Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  “How was breakfast?” Sean grins at Trenton.

  A warm glint appears in Trenton’s eyes as he looks my way. “The pancakes were sweet, but my company was far sweeter.”

  I feel my face turn impossibly red as I dig through my purse and pull out my MetroCard.

  “What are you doing?” Trenton asks, eyeing my subway pass.

  “Well, you have to get to work and I have to get home.”

  “Chris will drive you home.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not his job.”

  Trenton’s mouth forms a tight line. “He’s driving you home.”

  So, it seems this issue is not up for discussion, either.

  I place my MetroCard back in my purse. The first car beeps and Christopher starts toward the driver’s side door.

  “Chris.” Trenton barks his name.

  He stops and turns around. “Yes?”

  “Take the Maserati.”

  “Trent, I don’t think that’s wise—”

  “The Maserati,” Trenton says in a sharper tone.

  Christopher nods. “Right.”

  I look at Sean. It seems I’m the only one confused by this conversation.

  “This way, Sara.” Christopher gestures to the second luxury car in the lineup. The lights flash once and the car beeps.

  Trenton escorts me to the passenger side as Sean and Christopher exchange words on the sidewalk. He opens my door, regarding the traffic on the road, and shields me with his body. I sit down on the black leather passenger seat embroidered, of course, with his initials, and place my purse in my lap.

  “Seatbelt, Miss Peters,” he says.

  Its design and operation look foreign to me. Sensing my difficulty, Trenton sticks his head into the car and pushes a red button just inside the door. The seatbelt pulls forward automatically. He grabs it and leans over me, clicking it into place. With my nose pressed to his designer suit, I inhale.

  Trenton turns to me, his lips just an impulse away from mine.

  “Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?” He reaches out and toys with a lock of hair framing my face. “Your courtship parameters are very difficult for me to obey, especially when you look so ravishing. It’s taking all of my strength not to kiss you and touch you as intimately as I’d like.”

  Trenton’s words unleash my impetuous side and mutual feelings of desire. I bring my hand around to the back of his neck and lean forward, brushing my lips to his. By courtship, I didn’t mean we couldn’t share any intimacy.

  Trenton returns the kiss with a soft moan. The sensual vibration radiates down to my toes, but not before making a pleasurable stop between my legs. I keep my wits, ensuring the kiss remains appropriate with just enough fervor to let him know I enjoyed our date and I’m looking forward to seeing him again.

  “Thank you for putting up with my breakfast choice.” I lean back in my seat. “I know it wasn’t your ideal place.”

  “My ideal place is anywhere with you, Sara.” He drifts his fingers down the side of my face, his eyes tender and admiring.

  “And thank you for paying for me.”

  Trenton retracts his hand and shifts his gaze across the car. “Your gratitude is unnecessary.”

  “It is necessary. You worked hard to get to where you are now and I just want you to know that, well, I appreciate you.”

  Our eyes lock again and my heart leaps.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Miss Peters,” he says quietly.

  He removes himself from the car and stands.

  I take his hand and give it a squeeze. The gesture surprises him, but his eyes quickly soften, conveying his thanks. As he shifts his attention to the road ahead, I study his pensive gaze. It’s the same little boy lost look he wore in the gazebo on Saturday night—the one that broke my heart.

  Abruptly, he drops my hand.

  “You don’t ever have to worry about me, Sara.” His guarded expression and tone return. “It’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around.”

  “I disagree.”

  Christopher takes a seat behind the wheel, putting the brakes on my conversation with his boss.

  Trenton dips his head into the car to look Christopher in the eye. “Drive safely.”

  “I’m an excellent driver.”

  Trenton gives him an extra stern look and says nothing.

  Christopher puts on his seatbelt and starts the Maserati by punching a code into a control panel embedded in the dashboard.

  Trenton places his hand on the roof of the car. His suit jacket drapes open, revealing his trim form.

