Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  "You're right. Well, thank God we solved that problem. You know how many uneaten boxes of Smacks we just saved ourselves?"

  "Hundreds," I replied quickly.

  He nodded, and we both stared out across the darkened golf course. The overhead lamps were just bright enough to light the outline of the fairway.

  Jamie glanced down at my new, blindingly white golf shoes. "Those shoes look good with your outfit."

  "You think?" I asked, sticking my feet out in front of me and twisting my ankles to show off my new footwear.

  "Definitely. I just don't understand why they don't rent shoes here. I mean, bowling alleys do it."

  "I know. What's up with that? Because bowling alleys and golf courses certainly have a very similar clientele," I noted as I popped the last of my hot dog into my mouth.

  "How am I doing on that whole distinguishing thing?" he asked.

  I sipped my Coke. "Pretty good, actually. You're the first person to ever buy me shoes on a date."

  "Good. So are we really going to let this whole cereal discrepancy keep us from finishing our game?" Jamie crumpled up his napkin and tossed it in a nearby trash can.

  I considered. "It would be a shame to let my new shoes go to waste."

  AN HOUR later we returned our rented clubs to the pro shop and headed back to the parking lot. Jamie walked close to me and I could feel his body heat through the cloth of my cardigan. I once read that everyone is made up of energy, and if you allow yourself to be in tune with that energy, you can literally feel it pulsating from anyone around you. The more receptive you are to the presence of other human beings, the farther away you can sense the energy radiating off of them.

  At that moment I was fairly certain I would have been able to feel Jamie from halfway across the golf course.

  As we stepped in unison, his hand brushed against mine and he immediately grabbed it and interlaced our fingers. I had felt so many hands before. I had felt so many fingers intertwine with mine. I had pretended to get chills from so many casual touches like this one. But the heat rushing from his skin onto mine was something I had never felt before, and it was rendering me nearly powerless. I carefully watched the ground in front of me, afraid that the slightest piece of unevenness in the pavement might cause me to trip.

  Just as Jamie had predicted: I suddenly felt incapable of standing upright without losing my balance.

  He walked me to the passenger door and paused just before opening it. "Did I tell you that you look really amazing?"

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out, so I shook my head instead.

  "Well, you do."

  I smiled and swallowed hard, immediately wondering if he'd kiss me. And then wondering when the last time I'd ever wondered something like that was. Certainly not recently. I always knew when the kiss would come. I'd made a living out of clocking it to the second.

  But not tonight. Not with Jamie.

  I could almost feel his lips less than a foot away from mine, and suddenly a sense of urgency rushed over me. It was as if I simply had to kiss him or I might implode.

  But he kept his distance.

  "I thought the same thing when I saw you on the airplane," he admitted.

  I finally managed to speak. "Really?"

  He reached out and ran his fingers lightly across the surface of my lips. I could smell the remnants of leather from his golfing glove. I fought the burning desire to close my eyes.

  "Amazing," he repeated softly.

  "Thank you" was all I could think to say.

  "So what does your school of thought say about kissing?" he whispered softly, his warm breath taking mere moments to reach my face.

  I bit my lip. "Um . . . what about it?"

  He brought his face even closer, and for the first time in the evening I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave. "Well, technically, according to your more modern rulebook, the girl should initiate any lip-to-lip action."

  I smiled. "I never said that."

  "I was just speculating." He reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.

  "Don't," I whispered.

  He came even closer, the tips of our noses only millimeters apart. "Don't what?"

  "Speculate."

  Then he kissed me. It was soft and delicate. He tasted like hot dogs and Coke and I couldn't get enough of it. Even the faint lingering taste of mustard was like heaven in my mouth. His hand rested softly on my cheek and then slowly made its way to the back of my head. He pressed me closer to him and the kiss intensified... but only slightly... nothing more.

  There were no kissing calculations floating through my mind. No ratios to compute. The connection was flawless and completely spontaneous.

  My whole body felt like it was on fire. I wanted nothing more than to take off all my clothes and make love to him right there – in the golf course parking lot. I wasn't sure if it was Jamie or the fact that I hadn't had sex in such a long time. But I wanted him so badly it was driving me crazy.

  Maybe it was both.

  Fortunately, he had much more restraint than I did. He eventually pulled away and allowed his mouth to linger close to mine.

  With his hand still on the back of my head he rested his forehead against mine, as if surrendering himself to me. I closed my eyes again.

  "Where did you come from?" he whispered with a half laugh, and then, before I could respond, kissed me on the forehead and reached around me to open the car door.

  WHEN WE pulled up in front of my building, Jamie asked me if he could see me again on Saturday night. Without even thinking, I agreed. Because at that perfect moment, there was nothing to think about. There was nothing to consider.

  But as I unlocked my front door I was unsure of how I would deal with what was waiting on the other side.

  Silence.

  Deafening silence.

  The kind that makes you think. The kind that forces you to face realities. The kind that begs for answers and clarification and decisions.

  And I knew for sure that I didn't want to make any.

  I didn't want to define anything.

  I didn't want to answer the questions that would certainly start pouring in from every corner of my brain the minute that door closed behind me.

