Regan shouldn’t be included in the very small list of people I class as friends, the number of times she has entered my thoughts the past five years has placed her there.
I searched for her for months after the incident at Substanz. My investigation wasn’t conducted on behalf of the FBI. Every tri-state visit, license plate scan, and hours spent scrolling thousands of images of women matching her description was done on my own accord. I needed to know she was okay—that she wasn’t a byproduct of an industry she didn’t belong in. That isn’t something I’d do for anyone. I did it for Rae because I cared about her. I still do.
“Accounting?” Regan’s spiked tone returns my focus to the present. “You’re an accountant?”
“Yes, I’m an accountant.” I say my words slowly, as if she is hard of hearing. It gives them an edge of honesty. Not much though.
I warned Theresa during my placement interview no one would believe the cover she selected. She said it wouldn’t be an issue. She’s an idiot. The only way I could pass as an accountant would be if my sole client was a steroids company.
When Regan’s lips twitch as if she heard my private thoughts, I glare into her eyes, daring her to release the giggle she’s barely harnessing. She reins in her laughter—barely!
Lucky, as the only brainwave I could summon to stifle her giggles involved my mouth sealing over hers. Since I'm currently on the clock, and kissing a target is a big no-no in my industry, that would end badly on all accounts.
“What about you? What do you do for a living?”
Regan's reply is interrupted by me carefully cleaning a smear of blood above her right brow. I don't know if her delay arises from me touching her wound or because I am touching her. I hope it is the latter.
“I’m a lawyer,” she advises a short time later, her voice huskier than normal.
A whistle parts my lips. “A lawyer, eh? Sounds fancy.”
Her grimace causes her brows to join. “Not really. I file acquisitions and takeovers all day long. It’s quite boring, actually.”
The honesty in her tone surprises me. I always envisioned the life of a mafia lawyer would be more dangerous than the monotony Regan described. Maybe Theresa's intel is wrong? Perhaps Regan isn't Isaac's full-time lawyer?
Feeding off newfound hope, I remove the last traces of blood from Regan's brow, then toss the stained washcloth into the sink. "How's the throb now?"
“Better,” Regan approves with a gentle nod.
She intakes a sharp breath when my fingers skim her uninjured brow before drifting down her cheek. I tuck a stray hair behind her ear, making out it was the reason for my impromptu touch. It isn’t. I just couldn’t wait a moment longer to see if her skin is as soft as it looks. For future reference, it’s even silkier than I expected.
Regan has classic, unmarked beauty, but in an almost too perfect way. Her big green eyes are prominent on her porcelain skin, and her lips are a little large, but when you place them in perfect symmetry on her elongated face, she is beyond perfection. I think that is why I was so taken with her five years ago. She has such unique, soul-stealing features, you can't help but look again and again and again. It is fortunate I have her under surveillance, or the number of times I've scanned her photos the past six weeks would have me facing stalker charges.
I grow wary I said my last comment out loud when Regan asks, “Have we met before?” Her tone is high with guarded skepticism.
“I don’t think so,” I lie through twisted lips. “Are you from around here?”
Her eyes drift over my face, cheeks, and lips before shaking her head. “I’m a relatively new resident to Ravenshoe. You?”
“I arrived a few months ago. Not sure what I think about the place yet.” Because my statement is honest, it comes out sounding that way. “What about you? Lifelong plans or a fly-in, fly-out visitor?”
“I don’t know.” The indecisiveness in her eyes weakens her laidback response. “The town has a lot of potential. Who knows what will come from it.”
She isn't referring to Ravenshoe's landmarks. She has her sights set on something not made out of glass and steel. Something human. Someone whose ego shouldn't be inflating from the insinuation in her tone.
Before I can get our conversation back on respectable grounds, Regan tugs on the clump of hair on my chin. “This is new, isn’t it?”
I swallow numerous times in a row. I was cleanly shaven the last time we interacted, but with every covert operation arriving with a new shaving routine, my facial hair is too unkempt for my liking. I feel like I’m vying for a part on Vikings. I just need to grow my hair a few inches longer, and I’d be set.
