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“We’ve adjusted now and I know the kids much more than I ever would have as the spare parent. But this isn’t about the kids. It’s about me and about Marsha and about how I put her in a box.”
“Quicksand pit.”
“What?”
“Quicksand. It sucks women down and steals their voices until they can’t breathe.”
“Right. So I guess I sucked her into my quicksand. The point is, Owen wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Okay. Let’s pretend for one minute that I have any interest in walking near his sand pit. Why do you think he’s different?”
“He brags about you. Gives the guys shit when you best them, which probably doesn’t help you, but he’s proud of you and wants you to succeed. His ego won’t get in his way, or yours.”
“He moved, Len. If he's so interested in boosting me up, shouldn’t he be here?”
“This is just what I’ve seen; Owen doesn't confide in me. Why don’t you ask him yourself? I have an armored car I just finished for the new Director up there. Drive to Seattle and deliver it and see what happens. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Believe me; I know.”
I look at the older man looking through a window into the office. His face softens when he looks at the kids, but I still see regret.
“Okay. When will the car be ready?”
“It’s ready now. I’ll tell the Director I’d like you to take it up. He won’t want you to go alone, but you’re sharp. I’m not worried. A nice quiet road trip might let you hear your heart.”
“You realize Owen and I really only hung out for a few weeks, right? I think you’re being dramatic, but if the car has to go up anyway, I’ll take it to make you happy.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I’m not sure what influence the Mechanic has over Norman Brand, but my father informs me I’ll be driving up to Seattle to deliver a car, like it was his idea. I act surprised by the order and head out the next morning, figuring if nothing else I’ll get to enjoy the powerful automobile and the excellent stereo Len installed. I race muscle cars and European sports cars and eat prodigious amounts of junk food driving up the I-5. Cindy, dad’s current assistant, arranged for a hotel room for me on the way up, and I arrive in Seattle two days later later, prickly from road rage and bloated from gas station food.
I drive to the new C.I. branch in Seattle, which is south of downtown with quick access to the freeway and the airport. As do all the branches, the building has a few suites for visiting clients, detainees being transported, new hires, and visitors from other branches. I get the key to my room from the front desk intern, who looks not a day over 15, and go up to my room. The entire facility is in a plain-looking building, but the inside has been remodeled to be light and spacious, including my comfortable suite. Our syndicate clients who end up staying up here sometimes like their little luxuries, luckily for me.
This branch has the garage right across the street, and I stand at my window—okay, I hide partially behind the drapes—and look down at the open bays. I see a familiar bulky figure approach the armored car I parked in the garage lot, then he looks around at street level. When he doesn’t see a driver, he looks up toward my window, where I duck behind the curtain, nerves freezing me here.
What if he thinks I followed him up here like a clinger? I mean, I kind of did. Maybe I can just stay up here for the night, then get a cab to the airport and fly home without even coming into contact with him. The bold plan I concocted on the drive up, to explain to him that it wasn’t personal and he didn’t need to run nearly to Canada, dissolves at the sight of his messy brown hair under the thin Seattle sun.
I’m an idiot. He has no doubt put me straight out of his mind—some girl he hung out with and made it to third base with a few times. Fun, until she turned cold. I plop down on the bed to mope, and I’m not sure how long I sit sulking before my door thuds against its frame.
“Elizabeth.” God his voice is deep. A shiver runs through me from head to toe and my ears buzz. I decide California cool is the right play here and open the door just as he’s about to knock again. He nearly knocks on my face, then he glares at me fiercely.
“Oh, hey, Owen. I thought I might see you here. Len mentioned you transferred up.” I’m surprised how breezy my voice sounds, but I immediately see he’s not buying it. He leans on the frame, filling my doorway with smug brawn while I fall into his dimples. Ugh, he’s insufferable. I open my mouth to tell him so, but before I can say anything, he wraps his giant hand around the back of my neck and he pulls me up to mold his mouth to mine. After punishing my mouth until I’m breathless, he eases back to a slow, thorough kiss that leaves my knees weak and head spinning. I try to keep up but am hopelessly out of my depth, my brain gone and my libido running the show. When he leans back, I fall forward and face plant into his powerful chest. With one hand wrapped around my lower back, he lifts my chin with the other so he can catch my gaze.
“Hi,” he says solemnly.
“Hi,” I say back breathily, sounding like nothing so much as a high school girl crushing on the quarterback. I may as well twirl my hair around my finger and giggle.
“Can we talk later? I have something I really need to do right now.”
I feel my expression fall. “Oh, sure. I’ll just wait here and…” I wave helplessly at the television. “Or maybe go find dinner.”
“I didn’t say I was going anywhere,” he says gravely.
My voice is faint when I inquire, “Oh?” Jesus, Elizabeth. Pull it together. “But you said you have something you need to do?”
“I do. But it’s right here.” With that, he slings me easily over his shoulder—something I have never, ever experienced—crosses to the bed, and throws me on the springy mattress. I bounce a good foot, and by the time I’ve stopped bouncing his boots and shirt are off and his jeans are halfway undone.
I’ve lost my ability to speak—hell, to think—as I watch dumbly. He stops and gestures at my clothed body, as if to say, “Well?”
Witless, I comply and start unbuttoning my shirt in a daze. This wasn’t what I expected when I drove up. I’m not sure what I did expect, but it involved more staring and awkward conversation. I came up for closure. Apparently, I was confused, because closing is the exact opposite of what this brutish man has in mind. He tears my rose-printed black blouse open in one swift movement, sending buttons flying. At the sight of my naked breasts, he freezes and mumbles, “Just like my dream,” then he falls on me like a starving beast. After a brief tussle, we’re both naked and I finally see his heavy cock in its full glory. Unrestrained and angry-looking, it threatens my poor, underutilized pussy.
