Best Friend’s Sister

by Banks, R. R.

  I do see a guy that triggers something inside of me, though. He’s standing behind a knot of people near the doorway of the coffee house, leaning against a pillar, his arms folded over a thick, well-defined chest. He’s probably about six-two or six-three, has broad shoulders and a very tight, well sculpted body. His hair is dark brown and styled neatly with short sides and a little more length on top. But his eyes are a light blue that almost makes them look crystalline. It’s like small chips of diamond were cut out and set into his face, the color of his hair and dusky-hued skin combining to make them pop even more.

  His gaze is direct and piercing. It’s as if he can see straight into my very soul, and the intensity of his stare makes my breath catch in my throat. And because of that, I stumble over my words, unable to get them out sounding anything that sounds remotely like coherent English.

  I take a quick breath and clear my throat before looking back up at the audience, an apologetic expression on my face.

  “Now you know why I’m paid to write the words and not deliver public speeches,” I manage.

  The audience laughs, giving me another minute to collect myself. To avoid an embarrassing case of mush-mouth, I have to will myself to not look up at the blue-eyed man again. But it’s difficult. The way he’s looking at me isn’t sinister or creepy. I don’t get the same vibe from him I got off ballcap guy. His gaze is simply intense. And meeting his eyes again will only lead to another bout of sounding like an idiot while tripping over my own tongue.

  He's a really good-looking guy. He’s rugged and a bit grizzled. But really good-looking. I’m normally not attracted to guys like him. He’s got something of a dangerous edge to him and generally, I try to avoid danger and drama whenever possible. As the kids today say, that just ain’t my jam.

  I’m definitely getting some sort of feeling from that guy, but it’s not the same feeling ballcap guy gives off. And I’m still getting that feeling. It’s like my sixth sense is picking up on it, warning me that ballcap guy’s out there lurking somewhere.

  Collecting myself yet again, I turn back to the manuscript and finish out the last of it. When I read the last word and put my tablet down on the lectern, the crowd applauds. The excited buzz of conversation fills the room. I see a lot of smiling faces, and I can tell the snippet I read is being very well received. It helps put my mind at ease about the book. Somewhat.

  I’m pretty sure I’m always going to be a bit insecure about anything and everything I write. On some levels, I’m never going to think I’m good enough or that I truly measure up. It’s the nature of an artist, I think. We will always suffer from some form of insecurity.

  My eyes drift to the blue-eyed man again, but I find that he’s not looking at me. He’s watching the crowd, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. It strikes me as more than a bit strange. His gaze is so intense, his body so stiff, it’s almost like he’s searching for somebody – the way a Secret Service agent might scan the crowd looking for potential assassins.

  I watch him for a moment, and he never looks at me. Not once. He just stands there watching the crowd, tense and alert. Once the crowd settles down, I clear my throat and give them what I hope passes for a genuine smile.

  “Okay guys, I’m going to open it up to you. I’m happy to answer any questions you might have,” I continue. “I’m just going to take a quick break and grab a drink, so if you guys can hold that thought for just a second, I’d appreciate it.”

  I step off the small podium to the sound of applause and slip into the back to find Maura all smiles. She pulls me into a quick hug and thrusts a bottle of water into my hands.

  “Hydrate, baby. Gotta keep the pipes lubed for your adoring public.”

  “Stop,” I giggle, feeling the familiar heat flaring in my cheeks.

  “They love you and loved the new book,” she gushes. “Enjoy it. Soak it in. And remember to not let it dull your edge.”

  “Of course not,” I assure her.

  I take a long drink of the water, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. I give myself a second to decompress, knowing I need to amp myself up again here in a minute. I tip my head back and let out a long breath, then take another long drink.

  As I stand there with my eyes closed, I keep seeing the blue-eyed guy – and recall feeling the paranoia ballcap guy inspired in me. I hadn’t told Maura about ballcap guy being outside of the coffee house or him following me down the street. It would have only freaked her out. And I don’t know for sure exactly what’s going on. Even though he creeps me the hell out, some small part of me thinks that maybe I’m overreacting to it all.

