by Jess Bentley
I have seen it in dreams, though. I've imagined him looking at me like that: the way that men look at their conquests in the movies. I have played through the way my body would shiver in response over and over again, savoring the anticipation of that moment.
It was just like that. When his eyes raked over me, it was just like being struck by lightning, or startled by a predator, or rocked by an earthquake. Right down to the core of me, I could feel it... just from that one millisecond-long glance.
I hope I get to see it again.
Chapter 2
August
Ron scowls and jerks his chin toward the other room. I follow him out of the kitchen, sure that I am about to get an earful. He saw me looking at Dahlia. I know it. When we walked in, I was distracted and not thinking clearly. I'm usually so careful to keep my eyes off my friend’s daughter, but didn't realize she was going to be standing right there in front of me.
“Man, I'm sorry,” he starts, knocking me a little bit off-balance. He's not the one who is supposed to be sorry. I'm supposed to be sorry.
“What are you talking about, Ron?”
“Eh, I totally spaced out,” he sighs, retreating further into the den, out of possible earshot. “I was supposed to text Dahlia and tell her you were coming for dinner. Totally slipped my mind. I'm sorry I made that awkward.”
“Oh, that,” I start, shrugging. “Don’t even mention it.”
Relief blows through me like a cool wind. It looks like I've escaped getting my ass kicked yet again.
He holds his hands out. “She doesn't mind. She really doesn't. Dahlia loves to cook. And I'm sure Bunny is helping her do whatever. But if this is too weird for you, I totally understand…”
I shake my head and wave my hand in the air, happy to blow this off. Just another narrow miss, and I’m not sure how many more chances I’ll have to get off scot free. Dahlia is over twenty-one now, and I think the expiration date on my chivalry passed at least six months ago.
But still, I value Ron's friendship. We've known each other for a few years now, and he's really help me through some difficult times. When I lost my wife in a car accident, it was totally out of the blue. She was beautiful and charming, but I guess I didn't even realize how much I loved her until she was gone. Just like that, she went off to work one morning and didn't come home. I didn’t even hear about it until lunchtime.
I spent the next few months in the support group, bawling my eyes out like some kind of fairytale character, shocked and half-outraged that I even missed her that much. I didn't know how good I had it, until the day she wasn’t ever going to be coming home again. My tough guy act crumbled all at once, taking me down with it.
But when Ron showed up a few months later, I was still swirling around the toilet bowl of my emotions, and Ron was something different. He was open with his grief, but not drowning in it. Not submerged. He seemed to have a path out of it, and we started talking. We had a lot in common.
I may be able to kick his ass in the real world, but with all the emotions and crap, Ron is the bigger man.
Don't tell him I said so.
In fact, Ron could probably handle the information that I found his daughter uncomfortably attractive. If I would've just told him sometime in the last couple years, we could probably have already gotten through it together. Instead, I’ve created a pretty awkward situation.
And here I am again, accepting her hospitality.
“So, hey, did you hear from Trina?” he asks me, crossing his arms in front of his chest and knuckling his chin thoughtfully. This is his standard “supportive friend” pose. He naturally squares off and lets me know he's definitely ready to listen.
“Oh, yeah, Trina,” I start. “I haven’t thought about her in a couple weeks, to be honest. Nothing's changed, I guess. Still the same.”
He makes a sympathetic face. “So she just cut you off, just like that? No warning?”
I walk over and sit in the leather armchair next to his desk. It's covered in neat stacks of paper, as organized as Ron himself. There are even colored tabs on the folders, which are all distributed so that each of the tabs is in a different position and doesn't overlap the one on top of it or below it. It's impressive, if you’re into that sort of thing.
“I guess if I had been paying attention, there was all kinds of warning,” I admit. “Trina told me a hundred times that she wasn't happy, that I wasn’t taking her out enough. I didn’t listen, or something like that.”
