by Holly Hart
I follow Kim up the stairs. My eyes drink in the way her ass swings from side to side. I can’t shake them off it. Her upper body’s covered in an unflattering blue raincoat that looks like it was purchased from a camping store. But her lower body…
“So,” she says in a tone that’s so upbeat I know she’s putting it on, “how long you been in London?”
I already said.
Her skirt’s wet through, and stuck to her body. It’s all I can do to break my gaze from it for a second to get the brainpower to reply.
“Oh my gosh,” Kim says after a second, “how silly of me.
I want to slide my fingers up her back and undo the clasp –
“A day, huh?” Kim says, making conversation. I’m glad for the distraction. I was stuck in a loop of one of my deepest, darkest fantasies. “Have you been to London much before?”
We pass a doorway marked with the number three, and keep going up.
“Sure have,” I say. It’s tough to talk without tripping over my tongue. It feels like someone sealed my lips up with superglue. Don’t look at her ass. Don’t look at her ass, I repeat silently in my mind.
“I’m here on business from time to time. I know my way around…”
“Oh really,” Kim says. “Maybe you could –” She tails off, clearing her throat, and I follow her onto the landing of floor four. “I mean,” she turns to face me, still looking everywhere but my face, “I can take those from here…”
Kim reaches out for the grocery bags, but I jerk them back so her fingers close on empty air. She looks even more delicious from the front. For a second time, her cheeks have gone as red as her hair.
“Really,” I say in a low, seductive voice, “it’s no trouble.” Besides, I don’t add, I’m going this way anyway.
She thanks me in a constricted tone of voice, and I follow her once again. I wonder what she’s thinking – whether she thinks I’m going to invite myself in. I’m wondering the answer to that question myself.
“Funny,” she says as we pass the first two numbered doorways, “isn’t it; the two of us finding each other across the pond like this? So, where are you working ?”
“In the city,” I reply. I can’t wait for the look on her face when I reveal where. “A bank.”
“No way,” she cries, apparently forgetting her earlier nervousness with newfound excitement, “me too!”
We pass apartments three and four.
“No way? Where?” I say. We pass five and six.
“I don’t know if you’ll have heard of it,” she says, “I’m no banker – I’m a programmer.”
I grin. “You know something? Me neither. As long as I get in the way of the bad guys and the money, I’ve done my job.”
Kim slows, finally brushing the hair from her eyes and pulling back her hood. As it falls, her red hair reveals itself like the sun setting on the savanna.
“Well,” she says. “This is me. Thank you so much for all –”
Her nose wrinkles, again.
And again, all I can think is that it’s the cutest thing in the world.
“Where did you say your new job was, again?”
“I didn’t. Landwolfe and –”
"– Co,” Kim finishes for me. “I knew I’d seen you before! That’s amazing. What are the chances?”
“Pretty high, actually,” I grin. “Landwolfe rents out three floors in this building. I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out.”
Her cheeks color even more. “Oh – damn, now I feel stupid.”
“You didn’t tell me your name,” I say. I know it already, of course. But it’s the only thing I know about her. I stopped the analysts briefing me, because I needed this to feel real. Kim’s my mission, of course. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun at the same time.
“Kim,” she mumbles, holding out her hand. I shift the grocery back from my right to my left. “Kimberly Sawyers…”
“It’s a pleasure,” I say. Her fingers are soft and warm, and I want to dip my mouth to them and kiss them. I hold back. Kim’s shy, that much is obvious. She’s either exactly the kind of girl who will respond well to a move like that…
Or exactly the wrong kind. I don’t want to freak her out. I’m pretty sure she’s made of stronger stuff than that. I think there’s a fighter lurking behind that good girl act. But I’m just not certain.
“And you are?”
“Nathaniel Surname,” I smile, “but you can call me Nate.”
Kim freezes, and her face drains of color. It’s even more startling than it might have been, since she was so red a second before. She pulled her hand away. “What,” she croaks, “did you say?”
I don’t know what the hell I said, but Kim looks completely freaked out. I cocked my head to one side. “Nate. Are you –”
“You can go,” she whispers, fishing in her coat pocket for something.
“Have we met?” I ask, nonplussed. I got no idea what’s going on. A second ago, I thought she might melt into my arms, but now? Now I’m just scared she’s going to run headlong as far away from me as she can manage.
I hear the jingle of keys.
“It can’t be,” Kim moans, sounding almost frantic. “You can’t be…”
The hell is she talking about?
Finally, Kim finds her house keys in her coat, and her trembling fingers scratch the metal of the lock. For the first time I can remember, I’m completely lost for words. Usually, I would have an easy retort, or a funny one-liner ready on my lips to fix the situation. But right now, with Kim, my mind’s gone blank.