  Maybe he really is nothing more than some socially awkward guy who’s only looking for an autograph. I just don’t know.

  “Hey, did you happen to notice the big guy off to the side?” I query Maura. “Super tall, dark hair?”

  “Dreamy, piercing blue eyes?”

  “That would be the guy.”

  “How could I not notice him?” she flashes me a mischievous grin. “That is one good-looking man.”

  I nod. “He is. But did you happen to notice anything – strange – about him?”

  “It was hard to notice anything but how gorgeous he is,” she practically swoons. “But what was so strange about him?”

  “I don’t know. It was just the way he was watching the crowd,” I tell her. “I mean, it was like he was looking for threats. Like he was a bodyguard or something.”

  “Maybe some of your fans take your safety seriously,” she offers.

  I arch my eyebrow at her. “Really?”

  “You never know.”

  “So, you’re telling me you didn’t hire a bodyguard for me?”

  She raises her right hand as if she’s swearing on a bible. “Swear to God.”

  “You’re an atheist.”

  Her smile is wide and leonine. “Be that as it may, I still didn’t hire a secret bodyguard,” she swears. “I think you’re a rock star, but writers typically don’t need a security staff.”

  I return her smile, but still feel a bit off about the whole thing. I’m not quite sure what to make of it all. Or, the alternative is that I have to consider the idea that I’m misreading everything – ballcap guy, blue-eyed guy – everything. It wouldn’t be the first time I misread a situation, and I know it won’t be the last.

  “Halftime’s over, kid,” Maura prods me. “Time to get back out on the field.”

  “Sure thing, coach.”

  I drain the last of my water bottle and toss it into the trash can. Taking a deep breath, I push through the doors and step back out onto the podium, greeted by the smiling, eager faces of the audience. I cut a glance to the side and see the blue-eyed man still standing there. His eyes linger on mine for a moment, then slide away. He resumes surveying the audience again.

  Strangely enough, I take some form of comfort from having him watching over me. Or at least, what I perceive to be him watching over me. In a way, it makes me feel like I kind of have a guardian angel keeping an eye on me. And because I still have that small, nagging fear rolling around inside of me. I haven’t seen ballcap guy yet, but I just feel him out there.

  Pushing all thoughts of these two strange men out of my head, I try to focus again on the task at hand. And that task is satisfying the curiosities of the crowd in front of me. I clear my throat then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once I feel like I’m slightly more locked in, I take hold of the podium and give them my most engaging smile.

  “Thanks for waiting, guys. So, let’s go ahead and give this a whirl,” I begin. “I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  The hands shoot up and I take my time, calling on everybody and answering each and every question they have. I’d been expecting one of the trolls I had at my last event to pop up. Dealing with guys like that is like playing a game of Whack a Mole – whenever you smash one down, a few more pop up to take his place. And after the verbal thrashing I gave the last guy went viral online, I’
d been expecting more of them to show up and take a run at me. That’s just the way these clowns operate.

  Thankfully, though, it doesn’t seem to be happening. Everybody has legitimate and interesting questions. The crowd is thoughtful, considerate, and polite, which is a very pleasant surprise.

  The Q&A goes on for about forty-five minutes, and in the end, I can honestly say I enjoyed every last minute of it. Yeah, I was still a bit nervous in front of them all, but I feel like I handled it well and made everybody happy.

  Maura steps up onto the podium beside me and gives me a smile. Reaching down, she gives my hand a squeeze and an encouraging nod.

  “Great job,” she whispers, drawing a wide smile from me. “Okay, give us a couple of minutes and Felicity will sign all of your books for you. Just line up in an orderly fashion and we’ll get to everybody.”

  When the crowd stands up and starts to form themselves into an orderly line, my eyes fall onto ballcap guy. He isn’t a tall man – maybe two or three inches more than my five-foot-four frame – and because of his smaller stature, he’d managed to hide behind a group of taller and wider people. Once they move, he’s revealed. I suddenly feel like somebody just kicked me in the gut.