“Yeah, sometimes other people don't appreciate the things we do for them,” he answers sympathetically.
“No, she was right,” I shrug. “She was totally right. I didn't take her out often enough. I wasn't really all that into her, frankly, and I didn’t really try to fake it like I was. She's gorgeous, of course. Hot as fuck. Total hellcat in bed —”
“ — Sorry?” Dahlia squeaks, suddenly stopping up short inside the doorway. She holds two beers out in front of her. Her expression is stricken and horrified. How much did she just hear?
Ron lunges toward her, reaching out for the bottles and making some kind of cover noise. But I’m sure he can’t possibly cover what she probably just heard me say.
“Oh, hi, honey! You brought us beers! How thoughtful!”
Her eyes flutter up to him questioningly. He grimaces and shrugs, excusing my boorish behavior for the millionth time.
Still, I can't help but be turned on by this. Look at her, trembling where she stands. She really should be affronted, but I can see her pulse fluttering in her throat. The hard way she swallows. The tremble in her lower lip.
She casts her eyes down.
“Dinner’s ready,” she mumbles.
“Okay, we’ll be right in,” Ron says.
I glance at her just before she leaves, noting the pink of her cheeks, the glisten on her lower lip. She did hear me, and it reached into her. The way she's looking at me, she liked it. It's a particular thing with young women, the way they approach every new experience with alarm and trepidation yet a certain kind of eager open-mindedness. That's the look she's giving me in this quick millisecond where we can connect. It leaves her stunned, like a glancing blow.
My heart is racing as she leaves, and I swallow a mouthful of the beer that Ron hands me. For the thousandth time, I promise myself to get my shit together. Lock it down.
“You sure you want to stay?” he asks.
“Yeah, course,” I sniff nonchalantly. “I mean, she doesn't seem to mind that I'm here, right?”
“Cool, cool,” he nods, moving toward the dining room.
A pang of guilt lances through me. I'm constantly bouncing back and forth like a ping-pong between guilt and eagerness whenever I'm here. It’s a game I've been playing with myself. I know that what I'm thinking is wrong, but something about having to time my attention to the moments where Ron is looking away is a thrilling sort of puzzle.
Neither of them can be looking right at me when I'm scoping out the back of her knee or the new shade of pink toenail polish she's got on. Every word I say has to be checked and rechecked. Every time I walk past her I have to make sure there's daylight between us. No bumping into her. No breaking the barrier of her personal space.
Not until she begs me.
I have thought about that a million times. I've imagined her breathy whisper when she finally begs me to undress her, asks me to stroke the smooth flesh over the waistband of those flirty little skirts and skin-tight jeans.
But that’s where it needs to stay — fantasy. It’s not safe to try to think of her in the real world.
She's bending over the table as we enter the dining room, the fabric of her light wash jeans stretching across her ass cheeks so that I see the seam of her panties, the cotton crotch. It's like an arrow pointing into her snatch and my cock instantly goes hard, knowing that the vivid pink folds of her innocent little pussy are pulsing right there, right under the fabric.
She stands up again and I drop instantly into the seat nearest to me,
placing my beer on the table and timing myself to look away. But when I raise my eyes, Bunny is standing at the far end of the table, her head tipped like a cocker spaniel. There's a small crease between her eyebrows and those big brown eyes skate over me in a calculating way.
Shit.
I cough into my hand and glance at Ron, hoping that my “nothing to see here” act convinces her, but I think she's more shrewd than that. Bunny’s got a lot more experience than Dahlia, from what I understand. Ron doesn't tell me too much, but he's indicated few times that he doesn't always think that Bunny is the best influence on Dahlia.
When they were in high school, he was only too happy to have Bunny spending as much time as possible at his house, instead of her own. Her mother worked double shifts to support a boyfriend who worked as little as possible. Bunny had too much free time on her hands and the decision-making skills of a neglected teenager.
So she's been around the block, at least a few times. The way she's looking at me, she may have seen my kind before.
