by Box Set
“So, I did irritate you then?”
“For all of an evening,” I whisper.
“Okay. Well, if it's not me, then what's wrong? Has something else pissed you off?”
I try to avoid telling him but he goes on, and on, and on, demanding an answer. “I won't relent, Blaire. I want to know what's wrong.”
“It's my period, all right?”
“Oh!” He's lost for what to say for a moment, blinking at me as if I just admitted to something dreadful. “Have you got a stomach ache?”
Shutting my eyes, I shake my head. “But I can't be bothered to train today, if you don't mind?”
“Course I don't mind. Do you need anything? I put all the necessary toiletries in your bathroom.”
“I'm fine.”
Another long pause, then he rises from his chair. He saunters across the kitchen, rustles through the cupboards and the drawers, and I hear a deep whooshing sound. Then he returns with two steaming cups. “Here,” he says, passing one to me, and I realize the whooshing was the coffee machine.
I take the cup from him and hold it on the table, training my eyes there. It’s warm against my palms; smells deliciously of the morning and bitter coffee beans.
“Do you want anything in particular to eat?” he asks.
I scowl up at him. “Are you being funny?”
He snaps his thick eyebrows together.
“Why would I want anything in particular to eat?” I say.
“Don't women have cravings when it's that time of the month, huh?” I think he's trying not to smirk as he sits back against his chair, looking as cool as ever.
My scowl hardens. I have cravings every fucking second of every fucking day, but not for food.
“Chocolate?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“I don't eat chocolate.”
“You should.” He sips his coffee with steady movements. “It's supposed to have natural pain relief chemicals known to be effective on women. And it's supposed to help with bad moods,” he adds with sarcasm.
I don't answer him. I'm worried I'll say something I'll live to regret and end up unleashing the evil within him, because it has to be there somewhere. He can't be like this with everyone, surely?
Guzzling down the rest of his coffee, Charlie gets up and leaves the kitchen without saying goodbye.
I close my eyes with a harsh sigh, simmering over the possibility that I've really upset him. I know I don't say much as it is, but I'm not usually this blank and rude to him. Or I don't think I am.
Half an hour passes, and then he's back with a flimsy blue shopping bag in hand. “Chocolate.” He drops the bag in front of me on the table, shoving car keys away in his jeans pocket. “Eat, and cheer up.”
Shit, he is pissed off.
“Sorry,” I say, looking down, squeezing the cup in my grasp. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I should know better than to be rude to you.”
“S'all right.” He winks at me when I peer up at him. “Do you want to sit with me while I make my phone calls?” He takes a seat next to me again, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. “Tis' gotta be better than being cooped up in your room, no?”
I'm confused. Is he pissed off at me?
I try not to frown at him, keeping my expression ironed out.
I can't really tell what mood he's in.
“I...sure, if you want me to?” I shrug, feeling a bit weird with today's situation. Is it just me, or does he seem different?
“Course I want you to.” Charlie empties out the contents of the bag and peels open a few bars of Galaxy Caramel. He tucks into the chocolate with gusto, popping a few cubes into his mouth amid dialing someone.
I don't think he is pissed off. He seems to be taking my bad mood in his stride.
Strange.
He starts speaking in Spanish to his caller. I make out something about prices, and I feel like I'm intruding.
“Charlie,” I whisper, pointing out, “I can go up to my room if you—”
He shakes his head, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I tense up, wishing he wouldn't touch me. I can't deal with his intensity today. All I want to do is pounce on him or hit him.
Still speaking on the phone, he nods at the chocolate, I assume for me to have some. I grab a square and nip off the corner with my front teeth. The sensations that bloom in me are stimulating. It's like nothing I've tasted before. It's fucking delicious, sugary and creamy and mouth-watering. I can't find the right words to explain what chocolate is like for me.
By the time Charlie has finished with his call, which I think lasts for over an hour, we've eaten the entire contents of the bag.
“Told you you'd like chocolate.” He smirks at me, putting his phone down on the table.
I stare at him in total silence, deliberating on asking him a question.
“What?” he says. Stretching out his large body, he reaches back and holds the top of my chair.
Fuck it. It's not like I've got anything to lose.
“What's with you today?” I hug my middle, giving him this wolfish look.
“What's with me?” He seems confused, scrunching up his face. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you being so nice?”
Now, he looks insulted. “Am I not normally nice to you?”
“I...well...” I try to speak but I'm suddenly stuck, too. Yes, he is always nice to me, though he's usually oozing with dark sexual intensity. Today, he isn't. Yes he's still intense, but he's...I don't know...I don't even know why I'm pondering over this.
I hate being on my period. It makes me think too much.
Breaking eye contact, and needing some space, I say, “I'm going to go lie down for a bit.”
I try to stand but he rapidly catches my arm. “This isn't just your period. I have upset you, haven't I?”
I peer back at him, finding his eyes are full of apprehension.
“No, Charlie. You haven't done anything to upset me.”
He nods at my chair, so I sit back down.
“Then what's wrong? C’mon, Blaire...why can't you look at me properly?” His fingers slide down my arm to my hand where he holds me, running his fingers through mine, sending waves through my body.
