by Dan Lawton
Randolph thought of Bruce—his son—and remembered when he was a boy. While it seemed like just yesterday, it could not have been further from reality. Time flew at an unfair pace, so many yesterdays gone, so many moments passed that would never be recouped. Bruce was a man now, and he had Max, so he must have understood what it was like to love someone unconditionally. Randolph wished Bruce would work harder to allow Randolph to be a part of his life—they were not estranged, but they were not close either. Their relationship consisted of quarterly telephone calls, the occasional text message, and gifts for the major holidays and birthdays. Randolph was unfulfilled with the arrangement. He wondered if a surprise visit to Utah was out of the question, now that he had nothing to hold him back.
A man walked in—but not just any man; a man who looked important. His button-down shirt was nicely pressed and without wrinkles, and was tucked neatly into his pleated khakis; the brown of the leather of his shoes matched his belt to perfection, and his hair shined with slick; his face was clean-shaven; a mobile phone hung on his belt. Randolph watched him.
The man took large, confident steps toward the reception desk, keeping his posture tight. His chest filled the button-down as if it had been designed with him in mind. He leaned in and spoke to the same woman Randolph had spoken to earlier. Randolph was close, closer than he realized, because he heard every word of the conversation with perfect clarity.
“Hello, Miss, my name is Gary O’Reilly,” the man said. “I’m here to see Sheila Backe.”
Sheila?
“Are you family?” the woman said.
“Not family. I’m here on official business. I’d like to ask her a few questions about a case I’m investigating.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“No, ma’am.”—he pulled a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket and passed it through the glass—”But I have this.”
The woman took it and looked it over. Then she slipped it back under the glass and slammed her keyboard without looking down. “Room B6,” she said. “Second floor.”
CHAPTER SIX
Backe was her last name. Sheila Backe. Who was she?
Through the windshield, the sky radiated and warmed Randolph’s skin. Blue clouds slowly lingered through the shade band, then crawled by as if they were leashed pups. A stillness crept into the truck through the open window. The medical center’s main entrance was clear in his view, its large silver typography simple yet impactful. A cross made all feel welcome, even those who either chose not to or those who were not wired to believe in its significance.
And that man, O’Reilly. Who was he?
The scene replayed in Randolph’s head. Sheila’s unorthodox behavior, her lack of engagement, the coldness she emitted was unlike anything he had seen from her. He had to remind himself he hardly knew her, that her persona at the supermarket could have been for appearances, simply a character she played to attract customers to the business. Everyone did it—played a part they sometimes felt uncomfortable with; acted a certain way around strangers. It was an emotional complex every person had, a wall someone could put up to protect themselves. Armor. Even still, it felt off. The energy was different.
But Randolph knew nothing about any of that—he was a trained engineer, not a doctor of emotional well-being. As a human man who had experienced life and its many emotions over his long journey—which was still, he hoped, only roughly halfway through—he had acquired a sense about people—who was genuine, who was not. Randolph sensed Sheila was more than a character, but rather an honest woman with a sincere heart.
But he had been wrong before.
The woman he married came to mind.
The curiosity about it all had him on edge. In a matter of twenty-four short hours, his emotions had been teased and twisted and duped. First, it was the bliss about the acceptance, then the shock about the explosion, then the utter confusion about Sheila’s unorthodox and unexpected reaction to his arrival. For all he knew, Sheila was merely cranky about what happened to her, about why she was in the hospital. Which would have been fair—she just survived an explosion the day before. Maybe he had been insensitive about the whole situation and needed to give her more time. Or perhaps having a near-death experience changed her perspective about her life and if she wanted him in it. The events of today could influence the events of tomorrow—that could have been what was happening here.
But still, he could not reign in his thoughts.
What about Gary O’Reilly? Who was he and who did he work for? And most importantly, what did he want with Sheila? Randolph could not begin to fathom the possibilities. Beyond that, something else occupied his mind. Aside from the need to satisfy his curiosity, what did he hope to accomplish? It was not clear to even him what he envisioned for his future. While his lust for Sheila was strong, it was an emotion he could take a stranglehold of and suppress. He could forget about her and move on and wake up tomorrow the same way he did yesterday. Either way, his problems would not disappear. They were still with him if he pursued whatever it was to be pursued. He did not even know what it was. But something was happening to him, and he could not get enough.
He decided to wait for O’Reilly. He had nowhere to be and nobody to bother him or ask probing questions—aside from Patricia, whose opinion hardly mattered. So he would at least satisfy his desire to feed his curiosity. From there, he would see where it took him.
