Ardent Strangers

by Samantha Kately

  “All thanks to you.” As she instructs Roger to call one of the other agents on duty, Agent Randall is fuming. “Goodbye, Miss Lockhart, Randall.” Laura opens Nathaniel’s door and strides on through. I hear her voice, as clear as a bell. “How are you feeling, Nate?”

  Nathaniel’s voice is a murmur. I can almost imagine her holding his hand or rubbing his arm. She has the chance to talk to him—a chance I will never have again.

  Roger looks mortified as he glances between Agent Randall and the briefcase in his hand. “I’m sure there’s bound to be a few vacancies about.”

  Agent Randall grunts back.

  Roger turns to me. “It is an unfortunate situation for all, Miss Lockhart. I really am grateful that you went to such lengths to save Nathaniel.” He wipes under his spectacles. “I never had children. Nathaniel has been like a son to me for many years. If I’d lost him…” He trembles, and I clasp his arm in support.

  He really does love Nathaniel.

  Roger pats my hand. “I’m sorry there wasn’t a happier outcome for you, Evangeline.”

  I nod sadly, while Agent Randall grunts behind me.

  As the lawyer strides into the hospital room, I hear Nathaniel, “Where is Evangeline? Is she still here?”

  Hearing him ask for me again, I’m ready to burst into tears.

  “No, Nate. She left some time ago,” Laura says, shutting the door.

  Agent Randall taps me on the shoulder. “Let’s go, Miss Lockhart.”

  “Huh?”

  Oh. I’ve actually asked Agent Randall to live with me! Not that I’d asked him specifically. I’d more or less stated it during an argument with the nastiest woman in existence. What Agent Randall thinks of the idea is a mystery. I peek across at him.

  “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay?’ he asks gruffly.

  I nod rapidly, more than a little freaked out by what’s transpired.

  “I’ll find somewhere else.”

  “No. You’re tired. And it’s true, I don’t know you, but Nathaniel wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t trustworthy. So you can stay.”

  He nods, though it’s curt and not at all convincing. “Just for a night or two, until I find somewhere else.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

  He grabs my bag, which he must have stashed behind him at some point, then he places a large hand at the base of my spine, steering me down the hallway. I start to panic, realizing there is no one protecting Nathaniel, but as I look back another agent is already in place, positioned outside Nathaniel’s door. My heart slows. I’m steered through the hospital hallways until I’m walking out into the blaring sunshine and to a lavish black car.

  “I’ll drive,” Agent Randall says, opening the passenger door and helping me inside, somehow sensing that my limbs were unable to obey. “At least stay awake long enough to tell me your address.”

  My eyes blink drowsily and I mumble out words, hoping they were heard.

  Original Star

  I’m in my bed, tucked tightly under the covers when a phone rings somewhere inside the house. I don’t recognize the ringtone and it makes me leap into action. I dash into the main room, searching for an intruder. No one. I look to the muddle of things on the kitchen bench. There, at the edge of the counter is the source of the noise—an old-fashioned ringtone coming from a mobile phone that’s not mine. A large set of keys sit beside it—also not mine. Not far from me, a man’s jacket is draped over the sofa. It’s black, tailored, large, and then I remember where I’d last seen it. On the broad form of one Agent Randall.

  My pulse slows. No intruder. Except, now, I’m in close proximity to the surly agent.

  I invited him to stay! Why would I do that? When he wakes, what will we possibly have to talk about?

  The ringing stops and I glance around my meagre living space, where my life is scattered around the corners of the room. The afternoon news is playing softly on the television. Big white pots sit in each corner, home to leafy plants that begin to calm me. My eyes skip over to the photo of my parents near the corner wall, but like always I avoid them by scanning the photographs of my friends from work. Baskets of clean laundry are piled on top of each other. I slip into some leggings, throw on a sweater and wriggle free of the wretched commando dress, flinging it across the room to where the wall heater creaks noisily.

  Well, well, well… Agent Randall has made himself right at home. He’s even figured out how to use my temperamental heater.

