by E. R. Whyte
“Understood. I’m not positive, but my gut is telling me Miss Brookings has a stalker.” I explained what I had seen and overheard, and where.
Twiggy releases a low whistle. “I don’t think you’re overreacting, Gunner. Don’t forget about that phone call she spoke to me about.”
“It just doesn’t feel right, Twig. I don’t want her getting hurt. She was cool to me at that party when she could have embarrassed the shit out of me.” I don’t know why I bring that up, except that I don’t want to tell Twiggy I need Shiloh’s help to pass English.
Twiggy laughs. “I remember. You needed no help from her in that department, dude. You were standing there in front of everyone with your dick at attention—”
I groan. “Jeezus, you are worse than Miles. Can we just get someone at Shiloh Brookings’s house as quickly as possible to work on a protection detail? And I don’t want her to know.”
“I’ll take care it.” Twiggy’s voice softens. “Gunner.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re good people. Keep your mouth shut so you’ll stay good people.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down. I’ll be in my truck when they get there.”
With no further words, Twig hangs up.
I pull up a couple of houses down from the small craftsman Shiloh inherited from her parents and cast a critical look around. Too many trees and shrubs for someone to hide in. And there is some sort of rock wall on the wide porch a guy could easily crouch behind. It’s a nice house and I hate it on sight. I want her with me. One of the downstairs windows glows with light as a form moves back and forth behind sheer white curtains. Is that Shiloh’s bedroom? On the ground floor?
I fight the urge to get out and inspect the grounds. I’ll content myself with watching. For the second time that evening, I settle back in to keep an eye on my surroundings.
Time passes. I listen to my engine cooling, the crack and pop of metallic parts contracting and expanding sounding too loud in the sleeping neighborhood. Somewhere a dog barks without ceasing and a man hollers for it to shut the hell up, Bocephus. The lights flicker out in Shiloh’s house, one by one except for a dim one in a small corner window around the side that I can just make out.
As I sit and watch Shiloh’s house, I’m reminded of another time I sat and watched. It was a month or so after ‘heaven,’ as I’d taken to calling the closet episode.
THEN.
I stand just inside the gym, tucked in an alcove thick with shadows. The thump of hip-hop music reaches across the hardwood floors, and from my vantage point I can see Shiloh. She’s in the center of the gym, a Bluetooth set up nearby, moving through some kind of dance routine.
We don’t have a dance studio, so I guess Shiloh has adopted the gym for that purpose.
I watch as she stomps her feet and rolls her hips before turning away from me and popping her booty out in time with the beat. God, she’s so fucking sexy.
She’s wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts, which I wouldn’t normally find attractive. These, though, ride low on her hips and are held up by a thick black belt, accentuating the lean musculature of her stomach. The skin of her shoulders and back, bared by some kind of bra top, gleams with sweat in the afternoon sunlight slanting in from the windows set high in the gym wall. I don’t know how she’s getting away with breaking dress code but I can’t say that I mind too much.
I watch for a few more minutes and then gather my courage to step out and walk over to the bleachers to sit. I don’t want her to catch me spying on her and think I’m a creeper.
Shiloh loses a step when she turns and catches sight on me. She stops and bends to pick up her phone, pausing the music with a flick of her thumb.
“Gunner. What’s up?”
I lean back against the bleacher behind me, propping my elbows up on it. It’ll make my biceps look bigger and more defined.
“I’m catching a ride with you and Sammy. He told me to meet you in here, let you know.”
She props her fists loosely on her hips. “Good thing you caught me. I was just about done.”
“Yeah, I saw. You looked good. I mean you—It! It looked like fun. The dancing, I mean.” Gah. Real mature, assling. Too late, I realize Shiloh is speaking.
“… want me to teach you?”
“Teach me to dance? No…” I shake my head vigorously. “I’d rather just watch you if that’s okay.”
“That’s a little awkward, don’t you think?”
“What, me watching you? Nah. Besides, don’t you like an audience when you dance?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not just one person! Sheesh.” She glances past me to the gym entrance. “Where is Sammy, anyway? Shouldn’t he be here by now?”
“Yeah, he stayed back with Coach for a few minutes. He should be here soon.” I attempt a flirtatious wink. “And until he gets here, you get to enjoy my company.”
