by Ruby Molloy
He shoots me a derogatory glance. “Working.”
And we’re back to square one! It’s ten in the morning on a Thursday, so I should have known he’d be working, but I persevere. “Doing what?”
“Surveillance.”
I take a moment to stare at him in disbelief. “Really? You’re a spy?” My question is part joke, part serious. I know he was in the Army, but I have no idea what he’s doing now.
“Pretty much, only I work in the private sector.”
“Is it dangerous?”
His head turns my way and his mouth tilts into yet another disparaging smile. “I’m ex-SAS, Kayla. I was never gonna be a pen pusher. But I’m new to the company and therefore an unknown, a greenhorn,” he explains. “Once they know me better and I’ve shown them what I can do, that’s when I’ll get the more demanding jobs.”
“I guess you can’t talk about these jobs you do, huh?”
He raises an eyebrow and turns his head away without answering.
Looking at him now, with his powerful physique, his sunglasses, and his arms stretched out wide along the back of the bench, it’s easy to imagine him being suited to that kind of work. I guess it’s no wonder he needed to escape the apartment. Not only is he missing out on playing sport, he’s missing the rush of adrenaline that comes with his job.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Me?”
“Yeah. What have you been doing since you left uni?”
Stupid me. I’d imagined he was interested enough to have asked Frankie or Mason. “I was an art conservator until they pulled the funding. Now I clean, chauffeur, and cook for a spy.”
He laughs. It’s a new sound and I like it. I like it so much I want to hear it again.
“Bit of a comedown, I guess. How difficult will it be to find another job?”
“I’ve been searching when I have time, but they want experience, which I don’t have. All I can do is keep looking and applying for anything that comes up.”
“If you need a reference ...”
The thought of Boyd writing my reference is hilarious. I lean away from him and shoot him a look. “Really? What would you write? Works well under constant supervision?”
His mouth widens a fraction. With a little extra pull on his facial muscles it could easily become a grin. “Actually, I was thinking, spends a lot of time on personal calls.”
I pretend shock. “I do not!” Okay, I do, but only when my chores are done. “Tell me, Boyd, if I’m at your beck and call twenty four hours a day when am I supposed to make these calls?”
He tilts his head, his tone suggestive when he says, “You’re at my beck and call?”
The heat kicks up a notch and I lift my hair away from my nape. Boyd’s watching. Again.
Self-conscious, I let it drift back down and gaze at the scenery as if I’m interested in the view. And I am, it’s just there’s a better view at my side.
Here, beneath the trees, the lake’s silver, but over on the far side it’s darker with trees reflected on its surface. There’s a young couple steering a pedalo away from the boating dock, towards the other side of the lake. It’s too hot for them to pedal fast; they take it slow, relaxing in the sunshine. Somehow I can’t picture Boyd in a pedalo―even without his broken leg. I picture him hiking up a mountain or kayaking in white water, but a pedalo on a lake? No way.
Jono, my ex, was more of a pedalo kind of guy. His idea of fun was staying in and watching TV with a spliff on the go; a stoner, through and through.
As far as I can tell, the only stimulant Boyd needs is caffeine. And sex. I heard this last part from Frankie a few months back. She told me he was a player, moving on to the next girl as soon as he finished with the last. That’s why I’m not going near him. Not that he’s asked, but I know he’s interested, the amount of times I’ve caught him watching.
Anyway, I like chilled guys; guys who aren’t driven to achieve the next goal, guys who aren’t all about their egos.
It wasn’t always that way. Before Jono there was a guy called Liam.
Jono was a pussycat. Liam not so much.
I was eighteen when I met him. He was twenty-six and divorced. I should have known better. Shame I was too naive and blind to see his flaws until it was too late. Still, I learned from the experience. I don’t date older guys anymore. I like them my age, or maybe a year―two at most―older than me. Boyd is three years older, which means he’s out my range. Another reason to stay away.