  I frown.

  If I’m this surprised by Agent Randall’s presence, this means I don’t remember him entering my house this morning, which means I must have fallen asleep on the ride home, which must also mean that he searched my bag for my keys. He put me in bed. He removed my socks and boots. Each act is more intimate than the last.

  He’s a stranger!

  Shivering, I grab one of my acoustic guitars propped up against the chair and flop onto the sofa, my gaze moving from the television and to the left, where my bedroom door is full of shadows. Switching the television to mute, I watch the news presenter and the scroll of headlines across the bottom of the screen. It’s not long before I see the headline: ‘CEO Nathaniel Blake rescued early this morning. Rescuer in her mid-twenties. Identity unknown.’

  My heart drops at the thought of having something so personal paraded over the television for the world’s viewing entertainment. And I’m there, on television. The mystery girl. And thank god I’m still a mystery, because I can imagine Laura Barnes arresting me for breach of contract.

  Worse, Nathaniel must hate me for deserting him like that.

  Fighting back tears, I hurl one of the cushions across the room and it thuds against the front door. I prop my foot up against the coffee table and quietly strum a chord, listening to it reverberate into silence.

  Meeting Nathaniel Blake has completely messed with my life.

  I strum again.

  I think I hate him.

  My fingers pick over the strings.

  But I want to see him again.

  When did I become this reckless?

  When I stopped for Nathaniel on the bridge. But how could I not? Each reason to be reckless felt justified. I couldn’t abandon Agent Randall after he’d protected me. That in itself said something about who he was, a man to be respected, not tossed to the sidewalk like the failure Ms. Barnes had made him out to be.

  I turn to the spare bedroom opposite mine, checking to see if Agent Randall has stirred. The door is open, but there’s not a skerrick of movement within. The bathroom door squeaks behind me on my right and Agent Randall steps out of the steam with a towel wrapped below his naval, showing off lightly tanned skin and a wide V that begins at his hips and narrows beneath the white towel. I shouldn’t be looking, but with his height he’s hard to miss. And it’s not every day that I have a man standing half naked in my house—not to mention, one with hard muscle gracing his arms and metal army tags glinting against his chest. His strong earthy looks could be in an upmarket men’s catalogue for the rugged male.

  He grunts at me and smooths the top of his hair, which he is in the process of tying into a ponytail, emphasizing the ink over his left shoulder, bicep, and down his arms.

  I think I just licked my lips and I’m pretty sure he saw it, because he’s staring at me with a new level of dark brooding Agent Randall that is very contrary to the dark glares he’d given me at the hospital. He strides off to the spare bedroom with all the discipline of a military man, totally unfazed by my moment of weakness.

  What am I doing?

  Without thinking, I strum my guitar and the chord fills the house. My fingers itch to play, to release some of my pent-up nerves, but I’m not one to play in front of strangers. My fingers tap on the wood of the guitar. I can’t stop myself from pressing down the strings and plucking them with my fingers, playing a rush of darkly angelic notes that are the opening notes to a heavy metal song I still don’t know the name to. I thrash ou
t chords, giving them the feel of an angry Spanish dance. I’m so engrossed in the music that I jump as a clothed Agent Randall walks by my left and snatches up the other guitar, raising it in the air as if asking permission to play. My fingers stop on the strings and the last chord dies.

  “Don’t stop,” he says.

  I frown, shrug, and try to pick up where I left off as he walks past me and sits on the other side of the sofa, resting the Spanish guitar on his knee. It looks so small with his large hands wrapped around it. This is not what I was expecting from Agent Randall. For some reason, I never imagined he could possess interests outside of being a bodyguard.

  The notes twang under my hands, cruisy chords set between melodies. His guitar sings perfectly over mine, notes rising and falling in a complex melody, spinning and turning again until it rises to a climax and the melody becomes a running passage of intricate notes, my melody weaving under his, the two of us so in sync that we might have some psychic link. We break into the thrashing chords once more, and I stare at his blur of fingers as his notes speed above mine. We break apart into our own melodies, our thumbs and fingers slapping an interweaving and persistent beat upon the wood between plucks and strums, adding a rolling percussion beneath.

