"Clearly," I agreed.
"Has anyone told you that you are a dick?"
"Not today."
"Well, allow me. You're a dick."
With that, she threw open the door, climbing onto the mostly deserted street. Somehow, while I was distracted by her, most of the office had cleared out, only leaving a few cars on the street. I had a second of panic that I'd missed the client--despite having spent the time distracting his stalker--before I saw his car parked down near the corner.
Not satisfied that any progress had been made at all--and maybe a little bit not happy with the fact that I had clearly struck a nerve with Reagan without even meaning to--I opened my door, moving out, rushing up behind her as she tore up the pavement with her long-legged pace.
"Hey, wait," I demanded, reaching out, closing my hand around her bicep, pulling, turning her to face me.
"Let go of me," she demanded, moving to yank her arm, trying to free my hold.
"Hey," another voice joined, raised, a little authoritative. Michael. "Rivers. Get your hand off of her," he demanded, shocking me enough to drop my hand and move back a step.
As Reagan stiffened from crown to sole.
Interesting.
"We were--" I started, only to be cut off.
"Reagan, princess, are you alright?"
She recoiled at that word. Princess. She hated it. Even if she was a sort of modern-day princess, raised into wealth and privilege, the whole world at her feet.
"Mr. McDermot," Reagan greeted him, icicles dangling from her words.
"Michael, princess. Michael. I've been telling you to call me Michael since you were a little girl."
Okay then.
This was an unexpected layer of intrigue.
If he'd known her since she was a child, he was clearly a friend of her parents. But nothing in Michael's tone implied he was surprised or angry or upset by her presence. If anything, his greeting was warm and familiar. While Reagan went cold and stiff.
What the hell was going on here?
Clearly, there was more to this than I had realized.
"Reagan, is everything alright?" he asked, actual concern in his voice. For someone other than himself. Another layer I was having trouble stacking onto the others. "And you, what the fuck are you doing putting your hands on her?" he asked, turning his attention to me.
Yep.
And there was the asshole I was vaguely familiar with. His eyes were small. His tone was condescending. Not because I had grabbed her. Because someone the likes of me dared to put his hands on someone the likes of her.
Reagan was glancing between us, an unexpected guard down over her features, making it impossible for me to figure out what was going on in her head.
"Nixon is a... friend," Reagan surprised me by intervening, tone strong, almost firm.
"He didn't appear to be acting very friendly," Michael countered.
"Well, no, but I can be rather unpleasant at times. So can he," she added a bit pointedly, giving me a look I was struggling to interpret.
"You've always been a good girl," Michael argued. There was something about that phrasing that creeped me out. But that was likely just me. "I would never call you unpleasant."
Reagan sidestepped all of this. "Nixon was just trying to stop me from rushing off angry. And he's right. It is never good to leave unfinished business, is it?" she asked. And there was something pointed in that wording, some deeper meaning lost on both Michael and me.
"No, of course not. It is always best to get it all out on the table," Michael agreed. "Are you sure you don't want me to stick around?"
"I promise you, I'm fine," she assured him, giving him the most forced smile I'd ever seen. "We are going to go get some coffee down the street and hash things out."
That, though, was pure honesty. If I was any judge. And I was. We were going to get some coffee. I wanted to get some answers. But I had a feeling Reagan had some other plan.
"If you're sure..." Michael relented.
"I am," she assured him with another of those phony smiles.
"Tell your parents I would love to get together with them," he said. And Reagan went to stone.
Interesting.
"I will," she told him, but it was not even a halfway convincing lie.
"Nice seeing you again, princess," he said, then, clearly not one for reading signs, leaning forward, placing a hand on her arm, and pressing a kiss to her temple.
With that, Michael moved away.
We stood there, suspended in time, unmoving, she barely breathing, until he climbed into his car and drove around the corner.
"You're green," I told her when we were completely alone. "I mean, the fucker disgusts me too, but you're really green." She had no reaction to this, her hand stroking up her arm over the spot where Michael had touched her. "Did you... do you want to go get that coffee?"
I had to admit, I wasn't great with emotional displays. And I was even worse at interpreting them unless tears or screaming were included.
The fact that I wanted to try to diffuse the feelings clearly coursing through Reagan was very telling since my general reaction was to run fast and far.
"I need to walk," she told me, turning, striding back the way we'd come.
Walk.
Okay.
I could walk.
"Hold up," I called a moment later, seeing a shiver rack her body. "You're cold. I have a sweatshirt in the trunk," I told her, bleeping the button, reaching inside to produce a black pullover with white pulls, handing it to her, watching as she slipped into it, disappeared a bit inside of it.
"Thank you," she told me, then turned and started walking at what seemed to be her signature break-neck pace.
"So, you know my client," I mused, tucking my hands into my front pockets.
"Obviously. People don't usually stake out those who they aren't at least acquainted with."
"Old family friend."
"Something like that."
"You don't like him."
"You could say that."
"I thought I was the one who wasn't talkative."
"I'm not in a talking mood."
"And here I was thinking we were supposed to hash shit out."
