No Time for Caution

by K. T. Samois

  “Nothing, Ree,” she says. “Don’t be so paranoid.”

  It isn’t derision in her voice, but it’s close.

  Ree pulls herself up to her full height. She’s tall for a woman, but too willowy to have much hope of being intimidating. He can imagine her growing into regality, though. Her gaze is brutally direct. “What business of yours is it what I say to Hardin?” Ree’s voice is terse.

  Roisin scoffs. “I think it’s good that you’re talking to actual people and not wandering around with your face stuffed between the pages of some book.”

  Ree’s lips have gone white from how tightly she’s pressing them together. Her other sisters have fallen silent; Hardin rests his hand on the small of Ree’s back and feels every muscle taut as a bowstring.

  “I don’t judge your taste in women, Roisin,” Ree snaps. “I’d appreciate the same consideration. Just because you don’t approve of whom I date doesn’t mean you can act like a dick to my boyfriend. I won’t let you. Apologize to Hardin.”

  “But-” Ro starts, only to be interrupted mid-bitch by Oisin Araby.

  “Roisin Nessa Araby, you will not insult a guest in this family’s home. Apologize, now.” There’s a military snap to it, and Ree can feel Hardin’s hand spasm in hers.

  “I apologize,” Roisin says, tone sullen, and Riona bares her teeth in a snarl. It’s nowhere near enough, and their parents seem to agree, because a scalpel-sharp look from Doctor Araby has Roisin squirming. Ree doesn’t relax until she’s seen Hardin nod.

  “I appreciate the apology.”

  Which is not the same as accepting it, Ree notes, and wonders how many insults he’s had to endure during training. The thought of this being just another gauntlet for him to endure makes her mad as a bag of wet cats. Just as Ree’s bristling up for another blast of criticism, Niamh’s voice breaks the gunslinger silence like a shotgun.

  “I think it’s a good idea that Roisin go set the table, and then find some homework to do.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “Then grade some of your father’s’.” Niamh’s tone brooks no argument. Roisin shoots her twin a baleful look, but moves towards the dining room with loping strides.

  That’s alright, Ree thinks, already plotting. I’ll get her back.

  She bides her time until dinner interrupts a game of Scrabble that has Moira insisting to Roisin that ZAX is a word. They use the formal dining room and the cream-coloured linens Dad likes for holidays, with the Galway weave china he favours on special occasions. There are even fresh white tulips on the table, green stems cheerful and fresh in their squat little vases.

  Hardin sits at her side.

  The moment the meal begins, Ree indulges herself by making Roisin uncomfortable. She’s the picture of composure the entire meal, engaging Hardin and her less-obnoxious relatives in polite conversation. Ree’s solicitous of Hardin, ensuring he has everything he needs. She fills his plate with the choicest cuts, and although her hands never disappear below the table for long, her foot stays tightly hooked around Hardin’s ankle.

  Ree makes eye contact with Roisin once during the meal; when she does, she holds it. Roisin drops it first. Hardin notices, and Ree sees his jaw clench as he bites back a smile.

  It makes all this worth it.

  ***

  The rest of the evening passes without major incident, and Hardin’s surprised to realize that he’s enjoying himself.

  It takes until the cheese course to relax after Roisin’s opening salvo. An excellent glass of whiskey and conversation gradually win him over. By the end of the evening, he and Oisin have a companionable debate going on the finer points of battlefield strategy, and Ree is back to her usual equilibrium. When Oisin walks the two of them back to the front door, dusk has fallen. Hardin’s surprised to be sorry the evening’s over.

  “Ree, we’ll see you both next Sunday?”

  Hardin struggles to keep his face from giving anything away. Even with all his effort, his eyes do still widen in surprise. Ree cuts a look up at him, and shell-shocked though he may be, Hardin knows how to work through a barrage.

  “I’m available — Riona?”

  “Then we’ll be here,” she confirms. Oisin wraps her into a tight hug. When he steps back, he holds out a hand for Hardin to shake.

  “Sir. It was a pleasure.”