“Nothing is wrong.” I lick my lips because they're dry, fisting my hand in his.
“Blaire, don't lie to me, Señorita.”
My stomach cramps with anxiety.
“I was just wondering why you're being...I don't know.” I look away from him, my cheeks burning. Why is he doing this now?
He tugs on my hand, making me face him.
“You're not usually like this,” I snap, and then with my free hand, I flick one of the chocolate wrappers. “You don't usually sit with me in the mornings or speak to people in front of me. You usually leave me alone during the day.”
He stares me down, his gaze full of questions. This has to be his most confusing expression. It doesn't suit him.
“Duly noted.” He nods at me and gives my hand a squeeze, making my bones melt.
This is so messed up. He seems to understand me when I don't even understand myself. I have no idea where I was going with this.
———
The following morning, Charlie is just as weird and confusing. Actually, worse. He wakes me up by gently giving my shoulder a shake and tells me to join him for breakfast.
“Why?” I throw back the blankets and sit up in bed. “Has something happened?”
It's almost pitch black in my room but I can still see his tall frame at my bedside. He’s dressed in black joggers and a black v-neck t-shirt.
“No, nothing's happened.” He goes over to the armoire and pulls open the doors, gathers some of my clothes, and passes them to me. “Everything's fine.”
On alert, I slip out of bed in my pajamas, a gray spaghetti strap vest with shorts. I rub my eyes in an attempt to gather my wits, and then I see the time. I sigh with frustration. Who the fuck gets up at four thirty A.M. unless it's work related?
“If everything's okay, why do you want me up so early, Charlie?”
“Because I want to have breakfast with you, and this is the time I eat in the mornings.”
Puzzled, I reach for the clothes in his arms, carefully studying him. He doesn't seem uneasy or fidgety, so I'm almost certain nothing has happened. He gives me his best smile as I stare at him, one that makes me feel hot from within.
“Chop, chop,” he says in a playful manner, gesturing for the bathroom.
I'm not sure what to make of his intensions but I go with the flow. I'm too tired to do anything else right now. While he's pacing around my bedroom, reading a message on his phone, I enter the bathroom to brush my teeth, change my sanitary pad, and get dressed. When I’m ready, I follow him through the house.
It's dark in the entrance hall and so quiet I could hear a pin drop. I glance out the windows on either side of the front doors. The sky is presidential blue with a glowing pink moon, or the sun.
What is with this man and early mornings?
In the kitchen, I'm greeted with an arsenal of chocolate scattered across the dining table, a few newspapers and a pen for the crosswords.
“To keep you occupied,” Charlie says, tapping a finger against the table where the newspapers are. He then pulls out a chair, and as I sit, he pushes me against the table.
“You didn't have to go out of your way to buy me more chocolate.” I feel at fault just looking at it all.
“I know,” he whispers from behind, “but I want you happy and well.”
I don't really know what to say about that, so I don't say anything at all.
He wanders into the kitchen's alcove cooking space and whips up some scrambled eggs on toast with warm maple syrup, and then we eat sitting opposite each other like we usually do. I'm a little on edge about his behavior-mood, but he seems to be as happy as a clam at high water. He asks how I'm feeling this morning, if I have a stomach ache. I tell him I'm fine, spreading butter across my toast. “I don't really get stomach aches.”
“That's good then,” he says, his eyes glittering with something as he looks at me from over his coffee cup. “I think this time of the month suits you. You've got a nice pink tint to your cheeks.”
Wrinkling my nose, I focus on my breakfast, striving to ignore his weird mood but it's very hard. This is a new side to Charlie I've not met before.
Once we've finished with breakfast, he cleans up. I aim to get up from the table so I can go back to my room for a few more hours of sleep, but he orders me to stay put. “I want you to sit with me again today while I work.”
My face twists with bafflement. “Why? Surely you don't want me—”
“Sit down, Blaire,” he points at my chair, “I want you down here with me, not locked away in your room until lunch comes.” His tone of voice is clipped and demanding, so I do as I'm told and lower onto the chair without questioning him further.
After he's cleaned up the kitchen, he returns to the table with coffee for us both, and begins working. Keeping a suspicious eye on him, I execute the crossword puzzles in the newspapers, and read the headline stories. He makes over a dozen calls. He leaves the kitchen for a few that I assume he doesn't want me prying in on, but I still learn a lot about him today. I'm not sneakily listening in on his conversations, but I can't exactly avoid hearing what he says, because he's sitting right next to me now.
Charlie sells mercenary army details—well, the army details are for hire—and he charges a fortune. For ten men to execute a job it's ten-million English pounds, and whoever is buying doesn't bat an eyelid because there are no negotiations. I think Charlie even sells himself as a soldier, but I'm not too sure. That part of the conversation isn't so clear cut because I zone out when he touches my hand, asking if I want another coffee.
“Yes, sure.” I forcefully smile at him as he begins across the kitchen, a question niggling away at me. “Charlie?” His name is out of my mouth before I can stop myself—I'm blaming everything on my period.
