by Dani Wyatt
Before the fire, he was a fanatical reader. He’d read to me, he’d read by himself, he’d read to all of us, to mom. I don’t remember the TV being on when I was little. Not when he was around. It was always a book.
He loved mysteries. Sometimes an Asimov or other Sci-Fi for fun. He won’t admit it, but he’s almost blind now—his vision one of the spoils of the war he’s been losing for years.
I take a deep breath, crack my neck and look where the sheet falls flat on the bed just below his knee.
I look back out the window and my mind drifts to her.
The plan is in place. Now, it’s time to execute. I just need to find my target.
6:59 AM.
7:06 AM.
No more sitting.
I’m back on my feet, pacing, feeling like a pussy, stomach knotted, fingertips cold. I step outside Dad’s room every thirty seconds, my eyes darting from one end of the hall to the other. With every sound of a step or hint of a voice, my ears are focused like a damn owl.
7:14 AM.
A soft swish-swish of fabric. The rhythm of legs moving faster, and gravity grabs me like it always has.
She’s here.
This time, I’m prepared.
Her hair is down today. It fucking glows.
Promise. I can’t stop repeating her damn name in my head. Promise. Promise me.
I mean, what is the likelihood? Almost nil. But, she’s here, and so am I. And today, I’m not a damn deer in the headlights.
I want to ask her if she’s okay. I want to know that things turned out better than I've imagined all these years.
But from the way her eyes immediately find the floor when she sees me, I know the answer, and it drives that stake back into my heart.
“Morning.” I have to start somewhere.
“Morning.” No eye contact, no inflection. She's polite, at best.
I’m straining to get a better look at her face. It’s kind of hard not to be obvious, my monster frame bending like a pretzel as she tosses her hair over her downcast face.
Why is it so hard for two humans to look at each other?
It seems impossible that she doesn’t know me. She’s been a part of me for so long, yet I’m a complete stranger to her.
I leave the doorway clear. I know I’m intimidating. It’s not on purpose, I just am. That’s not ego, honestly. I put zero effort into trying to be anything.
I figured out that when people first meet me, they instinctively move away when I come close.
Women do it. Men, too. But, I noticed it the most with girls at first. Like an anti-gravity shield. Eye contact. Smile. I move in; they step away.
It doesn’t necessarily bother me, but it became a thing. A thing I would play with. They’d step right; I’d step right. They’d move left; I’d follow. It was a dance of sorts, but she’s not doing it now.
She’s stopped.
My heart stops.
She’s standing in the hall right in front of me, squared off, and I have no idea what to say.
“You’re up early.” I smile.
What the Jesus fuck is that to say?
My nuts just climbed up inside me, they are so ashamed.
“I get here at seven. This isn’t early for me.” Her perfunctory answer doesn’t help me my man card.
I detect the tone. She’s been through the trenches; I can hear it. Heard too many lines from too many assholes. But, she’s trying to stay professional.
Fuck. I have no game around her.
I see her forearms tighten around the folded, white sheets she carries against her chest. In her left hand, she has the black vinyl zippered pouch that holds his blood sugar monitor. I angle away so she can make her way into the room as I follow, my eyes thanking me for the view of her amazing ass.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you for taking care of my Dad.” I lower my voice inside the still dark room as my dad coughs and shifts in the bed.
“You’re welcome. It’s my job. No need to thank me. I get paid.”
“Not enough.” I see the first glimpse of those eyes, and I want to ask her a thousand questions all at once.
She sets the folded square of white linen and the monitor on the night table, then pushes her hair behind each ear.
So fucking beautiful. How does she not know?
“That’s for sure.” I see the hint of a sardonic smile.
She lights up the room with those three words. What used to be an inexplicable need to protect her is now something vastly different.
My dick is thickening, and my blood is roaring downward. Parts of me want to separate her from every remnant of those faded blue scrubs and whatever might be underneath. I want so much more from her, things I didn’t know I could want.
Something intangible. Like a mist you are trying to lasso and convince to follow you home. I can’t put my finger on it; she’s almost a different species. Something I’ve never encountered before, and I am as much confused as fascinated.
She spins her head around to look at me like I said something. I’m so damn lost in this strange new world, I can’t be sure my dumb ass didn’t just utter some ridiculous nonsense and I just don’t remember.
“Did you need something? You’re staring.”
She shoots both barrels at me. Both eyes, locked up and on, and her words are losing that professional politeness. I am officially a creeper in her eyes.
Great. An entire night of planning the conversation like a twelve-year-old fangirl, and you’ve got her thinking stalker inside of twenty words.
“Sorry. I—” My damn neck decides to speak its peace too, and she’s not looking away.
Four twitches later and I see her pull up one side of her lips, and I swear her eyes sparkle.
Yes, sparkle.
I shrug, trying to keep it casual. “—I’ve been away with a bunch of men for the last eighteen months. We turn savage. Forget our manners. Please, accept my apology and try not to judge me too harshly. I’m doing my best to re-enter polite society.”
She stands straight. That curve in her lip goes flat but her eyes are still with me, and I hold onto them like precious cargo.