Shiloh stares at me with a blank expression for a minute before bending to pick up a shirt from the floor and tug it over her head. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Too much? Maybe I shouldn’t try to flirt. “Is there something in your eye, Gunner?”
Fuck. Definitely too much.
I make a show of wiping my eye. “Yeah… eyelash, I think.” An idea hits. “You think you can find it?”
“Hold still.” I squint convincingly as she steps nearer and takes hold of my face. Her hands are cool and dry, even though she’s been sweating.
She peers into my eye, a thumb and forefinger gently holding it open. I take the opportunity to study her face. As close as she is, I can count each freckle. Make constellations of them if I was bold enough to touch her skin. I can see every fleck of green in the hazel, mesmerizing.
She’s so beautiful it makes my heart squeeze. I stare, trying to hide my thoughts beneath a calm expression, until she straightens. “I don’t see anything, Gunner. Just an eyeball.”
Without thinking, I reach out and halt her progress as she goes to move away from me. My fingers clasp the side of her neck at her jawline, tangling in her reddish-brown hair. “Wait.”
She looks at me, half-warning, half-curious.
“May I have another kiss, Shiloh?”
She releases a breath that’s part laugh. “No, Gunner. I told you, that was a one-off. A dare.” She pulls out of my grasp and gathers her stuff while I sit, not speaking, on the bleacher. I can’t help thinking that I just made an idiot out of myself.
“Ready? Text Sammy and tell him to meet us at the car.” She wipes her face with a tee shirt and slips her glasses on.
Standing, I walk over to where she’s waiting at the door. She turns and starts walking away, but I know she hears my murmured words when she stumbles slightly.
“One day, Shiloh Brookings, you’re going to kiss me again.”
NOW.
It feels like years later a rap on the window startles me from my reminiscences and I jerk my head around to see a man peering in at me. He’s a little older than I am, rough in a tatted, leather jacket sort of way. He has long dark hair pulled back from his face with something and tosses a cigarette down to the pavement, scrubbing the cherry out with his toe as I let the window down. “Yeah?”
“Gunner?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Brodie. Twiggy sent me, said you needed help with watching your girl?”
“Thanks for coming so fast.” I stick my hand out the window and offer a firm shake before nodding across to Shiloh’s house. “I think someone’s harassing her. I’ll get more details together for you tomorrow, but I want someone on her tonight to make sure that asshole doesn’t show up. From what I put together, it sounds like the douche bag threatened her brother. He’s in a care facility around an hour away. I may get you to put someone on him, at some point, but we can figure that out later.”
“Why aren’t you staying with her yourself if you don’t mind me asking? You look capable.”
�
��Ah… she’s not technically my girl. And she doesn’t know I’m doing this, so please don’t be obvious. I’m a friend of the family, of her brother.”
Brodie nods and eyes the house across the street. “I see. Okay, none of that will be a problem. I’ve got a guy around back now. Do you need investigative, protective, or both?”
I level a look at him. “I’m guessing we both use Twiggy for investigative, so just protective at this point.”
“Fair enough. If you don’t mind me asking, how do you plan on paying? You independently wealthy or some shit? I don’t do this stuff for free.” He names a price and looks at me with skepticism.
I don’t take offense. I’ve worked in my family’s vineyard and winery since I was twelve years old, moving steadily through the ranks as I proved myself competent, from vineyard laborer to my current apprenticeships in winemaking and operations. My dad has always been old school, believing that in order to run a business one should have a first-hand understanding of all aspects of the business from top to bottom. He refused to put the vineyard in my or my sister Esme’s hands without either of us first proving that we could handle the responsibility. Esme has worked a few summers doing odd jobs but is just starting her apprenticeship progression. I’ve earned my way into a twenty percent stake in the company, plus the right to live in the pool house and come and go as I please.
He’s not happy with my English grades, but he can’t knock my work ethic or abilities with our company. That I can do.
I wave off Brodie’s question. “Something like that. You don’t need to worry. I’ll deposit your retainer in your account tonight and pay on a weekly basis if that suits.” Brodie nods and taps the windowsill with finality. “I’ll let you get to it, then. Thanks.”
After agreeing to send any further details, I leave him to it and head home, secure in the knowledge that Shiloh is temporarily watched over by someone no one is going to screw with, even if she’s unaware of her watcher.
11
Him
I let myself in the house noiselessly, not wanting to wake the woman sleeping down the hall. Without turning on the lights, I sink into the armchair in the corner of the living room, staring into the darkness.
