Best Friend's Sister

by R. R. Banks

  “And you have commitment issues,” he chides me. “You have since college.”

  “Since before that,” I snap back. “Probably because my daddy didn’t hug me enough.”

  Peter sits back in the booth and laughs as the waitress sets a fresh round of drinks down for us. The music is playing, but it’s low enough that the buzz of conversation is louder. This is our usual meeting spot for that very reason – we can carry on an actual conversation without having to shout to be heard.

  Peter picks up his mug and takes a drink, eyeballing me over the rim the whole time. I can see his mind working – I don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to know what the next words out of his mouth are going to be.

  “When are you going to settle down, Knox?”

  “Wow. It’s almost like I’m psychic,” I muse. “Maybe my next business venture should be opening one of those psychic hotlines. From what I hear, they’re gold mines.”

  “I’m serious, man. I think having some stability and affection in your life would be a good thing.”

  I give him a roguish grin. “I’m very stable,” I insist. “Affection usually costs me a couple hundred bucks an hour.”

  “It’s kind of comforting to know how little some things change,” he laughs, shaking his head. “If you ever started taking things seriously, I might think the world was about to spin off its axis.”

  I spread my hands wide. “I do what I can to make sure the world keeps on spinning.”

  Peter takes a drink of his beer, and I see the expression on his face change. His smile slips and a darker, more serious expression asserts itself. I can tell there’s something on his mind and whatever it is, it’s pretty heavy.

  “What is it, Peter? You okay?”

  He furrows his brow. “Listen, a couple of years back, I seem to remember you starting up a security company or something –”

  I nod. “Yeah, private investigation and personal security. Still going strong and growing.”

  “You do bodyguarding type work?”

  “Yeah, when we can squeeze it in between chasing down all of the cheating husbands and wives. You wouldn’t believe how many people want dirt on their spouse and are willing to pay top dollar for it. It’s hilarious,” I laugh. “But yeah, we handle personal security – why, you got an issue? One of your crazy clients threatening you or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” his voice grows a little harder. “It’s Felicity. She’s apparently got a stalker.”

  I lean back in my seat again. “A stalker, huh? An ex-boyfriend or something?”

  Peter shakes his head. “I wish it were that easy,” he grumbles. “No, might be an obsessed fan or something.”

  “Fan?”

  “Yeah – oh, you didn’t know she’s a writer, did you?” he questions.

  “You told me she did some writing when we were back in college, sure.”

  “Well, she’s hitting the big time now. Speaking engagements, TV and magazine interviews, book signings – the works,” he explains. “And somewhere along the way, she picked up a stalker.”

  I like to read and have my favorite writers, but it would have never occurred to me to become so obsessed with them that I’d actually stalk them. That just seems completely freakish to me. But then, when Peter slides his phone across the table to me. I see the picture of the two of them he’d pulled up – a selfie of them at Disneyland – I get it. She’s a pretty girl – a pretty girl who’s something of a public figure now. And that combination draws the fucking crazies out of the woodwork like shit draws flies.

  I look back up at Peter and see the expression of worry etched into his features. See the light of stark fear in his eyes. I’ve long known his sister is his world. He thinks the sun rises and sets on the girl. Always has. In a lot of ways, it’s almost like he’s assumed a parenting role when it comes to Felicity. It makes sense, given they were pretty young when their parents died – but then, he’s the big-time shrink, not me. He’d be better qualified to diagnose that particular condition.

  All that matters to me in that moment is my friend is scared – and I’m in a position to help assuage that fear.

  “How serious is it?” I ask.

  “Serious enough that it’s rattled the hell out of her,” he answers. “She came running into my office the other day because the creep had followed her from the coffee house where she works sometimes.”

  I take a sip of my beer. “Has he done anything overtly provocative? Tried to grab her or anything?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Peter admits. “Not yet anyway. And I want to keep it from getting to that point if at all possible.”

  “Copy that.”

  I’m aware that people see me as a guy who takes nothing seriously and seems content to party my way through life. And I’m more than happy to let them keep that perception of me. I honestly don’t give a shit what people think of me.

  If they want to think I’m just some trust-fund idiot, it’s no skin off my nose and only leads to them underestimating me. And when people underestimate you, no matter what situation you’re in, the advantage is always yours – and I like having the high ground on people.

  I did six years in the Corps, and what people don’t see is that razor keen edge that life in the service honed within me. While it was probably true at one time, I was content to live the lavish lifestyle of a trust fund baby, throwing money hand over fist just to have a good time, the Corps changed something fundamental within me.

  Now, I live my life to the fullest because the Corps taught me just how fragile life can be – and how precious it is. I saw combat as a Marine – not nearly as much as some, but more than others. And I saw men die. They were there one minute, talking and laughing, and then just like that, they were gone the next.

  Seeing death up close and personal gave me a profound respect for life and made it more imperative for me to enjoy every last second, because you never knew when your ticket was going to be punched.