From the kitchen space, he faces me.
“Aren't you worried I'll hear something I shouldn't? You know, with you speaking in front of me?”
He laughs at me. “Who you gonna tell, Blaire?” He pours out the coffees with steady motions. “Maksim?”
“I wouldn't tell Maksim any of your business,” I spit out, illogically affronted, “even if he asked me.” And that's the utter truth. I know Maksim will ask about what's been going on with Charlie, but for some reason, deep down, I know I won't tell him about Charlie's business. It's not mine to tell.
Charlie is stunned by my snappy retort. He looks at me, wonder flashing in his eyes. The atmosphere freezes between us. I don't break eye contact. Sitting tensely in my chair, I hold his executed stare.
Still watching me, he saunters back across the kitchen and puts down two cups on the table with heavy thuds. He grabs the back of my chair, towering over me, causing me to crane my head back so I can maintain eye contact. We silently watch each other like this, and for the first time ever, I don't feel like shying away from that powerful stare of his. I feel strong in standing my ground.
“You know”—he half smiles at me, reaches out, and gently pinches my chin—“I actually believe you.”
I scoff at him, tugging out of his grasp. He fucking should believe me. I'm not a liar.
———
We reach a turning point after I tell Charlie I won't speak of his business.
I don't know what changes between us precisely, but something does. I can feel it in the air in the coming days. The way he looks at me with more than desire in his eyes, and the way he speaks to me now. There's no holding back on his behalf anymore—he's not once left the kitchen to have private conversations on his phone. I find I'm more comfortable around him now than ever before. I want to open up to him on another level. Connect with him.
Over breakfast on Wednesday morning, I boldly confess, “I know you lead the Los Zetas.”
He smirks at me, sprinkling crumbs of toast from his fingers onto his plate. “I gathered that when you told me you studied them.”
“Oh.” I glance away, feeling like I've betrayed him or something. “I have been meaning to tell you that I know. I just...”
“S'all right.” He shrugs as if he doesn't much care. “I haven't exactly hidden the fact from you, have I? You've been listening in on my phone calls for days now.”
“Yes, I guess.” I don't feel bad for too long, partly because, as he just said, s'all right. And partly because I have other things on my mind. “Are your services for sale too?” I ask, thinning my eyes with curiosity. “Or do you just hire out your men?” He just got off the phone with someone, and I'm almost certain he said he's available in a few months’ time.
“No, people can hire my skills,” he says between sipping his coffee. He explains that he charges double for himself to personally commit to a job.
“You’re obviously good at what you do then?”
“Yeah. My mother ensured my skills by putting me into a secret military camp when I turned thirteen, so of course I'm good at what I do. Guns and physical combat is all I've ever known. I trained all my top ranked men, who now train their own details.”
“What do you do though, exactly?” I want to imagine what he's like in action.
He tells me that he and his men sometimes commit terrorist attacks, so the American government can blame other religious communities in pursuit of oil and gas. “But my men and I typically carry out search and rescue missions, and political correctness—In our own fashion.” He laughs when saying this.
“Political correctness?”
He nods. “We want Mexico returned to us. Others out there don't realize how kind my people are, Blaire. We don't want Mexico overpowered by the puppeteer Americans. So, when the Americans try to implement New World Order rules in our country that ensure us no economic equality, we retaliate in ways we know will force them to back off—by mostly fiddling with the stocks and share
s. America cares about nothing more than money.”
Cupping my chin, I soak up everything, falling further and further down the rabbit hole that is Charlie. I even conjure up the courage to ask about his sister. She's been on my mind the past few days, I've no idea why.
“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,” I say softly.
“My, you're a curious little cat this morning.” He smiles at me with indulgence. His phone buzzes on the table with an incoming call but he cancels it, pressing the red 'decline' button.
“I'm not prying,” I say. “As I said, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”
“No”—he puts down his cup—“it's fine. I like talking to you.” His face softens as he speaks of his sister, Gina, telling me that I remind him of her in many ways. “But you're evidently a lot stronger and more perceptive than she was.”
“What happened to her, Charlie?”
He gestures for the chocolate on the table so I pass it to him, and he declines another call. “My father was a conceited, greedy French pig,” he says, peeling open a bar of Galaxy Caramel.
“Your father was French?” I give him a surprised look, widening my eyes.
“Yeah, but when he married my mother, he became an American citizen and took her name.” He tells me that his mother was a Latin American who fell deeply in love with his father. They had nothing, so his father joined the American army, though he abandoned them to create the Los Zetas when he saw that if he had enough soldiers, he could take over Mexico. “The organization he created grew stronger, and my father thirsted for money and the wrong kinda power.”
I learn that his father started trafficking young girls to fund his men because back then the Los Zetas didn't have any connections with the American government. “I was the one who solidified a political connection and other ways to earn cash. As you know, I won't deal in sexually exploiting children.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I've heard you mention that.” I want to ask why he associates with men who do abuse kids if he's so against it. But I don’t. I hold my tongue, as he continues talking to me about his sister, telling me a dark story.
