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“Charlotte, meet Lyric, my private bodyguard.” Desmond’s words catch me off guard.
“Bodyguard?” I question. The sting of my finger falls away under my curiosity. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who needs a bodyguard.”
Lyric charges into the room and shoves Desmond aside with a ferocity meant to intimidate. What’s more, Desmond allows Lyric to move him around. “I’ve got this. You get busy making us those omelets because I’m fucking starving.” He drops to his knees before me, never breaking eye contact, as though he has an ulterior motive that my body can’t help but pick up on. The hunger in his gaze leaves me with no doubt as to what he’s really hungry for.
Illogical.
Surprising me, Desmond unbuttons his fancy shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. His hand engulfs the knife I set on the counter. He rinses off the last of the veggies before he begins chopping.
“All right, songbird,” Lyric says, grabbing my finger and laying it on my thigh. He reaches for the first aid kit, flipping it open as I study him. “Let’s check the damage.”
“If she needs stitches, grab the kit from the car,” Desmond interjects.
Lyric unwraps the paper towel soaked with my blood, his appearance toeing the line between handsome and unsettling. It’s in the depth of his eyes, in the emptiness they hold, and yet there’s an almost boyish quality about him. It’s as if, despite growing up, he never fully shed his baby face. From my vantage point, I notice that his hair, if grown out, would have barrel curls. My gaze briefly flits to the feather tattoo, tracing its path down his neck, jaw, and ear, and then I spot his septum piercing.
The man who protected me last night also had the same piercing. I wish I had examined his jewelry more closely, but it couldn’t be him, could it?
“Keep looking at me like that, songbird,” Lyric says, his gaze firmly on me, no longer carrying that dead weight. It’s replaced with something I don’t want to dissect.
“How am I looking at you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“Lyric,” Desmond interrupts before he can answer me, his voice sharp, and the running water from the sink cuts off. “Her finger.”
“Needs stitches,” Lyric concludes, rising before me. He doesn’t step back, and I swear it feels like a dance—a dangerous game he’s playing. Dressed in black jeans and a snug shirt, he moves in a way that draws me in before he exits through the front door.
“What the hell?” I mutter, struggling to shake myself out of the moment.
“Lyric has that effect on people,” Desmond remarks, not looking at me as he speaks. “To answer your question, what kind of guy did you think I was?”
“That’s answering my question with a question,” I respond, feeling a sting in my finger as I rewrap it, a reminder of the strange events unfolding around me. “I don’t know. You look like the kind of guy with secrets upon secrets, the kind of guy who gambles with secrets.”
“That would imply I’m reckless with my knowledge, and I assure you, Charlotte, I am anything but reckless,” Desmond replies, his voice rolling over me. It promises that he wouldn’t gamble. Poor choice of words.
My front door slams shut, and Lyric’s heavy, purposeful footsteps announce his arrival. This time, when he enters, his demeanor is serious, and he holds a first aid kit that in no way resembles the ones you’d find at a typical big-box store. It’s more like a doctor’s bag, and when he opens it, the interior is organized like a tackle box.
As Lyric tends to my wound, Desmond takes the opportunity to chat with me. “Let’s get back to that night. I know you witnessed Sal’s death,” Desmond begins, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to distract me from the stitches Lyric said I need. “I know what you saw. I want to know how you felt.”
It’s a strange question to ask, given the circumstances. My irritation starts to bubble up, and I almost snap at him. “I saw my boss get murdered right before my eyes. How do you think I felt?”
Lyric takes a needle out of a sterile package, and I instinctively pull my hand away from him, causing a small spill of blood to splatter on my shirt. Neither of them seems to care about my response, blatantly ignoring my question.
“I’m going to numb it,” Lyric announces, holding up his hands in a gesture of reassurance.
“How do you even know how to stitch a cut?” I inquire, cradling my hand to my chest as I glare at him. The sight of that needle doesn’t fill me with much confidence.
“Charlotte,” Desmond interjects, using my name in a soothing manner, as if he were scolding a child for fearing a doctor. “Lyric is a registered nurse. He knows what he’s doing.”
My skepticism gets the better of me, and I shake my head, laughter spilling out, despite the situation. “You? A nurse and a bodyguard? I find it hard to believe. Those are two very different occupations.”
“Why can’t I choose both?” Lyric asks, lowering his hands to rest on either side of my thighs. His fingertips graze my skin so lightly, it sends shivers through my body. “I can prove to you just how professional I am, Charlotte. Do you want that?”
The intensity of his gaze makes my entire body quiver, and I can’t deny the truth in his words. “Just do it,” I snap, offering him my hand again. I’d rather feel the sting of the needle than question why I enjoy his touch.
“Start talking, songbird,” he instructs, placing my hand on a towel and deftly opening the needle with his teeth.
“Fine,” I reply, closing my eyes and swallowing hard. I let my mind recreate that fateful night in my imagination. “Sal was on his knees, facing me, and there was a man behind him, holding a gun to our heads.”
“How did you feel?” Desmond repeats.
