That Guy

by Kim Jones

  “Really? Rolling on my side usually works. My grandma used to make my grandpa—“

  “Stop breathing.”

  I stare at her in confusion. Her stare tells me if I can’t stop breathing on my own, she can make it happen.

  I draw in a breath and fill my cheeks with air. She nods in satisfaction and stomps back to her bunk. The springs groan beneath her weight when she shifts on her side so she can watch me.

  Just before I lose consciousness, the door to our cell opens.

  “You.” The cop points at me. “Let’s go.”

  I untangle myself from the blanket and jump down. As I pass my cell mate who growls at me, probably because she can hear me breathing, I do something really stupid.

  “Your breath smells like a fart,” I hiss, shooting her the finger. Before she can get out of her bunk, I’m safely out of the cell and the door is closed—trapping her inside. I smile because I’m a free woman and she can’t kill me.

  “Sit.” The officer points to a metal folding chair that sits in the aisle next to his cubicle. I sit down as he pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me. He tosses a plastic spoon, a couple packets of sugar and some powdered creamer beside it.

  I fix my coffee while he takes a seat and starts punching the keys on his keyboard with only two fingers. He looks bored. His suit is too small. Glasses smudged. Hair combed over a bald spot.

  Leaning back in the chair, he crosses his arms behind his head and stares at me. “The guys who picked you up said you started a fire on someone’s porch.”

  I nod and take a sip of my coffee.

  “Wanna tell me about it?”

  I give him an edited version of the truth—starting at the part where I arrived at Luke’s home. It takes me a while to tell the story because he can’t stop laughing. And he keeps interrupting me by repeating everything I tell him in the form of a question. By the time I’m finished, he’s fighting to hold in his laughter and I have the urge to punch him in the face.

  “Look,” he says, once he can speak without smiling. “Since you were only picked up on a minor infraction, I’m gonna let you walk…if you can find someone to come pick you up.”

  “Can’t I just leave on my own?”

  He shakes his head and gives me a hard look. “I’m doing you a favor. Don’t push it.”

  “What if I don’t have anyone to come get me?”

  “Then I’m gonna have to book you. And feed you. And it’ll cost money. And I don’t want to do that.”

  I wouldn’t mind being booked. I could serve my sentence, have some breakfast and use the time in solitary to figure out how in the hell I’m going to get home, since my flight left three hours ago. Problem is, I pissed off my cell mate. So now, either I find someone to come get me, or I die.

  My eyes move to the front pocket of my coat. Part of my brain screams at me that it’s a bad idea. The other says this is better than death.

  The officer drags his phone across the desk and sets it in front of me, then leaves—telling me he’ll be back in a few.

  I pick up the receiver and punch the numbers in quickly while I still have the nerve. Someone answers on the first ring.

  “Mr. Swagger’s office.” The lady speaks in one of those annoying high pitch tones only pretty people have.

  “Hello, this is Penelope Hart. I’m a friend of Mr. Swaggers.” It just came out. I couldn’t stop it.

  “How can I help you Miss Hart?” The woman sounds bored. I feel stupid. I’m probably not the first person to call his office and say I’m his “friend.”

  “Um…Well…”

  I can’t do this.

  My shaky hands fumble with the receiver until I get it back in the cradle.

  How could I be so stupid?

  So reckless?

  So…just…stupid?

  Jake Swagger wouldn’t come get me. He hates me.

  His loss.

  If he had invited me to stay for dinner, he could’ve gotten to know the real me. I could’ve charmed him. Made him love me. The he would’ve forced me to get a restraining order against him, because men tend to cling to a woman like myself.

  But he missed out on all of my fabulousness and chose to only acknowledge the bad things—like me breaking into his apartment and putting a bag of dog shit on his counter. So the only thing Jake Swagger might do for me is send his lawyer down here to press charges. He’d make sure I lived out my final moments with Big Bertha who will no doubt sit on me and breathe in my face until I die a slow, agonizing death.