The last thing I want to do is jeopardize the situation any more.
“What can’t I be?” I ask. I need answers. I need to figure out how this has gone to hell – and so quickly.
“Please, just go,” Kim whispers.
I wince. I know she’s not going to like what I’m about to say.
“I –,” I pause. “I live right here.”
Kim finally sinks the key into the lock, turns it, and disappears inside. I’m left on my own, outside, with her grocery bags still dangling from my fingers.
“What. The. Hell.”
6
Nate
The whiskey bottle hits the marble kitchen counter with a thud. I grimace and swear, but it doesn’t break – though it was close. I grab a glass, pour, knock a drink back, and close my eyes as the familiar burn soothes my throat.
“The hell just happened?” I mutter. Everything had been flowing so fucking well – and then?
Then it all went to shit.
I start pacing . It’s a habit of mine. I do it when I’m stressed, and right now is no exception. I’ve had women flip me the bird; had women pretend to fall against me just to get a feel of my chest; had women kiss me on the lips before they told me their name. But I have never, ever, had a woman freak out on me like Kimberly Sawyers.
And in a game of manufactured coincidences – “oh, you work at Landwolfe? Me too", and “no way – we’re neighbors?” – This doesn’t feel right. Not one little bit.
The amber liquid in the bottle swirls as I pour myself another stiff drink. Two fingers, three, then four – and I stop counting. There’s enough whiskey in that glass to knock out an elephant, and then some. But I don’t drink it. I need my wits about me.
I don’t like situations that don’t make sense. Surroundings that don’t make sense might end up getting me killed. I sure as hell don’t like circumstances that might get me killed. So I’ve got three questions: first – who the hell is Kimberly Sawyers? Second – does she know me? And the big third –?
Why the hell did she lose her shit with me?
I grab my laptop and throw myself back onto a leather couch. It’s next to a huge plate glass window looking out on the River Thames, but I don’t have eyes for the view. I don’t see the streetlights twinkling alive to my left across the river bank, nor the head flashlights on a small party of hardy kayakers dipping their blades into the churning
water. I’m on the trail of a mystery, and nothing else matters.
“K - I - M - B - E - R- L -Y - S - A - W- Y -E -R -S,” I type, letter by letter, hitting the keys so hard the plastic frame of the keyboard begins to groan.
I chew my lip with frustration as the laptop whirs to life. I need answers now, not in ten goddamn minutes when technology finally decides to get its act together. “Hurry the fuck up, already,” I moan, clenching my jaw together.
Finally, a list of blue links appears on the screen. I click on the link that reads “LinkedIn” and begin scrolling through what seems like a hundred profiles all named Kimberly Sawyers. All kinds of faces pass by – blondes, brunettes, short hair, long hair, but none of them are her.
Until –
I find her. The computer’s mouse pad doesn’t feel strong enough to deal with how hard I click on her picture.
And my eyes aren’t strong enough to cope with what they see.
“Oh, shit,” I grunt, suddenly glad I didn’t have that second whiskey. “This isn’t good. This is really not good.”
I spring off the couch, not watching where the laptop ends up. I don’t hear a plastic crunch, so I figure it’s all good. I grab my cell phone off the table with one hand, and start to pull soaking wet leather shoes over damp woolen socks with the other. I don’t care. All I know is that if I don’t fix this soon, the whole operation is going to fall apart.
My thumb flies across the screen, and I jam the phone against my ear.
The ring tone seems to last forever.
“Hello –?”
“Natalie,” I interrupt. “We’ve got a problem: a really big fucking problem. I’m coming in now. Here’s what you need to do.”
***
The second the operations room doors hiss open, I can immediately tell two things. First, Natalie Morris, my handler, is pissed off by the way I spoke to her. Second, she knows how close to disaster we are, and that I was completely right to do what I did.
The room is alive with a quiet, but urgent, buzz. Stan and the others – the ones whose names I either don’t know or don’t care to remember – are all glued to computer screens, fingers tapping away with what sounds like barely concealed panic.
Then again, it’s hard to tell. Maybe that’s just the way these guys roll.
“You got here fast,” Natalie says, tightlipped.
“I got a moped,” I say in response. “Italian – one of those Vespas. I parked outside. Doubt it’s legal.”
Truth is, I weaved in and out, through stopped vehicles, and around slower traffic at a terrifying speed. Add to that the winter’s darkness and heavy droplets of rain, and it could’ve been a recipe for disaster. As it was, I ate up the 3 miles to the office in record time.
I looked around the room, trying to figure out what the hell they’ve been doing. “Are we –?”