To that, she made some sort of noncommittal grunting sound.
"Like why you would stalk a guy you clearly hate. Like why he has no idea you are his stalker."
"Can you not right now?" she demanded, voice dangerously close to cracking.
I was typically the person who would poke at that soft spot until everything shattered. Especially when it came to a case. But I found myself backing off, walking in silence beside her as she got her thoughts in order, as she stitched herself back together.
We found ourselves standing on an ancient stone bridge over a slowly moving brook on the end of a backroad. Reagan finally stopped walking, resting her folded arms on the rail, looking down at the dark water.
"What do I need to do to not have you give my name to Michael as the one who has been following him?" she asked, refusing to look at me.
Her hand rose, tucking her hair behind her ear, giving me her profile. I was distracted by it for an embarrassingly long time before I remembered to give the question some thought.
"He's paying me, Reagan. He's the client."
"I can pay you more."
"But you're not the client."
"Do you think I'm dangerous?"
"I think all people can be dangerous. Depending on the situation."
"Look. I have reasons I can't have my name on a restraining order right now, okay? What do I need to do for you so that you can prevent that? At least for the time being?"
I could spend a lifetime considering what made me say the next phrase that came out of my mouth. I would still not be able to figure out what possessed me to say it.
But say it I did.
"You can pretend to be my date for a family gathering next Sunday."
There was a long pause as she turned to study me,
lips parted, brows low.
"You want me to be your pretend date for a family gathering. Why?"
"Because there is going to be a rule about having to bring a date."
"And you would have so much trouble finding an actual one?" she asked, rolling her eyes.
"I'm not exactly Mr. Congeniality. It's not as easy as you would think."
"That is all it would take? I smile and charm your family while on your arm? That is all you want from me to keep my name out of the equation with Michael?"
"For now," I told her, not willing to give too much without getting something in return.
"Well, it gets me another week, I guess," she said, pushing off the rail, turning, making her way back the way we came. When we were back to my car, she stopped. "I guess we should probably exchange information then," she said, reaching to pull her phone out of her pocket, tapping away for a second. "Number?" she asked, waiting for me to rattle it off.
I did the same, feeling oddly accomplished in having her contact information in my phone.
"You can text me the details. I will make sure my schedule is clear. And I guess you can come pick me up from work."
"You work on Sundays?"
"Yes. We're in the middle of rebranding. We have all hands on deck, if they are free. If they have plans, of course, they can take off. And if they work, they get to pick another day to take off to make up for it. We try to be fair."
"Do you ever get a day off?"
"Well, I used to. Not so much anymore. But I honestly wouldn't get anything done if I were home on a Sunday anyway, so it feels better to get some work done instead. Anyway, don't worry. I will make sure I pack something to change into that day, so I will fit in at your family dinner. Is it more casual or more dressy?"
"Typically, more dressy. Helen likes to see us in button-ups and slacks. Some kiss-asses wear full suits."
"So a nice dress of the flowing, not clinging variety, is in order. Can do. I will see you Sunday, Nixon."
I had a feeling I'd be seeing her before then. Parked in her car down the street from me.
Watching Michael.
A man who made her blood run cold.
I decided I had another case.
Pro-bono, if you will.
I was going to figure out why Reagan was stalking Michael McDermot.
Because I had a feeling he'd done something.
Something really fucking awful.
And Reagan was trying to make that right.
How, I had no idea.
But it was my mission to figure that out.
Before she got herself hurt or killed.
FIVE
Reagan
I had no idea what I was doing.
I was secure enough in myself to admit that. If anything, I was proud to admit that I was a terrible criminal, an abysmal creep. I never wanted to be someone who got too good at such things. That wasn't how I was raised. That wasn't who I aspired to be.
But I had my reasons.
Of course I did.
And keeping them secret was pretty imperative if I wanted to accomplish my end result. To me, there was no if. I had to do it. I had to keep following Michael until I got what I needed. If that took months or years, I didn't care. It would be worth it in the end.
Maybe it would help stem the flow of misery from this gaping hole in my chest.
Maybe it would give me some peace.
Until then, though, I wasn't going to stop.
I didn't care if Michael employed all of these Rivers brothers. And if each and every one of them was just as hot as Nixon was.
"You're distracted, Krissy informed me, sprawled over my guest chair in her sex-kitten sundress. That was the only way to describe it. Because it was modest. The design was nearly floor-length with sleeves and a button-up front that completely covered cleavage and scalloped daintily over her breasts. The pattern was a simple black background with little pink flowers. On anyone else in the world, it would look like something you'd wear to church on Sunday. On Krissy, though, it looked like liquid sex pouring over her envious curves.
"Yeah," I agreed, sighing, standing up, moving over toward my sideboard set up under the windows. I stood looking out over the wildflowers for a moment as I reached for one of the plump peaches situated in the bowl, placing it on the cutting board, then cutting it into slices.
Peaches were my snack food. My vice, if you will. I made Krissy or one of the others run to Costco several times a month to get the giant packs of them to fill up the bowl on my desk.