  I’m on my third cup of coffee. I have no clue where in the hell the cop is. The clock on the wall says he’s been gone for over half an hour. I could probably just sneak out the door without anyone noticing—if I wasn’t wearing a ridiculous top hat that has earned me a bunch of funny looks from everyone in the office.

  Thanks a lot, Alfred.

  I stare at the card in my hand, contemplating calling the cell number listed on the back. Jake’s cell number. I could hear his voice. Maybe apologize. Or I could just wait until I get home and drunk dial him. If I make it home.

  Think Penelope!

  Emily.

  Emily knows people in Chicago. Right? She interned here. Surely she made a friend or three other than Luke Duchanan. Perhaps she could call one of them and get them to come pick me up. Then I could get my mom to wire me some cash to get home. I know she doesn’t have it to spare, but she’ll no doubt make it happen. And I can sell body to some desperate man to pay her back. Or my soul to the Devil. Or my imminent fame to the Illuminati.

  “Penelope?”

  I look up at the man standing over me. And just…stare. He’s like, That Guy’s hot best friend. The one who wears the smirk. Has the playful attitude. The sexy look. The one you’re hoping the heroine’s best friend will hook up with so there will be a book two.

  My eyes roll at my stupid writer brain. “Yes?”

  He scans me from my top hat to my dirty boots, studies the card in my hand a moment and then meets my gaze. He lifts a brow. “You’re Penelope?” I’m not sure if that’s amusement or skepticism. I get them confused.

  “Yep. And you must be Captain Obvious.”

  He laughs and reaches for a bottle of water next to the coffee pot. With his back to me, I give him a full body scan.

  Nice ass. Nice build. Big feet. Friendly. Charming. Seems like the kind of guy you could have a good time with. Yet there’s something off about him. He wears a gun but not a badge. A suit and not a uniform. A detective? But his suit is really nice. Fitted. Not the cheap twill that most detectives wear. And he doesn’t have a gut. Or tired, worried lines around his face.

  “I can pull it out and let you look at it.” I jerk my eyes from his crotch to his smiling face. I was looking at his ass. He turned around. Not my fault.

  “Sorry, I don’t have my reading glasses.”

  I’m treated to another throaty, sexy laugh of his. If I wasn’t so hooked on the vision of my That Guy, I’d use this hunk for my muse.

  “Touché, Miss Hart. You ready to get out of here?”

  “Who are you?”

  He grins and sticks his hand out. I shake it. Of course it’s warm and strong and all the wonderful things masculine hands are supposed to be. “Cam Favre.”

  “Detective? Officer? Lieutenant?”

  “Just Cam. But you can call me sir if you want to.”

  I ignore his waggling eyebrows. “So if you’re not a cop, what are you?”

  “I’m a real boy,” he says, in this really impressive Pinocchio voice that has me smiling. “Come on. Jake cooked breakfast.”

  Oh shit.

  “J-Jake sent you to get me?”

  “Yeah.” He points to the card in my hand. “Said you called the office. Line got disconnected. Must be the storm. But we traced the number back to here.”

  “You traced the number?” Oh my God. What kind of guy is this Jake Swagger that he can trace a number and have someone here to get me in less than an hour?
>
  “Caller ID, babe. Ever heard of it?”

  I’m so stupid.

  I should probably ask more questions. Like who is this guy really? Who is he to Jake? His lawyer? Brother? Friend? Lover? And why in the hell would Jake want me to come to his house? Why is he cooking breakfast? He should have a cook that does that. A middle aged woman who is having a secret affair with Ross. Or Alfred.

  “So you coming or you want to stay here?”

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

  He shoots me a sexy grin as he scans me from head to toe. “Even through all those clothes, I can tell you have a wicked little body to go with that pretty face and sassy mouth. Now I see why Jake is so anxious to have you.”

  Have me?

  What does that mean?

  I can’t think because Cam is walking and I’m struggling to not look at his ass.

  I lose the battle.

  But I only look for a second.

  An SUV with the engine still running sits parked next to the building. Not your normal cop SUV. A damn Range Rover with blacked out rims, windows and a bumper that could take out a tank.