  It’s also my experience from the Corps – more specifically, my time as an MP within the Corps – that led me to start Black Moon Investigations and Security. While with the MPs, I learned how to run criminal investigations, but also to essentially be a bodyguard. We not only rooted out crimes and corruption but worked as human shields for dignitaries and other VIPs. Both sides of that experience – the protective and the investigative – prepared me for this job.

  And that experience is also why it seemed natural to me to start something like Black Moon – something that can help people. Yeah, I have fun doing what I’m doing. Maybe I’m a little more glib about it than is appropriate, but despite Haley’s belief that I started Black Moon on a whim just because it sounded fun and cool to say I’m a PI, I actually have not just the experience, but legit reasons for doing it.

  Reasons like the man sitting before me right now – a man scared to death for his sister.

  “And how does she feel about having a security detail?”

  A rueful smile touches Peter’s lips. “Yeah, about that…”

  “She doesn’t like the idea. Obviously.”

  “Not only doesn’t like it, flat out refused to take on one,” Peter admits, then takes a sip of his beer.

  I nod. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

  “Because her safety is more important to me than anything,” he explains. “If something happened to her because she was too damn stubborn –”

  “Sounds like a Manson family trait,” I cut him off and laugh.

  He smiles but says nothing for a long moment. Playing security for somebody who doesn’t want a detail is trickier than a straight-up job for obvious reasons. But I understand why Peter is worried. In this day and age, with people as fucked up and cracked out as they are, they get some really fucked up notions in their heads.

  For all we know, Felicity looked at this guy and smiled – and he took that as a declaration of love. For all we know, he might have their whole relationship playing out
in his head already and is just waiting for the chance to snatch her up and make that fantasy a reality.

  Like I said, people today are seriously fucked up. I think Peter’s right to be concerned.

  “Listen, I don’t know what the deal is. This may just be a case of my sister being paranoid,” he confesses. “It’s possible she’s just jumping at shadows here, Knox.”

  “But the possibility that she may not be jumping at shadows or maybe isn’t so paranoid is probably worth checking out,” I respond. “You just never know about people today, man. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “That’s kind of what I was thinking too,” he says, his voice tight. “Which is why I’d like to unofficially hire you since she’s got another speaking engagement coming up. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I knew somebody was there keeping an eye on her.”

  “I just need the details of where she’s going to be speaking,” I tell him. “I’ll check things out and see if I can spot this assbag who’s harassing her.”

  “And if you do?”

  I flash him a predatory grin. “Then he and I are going to have a chat,” I growl. “And I can promise you that he’s not going to bother your sister again.”

  There’s a look of genuine relief on his face that’s good to see. Most of these stalker guys are just little punks who need to be smacked back into reality. Most of them need to be smacked several times, and I am more than happy to provide my services in that regard.

  “I really appreciate it, Knox.”

  I wave him off. “We’re friends, man. Hell, we’re practically family, Peter,” I say. “I’ve got your back, brother.”

  His smile is filled with a sense of relief. “Just do me a favor and blend into the crowd,” he urges. “I don’t want Felicity to know –”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry, man. I’ll be like a ninja,” I assure him. “She’ll never even know I’m there.”

  His smile is a bit uncertain – which I get. I’m six-foot-two and have the body of a linebacker. The Corps taught me the value of size and strength, though I’m not bulky like a bodybuilder. I’m leaner, but still have a pretty cut and chiseled body. I do sometimes tend to stand out in a crowd. But what makes me good at what I do is that I’m also able to avoid being seen – a gift you wouldn’t expect from me. But I can be stealthy as hell when I need to be.

  “She’ll kill me if she knows I went behind her back like this.”

  “Or she’ll be grateful. Especially if it ends up saving her life.”

  “Maybe. But I’d rather not find out which it’d be,” he presses. “She can’t know you’re there to babysit.”

  “Don’t sweat a thing, bro,” I tell him. “I’ve got you covered. She’ll never even know I’m there.”

  He looks at me a long moment, then nods his head. “I appreciate you doing this, Knox.”

  “That’s what friends are for, man,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

  Felicity

  “Do you think this is ever going to get easier?” I ponder. “Do you think I’ll ever not feel like I’m going to throw up before going out there?”

  “Oh God, I hope not,” Maura grins. “You need to keep that edge. You need to stay hungry. The day you stop feeling that tension is the day you need to hang it up, dear girl. This industry – and those people out there – will forget all about you the day you lose that hunger and start taking things for granted.”

  What she says makes perfect sense. I get it. But does that mean I’m going to be doing these Q&A’s for the rest of my life? I mean, on the one hand, I love them. I love meeting the people, and love that they come out to support me. Their loyalty and encouragement mean the world to me. They really do.

  On the other hand, public speaking will always be stressful. Being up in front of a group, putting on a performance for them, when all I want to do is retreat to a dark room and bang out more words for them to enjoy, is nerve wracking. I kind of feel like the monkey dancing to the organ grinder’s tune for a few cents.

  But, it’s all part and parcel of the game. I may not enjoy the rules, but I still have to play by them. Which I guess makes me kind of a hypocrite or something, since I want the fame and adulation without having to perform for it.