The day I left Liam was a Monday. That was the day he hurt me. Physically, I mean, as in injuries. There were at lot of them―too numerous to list―but they included broken bones and bruising round my neck. The kind of bruising you get when two thumbs push in and squeeze. All because I burned the toast, which set off the smoke alarm, which in turn woke Liam from his sleep. Some days I can still feel his hands squeezing.
“You okay?”
Boyd’s looking over at me. I raise my defences and blink away the memories. “Yeah, I was miles away, thinking about what I’m going to make for dinner.” My voice is thick and it’s a lousy explanation. I’m pretty sure Boyd doesn’t believe me.
I know this for sure when he says, “You’re lying.”
“What?”
He stares at me from behind his shades and I can’t helping wishing he’d take them off. “You blinked six, seven times. That tells me you’re stressed, which in turn tells me you’re lying.”
“You a mind reader or something ...” I trail off because he fits into the ‘something’ category. It makes sense that he’d have been trained to spot that kind of thing. I shrug. “Okay, you’re right. I lied. Any other talents I should know about?”
I wait for him to say something lame, like ‘I’m great in bed’. He surprises me.
“I’m a good listener. If ever you want to talk ...”
I can’t help but wait for the one-liner because this is the very same guy who made a comment about my arse the very first time we met. When it becomes clear he’s sincere, I clear my throat. “Okay. Thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on that one day.”
I’m lying.
I smile at Boyd and blink rapidly, six or seven times.
His mouth tugs at the corners, but again he holds back on his grin. I’m not sure why he won’t give in to it. I’m funny and he thinks so too, so what’s the problem?
He shifts his broken leg with his hands and relaxes back against the bench. Seems like he’s in no hurry to leave. We sit in silence for a while, watching a snotty kid dip his nose into his ice cream. An elderly couple walks by, hand in hand, their raincoats draped over their shoulders as if there’s a chance of rain on a day like today.
Boyd’s phone beeps twice, breaking the silence. He tugs it from his back pocket and reads. “Fuck, about time. Mason says Frankie’s conscious.”
“Really! Is she okay?”
“I guess so. He says she’s sleeping.”
“Sleeping, as opposed to being unconscious? That’s progress, right?”
Even with his sunglasses in place I can tell he’s watching me closely. Eventually, he leans forward and says, “Yeah, that’s progress.”
“Thank God! I’ve been so scared. Can you imagine how Mason and Ivy must be feeling right now?”
I guess Boyd has used up his quota of openness because he doesn’t reply, except to say, “You wanna head home now?”
Disappointment settles in my stomach, though I don’t let this seep through to my voice. My tone is light and carefree when I say, “Sure.”
The benches don’t have arms so there’s nothing Boyd can lean on to help push himself upright. I offer my hand, but he chooses to grasp my forearm. I realise why when he pulls himself to his feet. His hands are gentle but they’re big and strong. If he’d placed that much pressure on my fingers I think he’d have bruised them.
The walk back to the car takes longer than the outward journey. Boyd’s struggling. His shoulder and arm muscles are bunched tight and his jaw is lock
ed.
“If you’re hurting we could stop for a while,” I suggest.
“I’m fine.”
He’s clearly not. He’s broken out in a sweat again and his skin is pale. “Boyd, honestly, why not―”
“I said I’m fine.”
God, what’s his problem? It’s not like he has to impress me and I wouldn’t think less of him if he took a break. Maybe it’s the whole macho ex-SAS thing.
We travel a little further along the path, his pace still slow and awkward, our conversation non-existent. He’s tired now and he’s lost his earlier synchronisation. There’s no smoothness in the swing of his broken leg.
Up ahead there’s an ice cream stand. I nod in its direction. “How about an ice cream?”
He scowls yet again and drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping the crutches. “How the fuck am I meant to hold it?”
“I could help you,” I offer defensively.
“That some kind of fetish of yours? You like feeding men?”
My head snaps back and I go on the attack. “Yeah! I also like kicking crutches out from under them!”
Neck muscles bulging, his voice is low when he says, “Try it.”