  As the song comes to a close, I’m breathing rapidly. My gaze drifts from the guitar in his hands and to his face. It’s the first time I’ve met his eyes since he sat down. His expression is quiet, almost what I’d call awe, not of me so much, but of what we’ve done. I have a feeling that same expression is mirrored in mine.

  “Cool,” he says. “Very cool.”

  “It was.” I grin.

  “Do you write at all?”

  “I’ve got songs, but I’m not partial to showing them to an audience.”

  “So, there’s no chance you’ll play one for me later?”

  “Only if you play me one of yours first.”

  “Deal.” He swings the guitar down, leaning it against the end of the sofa—a place where I’ve rested it many times before. It appears we are more in sync than I realized.

  He shakes his head at me. Why, I’m not sure. Not that I’m about to ask him—this is Agent Randall in front of me, not some easy-going musician. I should really stop calling him that. I don’t think he’d appreciate the reminder of his dismissal.

  I feel my face warm as something occurs to me. “This is embarrassing to ask… I don’t know your name. Your first name, that is.”

  A smile threatens. “Aaron.”

  Aaron. Aaron Randall.

  Not what I’d expected. He doesn’t seem like an Aaron. When I’d discovered the man on the bridge’s name was Nathaniel, I’d thought it had suited him perfectly. But Aaron? I imagine someone less aggressive, less big.

  “You seem disturbed by this?” he asks.

  “Very.” With a smile, I lean the guitar against my side of the sofa. I see it does not escape his attention, and he glances at the guitar beside his legs. It’s the perfect time to head straight to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Please. White, no sugar.”

  I nod, making two mugs of the same. I’m about to pass him my best mug—the one with a young Mozart and a scroll of music notes—when I hesitate. My parents had brought it back from Vienna with them, before they…

  His fingers are still hovering near the handle, waiting for me to pass it. “Favorite mug?”

  I nod.

  “Is that the same?” He points at the other mug.

  I nod and wince.

  He grabs the mug with the hearts and flowers and takes a sip, while I stand frozen, embarrassed that I’ve lost the plot in front of Agent Randall—Aaron.

  Coffee sploshes over my hand. My hand is jittering, and I steady it before a certain agent notices. Then his hand wraps lightly around mine. At first, I don’t know why he’s touching me until he relinquishes the coffee mug from my grasp. He drinks from his hearts and flowers mug and stares over at the kitchen, as if he’s purposely giving me space to pull myself together.

  I shuffle over to my side of the sofa and sit slowly. Nerve fueled adrenaline zooms through my blood. I haven’t had this reaction to my family in years. Then again, I’ve never offered anyone that mug. I don’t even use it. Clutching the armrest, I practice deep breathing. My hands finally relax. Aaron leans across and places my coffee on the table, but I have no inclination to pick it up, let alone drink it.

  “May I ask what that was about?” he asks.

  I’m about to say no when I blurt out, “My parents gave me that mug before they…” I rub my eyes.

  He waves his hand in dismissal. “No need to finish.”

  “They were in a car accident. It was seven years ago now, but I… I don’t know. It’s just with last night, with Nathaniel on the bridge… I wanted to drive past him. But I finally had my chance to save someone—” I gulp down a breath.

  He sighs, and I wonder if I’ve revealed too much. “I’m sorry that happened to you, both last night and back then. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so hard on you at the hospital or on the phone, but my first responsibility is to Nathaniel. Or it was.”

  “That was you on the phone? You’re Az?” This cannot be the same rude man from that phone call.

  “I was out of line when you called. I assumed…” Something like guilt passes through his eyes. He leans back in the corner of the chair, looking more like a pub guitarist in his jeans and layered shirts than the Agent Randall I first met. “Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your job.”

  “Don’t be.” He sips his coffee. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a holiday, and considering how I handled last night, those few hours in the hospital and the past few days, I think I need one.”