  He opens the passenger door and I’m assaulted with the scent of cologne and leather. So intoxicating. So erotic. So…panty melting that I glance in the back seat wondering if I stripped naked and laid down across it, would it be enough to convince Cam to handcuff me to the door and have his way with me.

  I really need to stop reading them damn dirty books….

  I stare out the window at the white scenery to avoid looking at Cam. We’re not even out of the parking lot though when his voice has me turning in my seat to face him.

  “You’re…different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes flit from the road to my top hat.

  I pull it off and try to smooth my hair. “It’s a long story.”

  “I bet you have a lot of good stories considering your line of work.” He winks, like he knows some big secret.

  I’m sure Jake told him I was a writer. No doubt he Googled the title of my book the moment I left. Which is probably how he figured out my name. I want to tell Cam that there’s nothing very suggestive about a writer having a lot of good “stories.” But I don’t want to sound like an asshole.

  “Yeah. I guess I do.” I shrug my shoulders and look back out at the passing city.

  Cam’s phone rings and as much as I want to eavesdrop on his conversation, I can’t get the idea that something isn’t quite right about all of this out of my head. Why would Jake save me? Why is he anxious to have me? Why would he allow me back into his house after so rudely kicking me out? Is he cooking breakfast because he feels guilty for denying me dinner?

  “Jake’s going to be pissed about this, Lance,” Cam says on a laugh. As if Jake’s anger brings him joy. Since Jake’s anger has a similar effect on me, I tune in to the conversation. Of course, it ends the moment I do.

  “What’s Jake going to be pissed about?”

  “The FAA has grounded all flights out of Chicago.”

  Good. Maybe I’ll be able to reschedule my flight without having to pay for it. Which means I won’t have to rob a liquor store on my way out of town.

  “Was Jake going somewhere?” I feign nonchalance.

  Cam shoots me a disbelieving look and an eye-roll. “Nah. He rented donkeys for the two of you.” What? “We expected cancellations with commercial flights, but they just announced that no plane would be cleared for departure. Which means even the almighty Jake Swagger can’t get permission to put his bird in the air.”

  “He has a plane?”

  He gives me another sideways glance. “You feeling okay?”

  Am I?

  I’m a little cold. A lot of tired. And I’m starting to get the sniffles. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t need all of that other information.

  Cam’s on the phone again. Something about a generator that needs to be replaced ASAP. Boring. But I listen. Did you know backup generators can have backup generators? Wonder what happens when the backup to the backup goes out?

  We pull up at Jake’s apartment building and Alfred is all smiles. Until he opens the door and sees me. Undeterred by his scowl, I’m give him my best pageant grin as I slide out of the car.

  “Good morning, Alfred. So great to see you again. By the way, this hat is bitchin’. I’ve gotten so many compliments on it.”

  Cam laughs as he steps beside me, twirling his key ring on his finger as he pulls open the door. Alfred just grunts a response and begrudgingly holds open the door to the building for us. He doesn’t follow us to the elevator this time. Instead, he moves behind the podium and snatches up the phone. As Cam and I continue down the hall, I hear him say, “They’re on their way up now, sir.”

  “Never known Alfred to frown at anybody.” Cam lifts a brow at me as we step into the elevator. Then, as if he just thought of something, he gives me a wolfish grin. “You two got history or something?”

  “Or something.”

  In the elevator, I press my nose to the wall and hum as we shoot like a rocket to the thirtieth floor. Cam says nothing, but I see him smile as we step into the foyer.

  My gut churns and twists. I think I may vomit. Not from fear like a normal person. From excitement. Like the crazy person I am. Okay, and maybe a little bit of fear.

  Is Jake going to tell me he’s sorry for being a jerk?

  Or demand I pay for his shirt?

  Take me in his arms and hold me?

  Or sell me as some sex slave?

  Kiss me on my head and tell me I’m pretty?

  Or blame me for some shit that’s missing? Some secret shit. That he lost. And his plan is to set me up to take the fall…

  Cam opens the door and…bacon.

