Dream Maker

by Kristen Ashley

  I made no reply.

  “Talk to me,” he demanded.

  I sighed.

  Then I stated, “I think my brother is in a bit of a bind.”

  “And this requires you to go to Storage and Such in the dead of night?”

  Hmm.

  The crack to my head was wearing off (though the humiliation lingered), and as it was, I was belatedly sensing this might be a boon.

  I got the impression he liked me.

  Even if I was a freak and a geek.

  Even if I got snippy about global warming (as one should).

  Even if I cracked my head on the counter and landed on my ass in my kitchen.

  Even if I was not at one with some guy I barely knew helping himself to my texts.

  But first date already ruined, it would be annihilated if he knew about my family.

  He’d never want to see me again.

  I slid my eyes his way. “My brother can’t go as he’s incarcerated.”

  Mag just stared at me.

  “And my father can’t go because my brother and my father haven’t talked to each other in five years due to the fact they’re the same person in two different bodies and evidence suggests they don’t like themselves all that well, seeing as they carry on doing stupid, risky, escapist stuff. So, onward from that, they hate each other’s guts.”

  Mag said not a word.

  “And my mother can’t go because she’s probably stalking my stepfather, who’s probably out with a woman who is not his wife, and she’s desperate to catch him so she can do what she enjoys the most. Screeching, throwing dishes, acting like the wronged woman when he’s cheated on her countless times before, and she took him back, and generally causing a scene that may, or may not, end in the cops breaking it up.”

  Mag remained quiet.

  “And my sister can’t go because she’s likely deep in the throes of strategizing an epic selfie that she’ll post to her over twenty thousand followers, of whom she personally knows maybe fifty. This in her drive to become an online personality to A, garner her own reality program or B, get her cast in a current or future reality program or C, garner sponsors that will allow her to make taking selfies her profession.”

  He spoke then.

  But not to share his hasty goodnight before he beat his retreat.

  He asked a question and proved he had a one-track mind; it just wasn’t the usual track.

  “And what favor does your brother need you to do, meetin’ someone at Storage and Such on East Colfax?”

  I closed my eyes and answered, “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not going.”

  My chest jolted at this implacable statement, and I opened my eyes and slid them back to him before I shared, “I’m not a massive fan of bossy dudes.”

  “And I’m not a massive fan of women doing stupid shit out of the kindness of their hearts that ends with them getting their asses in slings.”

  Well then.

  There wasn’t much response to that.

  Except…

  “Danny, I barely know you, you can’t tell me what to do.” I lifted my free hand his way when it appeared he was going to speak. “And even if I knew you for years and we were the best of friends, you still couldn’t tell me what to do.”

  “Evie, nothing good can happen at a Storage and Such at eleven thirty at night.”

  He was undoubtedly not wrong.

  But as gorgeous as he was, I suddenly did not see him.

  I saw my brother, his manner, heard his voice.

  And I knew, even though I really, really (really) did not want to, my brother was a fuckup, but he was my brother.

  Which meant I was going to Storage and Such that night.

  “Evie,” he whispered.

  I focused on him and saw clear as day written on his face that he’d somehow read my mind.

  “I’m going with you,” he declared.

  Oh no he wasn’t.

  “You can’t. They said come alone,” I pointed out.

  “Do you know what I do?” he asked.

  “You’re a commando.”

  His lips quirked.

  And.

  Dayum.

  How had I not yet noticed his lips?

  Also, why did God want to punish me so much that I was now, when I’d decided he and I weren’t happening, noticing his lips?

  Lips that were better than his eyelashes.

  Better than his hair!

  “I’m not a commando,” he told me.

  I was oddly disappointed in receiving this knowledge.

  “As such,” he finished.

  I perked up.

  “What I do…” He moved his head on his neck in a strange way that had me captivated, before he shared, “This is like, sixth or seventh date stuff. Maybe ninth or tenth.”

  Oh boy.

  I sensed a girl could be highly addicted to Daniel “Mag” Magnusson by the sixth or seventh date.

  Definitely the ninth or tenth.

  By that time, she’d put up with anything.

  “Anyway,” he said. “I can’t tell you what it is, exactly, that I do.”

  Oh boy.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Missions are confidential. All of them.”

  “Missions?”

  He nodded.

  Missions.

  “Oh boy,” I whispered.

  “It’s rarely dangerous,” he stated.

  “All right,” I mumbled.

  “Well, more accurately, occasionally it’s dangerous.”

  I stared at him with my mouth open.

  “I might be able to say it’s a bodyguard gig or…other, but not with any detail.”

  I continued to stare at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Getting to the point, I can go with you and they won’t know I went with you.”

  “How would you do that?”

  He grinned. “We like to use words like ‘covert,’ but mostly, I’d hide from a vantage that I could keep an eye on you.”

  As I was still staring at him, somehow, I read that he was feeding me a line, being cute in order to get his way.

  “Forgive me for saying this, but that doesn’t sound like the most comprehensive of plans.”

  “I’m really good at hiding.”