Ron pushes the salad bowl toward me and I pile my plate high with vegetables and a few slabs of glistening, supple bits of steak. Dahlia really is a good cook. I push the salad bowl toward her and pick up my fork. I'm definitely not looking at Bunny or acknowledging her knowing stare, so I arrange my face in a completely nonthreatening sort of gratitude. Maybe I look like a kindly old school principal or something.
“This looks delicious, Dahlia. Thanks a lot for having me over.”
She shrugs one shoulder, and I don't look at the way that gesture carves out a deep hollow behind her collarbone.
“Really, it's nothing,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Bunny did most of the work anyway.”
“You bet I did,” Bunny drawls. “I'm starving. Can I have the garlic bread?”
I shift in my seat, pivoting farther from Bunny’s scrutiny and decide to make polite conversation.
“So, how are you liking your new job, Dahlia?”
She glances up at me and smiles, clearly happy that I remembered. That smile sends darts through my chest. I will have to be very careful here. Very careful. My cock is still swelling to fill my jeans and if a fire broke out right now, I’m pretty sure Ron would bust me for my hard on.
“Oh I love it,” she breathes. She chews her mouthful politely, shielding her lips with her fingertips and swallowing before beginning to speak again. “I have learned so much already. Just paperwork, you know. They don’t let me do investigations or anything. But I’ve got the files all reorganized and just started taking calls a couple days ago.”
“Any interesting cases?” I ask her.
“Well… not that I could tell you, could I?” she asks sincerely. “I mean, with you being at a competing security company? Is this a trick question? Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“Ah, I totally understand where you're coming from. Good instincts, Dahlia.” I nod, noting how she sits up a little straighter as I praise her. Makes me think of all the other things I could be praising her for…
“But if you have any kind of advice for me…” she continues.
I'm cautious, afraid to say too much at this point. I still feel Bunny’s eyes sweeping over me, tallying everything that I say. Ron is just chewing enthusiastically, tearing garlic bread into manageable hunks before stuffing them in his mouth.
“Just keep your eyes open. Learn everything you can,” I offer. “It takes time to absorb everything that you need to know about the personal security business. Years, even. So keep your mind open, absorb every detail. You never know when something useful is going to come up.”
She nods somberly. “Got it. I'll watch everything.”
“Then you're off to a great start. Some people are harder to watch than others. My new client, I’ll tell you… he’s a handful,” I start conspiratorially. I love the way her eyes brighten, since she knows I probably shouldn't even be mentioning it to her.
“You have a new client? Anybody we know?” Bunny says, also leaning in closer.
Her face is clear of suspicion now. She's totally engaged in what I'm saying. And I really shouldn't be bringing it up, but to create a useful diversion, I figure I can tell them at least a little bit.
“Well, this has to stay between us, you understand?”
They both nod solemnly, their eyes as wide as cartoon characters. Some dirty part of my brain imagines both of them at once, naked and eager, begging me to give them a juicy morsel.
I push the thought rudely out of my mind. I can't be doing that. No.
“Well you know the Empty Chair Recording Studios is here in town,” I begin. My voice is thick but nobody seems to notice. “Pretty hot stuff from what I understand. You heard of it?”
“Oh, sure,” Bunny smiles. “It's like a secret, but also not-so-secret location for hotshots to do some new recordings, far away from LA or New York, right? Some rapper owns it?”
“Right. All enclosed, full-service, with a couple of penthouse suites. Underground parking and a swimming pool. Walled-in garden. In fact, if you haven’t been invited to the party, you could walk right past the building and not even know anything's going on.”
“So… who's here?” Dahlia asks breathlessly, immediately getting it. I watch her fingernails go dark pink as she presses her fingertips against the tabletop.
“Oh, I don't even know if you've heard of him. Some Seattle guy, Kirkman, um —”
“Kirkman East?” Bunny screeches, pushing herself half up from the table. “Are you kidding me? Kirkman East is who you're protecting?”