  “No need for the formalities, Hardin. It’s just Oisin. We’ll look forward to seeing you both next week, then! Take care on the drive.”

  He and Riona are quiet on the drive home. The silence is companionable, and she keeps their fingers linked on the centre console unless he needs to shift gears. Holding her hand through leather gloves is acceptable, but nowhere near enough, and Hardin drives with a heavier foot than usual.

  They make it to Riona’s in good time, and she leads him up the stairs without speaking much. Ree only releases his hand by her room. She bustles around, making herself comfortable. Dim lights make her skin look like warm cream, and the candle she lights smells like a sweet he’d bought at a cafe in Yamoussoukro. Quiet music fills the air from her little portable speakers, and that’s when the entropy hits him.

  Hardin is bone-weary with post-mission fatigue. The universe takes pity on his poor carcass, though, and Riona turns back when he stops, and even in the liquid dark of her room, he can see the warmth in her eyes.

  She closes the distance and undoes the top buttons of his starched shirt with nimble fingers. He would protest, but-

  She’s growing bolder with you. Braver.

  “Hey Hardin?”

  “Mm?” He’s indolent as she works her way down his chest. When she shrugs his shirt off his shoulders for him, she puts it carefully to the side, the way he would. He kisses her, luxuriating because he can.

  “You’re amazing,” Riona whispers, as though saying it aloud might spook him into fleeing. “Thank you for coming today. I know that was a lot. I’m related to them, and it’s a lot.”

  “It was nothing,” he says, aiming for cavalier. She isn’t having it.

  “It was. It is. I know it can’t have been comfortable, and I’m sorry about Roisin.”

  “You two do not get along.”

  “Understatement of the year,” Ree says. “Could you undo my hair for me, please?”

  Hardin’s thrilled to oblige. He’s careful to avoid knots and tangles as he does. When he releases the heavy chignon and kneads his fingertips against her scalp, Ree relaxes against his chest like a sunbathing cat.

  “We’ve never gotten along,” Ree says after a moment. Her eyes are closed. “She’s… well, you saw her. She’s loud, even when she’s giving you the silent treatment. We didn’t see eye to eye before she found the book. After it? It was just a nightmare.”

  Ah.

  “I take it she does not approve?”

  Ree snorts. “What gave it away? She says it’s — and I quote — ‘fucking weird’. I’m sorry she took it out on you.”

  Hardin interjects before she can get going. “Don’t apologize for someone else’s poor manners, Riona. You were… good to defend me. Thank you.”

  He means it. When he takes a step back from her, Ree opens her eyes and turns, pressing a gentle kiss to the lipstick mark that’s still there on his chest. She doesn’t pull away once she’s done, either. Instead, she surprises him by stepping into the mass of his body, cupping his cheeks with her hands, and kissing him.

  “Told you they’d have to go through me.” Ree teases as she pulls away, and Hardin chuckles.

  “And you were ferocious, kitten.” He’s careful when he picks her up, but she gives no resistance. Rather, he can feel her smile against the skin of his throat when she tucks her face against his neck. When he lowers her to the bed, her hair fans around her like a corona of fire.

  “You’re beautiful.” he tells her, as his gloved fingers follow the fine cut of her cheekbones. “You’re my beautiful girl, Riona.”

  He knows she doesn't care for the description, but it has nothing
to do with her face, or her figure, and everything to do with how her cheek fits into the cup of his palm and her eyes darken with want when he says her name. It’s the way she shifts closer to him whenever she can, is generous with her time and her home and her kin-

  “I’m yours, Sir,” she agrees, and it’s like she’s drained the breath from his lungs and put fire in his veins with a single sentence. She’s beautiful, and fierce, and fearless, and his.

  When Riona reaches out her hand and reels him in, he accepts her invitation.

  Chapter Seven

  July settles over the city with pig-pen stickiness. Hardin runs hot, and an extra body in her bed makes Ree feel every drop of the humidex. She prefers the cold, but even the industrial-grade air conditioning isn’t enough to beat the heatwave. Ree’s become accustomed to sleeping in the nearly nude. She still wakes up early, just to steal a few breaths of fresh morning air.