  I bet he was.

  He wasn’t finished.

  “And I have a gun in my truck.”

  Oh boy.

  “I’m also not a big fan of guns,” I shared.

  “I’m not surprised,” he muttered.

  “My brother has a particular skill with messing up his life, but I can’t believe he’d put me in any real danger.”

  “How about you go in with backup anyway.”

  “Danny—”

  “Mag.”

  “Mag—”

  He leaned toward me and cut me off.

  “This is the deal, Evan. No matter what, I’m gonna be at Storage and Such at eleven thirty. You kick me out of your place now, I’m also gonna put in a call that will mean I can read your texts and listen into any phone conversations so I can see or hear if you try to change plans, and then I’ll be there. So let’s just order pizza, eat it, get to know each other a little bit, then hit my place so I can bulk up on ammo and get a secondary weapon before we go out to Colfax and do this shit.”

  I could not believe what I just heard.

  And shockingly, what I couldn’t believe was not the part about ammo and secondary weapons.

  “You would invade my privacy like that?”

  “Yup,” he said without delay.

  “That’s…that’s…” I turned to my side and got up on an elbow, keeping the ice to my head, “indescribably uncool.”

  “From my perspective, I’m tryin’ to be a good guy. I’m offering to look out for you, help you out, make it so you don’t have to go it alone, so I think it’d be ‘indescribably uncool’ if you put me in a position to have to invade your privacy.”

  “That’s a con
venient twist,” I bit out.

  His rather attractive brows shot up. “You have no qualms with goin’ to some storage place at eleven thirty at night?”

  I was trying not to think about doing that.

  In fact, I was focusing on this insane conversation in order not to think about doing that.

  He read that in my face too, I knew it when he muttered, “Right.”

  I glared at him.

  Then I plopped to my back and closed my eyes, declaring, “I’m done talking to you. Like…for forever.”

  “So, veggie for your side of the pizza?”

  I hated veggie pizza.

  Soggy onions?

  Yuck.

  “Sausage and pepperoni,” I mumbled.

  He sounded amused when he noted, “Your silent treatment doesn’t last long.”

  “I’m talking to the ceiling,” I told the ceiling.

  “Is sixty bucks gonna fall outta the ceiling to pay for the pizza?”

  Say what?

  I opened my eyes and tipped my head to look at him again.

  “What pizza costs sixty bucks?” I asked.

  Grinning at me, he lifted his long, attractive forefinger upward and said, “The ceiling’s that way.”

  I rolled my eyes and plopped again to my back.

  “And we’re also getting boneless wings, cheesy bread and cannoli,” he informed me.

  It was good we weren’t ever going to go on an actual date, or anything beyond that, because it was obvious if we did, I’d probably have to buy workout clothes.

  One thing was certain, he didn’t simply consume protein shakes and unseasoned lean meats.

  I heard a rustling, which I assumed was him getting out his phone.

  “Evie,” he called.

  When being forced to eat veggie pizza was not on the table, I was back to the silent treatment.

  “Evie,” he called again.

  Great eyelashes.

  Great hair.

  Great lips.

  Great fingers.

  And he had a great voice, especially when he said my name.

  I let out an exasperated breath.

  Fingers curled around my wrist, the ice was pulled away, and I had another close-up of his eyelashes because he was bent to my face.

  Ugh.

  “I know what she told you,” he said.

  I forgot my silent treatment and asked, “Who?”

  “Mac.”

  I remembered my silent treatment.

  “She told you that you needed to sort my shit.”

  I stared into his eyes.

  Was that blue even natural?

  It was impossible!

  “But all that shit you spewed about your family,” he went on, and I tensed, but he smiled. Wide and white. “Mac is no fool. This isn’t about you sorting my shit. It’s her setting me up to sort yours.”

  This, I did not put past Lottie.

  And thus, I decided, when I saw her again, Lottie would be getting my silent treatment.

  Though, hopefully I’d be better at it by that time.

  I wanted to be wrong, but I was pretty sure I growled.

  That only made him grin even wider before he touched my nose with his finger (touched my nose!), put the ice back and disappeared from view.

  I heard nothing until I heard his phone clatter on my coffee table.

  He then said, “I got us cheesecake too.”

  Gluh.

  I had, until then, prided myself that I never, not ever, put on a pair of yoga pants.

  But Athleta, here I come.

  “Now, babe,” he continued, his voice fading in the direction of my kitchen, “you got any beer?”

  Chapter Three

  Storage and Such

  Evie

  I’d fallen asleep.

  Not good.

  But before that happened, Mag had done an about-face after he found I had beer (though I didn’t like to think of it as beer, as such, considering it was only technically beer seeing as it was ale) and brought us both opened bottles.

  It was then, proving he could be a decent guy, or at least he could pretend to be one, he’d shared that on any normal first date that was going to last at least six hours, for some of it, we’d be engaged in activities that didn’t require us carrying on a conversation to get to know each other better.

  I ignored his double entendre after he suggested we eat pizza while we watched a movie.

