Revealed to Him

by Jen Frederick

  But maybe I can sneak in a few messages before I lock myself in my office. I guess it is best that Daphne leaves after lunch.

  “I’m done,” I announce. “I just had an idea for the next chapter.” Jumping off the counter stool, I gather up the lunch items and stuff them in the trash. Daphne gives me a strange look, but doesn’t object, because no one wants this book finished more than she does. Not even me.

  She wipes her mouth once more and crumples her half-eaten sandwich up in the wrapper. I throw it away and then wipe down the counter as she’s gathering her purse. “Maybe I’ll see some pages later tonight?”

  “Sure,” I promise. I actually have a few I’ve been working on that I can send to her even if I get distracted by something . . . or someone. “I’ll send you something tonight or early in the morning.”

  “I take that to mean you’ll be staying inside and not trying to take field trips down the hall?”

  “Scout’s honor. I will be in my office until I produce something printable.” I hold up two fingers in what may be a Scout’s salute. I wouldn’t know, having never been a Scout.

  Once she’s gone, I do go to my office and I do settle in front of my computer and I do open my manuscript. But I also text Jake.

  Me: You were right. Today’s a better day.

  Him: I’m always right.

  Me: Really? You’re going with that?

  My image of Jake as a flannel-shirted, skinny-jeans-attired male with a trendy beard is reshuffled. A sensitive hipster does not say he’s always right. My first instinct, that he was confident and maybe even arrogant, appears to be correct.

  Him: What’s the better response? Because I’ve got “I know” and “Yes” saved in my autotext.

  I lift a hand to stifle a giggle even though no one is around to hear me.

  Me: Are you now or have you ever worn flannel?

  Him: Whoa. Whoa. Are we already at the What-are-you-wearing stage? Because if so, you need to go first. And if you’re fully clothed, please feel free to lie and say, “Nothing.”

  My eyebrows shoot so far up my forehead, I fear they are going to be lost. I reread his message. And then read it again. I might lack a lot of experience with the opposite sex, and I have been a shut-in for nearly three years, but I’m pretty sure that Jake Tanner, former army person, according to Oliver, and owner of a high-profile, very expensive security firm, is flirting with me—Natalie Beck.

  And while I’m contemplating this, I get another message.

  Him: There should be a message retrieval. Some kind of feature that allows someone to take back a stupidly written text before the recipient reads it. (1/2)

  (2/2) That was very inappropriate. Please accept my apologies. Not sure what came over me. Probably blood loss. Or just being a man. Men are dumb. Always right but dumb.

  This time I didn’t even cover my mouth when I laughed out loud. I look down at my penguin pajama bottoms and my pink tank and lie like a politician.

  Me: I’m not fully clothed, but I’m not naked either. Your turn.

  There’s a pause, and for a moment I worry. Maybe he did mean for me to forget it. I never had much game before eliminating contact with the outside world. Even before the sight of a full inbox gave me sweaty palms, before doorbells made my heart stop, before the thought of stepping outside the safety of my apartment caused dread, I was a nerdy, socially awkward girl. An alpha male like Jake, full of testosterone, wouldn’t have paid even the slightest attention to me before, so why do I think he’s flirting? But then the phone dings and my eyes devour the words he sends back.

  Him: I don’t remember wearing flannel. Since I’ve already revealed that I’m an asshole, what with the winky face and the blatant and inappropriate request, I should probably admit that I don’t even buy my own clothes. My mom and sisters still shop for me.

  Me: Don’t feel bad. Oliver is the same. The only clothing interest he has is workout gear.

  Him: I have a friend, Ian, who has a personal shopper. Is that more manly?

  Me: So he has to pay someone to do what your mom and sisters do? I don’t think that’s more manly. More expensive, but not more manly. Is that important?

  Him: Being manly? Yes. I grunt in the morning and five times at night to inject the right amount of testosterone into my system.

  Me: Grunting is the key to manliness?

