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“Yeah, great. You?”
“Good.” I stare up at a hydraulic arm of a machine, where blood stains the metal, my brain beginning to whirl, my old eyes searching for more.
No.
God, no.
I turn and walk away. “Great to see you, Jed,” I say to the ground, refusing to relent to my curious mind. Refusing to go there. Refusing to be lured back by a damn good mystery. It used to fuel me. Inspire me. The unknown. My curiosity. But that’s not where I can allow my head to go. I’m no longer a cop. No longer an upcoming FBI agent. I’m just a painter, and James Kelly is today’s mystery. He’s a safe bet for my attention. The FBI is not.
I get out of Dolly and admire her for a few moments. Good old Reg. He’s even polished her rusty paintwork. “If I could take your keys,” the pierced, bearded guy says as he joins me on the sidewalk.
“Why?”
“You’ll get a ticket there, Beau. I can put it in the parking garage.”
“There’s a parking garage?” I ask, handing him my keys.
“Underground.” He slides into Dolly and starts her engine. Her new, non-banging engine.
“What’s your name?” I ask, watching as he yanks and pulls at the stick shift.
“Otto.”
“Thanks, Otto.” I look up the face of the building to the very top. The glass box that’s perched atop is hardly visible.
Otto chugs off in Dolly, and I enter the lobby to find Goldie by the open elevator. “Waiting for me?” I ask as I approach her.
She says nothing, holding the doors open, and the moment I’m inside the elevator, she keys in a code and sends me to the glass apartment. My cell chimes, and I look down to see a text from Ollie. Sounds about right that he’s just gotten home from a callout.
It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger. x
A stranger is exactly what I am. I’m not the Beau he met. In fact, I’m sure he would hate the woman I’ve become. I don’t reply, not wanting to fuel any lingering feelings he might have. Might? I shouldn’t have accepted his offer of coffee. It was cruel and selfish, but in that moment, I was a robot, and I was happy to be stripped of all control. To not think. To have the long-lost feeling of a man’s arms around me. And now I’ll pay for it.
More guilt.
When the doors of the elevator open, I scan the space, bracing myself for another day suffocating in James Kelly’s presence. I head up the stairs, pass the bedrooms, and enter his office. He’s already at his desk, every screen on the wall alive, a coffee in his hand. He gives me his eyes for a few moments before returning his gaze to the TVs. No hello. Nothing. I’m good with that.
I get my ladder out and set it up, climbing to the top and pulling off an encasement on another spotlight. I look across at him when I feel my skin being licked by the flames of his stare. He’s lost interest in the TV.
I descend the steps. Move the ladder. Climb back to the top. Remove another encasement.
I glance at him again. He’s still watching.
On an inhale, I descend, shift the ladder, climb back to the top, and remove another spotlight, my teeth now grating. Don’t bite. We’re adults playing a childish game of who can stand this tension for the longest. He’s won. I admit it. He won days ago. “Stop it,” I breathe.
“Stop what?”
“Looking.” I take the steps back down and lean on the ladder, facing him. “Stop looking at me.”
“Why, does it make you uncomfortable?”
My eyes narrow. “No, it just pisses me off.”
He smirks. “I’m just wondering why you’re going up and down that ladder like a yoyo”—he motions to the steps I’m leaning on— “when we both know you have a faster way to remove those spotlights.”
I scowl at him.
His face remains impassive. Thoughtful. Accusing. It shouldn’t be attractive. And yet here I am, attracted.
“Got any other tricks up your sleeve, Beau Hayley?”
“I was a champion gymnast until I was eighteen.” It’s the truth. I won’t tell him that I also aced karate, judo, and kickboxing.
“Interesting,” he muses.
“Why? Why is it interesting, James?” I’m done. He’s exhausted me, worn me down. I feel like I need a big argument with him to clear the air.
He stands slowly and rounds his glass desk, coming toward me. I’d back away, but my body locks up. I’d breathe, but my lungs have shrunk. And then he’s close, his dress shirt pushed into my chest, breathing down on me. I look up. I inhale. God, he smells so good. Spicy. Creamy. Manly. “Why is it interesting?” I ask, my words quiet but firm.
He gives me a few moments of the warmth of his chest before he breaks away, retreating. “Did you have a nice evening last night?” His question comes out of the blue, and I’m as confused as fuck by it. Why does he care?