  As I peek out at the crowd through the window set into the door, I feel the adrenaline inside of me start to flow a bit more. My heart picks up its pace and is beating a bit harder, and my palms are already growing clammy and moist.

  “You know, I don’t think this is quite the edge you think it is, Maura.”

  “No? Then what is it?”

  I turn and give her a grin. “Crippling fear? Self-doubt? Insecurity, perhaps?”

  “And perhaps all of those things combine to give you that edge. They certainly all fuel the hunger – and the belief that you’re not good enough,” she lectures. “And that my dear, will keep you sharp as a razor’s edge as long as you let it. Because if there’s one thing I know about you it’s that you are a competitor at heart. You will always strive to be the best.”

  That much is very true. Maybe it’s in the blood. My brother always had to be the best when he was playing football. He never settled for anything but maximum effort and domination. Doesn’t mean he always succeeded – obviously, given the fact that he didn’t make the pros – but he believed in shooting for the very top.

  I have that same burning desire inside of me, too. I want to be the very best that can be. I want people discussing my works years, maybe even decades from now, the way we discuss Agatha Christie or Daphne du Maurier today.

  “It’s time,” Maura prods me. “Get on out there.”

  “Do I have to, Mom?”

  Maura laughs. “If you’re good, we’ll get you some ice cream afterward.”

  I flash her a grin. Pushing through the doors, I step out into the large room hosting our engagement tonight. Like the last one, it’s a large conference type room set across from the coffee house on the bottom floor of the bookstore. Unlike the last one, it’s the actual basement of the bookstore. But to be fair, it’s a clean and well-decorated basement.

  When I step out onto the small platform, the audience gives me a rousing round of applause. My stomach flutters, then lurches. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat as I fight back a wave of nervous nausea. The crowd is slightly larger than the last one. The sight of all those faces sends a wave of nerves flooding through me.

  I step up to the lectern and give them all a warm smile I hope doesn’t look too forced or phony. Scanning the crowd, I do my best to gather my wits about me enough that I don’t sound like a complete idiot up here.

  “Good evening everybody,” I begin. “Thanks so much for coming out. I appreciate you being here with us tonight.”

  I wait for everybody to settle into their seats and get comfortable before I begin. As all eyes turn my way, everybody ready to begin, the wave of nausea that surges through me is powerful and nearly takes my legs out from under me. I give myself a mental pat on the back for managing to hold onto the lectern and keep my balance.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “Tonight, I thought we’d begin by reading a few selected pages from my forthcoming book – the sequel to Obsidian Fields.”

  Given that interest in Obsidian continues to be so strong, Maura thought it would be a good idea to tease the next book as a way to ramp up the interest, thereby ramping up pre-sales in advance of the release. Not that I know much about the business side of things, it sounds like a good idea. And it makes me glad that I have somebody like Maura working for me, since she knows the business side of it inside and out, leaving me completely free to focus on the creative side of things.

  My announcement is met with thunderous applause. I have to wait until everybody is settled down before I can begin my reading. And when I do, the attention of the entire room is riveted to me. All eyes and attention are focused on me tightly, everybody hanging on my every word. I hate to tell them that what they’re hea
ring may or may not even be in the final version of the book. This is the raw material I’m reading, and it’s going to be run through the threshing machine of edits, which means that all of this may end up on the editing room floor – metaphorically speaking.

  Maura doesn’t seem to think it matters. Her argument is that people like to feel exclusive and in the know. They like to feel as if they’re getting a sneak peek at things before anybody else. That it somehow makes them feel special. She can sometimes be a cynical woman.

  I don’t know if I agree with the argument. I kind of view it like movie trailers. In some movie trailers, we sometimes see some great clips that get us all fired up for the film. But when the film comes out and we don’t see those scenes that got us fired up in the first place, it leaves us a little disappointed on some levels. And the last thing I want to do is leave my readers feeling that way.

  Or maybe I’m just overthinking it all. I’ve been known to do that from time to time.

  As I read, I’m overwhelmed by that same hair-prickling-on-the-back-of-my-neck sensation I got in the coffee house the other day – the sensation of being observed. And even though I know there are sixty-five or seventy people in the room completely focused on me, the feeling is different. It’s not the feeling of having people hanging on my every word. It’s the feeling of being watched.

  It’s hard to define or explain, but the people here for the reading and the book signing are seeing me. But they’re not watching me. There’s a difference to be had. Even though expressing myself through words is how I make a living, that gift is failing me in the moment. I have no words to differentiate the two. All I can say is that one is creepy, and the other is not.

  I look up from the page before me, casting furtive glances around the room. I don’t see anybody at first blush, but I know he’s out there. I can feel him. Ballcap guy. Between the standing crowd and the large bookcases – not to mention the small crowd sitting in the coffee house – I can’t pick him out. It doesn’t help that I don’t know what his face actually looks like. I find myself scanning for a hoodie or a ballcap – and see neither.