  I could use a reprieve from his attention, so I’d jumped on that with barely veiled enthusiasm.

  Something he found amusing, and didn’t hide, so I hid how I liked that I amused him.

  After I agreed, I ignored the squishy, warm feeling I felt when he asked if I’d seen any of the John Wick movies, saying he’d seen them all, but wouldn’t mind watching them again.

  I’d seen them all.

  And wouldn’t mind watching them again.

  This indicating we might have the same taste in films, which, for me, was huge.

  I then was forced to converse with him while icing my forehead and alternately sipping the beer he’d brought me.

  During this, I learned his parents were still together, he had a younger sister, they all still lived back in Minnesota where he’d grown up, and his younger sister was imminently marrying a guy Mag was not altogether fond of.

  He did not dive deep into that.

  He also shared, not surprisingly, he was a high school football star who a couple of colleges had wanted to give a scholarship.

  But as he had not been “super hyped to spend another minute in a classroom,” he’d gone against his parents’ wishes and enlisted in the Marines.

  However, parlaying this information changed his affect so much, seeing it manifest itself in pretty much every inch of his frame, specifically his expression, I felt my stomach twist.

  He did not delve deeply into that either.

  This instead led him to ending the conversation, rising from his chair, checking my bump, muttering, “I think we kicked the swelling,” and thus, he took away the ice.

  All the way.

  Meaning, he took it to the kitchen and dealt with it.

  I didn’t have to move.

  Shortly after, the pizza arrived.

  Totally 1987, Mag refused to allow me to give him any money to pitch in for the food.

  Though mostly sweet, he only argued for a couple minutes about me renting the movie.

  I did not keep a normal, healthy schedule. My stripper work started at seven at night, ended at two thirty in the morning, and the various other jobs, both paid and unpaid, that I had besides kept me on the go.

  So, in the end, it was fortunate that Mag decided not to invade my space on the couch and instead eat his pizza and watch the movie in my armchair, because I fell asleep on my couch.

  Mag woke me by calling my name, and when I opened my eyes, I saw his eyelashes because he was again bent close to me.

  Thus ensued another squishy feeling.

  “Sorry, babe, we gotta get going,” he said quietly. “It’s ten and we need to swing by my place, get my gear, get you kitted, and I gotta have time to recon that facility. I’ve never been there before.”

  I didn’t get a chance to ask what getting me “kitted” meant or apologize for falling asleep on him.

  That said, he didn’t seem upset I had.

  He seemed mellow and relaxed, and I didn’t want to, but I liked that he seemed that way with me in my space after only knowing me a couple of hours, some of that time I’d been sparring with him, some of it making an idiot of myself, some of it asleep.

  He continued speaking.

  “You’ll have to be seen going in alone, so we need to take two cars. You can follow me to my place.”

  With that, he took my hand and tugged me out of the couch.

  I then drowsily went about the business of putting on my shoes that I’d obviously kicked off in my sleep, donning my blazer, grabbing my phone, bag and keys, and mindlessly swiping o
n another coat of lip gloss.

  Though I became mindful of this when I noticed Mag watching me do it, and he was watching appreciatively.

  I tucked my lip gloss in my bag, followed him out, locked my door and then we got in our respective vehicles and I followed him to his place.

  He guided me to guest parking, parked somewhere else, then joined me at my car and took me up to his condo in LoHi.

  I was coming back to myself, digging out from under all the shit that was clouding my brain, and during the drive, I’d realized my mistake in sharing with him all the things I’d shared, primarily about my family.

  I should have been niceish, but aloof in a way that could be construed as borderline impolite, which no man would want, instead of mysterious, which I figured a man like Mag might take as a challenge.

  However, I did not do this.

  So, I decided to start.

  ASAP.

  What did not occur to me during the drive from my oldish apartment complex in Platt Park—which was a two-story rectangle with entries to the units on exposed walkways on the inside of the structure, these surrounded a pool that someone had jazzed up and included a communal grilling-and-hanging-out area and a lot of tall, shady trees—was that I didn’t have to follow him.

  It was hours after receiving those texts.

  I didn’t know how long it would take Mag to set up hacking my phone, but with less time to do it, maybe I could have gotten away with getting away from him.

  Something I could easily do in my car by simply driving away from him.

  Instead, I followed him to his newish, sleek, modern, hip condo complex in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in Denver.

  And there I stood by his massive kitchen island, staring at his living room that was filled with sleek, modern, hip furniture.

  He was in his bedroom, out of which, right then, he emerged.

  I ignored the gun in a shoulder holster that was now marring his awesome light-blue button-up, as well as what looked like two extra gun clips hooked to his belt.

  Instead, I watched him throw a jacket on the island out of which he pulled a tangle of wire.

  “You have exceptional taste in home décor,” I shared.

  His head came up from his detangling duties and he grinned at me.

  Evie, stop making the man smile, I chastised myself as my breasts swelled in response to that smile. Making him smile is not borderline impolite. It’s FLIRTING.