by Jade Allen
“So you’re not going to tell me anything?” she said, not even looking at him as she arranged the slices along the halves of the loaf.
“I didn’t say that, now did I? I said I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Rachel sighed. The microwave beeped and she ruthlessly punched the door open button, snatching up the Tupperware container and pulling the lid the rest of the way off. “What will it take for you to tell me what the hell is going on?” She finally looked at him; Dylan was smiling slightly, watching her with a look in his eyes she wasn’t sure she liked.
“Every man has a price,” he said.
Rachel held his glance for a moment longer and turned her attention back onto the food, reaching blindly to pull the silverware drawer open and taking out a fork. She arranged the leftover meat and vegetables on top of the cheese, put one half of the loaf on top of the other, and cut through the sandwich in a few fast movements, snatching up one half and retreating back into the living room. Dylan followed her into the living room and sat down with the other half of the sandwich and they both ate in silence.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, licking her fingers and brushing the crumbs off of her lap. “If I want to know who’s threatening me, who hired you, and why anyone has the slightest interest in keeping me alive, I have to pay you?”
“I seem to recall that you have a lot more money than you’re used to having—a fair windfall. I don’t think you’ll miss a thousand or so, do you?”
“A thousand or so,” Rachel said, looking at him levelly. “How exactly are you supposed to keep me safe if I don’t know who you’re keeping me safe from?”
“You don’t need to know; not right now. If the time comes when it’s necessary to your survival to know who it is, then in accordance with the job I was hired to do, I’ll tell you. Consider the thousand an expediting fee.”
Rachel turned her mind onto the problem; she had never lacked for intelligence—in spite of her dead-end career, she had always been relatively quick on the uptake, and if it weren’t for the multiple shocks of the day, she cherished the thought that she probably would have put together more of the situation sooner. “Let me see how much of this I can figure out on my own,” she said, eyeing the man a few feet away from her. “I somehow became the beneficiary of a large chunk of money that someone took great pains to send to me anonymously.” Dylan nodded. “Some other people—you won’t tell me who—are upset that I got this money and want to take it from me.” He nodded again. “Someone else hired you to keep me from getting killed.”
“I’ll give you this for free: the same person who gave you the money hired me.”
Rachel thought for a long moment. “Why on earth would someone give me a boatload of money if they knew they’d also have to hire someone to protect me for having it?”
Dylan shrugged, still smiling faintly. “Maybe they thought you deserved it. Maybe they like you. It’s not really a question I asked. I was told to keep you alive, to make sure the money doesn’t get taken from you.”
“How much are they paying you?”
Dylan chuckled. “If I’m not going to tell you who they are, how do you think you’ll convince me to tell you how much they’re paying?”
“How much money do you want for that?” Rachel raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. Dylan’s smile spread over his face.
“That piece of information isn’t for sale, Love. Besides, you’d be a piss-poor investment for my client if you were the type to fritter your money away so easily.”
Rachel stood. “Get out of my house,” she said, keeping her voice calm with an effort.
“Can’t do that—orders. I don’t take payment from someone without doing the job.”
“I don’t even get a say in this? What if I leave?”
“Then I will be leaving with you.”
“You can’t follow me everywhere.”
“I can follow you anywhere that matters.”
Rachel frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dylan shrugged. “You’re unlikely to be assaulted in the bathroom. One window, one door—you’re on the third floor so it’d be tough for someone to climb up and get to you there.”
“My whole apartment is on the third floor; wouldn’t my bedroom be just as unlikely?”
Dylan smiled, his lips twitching, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter. “Are you asking if I would follow you into your bedroom?” Rachel’s blood rushed to her face. “The answer is yes; your bedroom’s a much larger space than your bathroom. Sure they’d have to climb to get at you easily, but there’s that convenient balcony off the side. Besides, if you’re in your bedroom, chances are fair you’re sleeping—easy to sneak up on you.”
“They said…” Rachel pressed her lips together, feeling a spurt of fear. “They said that they know where I am at all times.” She glanced at Dylan, swallowing against the dry, tight feeling in her throat.
“That they do,” Dylan agreed. “Which is why I’m here. They know I’m here—that will have put them off their strategy for a little while. For the moment, you’re safe.”
“Can’t I just—I don’t know—give them the money? I mean…” she licked her lips. “I’m starting to think that quitting my job was a huge mistake.” Rachel cringed.
“That dead-end thing? Of course you should have quit! You’re a smart, beautiful girl and shouldn’t settle for such a thankless job.” Rachel felt her cheeks warming up again at the words ‘smart’ and ‘beautiful.’ He shrugged. “Why should you give up the money? It’s not like the people who want it deserve it any more than you do.”
“Do they deserve it any less?”
Dylan’s gaze shifted off of her face. “That would give you a hint,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to tell you anything about them unless it’s necessary to keep you alive, or unless you pay me a thousand dollars.”
Rachel slid her tongue over her teeth, considering. “So,” she said, glancing around her apartment; it looked smaller than usual with Dylan sitting only a few feet away from her. “What do we do now?”
Dylan shrugged. “It’s your life, Love—I’m just guarding it for you.”