“Your father told me about you. He’s proud of you.” She says it like she’s telling me the temperature of the room, leaving no room for disagreement.
If her eyes weren’t enough to make me lose touch with reality, those words are.
“Really? He said that, huh?” I chuckle.
I know she is being polite. There’s no way on hell’s flaming buffet he ever, ever would tell someone he’s proud of me.
“He told me—” She stops as my Dad’s eyes open and he coughs hard. “Blood check, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She immediately changes gears. Her voice softens to a near whisper, and her hand settles gently on his shoulder.
My father responds to her polite, professional tone by holding his hand out, his eyes closing again.
Promise isn’t just a woman. In fact, I still see a little girl there. That same little girl I saw back in that courtoom.
She’s not like any others. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. If I’m being honest, I’ve stroked off thinking about her probably a thousand times. Not the thought of her as a little girl, fuck no, but the woman I see now. I’d caught glimpses of Promise when she was a teenager. But she was always too young and I was too lost. But she wrapped herself around my heart and I guess somewhere deep down, I knew this day would come.
There is compassion in how she cradles my father’s hand in hers. She’s not rushing, not eager to perform the task at hand and move on to whatever is next.
She sees him. Really sees him, and it breaks my heart because they’ve both been invisible. They’ve both been forgotten in so many ways.
The tell is in the way she looks down, the way my father pushes people away even before someone gives him a reason.
She knows what it feels like to be the leftovers that no one wants. The fringe that no one wants to see.
I see all of that in t
he way she holds my father’s hand for a good minute longer than necessary.
“I want to hire you to read to my dad.” I blurt it out because I can’t hold it back.
Her eyes open into bluish, full moons and dart from side to side, making sure I’m talking to her.
Seriously, if my dick wasn’t raising the flag, I’d think a vagina was forming where my balls used to be.
“Sorry, I mean—” The pressure in my neck is too much, and the two jerking twitches come whether I want them to or not. “My father loved to read, but he can’t anymore. I talked to Bruce, and he mentioned that I could pay for someone to sit with him and read . . . or whatever. Private duty, he said it was called. I want to do that. I want to hire you to read to him.”
“Private duty is expensive. Your father is here on Medicaid. They don’t cover anything like that.”
“I know. I’ll pay. Bruce said—” I sound like a kid trying to convince their mother that Skittles are really considered a fruit. “Listen, just try it, please? I’ll pay you $100 an hour.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s too much, and her disbelieving eyes confirm my fear. It sounds desperate. “Just for the first couple days, like a signing bonus. Then if you want to keep doing it, maybe like $50 an hour. Try it and if it doesn’t work, no harm. Give it two days, at least an hour a day. If he wants more, do two hours. That’s $400 bucks for a few hours today and tomorrow. If you can, that is . . . if you’re available after your shift.” Jesus Christ shut up already.
There is a noticeable flush in her cheeks. I’m not sure if it’s that creeper thing again, or if she might be interested.
I clear my throat. It’s probably the tenth or twentieth time. I barely notice anymore, but suddenly I’m freaking aware of every part of my body. Certain ones in particular.
I can even feel the heat gathering on the tips of my ears, waiting for her to say something.
Standing in the same room with Promise, I feel like there is a current running between us. Shutting down some areas of my brain, lighting others up.
“Do you have $400? Because I mean, I don’t even know you.” She’s trying to give me a hard time, but I can see a twinkle in her eyes.
“Fair enough.” I reach down to pull the chain that connects my belt to my wallet and her eyes stick to my face like glue even as she puts the glucose monitor back in the case and settles my Dad’s hand gently under the blanket.
The mere fact that she is not looking away or looking down is enough to prickle the hairs on my arms. I want her. There’s no subtlety to it; I want her in a way that hurts.
Before she can out and out say, “No,” I’ve got two hundred-dollar bills in my hand. I step forward until I’m standing on the side of the bed next to her.
“Here. Down payment. Fifty percent is fair, right? I’m taking a chance on you, too, you know.” I smile because I can’t help it.
“Really?” Her indignation is playful, but her eyes are on the Benjamin’s as I set them on top of the three books. I have to reach around her. Her scent catches me, and I inhale until my lungs refuse to fill any further.
I sense the tension rise in her. Her shoulders pull upward and that gaze that was lighting up parts of me that knew only darkness before falls to the floor again.
“I mean, let’s be fair.” I lighten my voice and grin like an idiot. “I don’t even know if you can read, so I’m actually taking a big risk.” I pray she appreciates sarcasm.
I back away. Not because I want to but because she needs the space. I can feel her walls fortify as she shifts her weight away from me.
Too close, creeper. I can hear her silent accusation.
“Ha.” Promise raises her eyes back to me, and I see her considering her response before she continues. “Okay, well. That is fair, I suppose because I’m sure they let people work here who can’t read.” She lobs it right back, deadpan.
She doesn’t touch the money. Instead, she angles her body in order to get past me without any contact. I’m disappointed because I can still feel the power of that slight brush against her yesterday.
“Hey, wait . . .” I say a little too loud.