  Him: It’s one of the keys. Also belching, scratching of the balls, being able to spit—not spray—actually spit.

  Me: I don’t think I like manliness. Can we revisit the flannel? Maybe you should look into it. I bet you’d look good in flannel.

  Him: I shave. Daily. I think you have to have a beard to look good in flannel. Also, you are required to be holding an axe. I prefer guns. Besides, all my manliness is done in private.

  If I were braver, I’d take that innuendo-laden statement and launch into something sexy and provocative such as: “Not an exhibitionist?” Or, “What else do you like to do in private?” But I’m not. Plus, I want him to keep texting me. I want him to text me forever. I want—oh, what am I even thinking?

  I can’t even open the door. The idea of Jake Tanner in my apartment terrifies me. It’s one thing to joke and flirt via innocent message bubbles, but normal people want face-to-face contact, skin-to-skin contact.

  Him: Did my keys to manhood scare you off? Manliness also requires you to recognize a good Scotch, know how to kiss, and know that you drive a woman home after an evening out. No matter how late or early it is. Is that better?

  He’s so sweet. He probably does wear flannel and because of that, I text him the truth.

  Me: I want you to come over. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to open the door.

  Him: There are things I can do without coming inside.

  Me: But not as effective for you.

  Him: It helps to have eyes on the inside to see exactly what we’re dealing with.

  Me: What if I can’t open the door?

  Him: Then you don’t open the door and I deal.

  A wave of emotion swamps me—part gratitude and part yearning. This man, with whom I’ve only exchanged written messages, is killing me with his humor, his understanding, and most of all, his kindness.

  Me: Why are you so kind?

  Him: As opposed to what? Making you feel bad? Seems to me that you have a lot on your plate without me adding guilt to your fight against anxiety.

  I decide right then and there I don’t care if Jake wears flannel, if he’s mean to small children, if he forgets Mother’s Day, and if he uses the horn too much when he drives. He’s perfect and I’m half in love with him already. Of course it will never go anywhere. Because I live inside, and every other normal person is outside.

  I wish I was okay with my current status—that I didn’t long for human interaction. It would make life so much easier. Then I could look in the mirror without disgust. I could take my fear and wrap it around me like a warm comfortable blanket. I could stop wanting what I probably can never have—a real relationship with someone like Jake.

  But the part of me that hates my fear? It wants out and now it wants Jake. That part drives me to type: Come over tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAKE

  The next day, I drive down to Tribeca early enough that there’s still street parking available. The seven-story brick condo complex the Grahams live in isn’t much to look at from the outside, but given that Graham just signed a five-year, $145 million deal this summer, I’m guessing the inside is much more interesting. Security consists of one doorman and no visible exterior cameras, which doesn’t surprise me. Cameras require someone to actually look at the tape, and a complex like this is too small to have on-site management. The company that owns and manages this property is probably down in the Financial District.

  “I’m here to see Oliver Graham,” I lie to the doorman. He’s young, 20 to 25 years old, with enough gel in his hair to style an entire boy band. It’s easy to peg him as an aspiring actor or model
. I want to see how simple it is to get inside.

  “You need to sign in,” he says, swinging a ledger book toward me.

  “Did I see you in The Lion King? You look familiar.” I push the ledger to the side.

  He takes up the invitation immediately. Excited that someone, anyone, has recognized him, he leans forward and his elbow pushes the ledger farther down the marble-topped reception desk.

  “No, but I have been in a couple off-Broadway shows.” He rattles off the names of them. I haven’t even heard of the theaters he names let alone the plays. My youngest sister would. She’s pretty artsy.

  “Why don’t you give me a flyer?” I invite and close the ledger. He doesn’t notice because he’s too busy digging under the desk for a piece of promotional material.

  “Here you go. We’re doing a reinvention of Waiting for Godot, only the characters have been transformed into animals. So it’s like a cross between J. K. Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts and Death of a Salesman.”

