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It's almost pitch black in my room but I can still see his tall frame at my bedside.
“No, nothing's happened.” He goes over to the armoire and pulls open the doors, gathers some of my clothes and passes them to me. “Everything's fine.”
On alert, I slip out of bed in my pajamas—a gray spaghetti strap top with shorts. I rub my eyes in an attempt to gather my wits and then I see the time. I sigh with frustration. Who the fuck gets up at four thirtyA.M.unless it's work related?
“If everything's okay, why do you want me up so early, Charlie?”
“BecauseIwant tohave breakfast with you and this is the time I eat in the mornings.”
Puzzled, I reach for the clothes in his arms, carefully studying him. He doesn't seem uneasy or fidgety, so I'm almost certain nothing has happened. He gives me his best smile as I stare at him, one that makes me feel warm all over.
“Chop, chop,” he says in a playful manner, gesturing for the bathroom.
I'm not sure what to make of his intensions but I go with the flow. I'm too tired to do anything else right now.
While he's pacing around my bedroom in black joggers and a black v-neck t-shirt, reading a message on his mobile, I get dressed. I brush my teeth in the bathroom and change my sanitary towel, and when I'm ready, follow him through the house.
It's dark in the entrance hall and so quiet I could hear a pin drop. I glance out the windows on either side of the front doors. The sky is presidential blue with a glowing pink moon—or the sun.
What is with this man and early mornings?
In the kitchen, I'm greeted with an arsenal of chocolate scattered across the dining table, a few newspapers and a pen for the crosswords.
“To keep you occupied,” Charlie says, tapping a finger against the table where the newspapers are. He then pulls out a chair and as I sit, he pushes me against the table.
“You didn't have to go out of your way to buy me more chocolate.” I feel at fault just looking at it all.
“I know,” he whispers from behind, “but I want you happy and well.”
I don't really know what to say about that, so I don't say anything at all.
He wanders into the kitchen's alcove cooking space and whips up some scrambled eggs on toast with warm maple syrup, and then we eat sitting opposite each other like we usually do. I'm a little on edge about his behavior/mood but he seems to be as happy as a clam at high water. He asks how I'm feeling this morning, if I've got a stomach ache. I tell him I'm fine, spreading butter across my toast. “I don't really get stomach aches.”
“That's good then,” he says, his eyes glittering with something as he looks at me from over his coffee cup, having a mouthful. “I think this time of the month suits you. You've got a nice pink tint to your cheeks.”
Wrinkling my nose, I focus on my breakfast, striving to ignore his weird mood but it's very hard. This is a new side to Charlie I've not met before.
Once we've finished with breakfast, he clears up. I aim to get up from the table so I can go back to my room for a few more hours of sleep but he orders me to stay put. “I want you to sit with me again today while I work.”
My face screws up with bafflement. “Why? Surely you don't want me-”
“Sit down, Blaire,” he points at my chair, “I want you down here with me, not locked away in your room until lunch comes.”
His tone of voice is clipped and demanding, so I do as I'm told right then, lower onto the chair without questioning him further.
After he's cleaned up the kitchen, he returns to the table with a coffee for us both and begins 'working'. Keeping a chary eye on him, I execute the crossword puzzles in the newspapers and read the headline stories. He makes over a dozen calls and leaves the kitchen for a few that I assume he doesn't want me prying in on, but I still learn a lot about him today. I'm not sneakily listening in on his conversations but I can't exactly avoid hearing what he says—he's sitting right next to me now. Charlie sells human army details—well, the army details are for hire—and he charges a fortune. For ten men to execute a job it's ten-million English pounds and whoever is buying doesn't bat an eyelid because there are no negotiations. I think Charlie even sells himself as a soldier but I'm not too sure. That part of the conversation isn't so clear cut because I zone out when he touches my hand, asking if I want another coffee.
“Yeah, sure.” I forcefully smile at him as he begins across the kitchen, a question niggling away at me. “Charlie?” his name is out of my mouth before I can stop myself—I'm blaming everything on my period.
From the kitchen space, he faces me.
“Aren't you worried I'll hear something I shouldn't? You know, with you speaking in front of me?”
He laughs at me. “Who you gonna tell, Blaire?” He pours out the coffees with steady motions. “Maksim?”
“I wouldn't tell Maksim any of your business,” I spit out, illogically affronted, “even if he asks me.” And that's the utter truth. I know Maksim will ask about what's been going on with Charlie, but for some reason, deep down, I know I won't tell him about Charlie's business. It's not mine to tell.
Charlie is stunned by my snappy retort. He looks right at me, wonder flashing in his eyes. The atmosphere freezes between us. I don't break eye contact. Sitting tensely in my chair, I hold his executed stare.
