"Alright. Let's have it."
"Let's have it?" I parroted, brow furrowing.
"Yes," she declared, bringing her hands in closer together, tapping the desk three times. Nervous energy. "Out with the doom and gloom. What's it to be? Shoots under my nails? Body in a ditch? A swirly? A really bad Indian burn? Though, I don't think it is PC to say that anymore. But I don't know any other term for it. They really need to work on that. I can't even fathom the origins of that. Such a weird saying--What?" she asked when I must have been giving her a look.
"You done babbling?" I asked, tone dry.
"Reagan?" another voice behind me asked, female, light. "Not likely," she added as my head swiveled, finding a woman around Reagan's age with somewhat unruly coppery red hair hanging down past her rather ample chest. Her face was angular, an inverted triangle with a strong forehead and gently pointed chin. Her blue eyes danced. Her artificially red lips curled into a smile as she looked me over. "Though, I think you could find some fun ways of shutting her up," she offered, smile getting saucy as she moved to drop her hip on the edge of her boss's desk, facing me. "She'd probably really be into that."
"Krissy," Reagan said, tone a little strained. Whether it was annoyance or embarrassment was hard to tell. "Remember our talk about putting on your professional pants when you come to work?"
"I didn't put any pants on this morning," Krissy said, clearly inviting me to take a look at her long, shapely legs on full display thanks to the short hem of her blue and white polkadot dress.
"Krissy, down girl," Reagan demanded with what sounded like a laugh in that sexy voice of hers. "Go sit on a block of ice. We have, ah, business to discuss here."
"Oh, are you the new advertising guy?" Krissy asked, recovering just enough to stand up straight, letting her hem slip back down an inch or two.
"Yes, yes he is," Reagan agreed, lying a tad clumsily to my ears, but since Krissy had no reason to suspect dishonesty, she seemed to miss it.
"Right. Well, can I get you a coffee? Latte? Cappuccino? Tea? Green juice?"
"Green juice?" I asked, lip curling.
"Reagan makes it fresh every morning. Spinach, kale, celery, dandelion greens, wheatgrass, spirulina, ginger, and lemon."
"That sounds fucking disgusting," I told her honestly.
To that, Krissy laughed, full, uninhibited. I had a feeling that uninhibited was her default setting. "You strike me as a black coffee kind of guy."
"That's more like it," I agreed.
"Reagan? Soy mocha?" she asked.
"I, ah, yeah," she agreed, clearly feeling a little off-kilter.
"Extra shot?" Krissy asked, interpreting her boss's odd mood to tiredness.
"Two."
"Oh, watch out," Krissy said, moving past me, giving me a smirk. "If you thought she was chatty before, wait until you see her after an extra two shot latte."
With that, she was gone, leaving a heavy silence between the two of us for a long minute. "I'm the new advertisement guy, huh?"
"Well, I couldn't exactly tell her why you were really here, could I?"
"Can't imagine it would be good for office morale to know their boss is a creepy stalker."
"Anyway," she said, sidestepping the title. "What is to be my threat, so I can get on with my day?"
"I..." I had no idea, honestly. Telling them to back off typically worked. I was getting the odd feeling that this course of action was not going to work for Reagan Hoffman. "A restraining order?" I supposed.
"That could be embarrassing if I were served at work," she mused, lips pursing a bit as she contemplated the idea.
"I imagine so," I agreed.
"Though, really, people can get served for any number of reasons. Even in a professional capacity," she thought out loud. "Alright," she agreed, nodding, moving to stand. "I have been sufficiently warned," she declared, slipping into her shoes, then moving toward the door, leaving me to haul myself out of the chair and hobble behind her.
"Krissy, can you put his in a to-go cup?" she asked. "He isn't staying."
"Pity," Krissy pouted, but poured my coffee out of a ceramic glass and into a stainless fucking steel one.
She screwed on the cap and handed it to me before walking back to make Reagan's drink, a much more complicated process judging by her concentration on the task.
"You give out stainless steel mugs to people who visit your office?" I scoffed, shaking my head.
"We try not to produce any waste here," she informed me, chin lifting a bit. Proud. Likely a change she had implemented. And I guess it was commendable. "Besides," she added, tapping her delicate pink nail on the side of the cup, "it's free advertisement," she finished, drawing my attention to the logo on the side. "Have a good day. Try to ice that hip of yours," she called back as she disappeared into her office.
With nothing else to do, and knowing Krissy would probably devour me whole if I lingered, I made my way toward the steps, grumbling all the way down.
I got to the parking lot before I raised the cup, taking a long swig of too hot liquid, nearly groaning in surprised pleasure.
Good fucking coffee.
I shouldn't have been surprised.
Everything about this business operation, and Reagan Hoffman herself screamed money.
There was something about people who were born with it, raised with it, had known little else but the plush comfort of it.
It was in the big things, of course. The cars that were more than a downpayment on a house. The fancy shoes with a certain color staining the bottom of them.
But it was in the smaller things too. A very particular kind of speech, something that often made me think of old black and white movies. Polished. Cultured. Even when rambling. It was in the posture, in the confidence.
Reagan had all of that.