  I nod like I would ever want to see something like that. “Sounds good, man.”

  “So you a friend of Mr. Graham’s?” From his skeptical expression, I must not look like Graham visitor material. He takes in my boots, jeans, and T-shirt. I have a nylon jacket despite the early spring heat because I’m carrying. I’m always carrying.

  “Business.” Graham’s visitors are probably leggier, shorter, and sporting much longer hair. Mine is still military-short. Some parts of the army can’t ever be carved out of me. I can grow a beard and leave my bed a rumpled mess, but the minute my hair touches my collar, I start to get itchy.

  Business must make sense to the doorman because he nods twice and jerks his head toward the elevators. I wave the flyer at him in thanks. The elevator doors slide open when I reach them and the top floor—the seventh floor—is already lit up. Over at the desk I can see him on the phone, likely calling Graham, who I know for certain is not home right now.

  I watched him leave two hours ago and he hasn’t returned, something the doorman missed when he darted out to get a coffee. I wonder if Graham knows how shoddy the security is here.

  When the elevator stops on the top floor, I take one quick look around and then jog down to the third floor—the one Natalie lives on. There were two doors on the top floor, but six on this one. Sounds come from only two of them. I pause to make a calculated guess as to which one is hers. I asked Graham not to tell me because I wanted to see how easy it was to find her.

  The middle units had the fewest number of windows whereas the front and back units had at least six windows each. Natalie’s fear of the outside world could mean she’d want as little access to it as possible or she may enjoy what little access she had through greater exposure. I take a chance and knock on 3A, a corner unit with eight windows.

  Behind the door there’s a slight scuffling noise, which stops and then starts and then stops again. Someone is walking toward the door, but can’t get close enough to open it. Bingo.

  Because I’m not here to scare the shit out of her, I announce myself. “Natalie. It’s Jake Tanner.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?” a distant female voice calls back. “Your website didn’t have any pictures, remember?”

  The low, husky tone sends a chill up my spine. Graham failed to mention that Natalie’s voice is the sultry kind that hits a man in the solar plexus. Silently I cough into my hand to chase the vague tingle of interest away. Completely unprofessional. That said, nothing about our contact so far has been professional. I try to regret that, but I can’t seem to summon up any outrage. I spent the night thinking about her.

  “I’m sliding a card under the door.”

  “Anyone can print up a card.”

  Her voice is closer, unfortunately for me. I slide the cream card with the bold black print under the door and give it a shove. Graham said she wrote the damn game, but I’m wondering if she did voiceovers for it. A game with that voice crooning into a headset would sell millions of copies. She could convince half the male population to open their wallets and buy dirt with that voice.

  “Think you’re up for opening the door?” I lean against the wall to the right of the door and watch the doorknob, but it doesn’t move.

  “I don’t know.” She sounds nervous and I don’t want that, but . . . I also want to meet her. Shake her hand. Or, if I’m completely honest, I want to put a face to the ill-advised fantasies I’m starting to have.

  “You don’t sound like you’re hyperventilating. Besides, I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “I’m big on trying,” she says. She’s close enough to the door that I can hear her sigh, an extended exhale full of longing. This is a woman who doesn’t want to be locked in her apartment. I respect that. “But not so much on doing.”

  “All you need to do is open the door. Let me take a look around.”

  “Jake, I’d love to be able to open the door,” she responds with a touch of asperity and I can’t help smiling. Housebound she may be, but she’s got bite. “I might not be gasping for breath, but right now it’s taking everything I have to just stand in the entryway talking to you.”

  Graham had said she’d been making progress getting out when the note arrived, which made it all the shittier. My fingers curl into a fist and I have to force myself to straighten them. People who prey on the vulnerable are bottom-dwellers. I might have to be there when Graham doles out the punishment.