  “Saturday at six,” he says to me. “If you need to contact me any time before then, do so. You still have my card, correct? That specific one has my private cell phone number on it.”

  I nod.

  “I mean it, Sara. Call me regardless of the matter or the hour.”

  I nod again.

  Trenton slams the door shut and Christopher shifts into drive. With a screech of the tires, the car pulls away from the curb. I look into the side mirror at Trenton as we drive off. He’s a grand and gorgeous figure as he stands at the side of the road, watching us leave, his hands resting in his pockets.

  Eventually, Christopher turns a corner and Trenton disappears from sight. I can’t help but smile like a giddy teenager at how well our date went, aside from a few minor disagreements.

  Emerging from my Merrick haze, I look at Christopher. One hand grips the gearshift and the other drapes over the wheel casually. His eyes are trained ahead, his jaw lax as he maneuvers the vehicle.

  He’s a man of few words. I comment on my shift in the ER, breakfast, even the weather, and all he offers in reply are several Yes Saras, No Saras, and That’s nice, Saras. I’m not offended. I sense it doesn’t stem from rudeness, but perhaps aversion to small talk, which I can relate to.

  About twenty minutes into the drive, I give up on my attempt to engage him in conversation and settle into my seat, watching the bustling streets of Manhattan pass me by. I stifle a yawn and close my eyes. Before I know it, Christopher rouses me from my sleep, telling me we’ve reached our destination.

  “Sorry for drifting off.” I give a little stretch. “Long night.”

  He turns off the car. “No problem.”

  Once again, there is no release lever for the door, so I have to wait for Christopher’s help. He opens my door and extends his hand; a gesture I accept with a smile. Holding my purse in my other hand, I exit the Maserati. The door shuts on its own this time.

  Impressive.

  The car beeps twice and Christopher escorts me to the entrance of my building. I know better than to tell him I’ll take it from here so I step ahead and use my key to access the lobby. He holds the door open and enters behind me.

  The elevator takes a few minutes to arrive. During that time, Christopher types on his phone and adjusts his earpiece. I feel comfortable around him, despite our lack of conversation. He and Trenton seem similar—suave and professional—except Trenton is more brooding. Sean is obviously the more relaxed and open member of their trio.

  Christopher presses the elevator button corresponding to my floor. I guess Trenton told him which one I live on.

  “Thanks for the drive,” I say as we ascend.

  He tucks his phone into his suit jacket. “You’re welcome.”

  We lapse into comfortable silence again until we reach my floor. I exit the elevator behind him.

  “So, uh . . .” I remove my key from my purse. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “I have to ensure you get inside your apartment safely.”

  I smile and adjust my bag on my shoulder. “Oh, right . . . orders.”

  Christopher grins. “I take it you’ve heard that line before.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, just a few times.”

  He falls behind me as I walk down the hallway.

  “Sara!”

  I turn around. Denim heads toward us, wearing one of her favorite workout ensembles: a
headband, a mid-riff baring tank top, spandex shorts, and leg warmers, all of course, in various fluorescent colors. She’s sans makeup, a rare occurrence.

  Christopher watches her peppy approach, looking noticeably rattled. The two of them couldn’t be more opposite.

  Denim smirks as she stops before us. “Oh, sorry, Sara, I wasn’t aware you had company.”

  I roll my eyes. “This is Christopher Maida. He works for Trenton Merrick.”

  “Merrick, huh?” Denim looks Christopher up and down. “Sara, I thought you got rid of Merrick.”

  Christopher lowers his head, but not fast enough to hide his smile.

  I feel my cheeks turn red. “I, uh, had breakfast with him this morning.”

  “I see.” Denim gives me a knowing smile and then extends her hand to Christopher. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Denim Jacobson.”

  “Pleasure.” He shakes her hand, looking her in the eye.

  “So, Christopher, what is it that you do for Mr. Merrick, exactly?” she asks, sizing him up again.

  Christopher squares his shoulders. “I’m the co-head of his security detail, ma’am.”