Dahlia bites her lower lip between her teeth and lowers her chin a little bit. “Is that who it is?” she asks quietly.
I just nod slowly, letting their excitement wash over me like a warm stream. Both of them are just vibrating with eagerness. It might even be worth it to try to sneak them in one of these days…
Am I insane?
“Who is Kirkman East?” Ron asks, seeming to wake up after practically falling asleep at the table.
Bunny starts to go on and on about him: his early career in Seattle, how he's so reclusive that people don't even know who's in his entourage, that sort of thing. She seems to have read all about him. Actually, she knows a little bit more than she probably should. His last protection company did a substandard job of controlling the flow of information.
That's pretty typical, to be honest. There's always a battle between marketing and security. Marketing needs to leak information in order to keep social media percolating. If I had my way, the whole thing would be airtight. He'd cut his record or whatever, and I'd make sure nobody left the building and all the windows were wired so that they couldn't even get Wi-Fi. No pictures in and out. No tweets. Not even so much as a scribbled note on a square of toilet paper.
But that would make marketing's job impossible. So apparently their solution is to try to make my job impossible. But it seems I am a little bit more responsible than the last guys, aside from letting his identity slip to these girls. The last group managed to let a stalker into the entourage, who started stealing his clothes and posting them on Craigslist for sale. And there have been other incidents, sometimes more unnerving. People can be sick.
While Bunny describes Kirkman to Ron, Dahlia rests her chin on her knuckles and smiles, listening in. Her profile is beautiful as well, with a long, straight nose and a deep cleft over her chin. A full curve of lower lip, almost a pout, when her mouth is at rest. After three or four seconds, I force myself to look away.
After dinner, Ron grabs me for the game and we head to the living room with a couple more beers. Now there's no more reason for her to wander in. But still, I can't help but imagine a few more times what it would be like if she came in to say goodnight to her father, perhaps dressed in a nightie, perhaps barefoot in a robe... her hair damp from the shower… her skin gleaming with lotion. I imagine it a few times, in between everything else I am supposed be thinking about. It's a harmless fantasy, right?
Harmless as lo
ng as I make sure that it is harmless.
Chapter 3
Dahlia
I pull my crappy red Escort through parking security and roll around the lot slowly, looking for a spot. I'm not late or anything, but I like to be at my desk before anybody else gets to theirs, so no one can ever accuse me of slacking off or not coming in on time.
One of my favorite things in the world is how my heels sound as they echo in the concrete lot. Especially in the morning when it's mostly empty, it sounds like something out of a movie. A thriller, or maybe something with a car chase or some bad guy hiding behind a concrete pylon.
But that's probably just the job talking. Ever since I started working for Coleman Security, I feel like I'm in a James Bond movie. It's not nearly as cool as that, since mostly I answer phones and update the database, but maybe that's because I'm not paying close enough attention.
That's what August advised me, to pay as much attention as possible. Observe the details. Memorize everything. That's what I should do.
After all, I don’t have any real training for this job. I’m not ex-military and I don’t have a degree. I dropped out of college for financial reasons without even really picking a major. I had toyed with pre-law, maybe political science, but hadn’t settled on a direction. And when I had to quit school, I left without a shred more direction than when I started.
So while everyone here seems to be a former cop or intelligence officer or something like that, I’m just a woman with a lot of pencil skirts and smart-looking glasses.
As I move through the front entrance with the metal detectors and a conveyor belt on my right, I casually scan everybody on my left. Just your usual security guards, plus a couple of bail bondsman and a county sheriff. They still use the top floor of this building as jail cells for the antiquated courtrooms on the fourth floor and always seem to be popping up in the elevators and stairwell.
I notice they see me but don’t look directly at me. Arms crossed, chatting casually, they still look around the room constantly, as though on alert for threats. That must be what August was talking about: staying alert.