But seemingly none of the pompousness that could accompany that. Or the shallowness. Or even the entitlement.
It was refreshing.
And maybe a bit too appealing.
"Fuck," I hissed, shaking my head at myself as I slid my ass onto my seat, then had to grab the jeans covering my knee to lift my aching other side into the car.
It had never been hard--for me, at least, clearly Atlas was a different story--to stay on the side of professionalism.
Our clientele of the female persuasion usually fell into three types. The rich older woman with an attitude, the young, famous woman, or the damsel in distress.
None of those appealed to me.
I'd never wanted to fuck a client.
And certainly never the person who was causing problems for the client.
There'd be no denying, though, that when she had laughed back there in her office, my cock had started to stir to life.
Just the kind of complication I did not need on the job.
Especially, I decided as I backed out of the lot and waited to turn onto the main road once more, because Reagan Hoffman did not seem like she was going to stop.
Why else would she ask what the threat was? And then proceed to muse the ways in which she could excuse being served papers as anything other than for a restraining order.
She didn't plan to stop.
Why?
I had no idea.
She seemed, by all accounts, to have her shit together. And after a bit more searching around back at the office, eating a bag of chips because Atlas had nabbed my lunch and, of course, had not replaced it, I felt even more sure that she was not the kind of person who stalked assholes like Michael McDermot.
She had gone to Yale.
She had a large friend circle if her Facebook was anything to go by. She'd actually hit the limit.
She was well-traveled, according to her pictures littering her Instagram account. Her in a barely-there white bikini on light sand beach, giant sunglasses swallowing up most of her face. Or her on a white mountain clad head to toe in deep purple snow gear. Eating pizza in Rome. Sitting on a cliff overlooking the sea in Greece. Sipping coffee in France.
If there was a place people liked to travel, she had been there. And she had the picture to prove it.
People like that, who seemed successful, educated, worldly, and happy--she was beaming in every single picture--well, they typically didn't start stalking some jerk twice her age.
It wasn't even like Michael was a particularly good-looking older guy. Women could and often did go for a silver fox. But his hair was thinning in the front, smattered with very obvious hair plugs. His forehead was all hard creases of displeasure.
Sure, there was the money. The money was enough for some people.
But Reagan had her own money.
And she didn't strike me as someone who would put up with his dickishness just to get more.
So why would she stalk him?
Yeah, that was the question.
I had a feeling I would have another opportunity to figure that out, though.
Maybe even later that very night.
FOUR
Nixon
She was there again.
I pulled up to Michael's office building around six, finding a good spot, and parked.
It had been three nights.
Three nights of nothing.
No Tesla.
No Reagan.
No stalking.
I was starting to wonder if my threats had worked, that she had taken some time to consider them, weigh the pros and cons, then rightly decided to let the whole thing drop.
There had been a distinct surge of disappointment, though, at that idea.
Why?
Yeah, that was the fucking question, wasn't it?
Because it made no sense that I wanted to prolong a case I was so clearly not interested in. Except, obviously, I was. In an abstract way. In a way where I couldn't seem to stop fucking thinking about Reagan.
I tried to convince myself that it was a professional interest. That I was trying to work out why a beautiful, successful, worldly, and seemingly content woman like her would stalk such a piece of shit.
It didn't make sense.
Even as I tried to make myself believe that, however, it was clear even to me- and let's face it, I could be a bit dense about things like this- that the interest was a bit more than that.
I didn't spend an hour perusing her Instagram because I needed to for the case.
That was all me. All my curiosity. All my interest.
I hadn't exactly spent a lot of time with her, but it had left more of an impact than I had anticipated.
She was clearly the boss at her work, but she treated Krissy like a friend. She was rich as sin, but she seemed grounded and well-rounded. She clearly gave a shit about the environment. She babbled.
I fucking hated babbling, people who filled precious silences with useless noise. But I found it more charming than I should have.
"Christ," I grumbled, raking a hand down my face, the coarse hairs catching the palm of my hand, reminding me I needed to add a shave to tomorrow's morning routine.
I needed to get laid.
That would explain the uncharacteristic interest in a woman who was clearly a bit of a head case if she was stalking someone.
I just hadn't been around a woman in too long. That part of me was craving contact.
How long had it been?
Three months?
No.
It had to be closer to six.
"Shit."
"Knock knock," Reagan's voice sounded from beside me, in my car, making me jolt to find her leaning in my open window, arms folded on the bottom, giving me a small smile as she reached in, hit the unlock button, and then just... fucking... let herself in.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, shaking my head as she slid into the seat, reaching for the bar underneath to slide it back, giving herself some legroom.
"Well, if we are both going to sit here for another hour or two, I figured we could keep each other company."
"You can't keep me company, Reagan. My job is to make sure you get the hint, and take a hike."
"You're doing rather poorly, wouldn't you say?" she asked, reaching across me to stab her finger into the ignition, then messing with the radio.
Christ. She smelled good, too. Something soft and almost fruity. Peaches, maybe? She smelled like fucking peaches.