  “Oh? You’re not normally like that?” (Oh, that sounded awful!)

  His smile fades. “The truth? I was in a particularly foul mood last night. The fact that I had to watch you and the doctors worry over Nathaniel irritated.”

  “Why?”

  “The past few days with him have been…difficult. You could say he’s been out of control.”

  “How out of control are we talking?”

  “He stopped his antidepressants in lieu of a drinking binge that lasted four days straight. He’s picked fights with staff and tried to shirk his own security team. When I tried to stop him from trashing his penthouse, he had the audacity to throw punches at me. He’s an obnoxious little c—” Aaron sees me gape and halts mid-sentence. He clenches the cushion beside me.

  “He hit you?” I ask, imagining the scenario unfolding.

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “I’d be a terrible agent if a pissed man could actually land a punch on me.”

  “Forget I said that.”

  He grunts. “Anyway, the idiot crossed the line with you. The second I saw you in the ER, I knew you were too good to be wrapped up in his mess.”

  “You didn’t trust him with me?”

  “No.”

  “I was actually nervous walking into that room after seeing the way you reacted.”

  “I noticed.”

  Of course he noticed.

  He picks up the guitar, plucking the strings.

  The doorbell chimes through the house and Agent Randall—Aaron—gives one loud strum before rising from the sofa at the same moment I do. Boldly, he steps in front of me and answers my door!

  Then I see why…

  Laura Barnes is on my porch in broad daylight, dressed immaculately once again. I peek outside and see that my car has magically returned to its usual park on the side of the street. I’d completely forgotten that it had been impounded. I’d been too busy dealing with people like Laura.

  Beside her is a security agent in a black suit with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He’s nearly as big as Aaron, but less ferocious. For a brief second, he smiles warmly. “Randall.”

  Aaron gives him a mild grunt. “Brewster.”

  “Hello, Aaron,” Laura says, with a familiarity I don’t like.

>   “Laura.”

  “Your things.” She points behind her, to the large suitcase on the bottom step. Brewster rolls the monstrous case inside, while Laura follows the agent into my house. Not that she was invited. In fact, other than a brief once over, she hasn’t acknowledged my existence.

  I retreat into the lounge area, giving Aaron the space to handle this.

  “It’s not quite the Hilton, is it?” She laughs, surveying my belongings and décor. Suddenly, I wish I was a compulsive cleaner, and richer.

  “It does have warmth.” Aaron looks her over. “Unlike some.”

  “Ooh, cutting.” She squeezes his bicep through his shirt. I expect him to shrug her off, but he doesn’t. It annoys me no end. She has no right to lay a finger on him! “Here are your termination papers.” She flings the papers against his chest, pressing them there. Nostrils flaring, he slides them from her grasp. Next, she holds out her hand. “Keys and phone?”

  “On the counter,” he replies, nodding toward the kitchen. His eyes flash with satisfaction as she whips the keys and phone off the counter and examines them, finding them all in order. “I believe that is all.”

  She frowns, as if it’s all too easy. “Ah…yes.” She turns on the spot, scanning the open plan room. Her gaze lands on me and that uncertainty in her eyes transforms into the witch I’ve come to know. She crooks her finger, signaling to Agent Brewster that they are leaving. As they walk out the door, she runs her hand over Aaron’s chest. “I’ll leave you to play happy homes with the Good Samaritan. I bet she’s already been more than hospitable, given that she’s so willing to rescue stray men at a moment’s notice. She’s almost your type, if I remember correctly. Tell me, Aaron, does she take the pain away?”

  Take what pain away?

  He pins Laura with a dangerous look that makes her stumble back into the doorway. “Apologize to Evangeline, now.”

  “Goodbye, Aaron.” She smiles, then leaves.

  Aaron slams the door behind her. He leans back against it and rubs his temples. “I’ll be out of here by tonight.”

  If he tries to be noble one more time I’m going to lose it. That lady treated him like crap. “No, it’s fine. Really.”