  My eyes widen. I feel the blood drain from my face, and I start to tremble. Maura looks at me and does a double take. The buzz of conversation in the room grows louder, so she leans over and whispers in my ear.

  “What is it, Felicity?”

  “It’s him,” I whisper. “It’s him.”

  “Him who?”

  When I don’t reply, she follows my eyes and sees ballcap guy standing near the back of the room. His eyes locked onto mine. His gaze feels like an icy fist reaching into my chest and gripping my heart, squeezing it tight. My mouth is hanging open, and I’m having a hard time catching my breath. His eyes narrow. An inscrutable expression crosses a face that quickly darkens with what looks like rage.

  That rage nearly paralyzes me to the spot. I have no idea who or what this man could possibly want with me. Why he could possibly be angry at me. All I know is that it terrifies the living hell out of me.

  “Felicity –”

  “Call s – security,” I finally manage to stammer. “C – call security, Maura.”

  But before either of us can do anything, a flash of black crosses my field of vision. It takes me a minute to process what I’m seeing. And when my head clears, I realize it’s blue-eyed guy. He comes flying in, right in front of me.

  My head is still reeling from everything. I almost don’t hear what happens.

  “Back away, man,” blue-eyed guy says in a low growl. “Don’t make me –“

  Before he can even finish his sentence, ballcap guy shoves blue-eyed guy, and rears back for a punch, trying to get past him.

  “Mistake,” blue-eyed guy mutters.

  Calmly, methodically, and in a split second, he deflects the punch, wraps his muscular arms around ballcap guy, and tackles him to the ground. Hard.

  The crowd in the room gasps, and there are a few startled cries as everybody tries to move to the opposite side of the room, crowding against the far wall nearest the coffee house. All of their eyes are fixed, their attention riveted to what’s unfolding in front of us.

  A struggle ensues, but then blue-eyed guy manages to get on top of the other guy. He straddles ballcap guy’s chest and throws a crushing punch that cracks like a gunshot and snaps the guy’s head back – and then he’s still. From where I’m standing, I don’t know if ballcap guy is dead or what. I stand there in pure and utter shock. I steal a glance at Maura, her expression mirroring the one I’m sure is on my face.

  Blue-eyed guy stands up and looks at the fallen man before rolling him over onto his stomach and cuffing the man’s hands behind his back. Everybody in the room stands there in a stunned silence. The atmosphere is heavy and completely silent – it’s like we’ve been sucked into the middle of a vacuum.

  “Don’t worry, he’s unconscious. Not dead,” blue-eyed guy says, as if he can read our minds. “Call the cops.”

  He looks me up and down, though he tries to be discreet about it. Maura looks from him, to me, then back again. A look of irritation crosses his face, and he puts his hands on his hips, glaring hard at her.

  “Police. Call them. Now,” he barks.

  Without a word, she turns and heads for the back where she left her bag – and her phone. I watch her go, then turn back to blue-eyed guy. He’s looking back at me, an amused glimmer in his eyes. Something about the man trips something in the back of my mind. Something about him seems – familiar.

  I don’t know why he’s familiar. I can’t put my finger on what it is about him that rings those bells in my head exactly. I’m sure I don’t know this man – and I tend to think that somebody like him would stand out in my memory.

  That ring of familiarity and not knowing why he’s familiar is bothering the hell out of me. I somehow know this man even though I’ve never met him.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Felicity,” he says, his voice rolling like a hard, deep thunder.

  I shake my head. “I – I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are.”

  “Name’s Knox Vaughn,” he responds. “I’m a friend of your brother’s. He’s told me all about you.”

  When he tells me his name, it’s like a door in my head gets unlocked and everything becomes clear. All the missing pieces fall into place in an instant. I remember that I have met him once – a long time ago when Peter was still playing football and I went out to visit him.