  Denim’s eyes light up even brighter. “Oh, how exciting! I guess that means you’re strong, swift, and super smart. I love a man who is self-assured and protective by nature.”

  Oh, brother.

  Christopher’s face flushes. “You’re too kind. It’s flattering to receive such a lovely compliment from a beautiful woman like yourself.”

  My mouth falls open. Mr. Prim and Proper, Cool, Calm, and Collected, is actually flirting with my friend.

  “My, aren’t you sweet?” Denim bats her eyelashes ridiculously fast.

  I stifle a giggle and turn around, leading the two of them to my apartment.

  “So, Christopher, are you heading back to Trenton’s office after this?”

  He doesn’t respond to my inquiry.

  “Christopher?”

  Denim shrieks.

  I whip around as Christopher yanks her closer to him. He covers her mouth with his hand, silencing her cries, and presses her back tightly against his body. In his other hand, he holds a gun. Denim’s eyes are wide as she struggles to break free, her arms flailing.

  I drop my purse and slam back against the wall, my hand placed over my frantic heart.

  Christopher lifts the gun and points the muzzle in my direction, his finger on the trigger. “Don’t move, Sara. And don’t you dare scream.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As I stare down the muzzle of Christopher’s gun and take my final breaths, I feel guilty that Denim is involved in this mess. Before I met Trenton, our biggest adventure consisted of closing down a bar in The Village. Now, because of my stupidity, we’re both going to die in a poorly lit hallway in a shabby Brooklyn apartment building. To make matters worse, she isn’t wearing any makeup. She’ll never forgive me for sending her to her grave like this.

  I’m too stunned to run or scream, and too scared and weak to wrestle Christopher for the gun. Pitifully, I stand against the wall, conveying a silent apology to my friend as I wait for the blast. I hope Christopher’s a good shot and it ends quickly for both of us.

  Denim squeezes her eyes shut. Her small body trembles as Christopher holds her in his death grip. I close my eyes, too. No shots go off. I crack one eyelid open, then the other.

  “Sara, move toward me,” Christopher says, his voice low. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I regard him doubtfully.

  Christopher points his gun toward my apartment. “Your door isn’t locked. There may be someone inside.”

  I glance at my front door, my heart still pounding despite his reassurance. It’s shut. I don’t know how he knows it isn’t locked.

  “Denim,” Christopher says, his lips pressed to her hair, “I’m going to let you go. Don’t panic. I want you and Sara to get in the elevator and head to your apartment while I check things out. Do you understand? Do not return until I come by and tell you it’s safe to do so.”

  The tension eases as I realize Denim and I are not his intended targets. I also find it interesting that he knows Denim’s apartment isn’t on this floor.

  Denim’s eyes are still wide as she nods. She’s panting after Christopher releases her, but remains quiet as instructed.

  I scramble toward her as Christopher inches along the wall, his gun ready, as though he’s done this many times before. Despite his orders, Denim and I stay huddled together in the hallway.

  Christopher wraps his hand around the doorknob and turns it slowly. Sure enough, the door is unlocked. As he slips inside my apartment, I eye my purse on the floor. My cell phone is in it. I wonder if I should call the cops.

  “Should we see what’s going on?” Denim whispers.

  I shake my head. “Christopher told us to stay out of it.”

  “Your apartment isn’t that big. If there was someone inside, he would’ve found them already.”

  “I say we wait a few more minutes.”

  “We’ve waited long enough.”

  Before I can protest, Denim drags me toward my apartment. She pushes the door open slowly. Christopher faces the window, his back to us. As Denim and I creep inside, I scan the room. It looks the same as I left it this morning: unmade bed, a half-filled glass of orange juice on the counter, overflowing laundry sack leaning against the front of the couch.

  The floorboards creak under my feet.

  Christopher wheels around and frowns. His gun has been holstered. “I thought I told you two to wait in the other apartment.”

  Denim rushes toward him and throws her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank goodness you’re safe!”