My throat feels like the Sahara in the middle of summer when Regan adds on, “You didn’t have even a shadow the first time I spotted you. Your face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
My brain screams for me to reply, but I’m at a loss. I have no words.
I snap my eyes to Regan faster than a rocket when she asks, “Did you ever accept the waitresses’ advances? They seemed pretty eager.”
My heart rate shifts from guaranteed coronary failure status when I secure my first breath in over a minute. I try to play it cool. “You dine at Taste?”
Regan mistakes the relief in my voice as surprise. She huffs under her breath before folding her arms across her chest. If she’s hoping her prima donna routine will backhand my ego into submission, she is sadly mistaken. I like my women with backbones. It makes the switch of power in the bedroom even more rewarding.
Her tough stance relaxes when I say, “I saw you at Taste—many times. I just didn’t want you to think I was one of the creepers you mentioned earlier.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I still think you’re a creeper. You’ve got the whole creeper vibe down pat.”
When I arch a brow, demanding proof of my supposed “creeper ways,” she adds on, “No man with a jaw as firm as yours goes the messy beard route. Your aftershave costs in excess of a thousand dollars. Your suit, on the other hand, screams JC Penney.”
Since she is directly on the target, I remain quiet. My aftershave was a gift from a childhood friend. She has acquired tastes. The suit is as far as my agent salary can extend. Unlike Isaac, I earn everything I have. I don’t steal, cheat, and lie to better myself. I work for it.
Regan remains silent. Her demands don’t need to be voiced to be heard. I end her silent interrogation by saying, “They say the smell makes the man. I was testing out the theory—”
“By sitting in a restaurant that charges one hundred dollars for two poached eggs and a sliver of salmon?”
I smile. She didn’t just notice me at Taste; she monitored me as closely as I watched her. That’s precisely what I ate for breakfast every morning while tailing Isaac.
"You forgot the rye toast. It's baked fresh every day. That alone is worth the expense." Nothing but pure cheekiness resonates in my tone.
Regan shakes her head, barely concealing her curling lips.
I wait for her to accept two tablets of Tylenol from the nurse and swallow them before asking, “Is that why you’re unsure on the previous number of stalker incidents? Because you’re skeptical about including me?”
Over our game of det
ective and victim, Regan rolls her eyes. I’m not willing to give in as easily. Three incidents, I can brush off. I watched her like a creep at Substanz five years ago. I was on the clock, but my behavior was borderline creeper. Theresa admitted she had agents following Regan before her case was assigned to me, and I’ve been actively shadowing her the past six weeks.
Three incidents make sense.
Four. . . I'm not down with four.
Four is wrong.
Four is a recipe for death—Regan only said that an hour ago.
Four I will not accept.
“For a guy who is five seconds from losing an eye, you ask a lot of questions.” I’m forced to eat my rebuttal when Regan quickly adds on, “Although it shouldn’t be any concern of yours, excluding you and your sneaky glances over a newspaper, I'm reasonably sure there have been four incidents total."
Before I can utter a syllable—or even a growl—a commotion at the side gains our attention. Isaac glides into the room. His face is awash with concern, his eyes wide.
“Jae called me when she saw your name on the admissions board. What happened? She heard rumors you knocked heads with some bozo in the elevator?”
I cough unexpectedly, regrettably shifting Isaac's attention from Regan to me. "Bozo. Nice to meet you," I greet, recognizing my cover has been blown.
I thrust out my hand, hoping my scruffy beard, bad need of a haircut, and the forty pounds of muscle I’ve put on since our last meeting will conceal my identity from him as well as it has fooled Regan.
A smirk crosses my lips when he accepts my gesture. I clearly have him deceived. Isaac’s handshake is firm, tight, and as austere as his eyes. He is grateful I helped Regan seek medical attention, but annoyed he isn’t the only alpha in the room. I had wondered a few weeks ago if he and Regan were more than friends. Now I know without a doubt their interactions only occur in one room—the boardroom.
