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I stand, my arms full, and he slowly unfolds his body from the floor. “Space,” he says quietly. “I was just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” I rip my stare from his and will my feet into action, and he lazily turns his body as I pass him. Goosebumps. Jesus, my skin is alive with them, every hair standing on end.
The crazy pace of my heart isn’t helping me as I take the stairs, the sheer bangs threatening to knock everything out of my hold. I make it to his office and take a few needed inhales. I’m all over the place. Rickety. Unstable. But it’s a different variation of unstable. I’m more warped than I ever thought possible to endure this. To tolerate the tense atmosphere. And, worse, welcome it? It’s a whole new level of fucked up.
I hold my foot out and release the roll of sandpaper from my grip, catching it on the toe of my Converse and lowering it to the floor. Then I lift my foot higher, releasing the pot of undercoat so it rests perfectly on the top of my foot. I lower that to the floor too, my balance, as always, faultless. With my hands now less crowded, I’m able to crouch and set everything else down. Focus on work. I collect another drop cloth and flap it out, and it wafts into the air, before drifting down and coming to rest on the floor. He’s at the door. Watching. This is getting plain uncomfortable. Did he just invite me here to make me feel awkward? “What?”
He blinks. “Nothing.” Heading for his desk, he slides a palm onto his nape, rubbing a little. “I’ll leave you to get on.”
Yes. Please do. And leave the room too.
But he doesn’t, and I’m left to do my thing, feeling like I’m in a glass display cabinet, which is ironic, because I am.
And everyone knows, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
The rest of the day passes by in a haze of constant and consistent unease as I prep—sanding, soaping, and wiping, ensuring all the surfaces are smooth and free from debris. I fight the urge to respond to him each time I feel him staring. And fail. Which leaves endless occasions when we catch each other’s eye. I always look away first, struggling with the intensity that he seems to laugh in the face of.
By the end of the day, I’m mentally exhausted by his behavior, and also by the relentless questions circling my head. What does he do, why all the security, who the hell is he? I haven’t achieved half as much work as I should have.
I turn to face him where he’s sitting at his glass desk, and he looks across to me. He appears as perfect now as he did first thing this morning. He reaches for the lid of his laptop and slowly shuts it. Eyes on mine. I tilt my head, studying him. I’m a grown woman, and yet James is making me feel like a clueless little girl. I shake my head in despair and break our eye contact, pushing my things into the corner. “Do you want me to move all this out of the room overnight?”
“Leave them,” he says, getting up, rising to his full, intimidating height, regarding me closely. “Have you decided whether you hate me or want to fuck me?”
“No, not yet,” I lie, heading for the door.
“Oh. Do you think you’ll figure it out anytime soon?”
“Why, am I driving you as insane as you’re driving me?” I look back over my shoulder.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly, his eyes dropping down the full length of my body. My skin beneath my clothes heats. “Goldie will drive you home.”
“I would rather walk.” I tilt my head. “Clear my mind. Warm up for my run tonight. Have a good evening, James.”
“I will,” he says quietly.
I leave his glass paradise not certain of much, except James will certainly have a good evening.
And I will spend mine wrestling with my sensibility.
12
JAMES
I watch her leave, reaching to the back of my trousers and pulling out my Beretta, laying it on my desk. What the fuck am I getting myself into? I grab the remote control and bring up all the cameras on the screens, and I study her closely making her escape from my apartment. I release air, inflating my cheeks, and rake a hand through my hair. I’ve done zero research today. At least, I’ve researched nothing I should be researching. Instead, I’ve trawled the Internet and various restricted case files to find out anything I could about Beau Hayley. Yes, she was in the vicinity when her mum’s car exploded. No, I didn’t feel particularly good about that. But in my world, there’s no room for guilt or attachment. I only find out what I need to know. I didn’t need to know much about Jaz Hayley’s daughter, just enough to make Jaz believe I knew a lot. But now I do know a lot. I know she’s haunted, lonely, bereft.