"You need to get out of the car, Reagan." Even if I genuinely didn't want that. What I wanted was for her to flick her shoulder-length hair so I could get another hint of that smell, could look at the column of her neck. Lean over and sink my teeth into the flesh.
Fuck.
I would need to pull myself off this case if I couldn't get my shit together.
"Oh, come on. Admit it. You're as bored as I am. And you have a radio. Let me listen for a few minutes before you kick me out," she demanded, settling on, of all fucking things, a bass-thumping rap song.
"Are you serious?" I asked, brows knitting.
"I hope you don't have a stick up your ass about rap. Because we are macking hoes and raking in dough this evening."
"Macking hoes?" I repeated, feeling my lips curve up at the turn of phrase.
"I know. Not very feminist of me, huh? But I choose to believe these particular hoes like being macked. Which makes this an empowering song."
"You're a fucking trip."
"Sh sh. Ja Rule's part is coming up," she hushed me, kicking out of her shoes, propping her feet up on my dashboard, mouthing the words to the verse, shoulders gliding a bit side-to-side. "Don't give me that look. These are the anthems of my youth right here."
"I somehow doubt you were selling crack and shooting people as a teen."
"No," she agreed, smiling softly. "My parents hated this kind of music. Though, to them, if it wasn't Brahms or Tchaikovsky, it wasn't real music. So my siblings and I would blast this and sing along at the tops of our lungs just to screw with them. I eventually got my mother to admit that the lyricism in some of the songs is on-point."
"Small win."
"Exactly. It just reminds me of those times with my brother and sister when we were young and careless. Do you have siblings?" she asked, turning her head on the headrest to look at me.
"I have three brothers and a sister."
"Big family."
"Yeah."
"Where do you fall?"
"Close to the top."
"Are all your siblings as loquacious as you are?" she teased, lips curving up.
"You'd probably like Atlas. He never shuts the fuck up."
"Atlas. That's an interesting name."
"Atlas, Kingston, Rush, and Scotti," I volunteered, not knowing why I did so. I was not the sort to share personal information with random people.
"And you?" she asked. "What's your name?"
I'd practically given her a family tree; there was no reason I couldn't give her my name at this point.
"Nixon."
"You're kidding," she said, shaking her head. "Right?"
"No. Why would I kid about that?"
"It's just... funny. Don't you think?"
"My name is funny?"
"Well, no. But also yes. Nixon. Reagan. We both have presidential names. That's funny. Was your mother a Nixon fan? I mean, he was disgraced and all of that, but there is no accounting for people's tastes. People wanted to screw Charlie Manson even with those crazy freaking eyes of his and the swastika carved into his forehead."
"I...I..." I stammered. I never fucking stammered. This woman was throwing me off-kilter. I wanted to say I hated it, but I had to admit I was actually enjoying it. "No. She just... she collected interesting names. I guess she always knew she wanted several kids, so she stockpiled anything that sounded good."
"Rush is the weirdest of the bunch."
"Yes, yes he is," I agreed, smirking a bit.
"I meant his name."
"He came early and fast. In a rush. My mom went off the cuff with that one. But it suits him. He loves cars."
"Does Atlas love traveling?"
"That he does," I agree
d, nodding.
"And Kingston?" she asked, brows drawing together.
"I guess he is like our patriarch. It fits in a way as well."
"Nixon was notoriously ambitious, insecure, and paid obsessive detail to his public image. I think your mom might have missed the mark a bit with you."
"I don't know if I should feel insulted or complimented," I admitted.
"Well, no one wants to come off as insecure. It is the least appealing trait you can possess outwardly. So it is good you don't. But I think if you were ambitious, you wouldn't be the one sitting in your car; you'd be the one calling the shots from an office somewhere. And, well, you need a shave."
"That's fair," I agreed, shrugging.
"Hey, look! See," she said, grabbing for the travel mug in my cupholder. "You're using it. Which is reducing more paper or styrofoam waste. Plus, you are a walking billboard for my company. So, win-win. Is this just plain coffee?" she asked, pulling it up, popping the mouth part open, sniffing, then taking a sip. "Oh, God. That's awful. Just terrible," she declared before taking another sup. "Ugh. Why do you do that to yourself?"
"Why did you just do that to yourself if you hate it?" I shot back.
"Because it is getting late, and I am getting useless. A little coffee will help me push through."
"It's not even seven yet. That's not late by anyone's standards except maybe a newborn."
"I tossed and turned last night."
"Having nightmares about your upcoming restraining order?" I asked.
To that, a long sigh escaped her. A defeated sound. It was a shame to hear it.
"I've been thinking about that."
"I bet."
"So, what I have come up with is this."
"Can't wait to hear it," I drawled.
To that, she gave me an eye roll, but pressed on. "How about we come to some kind of compromise?"
"You mean where you stop stalking, so I can get off this fuckhead's case?"
Her dark eyes warmed at that. Amused, maybe.
"Not quite."
"You're made, babe. For fuck's sake. Have some pride. Quit the creeping."
"This has nothing to do with my pride." Her feet pulled from the dash, slipped back into her shoes. Her spine straightened, arms moving to cross her chest. I'd hit a nerve, that much was clear.
Lock You Down Page 4