We’re on it,” Natalie replies. Jesus, that doesn’t tell me anything. Then again, Natalie’s never struck me as much of a talker.
I look around, taking a renewed interest in what’s going on around me. The screens on the walls are all flickering with different information feeds – lines of code, CCTV feeds from outside, and video of –
“The fuck is this,” I hiss. “You bugged her?”
Natalie shrugs, but I only see it out of the corner of my eye. All I can look at is the feed of Kim, live from her apartment on the wall of the Paragon Group operations room. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment. It doesn’t make sense – I shouldn’t give a damn.
But I do.
“I am doing my job, Nate,” Natalie says, with a bite in her voice. “Perhaps, if you had bothered to do the same, we would not be in this mess.”
“How the hell,” I grunt, “could I have known that we went –”
My handler simply stares at me, cold-eyed. It’s enough to cut me off. I shiver. She’s one intimidating woman. Besides, I know what she’s going to say.
“Nathaniel,” she says, low and slow. “Do you remember telling me that you did not need to know where she went to high school?”
I nod.
“I see,” she says. Natalie seems calm – too calm for my comfort. I feel like an explosion’s coming, and I don’t want to be in its path.
“Can you understand, Nate, how I feel now that I have found out you both went to the same goddamn high school?”
I gulp.
Kim’s pacing up and down in her flat. She’s got something in either hand. I have to squint to make out the details.
“What’s she holding?” I ask. None of the analysts look up.
I hate this. I want to be doing something – fixing this. But all I can do is stand here and watch as other people try and fix my problem.
Kim puts it against her ear, and I realize it’s a cell phone. She slumps down on a leather couch that looks identical to the one in my own apartment and – just like me twenty minutes ago – pulls her computer onto her lap. She cradles her phone between her shoulder and her ear and starts tapping away at the keys.
“Who’s she calling?” I ask to a room of people who seem bent on ignoring me.
No answer.
“Can we intercept that?” Natalie barks at one of the analysts.
He shakes his head. “No. She’s using Skype, or Face Time or something. We can’t get in the middle.”
The wall-mounted screen next to the one displaying the bird’s eye view of Kimberly’s apartment blinks into life. “What’s that? I ask.
Finally – an answer.
“We see what she sees,” Natalie says, drumming her fingers against her denim-clad legs.
A Google search box comes up on the screen. Christ, it’s like going twenty minutes back in time. Everything I did, Kim’s now doing.
“N – A – T – E,” she types. The letters appear slowly, and I can’t tell whether it’s a delay in the feed – or because Kim’s searching for a truth that she’s not ready to hear.
I feel the first, cold tendrils of dread starting to creep into my stomach.
She’s going to figure out who I am – even though I don’t remember her at all. I was only at Summer Hill High School for what, two weeks – before dad got shipped out to Coronado. I figure I must have done something awful to her to make her react this way. But the crazy thing, the thing that’s got my gut wrapped up in knots?
I have no idea what it could be.
“Are we doing something about this?” I ask, my voice higher-pitched than I ever remember it being. “If she figures out my real identity, then this whole operation –”
“We know, Nate,” Natalie says firmly.
On screen, Kim realizes the error of her ways. I breathe a sigh of relief as she deletes my name from the screen. But the feeling doesn’t linger.
“Oh, crap,” I groan as she replaces it with the word: “Nathaniel.”
And then: “Nathaniel F –”
Kim stops typing. The cursor stands alone, blinking in the search box. If my stomach was twisting itself into knots before, now it’s doing backflips. I crack my knuckles, and realize that I’m shifting my weight from side to side.
Kim’s lips move as she speaks into the phone. One part of me is inexplicably disgusted that Paragon has bugged her. The other part of me is just desperate to find out who she’s talking to and what she’s saying.
Kim’s fingers dance across the keyboard. The second I see the movement, my eyes flicker back to the live feed from her computer.
Backspace.
Backspace.
I heave a sigh of relief as Kim zeros out the search box. Natalie shoots me a sideways glance, as if to say “this is not over yet.” She’s right.
Kim types “Summer Hill High School,” into the search box, and as she does, I’m near ready to walk to the nearest window and throw myself out. I’m staring down the barrel of the end of the mission, but worse than that – I know I won’t get a chance to. If she finds out I’m lying to her, then I�
��m done before I got started.
Hell if I know why, but that thought fills me with dread. The curvy redhead is all I can think about. I want to know why she ran from me. No girl ever has before. It’s a mystery, and I want to solve it. I want to solve her.
And at the very least, I want to get the chance.
“How long do we have?” Natalie asks. The only sign that she’s operating under stress is a slight bite to her voice. I’ve no idea how she so calm.