I’m ahead of him now. I spin on my heels, walking backwards so he’s in my view. “Don’t tempt me, Boyd.”
He stops and says, “I could say the exact same thing, Kayla. Wearing those fucking clothes, with your tits and arse on show. Give a guy a break!”
I stare open-mouthed, my temper firing up until it feels as if the top of my head is going to explode. “You dumb jerk! It’s eighty degrees out, what the hell else am I supposed to wear? A frigging coat?!”
He continues on his crutches, head bent low. “Dress how the fuck you like, just don’t flaunt it in my face.”
“Flaunt?! You think I’ve been flaunting my body?” Furious, I spin and march away, but then I think better of it and turn back. “In case you hadn’t noticed I’ve stopped wearing dresses. And you know why? Because you couldn’t keep your greedy eyes off me, staring at my legs and boobs when you thought I wasn’t looking. But I see you, Boyd. I see you looking! And you know what? It’s your problem, not mine. I will not be your punching ball!”
“Bag! Punching bag!”
I hate being corrected, especially by him. “Que te la pique un pollo!”
“In English, Kayla!” His facial expression is one of boredom. I hate that. I hate that I’m losing control while he’s so calm and bored.
I take great pleasure in translating. “I hope a chicken pecks your dick!”
“What the fuck?” He’s angry, but it’s low and controlled, same as it always is with him. His control, the opposite of how I’m feeling right now, pushes me over the edge.
I don’t care that I’m causing a scene, or that people are openly staring when I shout, “Screw you, Boyd!”
I march away, head high, pain ripping at my chest like it’s going to tear me apart. Idiot! Why did I have to take on this stupid job? I’d rather scrub filthy toilets than work for Jack Boyd, the arrogant, egotistical jerk! Who the hell does he think he is, accusing me of flaunting my body. I don’t do that, ever. Never, ever!
It’s not my fault I have boobs. And an arse. Or that clothes which look classy on other girls make me look like a lap dancer. I refuse to dress like a dowdy old woman just so I don’t stand out and if that’s what he expects he can go take a running jump into the boating lake.
Aaargh!
I veer to the left, following a path that runs under the trees. I’m hot and sticky, and no matter how fast I walk, I can’t seem to burn off my anger. Dodging past a cloud of gnats, I butt away the stragglers, spitting out the one that lands on my tongue. Damn you, Jack Boyd! Damn you for making me feel like this, for making me remember Liam and my past.
Jumping over a fallen tree that’s lying across the sun-baked path, I curse under my breath, stopping when the path up ahead dissects into three. Glancing around I realise I’m in a wooded area and I have no frigging idea which path leads back to the car. I’m lost, as in totally, how-the-hell-did-I-get-here lost. There are no walkers, no cars, no dogs running off the lead. I’m alone in a mini-forest and I don’t know how to get back. I’m not even sure how many times I veered off the path or which turnings I took. I decide it’s best to keep going. I’ve walked so far already and the park can’t go on forever. Maybe the path will loop back to the car park.
It doesn’t. It leads to a wall, an old, mossy wall that’s a foot taller than me. Gazing along its length, it seems to go on for miles before it disappears into yet more trees.
Shit!
There’s nothing to do but go back the way I came.
I spin on my heels and retrace my steps, cursing when I realise I haven’t passed the fallen tree or the cloud of gnats.
Double shit!
I keep going. And going. Finally, in a clearing to my right, I spot the car park. At least I hope it’s our car park. My tank top is stuck to my back, my cheeks are so hot they sting and my arms and legs are covered in gnat bites. I let out a quiet sob of relief when I see my car. Boyd’s leaning against the door, his shades still in place. At his side stand the elderly couple from the boating lake. They straighten as I approach, their twin expressions openly disapproving.
“Boyd, are you okay?” I ask. I’m genuinely concerned. I’ve been gone for ages and his leg has got to be hurting him.
He doesn’t get the opportunity to respond. The elderly woman steps up to me as if we’re old adversaries and she’s Boyd’s protector.
