Page 14 of Rent an Enforcer

The sound of buzzing makes me lunge for my phone, sitting on my nightstand. Normally, I would know exactly what to expect. Who to expect. There’s nothing normal about my life lately.

Stella: Okay but what’s your opinion on turtles?

It’s been this way for days now. We have an ongoing conversation; dozens of texts exchanged late into the night and first thing in the morning. She’s doing her damnedest to get to know me better, and I’m trying like hell to keep her education safe. Limited. No matter how much I find myself wanting to share, wishing for maybe the first time in my life that I could be normal.

Me: Not a fan.

Stella: Thank you! Everyone acts like I’m crazy!

Now she knows I don’t like turtles. She also knows that for some inexplicable reason, I don’t care for penne. I don’t know why. There’s something about the shape I don’t like. I enjoy lemon on my seafood but can’t stand lemon-flavored pastries or pie. The very small, inconsequential pieces of a person’s life. She’s been gathering them, probably keeping a list of my likes and dislikes.

I lower myself to the edge of my bed, blinking against the morning sunshine that insists on flooding every corner of the room. My house is small, but I don’t need much space, situated on the east corner of Dorian’s property. It’s mostly empty since I don’t own much and have never seen the point in hoarding possessions the way some people do. I barely use the kitchen since Ms. Beaumont provides most of my meals, the ones Quinn doesn’t cook herself. The sightlines are good. I can see the front gate from the kitchen window and have a clear view of the back access road from where I’m currently seated, directly across from the window.

For the first time since I moved in—maybe for the first time ever—my home feels empty, rather than just being empty. For the first time, I wish there was someone else here to fill it with light and life.

Stella: Also, when am I seeing you again?

Stella: Not to be weird about it.

Stella: Okay, it’s a little weird.

She texts the way she talks: fast, no filter, jumping between subjects. Yesterday, she sent a picture of the painting she’d started working on before I left her apartment. It was finished, or close to it, and she wanted to show off. The day before, she sent me a picture of Socks chewing a lettuce leaf and looking deeply pleased with himself.

And what was I doing when that text came through? Something that left me needing to wipe the blood off my hands before I pulled my phone from my pocket. Let’s put it that way.

When she isn’t asking pointless questions, she’s asking very pointed ones. What part of the city do you live in? How long have you worked in security? Do you ever get days off?

She’s putting pieces together. The picture she’s building has gaps in it, though, and she’ll notice eventually. I’ve been dodging, giving her just enough to keep her satisfied without actually telling her anything. It’s a skill I’m good at. Misdirection. Giving people the answer they want instead of the one that’s true. I’ve done it my whole career.

And until now, it’s never bothered me.

I put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again. Finally, I settle on a reply.

Me: Soon.

She deserves more than one word, but giving her more than a single word means I would have to explain why I haven’t come over. The explanation is sitting on the ends of my fists in split skin and purple bruises.

Stella: You better mean that, Gray!

Stella: Socks is starting to forget what you look like.

Stella: He asked me who that large man was the other day. Very sad.

I almost smile until I look at my hands, and the impulse dissolves.

I know what I am. Who I am. I also know I held her face in my hands three days ago before using my hands for other things that made her fall to pieces. I also know I would like very much to make her do that again.

But what I don’t know is whether she would want me to touch her if she knew where the damage to my hands came from. I pocket the phone before heading across the property to the main house. It’s a clear morning, cool, the gravel crunching under my shoes. Two of the guys stand by the garage, smoking, and they nod when I pass. I nod back. This is how it works. Everybody knows their place; everybody does their job. I’ve been part of this machine for ten years, working my way up, and I’m good at it. I understand it. It makes sense in a way the rest of the world doesn’t.

Stella doesn’t make sense. That’s the problem. She showed up, and now there’s a part of my day that doesn’t fit inside the machine, and I don’t know what to do with that.

Dorian’s study is at the rear of the house, past the entryway which Quinn has filled with plants that are somehow still alive even though she forgets to water them. I’m sure Ms. Beaumont has something to do with that. I hear Lillie upstairs singing something off-key, the way she does every morning. I’ve known the kid since she was a baby and would kill for her without thinking about it. I’d kill for Quinn, too, though she would probably prefer I didn’t phrase it that way.

Dorian is behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his laptop. He doesn’t look up when I enter. “You’re late,” he announces.

“I’m not late.” I check the time on my phone. “It’s barely past ten.”

“Which is late for you.” He glances at my hands, taking in the damage. “Sit. Let’s catch up.”