It was a comfort food of sorts. Each bite reminded me of my childhood, of running through the orchard with my siblings, light carefree, skin sun-warmed, hearts bursting, just full of joy and love. We would reach above our heads, pulling down fat, warm peaches, biting into them, feeling the sweet juices run down our faces, filling our bellies even though our mother had warned us not to spoil our dinner.
Those were simpler times. Happier times. And my little addiction never failed to bring me back there for a few short, blissful moments, chasing away the sadness of the present moment.
"Is it hottie advertisement guy?" she asked as I turned.
"What?"
"Oh, Mr. Tall Dark and Moody. Don't try to pretend you forgot," she told me, rolling her eyes. Krissy never forgot a good-looking man. "I know you were picturing him bending you over that desk, peeling down your pants and panties..."
"Work pants, Krissy. You need to put on your work pants." It was useless to remind her. Krissy was Krissy--outspoken, sexual, a complete open book. It was something I genuinely loved about her as a friend. So long as, you know, she was talking about her own sex life. Not mine. Or the lack thereof.
As usual, she completely ignored me as she picked up a chunk of her hair, folding it upward, inspecting the ends for splits. Finding one, she twirled it around a finger and snapped off the end.
"I mean.. how long has it been Rae? It has to be a year by now. That's just not healthy."
"Not all of us have the sex drive of a thirteen-year-old boy," I reminded her. I deliberately left off the fact that sex dreams had me tossing and turning and waking up to sweat-dampened sheets for more than a couple of nights. And that the man starring in my unconscious erotic movies was none other than the broody, blunt, stupidly good-looking Nixon Rivers.
The things that man did with his mouth...
"Oh, you have a sex drive. It is just hiding away. I really thought that yummy thing was going to make it come out and play."
"You will have to live with your disappointment."
"Admit he's hot."
"He's hot." There was no reason to deny that. And no way to do so even somewhat believably. "He's not really my type though."
"Oh, yes. You like the nice guys," Krissy said, rolling her eyes. "Pray tell, Reagan, which one of those nice guys cheated on you and stole your graduation necklace? And wasn't it a complete other who had you pay for two semesters of his college then promptly dumped you as soon as he graduated? Nice guys are never that nice underneath it all. Now, the assholes, that is a different story. There is always a lot of mush underneath all that barbed wire. Mr. Advertisement Guy would be like that, mark my words. Plus, I'm pretty sure he'd fuck you seven ways to Sunday."
"You don't mix work and pleasure, Krissy. It's bad form."
"Oh, no, honey. That is one fine form he's got on him. But, fine, suit yourself," she said, shrugging a shoulder. "I am just here to remind you that it is not healthy."
"What's not healthy?" another voice asked from the doorway.
"Not getting a solid dicking from the hot guy who was in her office the other day."
"I have to say, Rae, I think I am on Krissy's team here," Luis, my brother, said. He was adopted like me, but clearly from other parents as I was Chinese, and he was Mexican.
He was, without a doubt, the most attractive guy in any given room with his six-foot-two, solid, but not bulky build, chocolate brown hair that matched his eyes that could only be described
as sultry. Mix the looks with his intelligence, his lightheartedness, and his big heart, yeah, he was a prize. One no one had snatched up just yet.
"Such a surprise," I drawled. "You big slut, you," I added, walking over to him, throwing my arms around him, sinking into him when his arms went around me, lifting me off my feet for a long moment. "I didn't know you were coming into town," I said when he dropped me down and released me.
"Neither did I. I realized I had a day between planes, and I thought I would stop in to see my big sister." We were actually the same age, but I had been adopted as a baby, and he as a three-year-old when my parents brought him home. I wasn't sure I had a single childhood memory without Luis in it.
"Where are you off to next?"
"Australia. We are doing a shoot for charity."
Luis could have been anything in the world. He had a bachelor's degree. He could have started a business with his trust fund.
But my brother, well, he liked admiration. And he was stupidly beautiful. So he went ahead and got himself a career as a model.
"I'll have to hang up my hat in a couple years. I can start a business then. Become a silver fox. Land me some sweet honey. Live out the good life. But for now, I like this. That was what he said when my parents had questioned his path in life that they viewed as shallow and a waste of his many talents.
Me, well, I figured that we should all be doing what made us happy. Running Devil Tears made me happy, reinventing it, making it a modern brand. But Luis was happy when people looked at him. To each their own.
Besides, I had a feeling that when he retired from the modeling world, he was going to shock the hell out of people, and take the business world by storm.
That was just the kind of person he was. If you took him at face value, he could appear self-indulgent, shallow, and lacking any direction. If you were around him for long enough, though, you knew there were depths there deep enough to drown in.
"Krissy," he greeted, giving her a wink. "You could give a priest a hard-on in that dress."
"That sounds like a fun challenge. You look tanner than usual," she said, pressing her bare foot against his stomach, poking in with her toe.
"Spent a lot of time on a white sand beach, mami," he said, reaching for her foot, taking it in his hands, rolling his thumb over her arch, making her back arch off the chair like a cat. "Not as beautiful as you though, of course."
Lock You Down Page 5