  Hardin’s on his back, face peaceful in sleep. Ree’s fingertips and lips tingle with the need to trace the sharp angle of his jaw, but she doesn’t want to wake him. He’s a day back after two weeks away, and jetlag’s got him down for the count. His bare chest rises and falls with deep breaths, and Ree indulges herself by watching the muscles of his torso shift instead.

  He’s wearing sleep pants Ree’d bought for him from some fancy menswear brand Sorcha’s shilling to rich bankers. Sleep has pushed the deep blue fabric down low on his hips, and while she’ll never admit it to her sister — they’re worth the money. The cut of Hardin’s abdomen looks good enough to lick.

  In this heat? I bet he tastes like the ocean.

  As though she’s summoned him, Hardin stretches once, luxuriously. Every muscle goes taunt and then relaxes, and Ree feels her mouth go dry. Hardin opens one eye and makes an inquisitive noise down at her.

  “Mmm, hi.” Ree’s voice is soft in the sun-warm silence. “I missed you.”

  “I was just sleeping,” he says, but his hand slides down her spine, anyway. He’s got a bruise the size of her hand and the colour of his pants stretching over his lower ribs. They don’t talk about it, but Ree’s hand raises to cover it, anyway.

  “Yeah, funny guy, but I missed you lots, anyway. I’m glad you’re here.” She means it. The idea of Hardin not coming back makes her stomach churn with anxiety.

  “Where else would I go?”

  Ree has one sister who’s gunning to be District Attorney at least, and another sister with an unhealthy fixation on true crime podcasts. She can think of about fifteen places to stash a body in Brooklyn alone, and she’s nowhere near the family expert.

  She’s shied away from thinking about it, but now that the thought’s smacked her in the face, there isn’t a lot she can do to avoid it. She tries anyway, hiding her face against his chest and sidling closer to him. Despite the heat, she feels clammy. Where would he go?

  “Something the matter?”

  “No… not really. Ever just… get the feeling someone’s stepped over your grave?”

  “Frequently.”

  “You know, I don’t think that’s a joke. I don’t think you’re joking.”

  “I am known for my sense of humour. Ha ha. Ask anyone.” His eyes are bright with playfulness, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It makes him look like a movie star, one from the old classics full of lantern-jawed leading men. He’s the most handsome man she’s ever seen.

  But who would I ask, Hardin? Another ugly point to consider. You haven’t introduced me to any of your friends, she thinks, and her mood sours further. She can feel herself deflate like a dollar-store balloon. He can, too, because he shifts to hold her more closely.

  “Riona. Kitten. What’s the matter?”

  Damn it.

  “Why does something have to be the matter?” She tries to distract him by trailing her fingertips over his collarbone and down the line of his pectorals. For a moment, she thinks her ploy might work, but he cuts her off with a gambit of his own.

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Hardin tells her. He catches her wandering fingers in his own hand and presses her fingertips to his lips. “But it is. I know you, Riona. Tell me.”

  “You know so much about me, and I don’t even know your address.” It blurts out, but she doesn’t take it back. Her fingers curl up like dead spider legs on his chest, crooked and featherlight. He doesn’t release them. His grip tightens; Ree wonders if he’s trying to threaten her. It’s unlikely.

  Is he trying to keep me from leaving?

  “It’s classified.” There’s a rare edge in his voice despite the echo of their inside joke, and for once, Ree doesn’t find it amusing in the slightest. “You know everything you need to.”

  His voice is brusque, and she resents being treated like a misbehaving private.

  Ree sits up in bed, snatching back her hand and with it, the sheets. She scowls down at him, red hair a corona in the sunlight.

  “So your home address is need to know? Then don’t I deserve to know it? I know what you look like naked, Hardin, but I’ve never even seen your front door. What sort of woman does that make me?”

  He stares at her like she’s gone crazy. Maybe she has.

  “Am—,” she pauses and takes a terrible and heaving breath. “I am your girlfriend, right? N-not just your girlfriend experience?”

  The look he shoots her is glacial, and his body language is almost as cold.