“But I can’t leave.”
“You can leave, but I’ll leave with you.”
“What if I had a date?” Rachel smirked.
Dylan tilted his head to the side slightly. “Do you?”
Rachel blushed once more. “If I did. What—I mean…” she gestured to him.
“Then I would go with you, introduce myself as your bodyguard, and give you a little privacy.”
“Right, because showing up with a huge, good-looking guy isn’t going to put anyone off.”
Dylan’s eyes glimmered. “When your life’s in danger, I don’t think dating should be at the top of your priorities list. But I thank you for the compliment.”
Rachel stood, deciding abruptly that she needed to use the bathroom. She turned and pretended to ignore Dylan while her heart beat a little faster in her chest, her cheeks burning. You really only have his word for it that he’s here to help you, she thought. He could be keeping you in one place until whoever’s coming after you manages to get here. Rachel sat on the ledge of the bathtub, staring at the closed door. Somehow she didn’t think it was likely that she could find a way to get through the front door of her apartment without Dylan noticing.
She heard movement from the living room; the groan of the couch, footfalls in the hallway leading to the bathroom and her bedroom next to it. Rachel sighed. In less than a week, her life had gone from one form of hell to another, it seemed. She no longer had to worry about waking up early to go to a job that would never get any better. But now, even though she was financially independent, someone decided that they wanted her newly found fortune. She couldn’t call the cops; she didn’t know the extent to which she could trust Dylan, but she reasoned that anyone who was going to go through the kind of trouble of making threatening phone calls fro
m carefully concealed numbers probably wouldn’t balk—if they had the means—at keeping the police from investigating the situation.
But what do I really know about the situation? She knew that she had two million dollars to her name. She knew that Dylan had showed up after the phone call, and seemed to know more about the situation than she did. She knew that people didn’t typically give away millions of dollars without good reason. She knew that she was probably in danger; whoever had called her had made it clear that they were determined.
Suddenly, she heard a sound--a crunching, groaning, cracking sound.
“Stay put,” Dylan said through the door. Rachel’s heart started beating faster. A fleeting temptation to follow him flitted through her mind. She heard his steps retreating down the hall, away from her. Rachel looked around the bathroom. There wasn’t much that could serve as a realistic weapon for her; the towel rack didn’t appear very solid, and none of her toiletries were in particularly heavy packaging. Rachel swallowed.
Far away, on the other side of the door, she heard a shout; there was a muffled thud, the sound of boots scraping against the floor, scuffing noises and grunts. Rachel sat down uneasily, thinking that if nothing else, Dylan was demonstrating—she hoped—that his assignment to protect her was genuine. It could be a set-up, she thought anxiously. Lull me into a false sense of security and then lead me straight to whoever is after me. She didn’t know what to believe; Dylan’s refusal to give her any information—or very little information at all—was difficult to reconcile with the idea of someone who had her interests at heart. My interest isn’t in his heart, she thought bleakly. It’s in his wallet. What happens if they offer him more money?
“You can come out now, Love,” Dylan called. Rachel hesitated; she realized abruptly that the struggling, fighting sounds had ceased. She looked around the bathroom again, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered her options. None of her toiletries were particularly heavy, but she at least had the soap dish. She grabbed it, swallowing against the tight feeling in her throat. It wouldn’t do much at all, but if Dylan tried to attack her—or if he was merely lulling her with sounds of struggle, to ambush her with whoever had broken in—it might buy her just enough of a moment to get away. I’ll have to grab my keys. I’ll need my purse. My phone. Or I could just run, and hope that someone will be kind enough to help me. She sighed, shaking her head.
Gripping the soap dish tightly in her hand, she opened the bathroom door, cringing at the faint mechanical squeak of the hinges. Rachel walked as quickly and as quietly as she could through the hall, her heart beating as fast as a rabbit’s in her chest. She cocked her hand, preparing to throw or smash the soap dish against or at whoever might jump out, and took the final step into the living room.
A man lay sprawled on her floor, head turned to the side, either unconscious or—as Rachel’s mind reeled at the sight—possibly dead. She stared in shock, trying to discern some kind of familiarity, some kind of clue as to who he was. The man was utterly nondescript; even if she could go to the police, she wasn’t sure she would be able to come up with any one identifying feature that could lead to his capture—if he wasn’t already dead.
“You’re going to need to get out of here,” Dylan said. Rachel nearly dropped the soap dish she still held at the sound of his voice. She turned in that direction; Dylan’s hand closed around her wrist, and he extracted the ceramic dish from her hand, smiling faintly. “Was this for me or for him?”
“What do you mean I’m going to need to get out of here? Is he—did you kill him?”
Dylan shrugged. “They’ve decided to come after you even though you have a bodyguard. They sent one guy first—next time they’ll send three. Maybe five, if they think one of us is particularly capable.”
“You didn’t answer my other question,” Rachel pointed out.
“You didn’t answer mine,” Dylan countered, wagging the soap dish a few feet away from her face. Rachel felt her cheeks heating up.
“It was a contingency plan,” she said tartly. “Now answer my question.” Dylan glanced at the man sprawled out on the floor.