Promise is making her way out the door, and I don’t know what to say to stop it. I just know I don’t want her on the other side of that door with me still in here.
“What? You want me to prove to you I can read?” She gives me a sniping tip of her head, but there’s that same glint in her eye, and her name starts to repeat again in my head.
Promise. Promise. Yes, I Promise.
“No. I mean, yes. NO. Just, I want to come back when you read. I just want to be sure he is okay with it. With you. He can be difficult.”
“Most humans are. Some more than others. It’s all a matter of degree.” She regards me. For the first time, I feel like she’s seeing me, and I can’t describe the feeling of being under her gaze. “So, you’re Beckett, right? That’s your name? I’ve seen your name on his chart.” She’s smiling, and it’s turning into a laugh. I want that sound to never stop.
I want to make her laugh like that for the rest of her life.
“Yep. You can call me Beck.”
“Okay, Beck.” Her eyes dart away, but this time, it’s not because she’s trying to hide. She’s trying to decide something.
Then she smiles. And I wonder where the air went.
“What?” I ask. “Something funny? Please share, I could use some funny in my life.”
“It’s just, I remember your name because your initials are BFF. You know, like ‘best friends forever.’ BFF. It’s funny.”
“Yep, hilarious.”
No one has noticed that before. If anyone else had said that to me, I’d probably get my nuts in a bunch. But, coming from her, I’m so beside myself that she took note of anything about me, I’m as right as I’ve been in a long time.
“Okay. I’ll be here at three-fifteen, after shift change. But, I have to leave by five at the latest. I have to get to my other job.” She’s tugging on a loose thread at the hem of her scrub top. She’s uncomfortable in a different way than before, and it sends smoke signals rising from below my belt.
If she’s fidgeting about how she looks, that means she cares how she looks.
In front of me.
Or, she’s just scared to death that I’m going to creep around and murder her in her sleep.
“See you then.” I nod my head and give her my best non-threatening smile.
I’ve just bought some of her time. Now, I need to figure out what to do with it.
Promise
Come on, $100 an hour to read? He has to want something else.
What am I doing?
I’m making $400, is what I’m doing. That’s a dent in five-thousand. A visible dent.
A dent someone would notice if you left it in their car door.
It’s just a book. It’s just words. It’s not like I’ve never read before.
Sure, but out loud? I remember the last time I’d read out loud in school. And every time before.
I remember Lilly Petridge sitting in front of me in fifth grade. It was my third school that year. She’d turned around and glared at me, passing on the open copy of Gulliver’s Travels, the classroom silent, waiting for me to start. I’d lifted the book, trying to ignore her smirk. My belly had tightened as I tried to breathe. My eyes fell on the top of page 127, and there it was scrawled in red marker across the page, across the book’s words.
FREAK GHOST GIRL Boooooooooo!!!!
I shake my head as I head down the hall to check on Mrs. Stephenson. She got herself into the shower but just like every other day, she will forget when it’s time to get back out. She’d just sit on the shower bench all day until she pickled.
I feel sad as I push open the door to hear Mrs. Stephenson in the shower, chatting away to no one in particular.
I bite my lip.
I didn’t take the money. It’s still sitting there. I can back out. I will back out.
But I need that money. How can I
turn down $100 an hour? Actually, it’s more than that. He said four hundred for three hours total.
That is not turn-downable. That is grit-your-teeth-and-do-it money. I’d probably do a lot worse things for that hourly rate. Luckily no one has come right out and offered.
Luckily he hasn’t come right out and offered.
He’s got something. A gravity that pushes me away and then pulls me back. I feel like a ping-pong ball around him.
He’s got a face that tells more than his scars. There’s not even a hint of insecurity about him. Unlike me.
I am constantly thinking about how I look, about how the world sees me. He seems to have no awareness of how different he is. How his face tells what must be a sad story.
And, he’s got an energy that has me thinking about things I thought I never would again. Sexy things. He puts it out there like a tidal wave, and unfortunately, I am caught in it. That needs to stop.
Okay, I’ll do the reading. But, I need to shake off whatever that vibration is I feel when he darts those Monet eyes at me. He looks like he’s seen a lot of trouble, and I’ve certainly had enough of that already in my life.
Yet, there’s a genuine softness to him. He looks like he’s been carved out of brimstone, but then he speaks, and there’s this complete lack of self-consciousness like he exists without any perception of himself. Without ego. And, for a man that looks the way he looks, I don’t know how that's possible.
He’s got more story in him than I need to know. No one has scars like that and doesn’t have a story. But, I resolve not to ask. No more small talk. I will stay professional, stoic. I’m going to be the best book-reading-whore ever.
I play with the little gold cross around my neck, pulling it side to side and listening to the soft zip-zip-zip of the chain. Mr. Fitzgerald is lucky to have him. There’s a story there, too, but I don’t want to know it. I’ve got enough stories of my own.
Beckett
There is an enormous chrome, stylized eyeball staring back at me from behind the twenty-something, organized blonde at the front desk of Louis’s security company.
He’s done well.
Not only has his little private investigation and security startup, started, but it's also taking over the mid-west.