  I had always lived alone, but tonight my house felt emptier than it had ever felt before.

  I quickly made my way to my bedroom, without even bothering to illuminate my path with any of the hallway lights. I plopped down on the bed, laid back, and allowed my eyes to shut. But only for a moment, while I took a long, deep, purposeful breath. Attempting with all my strength to regain my composure. Steady my heartbeat. Recover control.

  My thoughts were a blur. I couldn't stop thinking about the events of the evening. Every word that had come out of his mouth was replaying in my head. I could still feel the soft touch of his lips as if they had become a permanent part of me.

  And then a disturbing image started to swirl around in my head, refusing to disappear. It was a picture of Jamie waking up tomorrow morning, the sun shining brightly through his windows, the thought of our kiss still lingering in his mind, a piece of paper with my phone number written on it sitting on his desk next to the computer. He'd sit down with his coffee, and while his laptop booted up, he'd glance down at my phone number and smile, looking forward to Saturday night. Looking forward to another night just like last night. Better than last night.

  And then he would open his e-mail application and wait as the server downloaded the million and a half messages he had accumulated since he left the office the night before. He would slowly sift through them, deleting the junk, saving the ones that required follow-up, and smiling at the funny jokes sent by friends.

  Then he would arrive at a very special e-mail. One from a close acquaintance or friend, or maybe even a former colleague. And what would make this particular e-mail special was that there would be no text inside... only a mysterious link. Intrigued, he would click on that link, and after an i
nnocent sip of his coffee, he would casually glance over the content of the Web page that had magically appeared on his screen at the click of a button. And just as he was about to dismiss the information as yet another useless forward, his fingers would stop. His hand on the mouse would freeze. His eyes would be glued to the screen. He would blink. Once, twice, then again. Is that really her? he would think. It can't possibly be her! But it looks so much like her. And what does this say? That she's hired by wives to seduce husbands?

  And then he would think, What kind of girl even does that?

  And it would all be over.

  Tonight wouldn't exist anymore. Except in my mind. And then, even the memory of it would soon become jumbled up in the pollution of dishonesty and lies, where the lines between dark and light are blurred. The memories of good and bad slowly merge into one.

  And the saddest part was, there was nothing I could do about it.

  Except pray that Jamie never opens forwards.

  19

  Engaging the Enemy

  THE NEXT morning I woke up feeling inspired.

  My near perfect first date with Jamie had motivated me to do something about Raymond Jacobs.

  Although it was probably less of an inspiration and more of a life-threatening fear that any minute now Jamie might be forwarded that doomsday Web site link, and I would become just a distant and rather unpleasant memory in his mind.

  I found the address for Kelen Industries' headquarters on their Web site, and after e-mailing it to my Treo, I picked out the most respectable-looking outfit I could find in my closet. No cleavage-bearing tops this time, no eye-popping miniskirts, no cropped T-shirts – none of it. Today I would be the very epitome of refinement and class. Today I would play the role of the pissed-off entrepreneur who meant business.

  After I picked up my Range Rover from the dealership, I entered the address into my navigation system and I vowed to stay focused on the situation at hand. No time would be wasted thinking or reminiscing about Jamie or our amazing kiss last night, because nothing beneficial ever comes from obsessing (unless you're dieting). And the more I kept my mind off of him the better.

  But the more I tried not to think about it, the harder the task became. Plus, the unbearable stress of everything else that was haunting me was coming at me from all directions. And I wasn't sure how to prioritize the influx.

  Was I supposed to worry about how I was going to keep my career a secret from Jamie? Or was I supposed to worry about keeping my career a secret period? Which seemed like the logical avenue, since without the secretive nature of my career, I would cease to have the career in the first place.

  On top of that, this afternoon I had a meeting with another suspicious wife to discuss her husband's possible infidelity. The motivation for taking this meeting was, of course, the very reason I had my secretive career to begin with. Not to mention the fact that that so-called motivation was dimming in its intensity on a daily basis.

  What had started out as a mission to save the world was feeling less and less like a noble quest and more and more like a noble pain in the ass.

  Case in point: Next week's dreaded assignment with Eric, Sophie's fiancé, which I still wasn't sure I was ever going to find the nerve to go through with.

  The whole situation was pretty much a huge mess, and the only thing I was certain about at this point was that I didn't feel like dealing with any of it. My life was quickly turning into a confusing roundabout of motivations, and I wasn't quite sure which exit to take. But the best thing about roundabouts: You can just circle around and around forever, until you figure out where you're supposed to get off.

  And that's exactly what I intended to do.

  As I drifted from lane to lane on the uncharacteristically empty 405 freeway, I couldn't help but agonize over the fact that I was about to go into battle completely unarmed. I still had no action plan as to how I would deal with Raymond Jacobs in just a few minutes except to march in there without any semblance of an appointment and simply demand that he take down that god-awful Web site.

  Yeah, that plan sounded like a real winner.

  I was kind of hoping that just my showing up would count for something, and he would magically reveal the hidden soft side that had been buried away for his entire life, and possibly cut me some slack. But the realism gauge in my brain was definitely pointing toward empty for that idea.