  My brother talked about him so much and so often, it was practically like I knew him – which is why I’m surprised I didn’t instantly recognize him. The impression he made on me during those few days I was back in New York should have made the memory of this guy stick.

  He’d been an arrogant ass, and so incredibly rude, that he’d pretty much singlehandedly ruined my trip to see my brother. It was my first time in New York, and I spent most of it in tears thanks to this guy. I can’t believe that I didn’t recognize him, but then I haven’t thought about the man in years.

  Seeing him standing right here in front of me now is like having a bucket of ice water thrown in my face as all the memories come rushing back to me. But what is he doing here? Why is he in Seattle? More specifically, what is he doing at my book signing? I’m not a big believer in coincidences, which means that there is a reason he’s here.

  The man smiles wide as other pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. And when they do, the picture it reveals is one that sends a dark spike of anger shooting straight through my gut.

  “You being here isn’t a coincidence, is it?” I question him.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You just don’t look like the reading type,” I reply.

  A curious look crosses his face. “No offense taken. In case you wondered.”

  “I didn’t,” I shot back. “Did Peter hire you to watch over me?”

  The big man shrugs but doesn’t say anything. He just stands there smirking at me.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss.

  Anger surges through my veins as I stare at the man. I’m just about to read him the riot act when a couple of police officers come down the escalator and step into the room with us. They take a look at the man on the ground, then up at Knox, giving him a smile and a shake of the head. I close my mouth again, staring daggers at him instead as the cops approach us.

  Venting my rage is apparently going to have to wait for a little bit.

  Knox

  The two cops are standing there grinning at me. I’ve had dealings with both Eric Stanton and Mark Flores before. They’re both solid, stand-up guys – good cops who do good work.

  “Good to see you, Vaughn,” Rick hooks his thumbs into his gun belt. “Haven’t been called out for one of your disturbances in what, a month or so? That about right, Flores?”

  Mark grins. “Sounds about right.”

  “Come on now, you
really still holding that last call against me?” I chuckle. “The guy came at me with a gun.”

  “A BB gun,” Stanton corrects me.

  “Looked real enough,” I protest.

  “Yeah, but after you beat him to a pulp, throwing him through his front window seemed like a bit of overkill. Don’t you think?” Flores asks.

  I shrug. “You know how it is, fellas – heat of the moment and all.”

  As a PI, I’ve had to work with the cops before. Or as they like to say – they’ve had to clean up my messes before. Investigative work isn’t nearly as glamorous as you see on TV and sometimes it can be a little dangerous – like when you’re rooting around in somebody’s house, looking for proof of infidelity only to find they’re actually still there sleeping. Rookie mistake.

  After that incident, I’ve been a lot more careful to scope a place out before I go in.

  Felicity and Maura are standing off to the side, fear on both of their faces. The guy I took down is lying face down, his arms cuffed behind his back, grunting and writhing, his face a mask of pure rage. Some of the crowd is still lingering, huddled around the room in small clusters, watching the drama unfolding, and whispering amongst themselves.

  “So, whatcha got for us tonight, Vaughn?” Stanton asks.

  I motion to the guy on the floor. “Stalker, apparently,” I tell him, then motion to Felicity. “He’s been harassing this young lady here.”

  “I didn’t do shit,” the guy on the floor cries. “You got no reason to –”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I growl.

  I step forward and start to draw my foot back like I’m going to kick the guy in the ribs, but an arched eyebrow from Stanton makes me reconsider. Assaulting somebody in plain view of the cops isn’t usually the wisest course of action. A rueful grin touches my lips and I step back, slipping my hands into my pockets. Flores motions for Felicity to step forward and she does so – hesitantly.

  She looks down at the man, and I can see her shudder visibly – this guy definitely has her rattled. Felicity looks over at me and narrows her eyes, her jaw clenched. Her distaste for me couldn’t possibly be clearer, and it amuses me. Peter’s always said she can be a bit of a hot head.