  I shouldn’t care. She’s a client. Feelings interfere with a rational review of the facts and evidence. I’ve terminated more than one security employee because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped, yet I’m breaking all the rules for her. “Go into your bedroom and call me. You already have my number, and it’s the same one on the card.”

  As the footsteps fade away, I pull a simple lock pick set from my wallet. The phone rings and her name shows up on the screen.

  “Why should I go into the bedroom?” she asks.

  “Because it’s the room farthest from the front door. Once you’re in your bedroom, I’ll come in and take a look around.” The phone line doesn’t reduce the effect of her voice. I try to shut it out and concentrate on the task at hand. Her lock is a standard pin tumbler. It will take me all of a minute to pick.

  “How do you know where my bedroom is?”

  “The floor plans are on the Internet from when this building was being leased.” Sticking the tension wrench into the keyhole, I press until the plug begins to rotate. Time for the rake. Three passes of the rake later, the pins bounce into place and the lock disengages.

  “Ugh,” she replies, but she doesn’t hang up.

  She’d probably never leave her bedroom if she knew how easy it was to gain entry into her home.

  Natalie’s apartment is good-sized by Manhattan standards. She has a fairly large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that run along the far wall. Two of the windows are actually doors that open onto a small balcony overlooking Howard Street. To the immediate left is the kitchen. My card lies on the granite island counter. To the right a door rests slightly ajar.

  “You and Graham could live in a place with more security.” I poke the door and it falls open. Inside is an office. There’s a treadmill with a platform attached to it at elbow height. A laptop sits on top of the platform. She must . . . type while she walks? I hadn’t seen one of those before. There’s a whiteboard filled with text, arrows, Post-it Notes. The room is ringed with bookshelves. I venture further in.

  The shelves are filled with nonfiction and fiction alike. Romances, science fiction, mystery. She has eclectic taste.

  “This is a small condo and we don’t get a lot of attention here, which Oliver really likes. Plus, we have a doorman.”

  “He’s pretty useless.”

  “You are the bearer of not very good news. Are you like that with everyone or am I getting special treatment?”

  If she’d texted that, I might have thought it was a come-on, but she sounded weary rather than flirtatio
us.

  “I give out facts. How my clients choose to interpret those is up to them.” At the very top row of the bookshelves are multiple copies of the same book by the same author—a very famous author. “M. Kannan?” I murmur.

  “Are you inside my apartment?” she shouts.

  I pull the phone away from my ear.

  “Yup.”

  “Oh my God, you picked my lock. You’re in my apartment!” Her too-quick breaths fill my ear.

  “Natalie, go sit on the bed. Imagine a square. Breathe in for four seconds and then walk to the other side of the square and exhale. Breathe in for four seconds and then out for four seconds,” I command in my best drill sergeant voice. I wasn’t a DS in the army, but I got yelled at by one enough that I can replicate his commanding voice with ease. I can almost taste her panic over the phone. “Start counting. One, two, three, four.” She doesn’t obey, and I hear her breathing coming in short pants. “Now,” I bark.

  There’s a shuffling and then I hear the numbers. The first one is quavery and it takes her about five seconds to get the second one out. “Louder. I want them loud and crisp.”

  She starts over at one. By the fourth set she’s breathing more easily. Yeah, the guy who did this is going to have a real pleasant visit from both Graham and me. “Good girl, Natalie. You’re doing fine. I’m almost done here. Keep counting.”

  “Fuck you,” she gurgles out between numbers three and four.

  The insult makes me grin, but my smile fades as I spin around. This place isn’t that big. And if it’s the only place she feels safe, then her life is pretty miserable.

  In the soft blue living room are three large framed posters of the covers of a bestselling science fiction series—a series that is being made into a movie. The light bulb turns on over my head. Natalie Beck is M. Kannan. That must be how she affords this Tribeca condo. And it makes sense. She wrote the storyline for one of the most famous games of recent memory, and now she’s writing bestselling science fiction. And it’s a series I fucking love.