“Young lady you should take better care of your boyfriend. He’s been waiting an hour in this heat for you. The poor man’s exhausted. In my day we knew how to treat our men.”
I glance over at Boyd, my hope of a little help instantly disappearing when I catch his grim expression.
“He isn’t my―”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, abandoning him when he’s barely able to walk.” Her gaze travels over my clothes and I know she’s judging me. She turns away, linking her arm through her husband’s. “Come on Arthur. Let’s leave this poor young man with his girlfriend.” She says ‘girlfriend’ as if it’s a dirty word.
I wait until they’re out of hearing range before I speak. “You made them think―”
“What?” His hard gaze fixes on mine. “That you walked off and left me?”
“That’s not how it was.”
“That’s exactly how it was. I’ve been waiting for over an hour, Kayla.”
“You accused me of flaunting―”
“You know what, I don’t give a fuck. I’m tired and my leg is aching, so how about you unlock the car so I can sit the fuck down.”
I stare at Boyd as if he’s morphed into someone else.
“Now!” His voice reverberates around the car park, scaring two brown-bellied birds away from their perch.
“Sure, Jack,” I say in a way that’s not like me at all. I click the key and open his door. He turns so he can sit down bottom first, but it’s clumsy and he almost falls. I reach out to save him, but he’s already gripping the door, glaring at me as if to warn me away.
I step back and wait for him to give up the crutches, placing them in the back of the car when he hands them over. The temperature inside has to be a hundred or more. I open the windows, but the earlier breeze has gone and it’s not until we pull into traffic that it begins to cool.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I meant to get back to the car before you, but I got lost in the woods with trees everywhere and gnats this big.” I hold up my thumb and index finger, but his gaze doesn’t stray from the road. “Jack, say something, please. I said I’m sorry.”
“Kayla ...” He sighs and cuts short whatever he was about to say. “Listen, this isn’t working for me. I think it’s best we end this arrangement before things go too far. I’ll pay you for the month and I’ll find someone else. That way you get your life back and I get to live with someone who doesn’t lose their temper every five
minutes.”
“What? No! Look, I’ll try harder―” My heart starts to race and my stomach tightens as if it’s about to receive a punch.
“This isn’t working. I’ll pay you until―”
“Will you forget about the goddamn money! It’s not about that. It’s about me agreeing to help you for a few weeks and now you’re kicking me out after a couple of days.” I take a deep, calming breath, or at least it’s meant to be, but the air is dry and I end up rasping my last few words. “That’s what this is about.”
He turns his head, curious. “Why are you even arguing? You hate the fucking job. You’ve told me so a hundred times already.”
I lift a hand from the wheel and wave it out in front of me. “I exaggerate. It’s what I do. That and lose my temper, but it’s not my fault. It comes with being part Spanish and part Irish.”
“That’s a bullshit stereotype, Kayla. It’s got fuck all to do with your heritage. And you don’t exaggerate, you lie.”
“Wow, don’t hold back on the insults, Boyd.”
“Like you, you mean?! Fuck this! I’m not living like this for another month. You can pack your bags when we get to mine. And I’ll pay you for the goddamn month.”
“I am not a charity case.”
“We had an agreement and I’m terminating it. Take the fucking money.”
“Dammit, Boyd, I don’t want your stupid money.”
“Tough shit.”
I don’t know why I’m arguing. He’s right, I hate the job. Or at least I did until he took it away from me. I’m spoiled, I know this. Growing up in Spain, the only daughter and granddaughter in the family, I was lavished with attention and gifts. And at school, no lie, I was the star pupil, the one who managed to be both cool and clever. And when I left Spain the boys in England lavished me with even more attention than I’d received back home. I guess I wasn’t what they were used to, with my olive skin and almond eyes. And the girls who might have been jealous, they were my friends―still are, though they’re still mostly in Liverpool while I’m in London. With the exception of Liam, my life has been good. But my luck seems to wearing thin this year, what with Jono, my job at the museum, Frankie getting shot, and now Boyd.