  I smell bacon.

  All the bacon.

  My mouth waters and I moan. Then I moan for a completely different reason.

  Before me stands Jake Swagger. At a stove. Dressed in nothing but a pair of low-slung flannel pants, spatula in hand. His back ripples in muscles and tanned flesh. His shoulders are wide. Hips narrow. Everything cut and sculpted, yet soft and smooth. The pop of bacon grease and the low voice of the news anchorman are the only sounds in the room.

  I instantly picture this moment as a real-life, cheesy Hallmark movie—snow falling outside the window. Everything warm and homey. I’m fresh out of bed, sleepily admiring my prince who got up early just to cook me breakfast.

  Of course I can only imagine this because I’ve already scanned the room for mafia and shady looking people who might want to kill me for stealing something I really didn’t steal. There’s no one. Just me. Jake. Third wheel Cam. Air. Opportunity…

  My mind goes from a PG rating to triple-X rating in a matter of seconds when Jake’s muscles contract as he slings a dish towel over his shoulder. I imagine me over his shoulder. Legs around his neck. Vagina in his face.

  He pivots to face me. I smile. My cheeks flushed from my dirty thoughts. Eyes half-mast from lust. But I can play it off. Like maybe I just woke from a nap. Like in my Hallmark fairytale. He’ll say, “Good morning, beautiful.” I’ll be all shy and sweet. He’ll say my blush is pretty. Then kiss me breathless…

  Sigh.

  I can’t believe I’m really here—me. Penelope Hart. Author in progress. Standing in the kitchen of a luxurious sky-rise penthouse apartment, with my very own, half naked That Guy.

  And who could be his hot best friend.

  And no mafia.

  And bacon.

  And not even divine intervention could ruin this moment.

  Chapter Six

  Jake Swagger is not God.

  But damn can he ruin a moment.

  He faces me with no smile. Instead, I’m met with a look of utter horror and disgust. No, good morning, beautiful, either. Only a, “What the fuck is she doing here?”

  “What?” Cam asks. Jake and I stare back at one another as he continues to speak. Jake looks like he might detonate. I study the two little
red dots on his second and sixth ab. Bacon grease splatters? Probably. Who the hell fries bacon shirtless?

  “You said pick her up and bring her home. I assumed home was here. Did you want me to take her to the other apartment?”

  Squee! He has two apartments.

  Jake sobers. Grows an inch or two in height. His muscles tense. Forehead vein protrudes. Fists clench. He’s such a dominant. “You’re Penelope Hart.”

  I refrain from using my Captain Obvious joke again. And from asking him if I can touch his chest. Or to abandon his calm, deep tone and say my name again like he might if he was coming.

  “I am.”

  “You called my office.”

  “I did.”

  “You told them you were a friend of mine.”

  “People really toss that word around too much. I blame Facebook. I mean, how many of your Facebook friends are truly your friends?”

  “We’re not Facebook friends.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “We’re not real life friends. We’re not acquaintances. You’re not even a friend of a friend.”

  I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him. “You sure about that? I bet I’m a Facebook friend of a Facebook friend. You’d be surprised how small this world really is. Especially when you have a social media presence like I do. I have like, four thousand likes on my page. And I’ve hit my five thousand max friends limit.”

  Several moments of intense silence pass. Then Jake points a spatula toward the door. “Get out.”

  “No…I’m not going to…get out.” I cross my arms over my chest to hide my trembling fingers. “Not until I know what’s going on. You’re the one who had me picked up. I want to know why.”

  “Because I thought you were someone else.”

  “Wait…you know another girl named Penelope Hart?”

  “I thought you were Miss Sims.”

  Now I’m really confused. “But I told them my name was Penelope. You just asked me if I was Penelope so you knew my name wasn’t Miss Sims.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” He runs his hand through his hair and huffs out an exasperated breath. “It was a misunderstanding on my part, okay?”

  “How the hell did you mistake Pah-nell-ah-pee Harr-ttt for Miss Sims?”