Just then, the well-dressed man appeared in the mouth of the sliding doors. O’Reilly. He pressed a phone against his ear with one hand and smoothed the part on his head with the other. A lump formed like a fast-growing tumor in Randolph’s throat, made worse by the repetitive thumps in his chest. He felt uneasy and anxious about what he would say, but he knew he may change his mind if he waited too long.
So he went for it.
He yanked on the door handle, slipped out of the truck, and approached the man on foot.
O’Reilly’s back was to him. The man’s stride was fierce, so Randolph had to hurry. The phone call O’Reilly had been on ended and the phone was back in its holster on his hip, and the man fumbled with something in his pocket.
Randolph picked up his pace further. The brisk power walk turned into a light jog, and the gap tightened. When he thought O’Reilly may be in earshot, he called out, “Excuse me.”
They both kept moving.
“Excuse me, Gary.”
O’Reilly stopped with a jolt as if zapped by a shock of electricity. He spun quickly and faced Randolph. Sweat illuminated on his brow. “Who’s asking?”
Randolph did not know what to say. Or do. Should he offer the man his hand and shake it like they were old friends?
“Do I know you?” O’Reilly said.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How do you know my name?”
“My name is—”
“I don’t care who you are. How do you know my name?” O’Reilly stepped closer. The aftershave on his neck punched Randolph in the nose. It was so masculine it made him uncomfortable.
“I saw you inside,” Randolph said.
“Saw me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you following me? Who sent you?”
“Hold on, now. I’m not following you. Nobody sent me. Take it easy.”
O’Reilly’s hand fell to his waist, and Randolph got the feeling things were about to go from bad to worse very quickly if he was not careful.
“How do you know Sheila Backe?” Randolph said, desperate to change the subject.
That made O’Reilly pause. He fell back on his heels. “How do you?”
“She’s a friend.”
“A friend, huh? Sheila doesn’t have an
y friends.”
Huh?
“I met her at the supermarket.”
O’Reilly’s eyes widened. The wrinkles around them unraveled as if they were ancient scrolls. “Is that so? What do you know about what happened there?”
The explosion. “Nothing.”
O’Reilly stepped back and scanned him all over.
“Is that why you’re here?” Randolph said. “To try and find out what happened? Are you an investigator?”
“Something like that.”
“That document you showed to the receptionist inside—what was it?”
“That’s confidential information.”
“Are you a cop?”
“I feel like you already know the answer to that question. Sounds like you know an awful lot about me already. More than you should, frankly.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Yet here we are.”
“I heard you say Sheila’s name and it piqued my interest.”
“So, you’re friends, you say. How much do you know about her?”
Randolph thought about that for a moment. “Not much.”
“My advice? Keep it that way.”
Randolph’s pocket began to vibrate. “Why’s that?”
“Just trust me, okay? You don’t want to get involved.”
“Involved in what?” The pulse against his thigh sped up.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well?”
“Randolph.”
“Randolph, huh? Just Randolph?”
“Spiers.”
“Randolph Spiers. Sounds like a pro ballplayer’s name.”
“I’m anything but.” The vibration stopped.
“I’d introduce myself, but you already know.”
Randolph’s leg vibrated again. This time, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Excuse me one second,” he said. “I should get this.”
“I’m going anyway.” O’Reilly turned and took a step in the opposite direction.
“Hold up.”
O’Reilly stopped, turned back. “What?”
“What about Sheila?”
“What about her?”
“How do you know her?”
O’Reilly inhaled sharply, then pushed it out. “Pretend we never met. You don’t want to get involved.”
“But what if I do?”
“You don’t.”—he motioned to the phone in Randolph’s hand—”You should get that. Never let a ringing phone go unanswered. You never know who will be on the other end and what it is they want.”
Randolph watched him walk away.
In his hand, the phone still vibrated. His fingers shook under the constant motion and distracted him from where O’Reilly was headed. The number was not in his contact list, and he did not recognize the area code. When he looked back up, O’Reilly was gone.
He answered: “Hello?”
“Randolph?”
It was a woman.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Sheila.”
Sheila.
“Sheila?”
“The number you gave me worked.”
“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”
No response.
“Sheila?”
“What you said earlier, did you mean it?”
“Which part?”
“About going somewhere, leaving here.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“If the offer still stands,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind.”
Knots of intensity thumped through Randolph’s chest like a stampede. The adrenaline boiled so hotly in his veins he thought he might explode. He yanked the phone away from his ear and caught his breath. He thought about the proposition, considered the logistics. Could he actually go through with it?