  Christopher stumbles backward, surprised by her onslaught, but regains his footing quickly. He looks stiff and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, offering her a few gentle pats on the back.

  “Please don’t be angry, Christopher,” Denim says as she releases him. “I made Sara stay here with me because I was worried about you. I simply couldn’t wait in my apartment knowing you might be facing an intruder!”

  “I, uh . . . I’m not mad.” Christopher’s cheeks glow pink.

  Denim clutches her hands to her chest. “Thank goodness!”

  I suppress a smile. “So the coast is clear?”

  “Yes.” Christopher’s eyes remain on Denim.

  “How did you know my door was unlocked?”

  “The indicator light on the lock was green. It’s red when locked,” Christopher says, finally emerging from his Denim daze. “I was concerned because although on the outside it looks like a standard lock, on the inside it’s equipped with special DDT technology, which means aside from using an appropriately programmed micro-chipped key, it can only be disengaged by someone with very specific training. Your run-of-the-mill burglar wouldn’t possess such expertise.”

  “So when you pulled the gun, you thought a government agent or terrorist was inside my apartment?” An eye roll accompanies my rhetorical question.

  Denim looks at me with one eyebrow quirked. “So Merrick had the lock installed, huh?”

  I cringe.

  I’m so going to hear about this later.

  “Sara, please look around and check if anything is missing, just in case,” Christopher says.

  After retrieving my purse from the hallway, Denim and I scour my apartment. We come to the conclusion that nothing is missing and I simply forgot to lock up when I left last night. It’s happened once before, so I’m not surprised I did it again, especially since I haven’t slept properly lately.

  “I’m sorry for my reaction,” Christopher says as we gather in the center of the room. “But Trenton entrusted me to bring you home safely, Sara. That’s a responsibility I take very seriously.”

  His apology, which seems sincere, makes it impossible for me to be mad at him.

  “It’s okay, Christopher. We’re very grateful to you.” Denim smiles at him. “Loyalty and responsibility are very rare finds in peop
le these days.”

  Christopher grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me Denim. After all, you saved my life.”

  “Christopher, thanks for your assistance,” I say loudly enough to interrupt them. “If you must tell Trenton what happened, just explain it was an honest mistake and that I’ll see him on Saturday at the charity benefit.”

  Denim perks up at this information.

  “Actually . . .” Christopher looks to the floor as I hear what sounds like a herd of elephants trampling down the hallway toward my apartment.

  I groan. I should’ve known Christopher already contacted him.

  As the heavy footfalls grow louder, I brace myself for the stampede of Tin Men into my tiny abode. At least I cleaned up a bit yesterday when I searched my apartment the first time for tampering, or else they would see a bra or two hanging around. And thank God the New York Financial magazine is in the garbage and not framed on my wall.

  Trenton appears in the doorway with an army of Tin Men gathered behind him, including Sean, more men than I’ve ever seen with him before. Given the remarkable turnout, it’s safe to assume his motorcade is blocking the street again. As I survey the group, I wonder how many of them are armed. More than I’d feel comfortable with, that’s for sure. I should hang a No Guns Allowed sign in the lobby.

  Denim glances back and forth between Trenton and me. The tension in the air grows thick, but the sexual magnetism oozing from Trenton is thicker. My body alerts to his presence with warm throbs.

  He strides across the room, his somber Tin Men remaining in the corridor. As he stops before me, I tremble. Whether from the aftershock of the gun incident or his closeness, I’m not sure.

  I don’t know what to say so I wait for him to speak first. Instead, he pulls me into his arms and presses my head to his chest. I return the hug and forget we have an audience. Suddenly, everything seems right with the world.

  Trenton exhales deeply into my hair. “Damn it, Sara. You have no idea how worried I was.”

  He strokes my back . . . up and down . . . up and down. I close my eyes.

  “Anything missing, Chris?” His voice echoes in my ear, the sensual vibrations in his chest radiating pleasurably from my head to my feet.