  Would I be able to reason with him? Threaten him? With what, though? I had absolutely no leverage; he was already exposed. It wasn't like I could walk into his office and say, "Take down the ridiculous Web site or I'm telling your wife what you did to me."

  The point was, I wasn't used to being so unprepared. I'd built my life around always being ready for anything. Always one step ahead of the prey. One level up in the game. But today I would certainly be the underdog. It was no secret who had the upper hand in this situation. And for the first time, it wasn't me.

  I would have to do what I did best... fake it.

  I stepped out of the elevator on the ninth floor of the Kelen Industries headquarters building in Long Beach. I pulled my dark purple suit jacket taut around me, and with my head held high, marched in the direction of the receptionist's desk. "I need to speak with Raymond Jacobs, please," I said in my sternest yet politest voice.

  I half expected the receptionist to be a buxom twenty-something with red lipstick, bleached blond hair, and a low-cut sweater top – something out of the Playboy Bunny Casting Rejection File. But I was greeted curtly by a plump older woman in her early fifties who had probably worked there longer than Raymond himself and, judging by her less-than-bedside manner, was just as happy about being there as I was.

  "Do you have an appointment?" The words were chewed out of her mouth as she sat flipping pages of a Redbook magazine and attending to a persistent series of high-pitched dings coming from her computer screen.

  I stood up straighter. "No, but you can just tell Mr. Jacobs that Ashlyn is here to see him. I'm sure he'll know what this is regarding."

  "I'm sorry," the woman said to me, without even a hint of sincerity. "But Mr. Jacobs does not see anyone without an appointment."

  I decided I would have to play to her strengths. Or, better said, her obvious weaknesses. I flashed a phony smile and leaned over the high receptionist counter. She instinctively retracted, as if half expecting me to grow fangs and start gnawing on her face.

  I lowered my voice to a near whisper. "I hate to bring you into this whole, uncivilized mess. But your, um, boss is attempting to ruin my life because his wife, whom I'm now assuming is probably in the process of becoming his ex-wife, found out he tried to seduce me in a hotel bar in Denver. And now I'm here to deal with him."

  I casually stood back up and sucked in a relaxed breath. As if I had simply leaned over to thoughtfully tell her she had food in her teeth. But judging by the sinfully delighted grin on her face, I knew I had played the right card. The disgruntled employee whose only joy in life comes directly from bearing witness to any even remotely unpleasant occurrence brought upon the evil and ungrateful boss man. That, and really good office gossip.

  I suspected my news counted as both. She picked up her phone and held it to her ear. "Ashlyn was it?" she asked graciously.

  I nodded with a satisfied smile and waited as she spoke softly into the receiver. After a quick eyebrow raise she hung up the phone and said, "You can go right on in."

  Wow. Quicker than I thought. I took a deep breath and stepped around the reception desk.

  "Straight down the hall, last door on the left," she informed me.

  "Thanks."

  "Good luck!" she whispered loudly.

  I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign before starting down the long, looming corridor ahead of me.

  My nemesis was seated in a large executive chair facing out the window, bellowing into a wireless earpiece. "I told you I wanted those figures yesterday!" he yelled at what seemed like thin air. "I don't care what time it is over there! Here
it's ten A.M., and that makes you more than twelve hours late!"

  Ah, yes. Raymond Jacobs. I remembered him well. That deep voice. That large, ominous presence. The attempted bribe in his moment of defeat. Throwing money at any unfortunate situation might not have been the only thing that got him to where he is today, but it was certainly helping him stay there.

  I knew from the moment I saw him in that hotel bar in Denver that he was definitely not a man you wanted to mess with.

  But I had.

  Because I was being paid to.

  And now, I was definitely being paid back for it.

  I quietly closed the door behind me and waited for the scary man in the big chair to turn around and reveal his hideous face.

  And when he did, a knowing smile crept across it. It was almost creepy. As if he had been waiting for me to walk into that office. Any day now. Waiting for his rematch in chess. Because he knew just as well as I did that this time . . . he was several moves ahead of me.

  "I was hoping you'd stop by," he said, leaning back in his chair, not bothering to stand up and greet me, for which I was grateful. I preferred to keep as much distance between us as possible.

  I reminded myself to stay calm. Emotionless and, above all else, ruthless. This man couldn't be given any idea how much he'd upset me. And he had to understand that I was not going to back down, even though I felt like crawling under his desk – and never coming out.

  My goal was to get as much information as possible and get out. I was in no position to win at this point; I needed more data, more insight into the game itself. Then I could go home and strategize my next move.

  He studied me from behind the desk, his perverted little eyes running up and down the length of my body. "Ashlyn, I believe it was."

  I smiled callously as I sat down on the couch across from him. "Good memory."

  "But of course that's not your real name," he ventured.

  "Let's just cut to the chase," I said, marveling at how much I sounded like I belonged in one of those old black-and-white PI movies.

  He smiled at me, almost as if he felt sorry for me. "I'm afraid there is no chase, honey. I'm not taking down the Web site."