Sheila’s muffled voice crept through the speaker, but he ignored it. When he was ready, his decision clear, he steadied the phone near his jawline and spoke into the microphone, “Sheila?”
“Yes?”
“When should I pick you up?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Not a peep from Shay overnight. Benji hardly slept. It was obvious there was trouble.
The word made him uncomfortable, so he had not told her how he felt, but he was in love with Shay. With her, it was not about sex or the physical connection, but rather something stronger than that. Something deeper, more meaningful; something personal. They bonded. They shared stories of their childhoods—about how his father abandoned him and how his drug-addicted mother raised him and his three brothers on government checks and sexual favors for the neighbors; about how Shay’s family migrated from the Nordics when she was young, about how she illegally worked under the table and washed dishes and scrubbed floors to help her parents with the rent. Shay was nearly a decade his senior, but their lives had been similar—difficult and unfair and lacked purpose—and their connection was real. The lack of commonalities in pop culture references and tastes in music and film aside, they connected on a human level. About the things that actually mattered.
Benji really loved her.
Then why sleep with Cheyenne, right? He knew that was the next logical question to ask. And his answer was this: Emotions aside, there was an unquenchable need etched in his DNA to be desired in all variants of the word. The lust for the physical release he and Cheyenne shared was special. He had slept with a lot of women, and none of them showed the level of experience or interest or commitment to the craft as Cheyenne. He wondered if that was something that came with age or if Cheyenne was a unicorn. How could anyone pass up the intense releases he had with her? Physically, the way she made his body feel was unmatched.
That is where it got complicated. Shay had more of a traditional mindset. She was not a virgin, but she had not had many positive experiences either. That was something she would not talk about much with Benji, at least not yet, but he understood the gist. Benji wondered if that had something to do with why she no longer had contact with her father—but it was purely speculation. She had not declared they wait until marriage, only until she felt stable and secure. Which Benji agreed was fair. But the desire within him still attacked his cells like an amoeba, and he craved the release. Needed it. So when Cheyenne entered his life, it felt like the perfect arrangement—Benji would feed his need to be desired and for physical release; Cheyenne would get to experiment on a younger man who would have the stamina to keep up; and Shay would not be pressured to do something she was not ready for. That was how he saw it.
Justifiable, was it not?
Benji missed her—Shay, that was. She was not one to go dark without explanation or not return his calls. He felt ridiculous in a way. He had never been in love, and the way it made him feel surprised him—borderline obsessive and possessive and jealous. He thought about her constantly. Was that what love was about? He was still in the process of figuring it out, albeit being his first time. Admittedly, he struggled with what to do with the powerful emotions trapped within him at times, with how to tame them. He would do anything to not mess up what he had with Shay.
There were ninety minutes before his shift started at the coffee shop. That would be more than enough time to drive over to Shay’s apartment—not to spy on her or stalk her, but to check on her because he was worried. Surely there was an explanation about what happened. He was not angry with her; he just needed to know the truth so they could
fix it and move on.
A black leather jacket dangled over the back of the chair—Benji grabbed it and tossed it over his shoulder. The pressure on his clavicle was like that from a lead vest, but he looked good in it. Felt good. So it was worth it, even when it left him overheated. He crossed the room, slipped into his shoes, and reached for the door handle. As he did, a knock came from the other side of it, which gave him pause.
“Who’s there?” he said to the door.
“It’s me, lover.”
Cheyenne.
Benji twisted the knob and pulled the door toward him. A gust of wind smacked him in the chest, pushed him back. There she stood, her hair tied back, a peacoat buttoned up the front. Makeup was heavy around her eyes and the crimson lipstick overpowered her face. That perfume, though. It hit him like a ton of bricks.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Nice to see you, too.”
“How’d you get up?”
“That’s not a very nice way to greet a guest.”
He said nothing.
“A fine-looking young stud like yourself so graciously held the door for me when he was walking out, if you must know. Don’t worry about that. I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”—a pause—”Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Actually, I was just about to—”
Cheyenne quickly unbuttoned her peacoat and pulled it open. Her eyes shone with delight. A seductive grin formed on her lips.
Benji got hard.
A corset the same color as his jacket flashed provocatively back at him. Straps connected the bust to the hips, which clipped on the tops of Cheyenne’s transparent stockings. Underneath was bare. The waist was pulled tight, and the top was cupless and lifted Cheyenne’s bosom upward. Her areolas bulged and made a pink mantle for her stimulated nipples. Benji tried not to but could not help but stare.