  “Riona. If you were the latter sort, you’d know. I don’t bother rolling out the red carpet for swipe-rights.”

  “How would I know? You wouldn’t kiss me?” She glares, not even caring she’s topless. She’s as offended as he is now.

  “I don’t know your friends, I don’t know your parents… I don’t even know where to send a Dear John letter. Jesus, Hardin, I don’t even know what borough you live in. I assume you have an apartment in the city somewhere?”

  An awful thought occurs to her.

  “You — you don’t have another family, do you?”

  “You’re out of line, Riona.” Hardin’s doing his best Captain voice, and she bares her teeth at his high-handed attitude.

  “Then colour them in! Give me some context, Hardin, because what am I supposed to assume otherwise?”

  “You want to know?” His blue eyes are colder than a Base Camp sky. Too bad Ree’s never seen a challenge she hasn’t wanted to summit.

  “Yes!”

  “I am a mercenary, Riona. I do bad things to bad men and get paid for it. Likewise, there are other bad men who would pull an exceptional salary to do the same thing to me. You don’t want just anyone knowing your trail after a few years of that unpleasantness.”

  She stares at him. He must think I’m the dumbest bimbo to draw breath.

  “You thought I didn’t know that? Of course I guessed what you do, Hardin. Khartoum, Addis Ababa, Sao Paolo — okay, that one might have been a vacation-”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Then thank you for making my point!” Ree snaps, good mood evaporated. “I know what you do for a living, and I’ve never asked about any of it. Don’t confuse my candour for stupidity, Hardin. I’m not as stupid as people think.”

  “I have never!”

  It’s true, so Ree eats a bit of crow.

  “Okay, no, that was unfair. But I’m not stupid, Hardin. That’s not why you haven’t taken me to your home — after all, what’s stopping any of those other bad guys from following you to my place, hm? There’s something else.”

  For a moment, she hangs on her courage. Clutching the sheet to herself, hair loose around her shoulders, she is as vulnerable as she has ever been. She feels bared to the universe.

  “What is it?” She whispers, almost afraid of the answer. “What are you hiding from me?”

  The moment Ree finishes, she knows she’s made a critical error somewhere along the way. He stares at her with flat eyes; he’s gone all business. It’s like there’s a stranger in her bed.

  “Shall we let you see fo
r yourself?”

  Hardin’s voice is dead as a tomb.

  ***

  He opens the series of locks on his door and lets it swing open. He waits for a beat, placing his mass between the dark apartment and Riona.

  She peers around him anyway.

  “Oh.”

  The nearly silent sound Riona makes Hardin’s skin crawls. He pretends not to hear her and shoulders past her instead. He clears the corners instinctively, gloved knuckle tabbing on the ceiling light switch. The bare bulb flickers and then lights everything up with its antiseptic glow.

  “On the bright side — I guess having a studio means nobody can hide anywhere but the bathroom, right?” Riona says, searching for a silver lining.

  He’s in no mood to hear it. He goes through the motions, shutting the door behind her with a mechanical snap. Then he throws all the locks.

  If it intimidates her, she doesn’t show it.

  She hasn’t moved, but she’s not stopped looking around. He’s very glad that habit has taught him to always make his bed. Riona’s tidy, but the tangle of linens on her unmade bed always feels shockingly intimate. When he looks around at the low ceilings and unwashed windows, his pride wants to curl up and die. It’s miles worse than Ree’s own apartment and a universe away from the gracious house on the Upper West Side.

  “Is this what you wanted to see, Riona? It’s no happy family home — it’s not even a family hostel. It’s a flophouse filled with junkies who pay by the night and women who pay by the hour. I live here because it’s cheap and accepts cash and doesn’t ask questions if I give a name or not.”

  He wants to be angry. He wants to be livid, in fact. He had been the whole way over. But now, with raw midday light leaving harsh shadows on walls the colour of snot, he just feels tired.

  “I keep my clothes in that set of drawers and my effects in that safe. And don’t sit on that; you’ll catch something,” he warns her sharply as she goes to perch on the kitchen counter the way she would at home. She flies off like a cat on hot asphalt.