“I don’t think he’s dead. Could be, but probably not. All the more reason for you to grab your things and for us to go for a ride.”
Rachel looked at the man and shuddered. How Dylan could be so unconcerned about whether the man was alive or dead was beyond her. But, without a doubt, the man certainly didn’t have her best interests at heart.
“How do I know I can even trust you?” she asked, turning her gaze away from the possibly dead man to the very much alive Dylan.
Dylan’s gaze flicked around the room briefly before settling on her. “I don’t see you’ve got much of a choice, to be honest,” he said, smiling slightly. “Go get yourself some pajamas and your toothbrush like a good lass.”
Rachel set her jaw, for a moment determined to argue—feeling almost insulted at being called ‘a good lass’ even as the mild affection in the endearment sent a thrill through her. “I hate charming, smart, nonchalant Irishmen,” she muttered to herself as she walked down the hallway towards her bedroom.
****
“Home sweet home,” Dylan said, ushering her over the threshold of a sprawling, slightly messy apartment an hour’s drive from her home. “For now, at least.” He closed and locked the door behind them, and Rachel looked around, taking stock. It wasn’t dirty exactly; the huge living room had the look of a place that had seen more than one brawl, and there was a faint citrusy musk in the slowly circulating air. An old, beat up leather couch pinned down a nearly threadbare rug, looking as if it had sprouted up in that location as opposed to being moved there. Spare parts that Rachel couldn’t identify were scattered along one wall, near an outlet, and there was a laptop plugged in nearby, resting on a repurposed wooden crate.
“For now?” Rachel asked, turning to look at him.
“Well, I’ll have to move eventually; so it won’t be home for me permanently. And I should hope that the powers that be can take care of your safety at some point between now and eternity, so it won’t be your home permanently either.”
“Why would you have to move eventually?” Rachel asked, glancing around to find somewhere she could put her backpack down. She had managed to grab a few outfits, her laptop, a few toiletries and odds and ends in the time that Dylan had given her before he told her they needed to get out. Dylan brushed past her and Rachel felt an almost electric jolt crackle along her nerve endings at the brief contact; he threw himself down onto the couch, sprawling along its length.
“Hazard of the profession; protect enough people for long enough, folks tend to hold grudges. Want to get the drop on you when you’re sleeping.” He peered at her, shrugging. “Can’t have that, can we?”
“So you’re used to protecting people,” Rachel said, letting her backpack fall lightly to the floor and walking around the behemoth of a couch. She sat down on the rug, looking around warily.
“Wouldn’t have been hired to protect you if I didn’t have experience,” Dylan pointed out. Rachel had to acknowledge that if whoever had given her the money did have her best interests in mind, they would probably hire someone who at least had some kind of reputation, some kind of history to demonstrate his ability.
Rachel nearly jumped to her feet when Dylan’s pocket started loudly playing Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole.” Dylan slipped one hand into his pocket indolently, extracting a phone. He tapped the screen and held the device to his ear. “Yeah,” he said; though his voice was still the same cool, nonchalant tone he had maintained ever since he had first intercepted her, Rachel could see the tension come over his body. “Right. Understood. No, she’s safe. Right. Yes. Got it.” He tapped the screen again, and when he looked at her, his eyes were full of something Rachel didn’t expect: pity. “You’re going to be here a few days, Love,” he said, smiling wryly. “And then you’re going to be the beneficiary of quite a bit more money. Right after that, you and I will be lea
ving the country.”
“What? Why?” Rachel stood, staring at Dylan in shock.
“Your apartment building has been the unfortunate victim of a random, tasteless arson attack.” Dylan pressed his lips together. “Thus far, you are one of only about a dozen residents unaccounted for. I’d wager good money that someone’s going to account for you on a list of tragic casualties.” Dylan closed his eyes and frowned, the first moment that Rachel had seen him look actually stricken. “Is there anyone who would mourn you? Miss you? Would anyone in particular have your death investigated?” Rachel sank back down onto the rug, staring at the loops and whorls of its faux-Persian pattern.
“No,” she said. “I mean—I have friends, but…” she shook her head. “Jesus.” Rachel took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her eyes stung, and one hot tear rolled down along her cheek, followed by another. She cradled her forehead in her hands, shaking. “Jesus.” Rachel dimly heard the couch groaning; she sensed Dylan’s movement in the corner of her eye, blurred by tears that began to well up more rapidly in her eyes, falling onto the rug.
A few moments later, she glanced up in time to see Dylan sink down onto the floor in front of her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand along with a couple of short, squat glasses, and a pack of cigarettes in the other. “Choose your poison,” he said, smiling slightly. Rachel swallowed, brushing the lingering tears from her eyes. She glanced at her options and laughed.
“Poison is right,” she said, reaching out for the pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have both, if you’re in such a hospitable mood.” Dylan chuckled and shifted on the floor, cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot in each glass and set one down in front of Rachel, putting the bottle down and reaching nimbly for an ash tray. He produced a lighter from another pocket and flicked it to life. Rachel’s trembling fingers drew a cigarette out of the mostly-full pack, and she brought it to her lips, leaning into the flame.