This house. I’m so tired of this house. From the heavy satin drapes that shut out the light to the stiff and uncomfortable furniture… it’s stifling. Shiloh’s house is so different. Restful neutral tones and invigorating pops of color in every room. It’s small but comfortable looking.
Lately, the sounds and smells here are permanent reminders of the bitch down the hall.
As if my thoughts conjured her, I hear a cough and the croak of her voice. “Boy. Come here, boy. I know you’re in there.”
Sighing, I rise. “Coming, Mother.”
I stand in the doorway and observe the wasted body buried beneath a pile of blankets. Her hand rests on top of one, skeletal and near translucent.
“Don’t just stand there. I need my tea and isn’t it past time for my pills?”
“It’s just now time.”
“Don’t argue with me. Get my pills.”
“Yes, Mother.” Biting back the words I long to say, I prepare her tea and medication. I put a sleeping draught in the tea, wishing I had the nerve to mix in something stronger. “Goodnight, Mother.”
She grunts and I leave the room, returning to the family room. Switching on the television, I sit down to watch the local news.
The anchor, a petite blonde with sharp features and bright lipstick, stands in front of a fast-food restaurant, the lights of a police car flashing in the background. “A local Burger Bar was robbed earlier this evening. The masked assailant got away with fifty-eight dollars and a bag of chocolate pies but was found shortly after sitting in his vehicle in the parking lot of a nearby gas station.” My lips twist in a smirk. Morons.
Crime needed to be carefully plotted and carried out, no minor detail left to the imagination. Carelessness… that was how you got caught. I start to flick the television off and go to bed when the next story catches my attention. The reporter stands on campus of the university in a neighboring town, looking grimly into the microphone.
“Authorities held a press conference earlier this evening in which they admitted they had no leads in the disappearance of Madison Bryan, no eyewitnesses, and very scant evidence that may or may not be connected—”
Furrowing my brow, I try to think if there was anything I might have left at the scene. I’d worn gloves. A wig. Colored contacts that turned my eyes a muddy brown. Baggy clothing to disguise my proportions.
“Keep on looking, you fools.” I murmur the words and turn the television off.
The story, as well as Shiloh’s refusal to say the words I need to hear, have left me wanting.
She doesn’t understand her own brutality. I put everything out there, told her how lovely she is. I come to see her—only ever her, ever since I learned where she was working.
I remember the first time I saw her. The thoughts that consumed me.
After the accident, and before the teaching position. Before we met officially, and I realized she was meant to be mine.
She was pushing a cart up and down the aisles of the holistic foods store, pausing every so often to pick up an item and study it, brow crinkled adorably in consternation.
She didn’t belong here. I could tell. As much as she tried to pretend she was into organically grown, non-genetically modified avocados, she was thinking dear God, I could get these at the Kroger for half the price.
It was endearing.
And that body... I bite my lip, thinking about the way her off-the-shoulder maxi dress revealed the delicacy of her collarbone. The luscious round of her ass. The slopes of her breasts, swaying unconfined but firm.
She wanted me to notice her.
I know women; I know human nature. I know when they wear a sleeve of bracelets that jingle jangle as they walk, they want to be heard. When they don’t wear a bra, they want to be seen.
I see you.
There was something vaguely undefinable in her eyes. A melancholic mystery I wanted to delve into. She was sad.
Sad was good. Sad was vulnerable.
She was puzzling out the label on a carton of almond milk when I moved beside her, using the cramped space formed by our carts as an excuse to graze her arm as I reached past her and picked up a carton of oat milk. She tensed and glanced at me, at the milk in my hand.
“You don’t look like you shop here very often.”
Her smile falters. “I-I don’t?”
I’ve offended her. She’s wondering what was wrong with her that I didn’t think she belonged here, in this suburban upscale shop. “You’re reading every label. Pondering every item,” I explained.
“You’ve been watching me?”
You want me to watch you.
“I notice things,” I corrected. A flicker of my eyes and I noticed her lanyard draped over the edge of her pocketbook. Shiloh Anne Brookings. Student, University of Virginia.
We parted ways with just a few further words, but I wasn’t worried. I knew I’d see her again. She was meant to be mine, after all.
I knew it was destiny when I saw her the very next evening at Kendrick’s. She was in the peep box I’d contracted for a dance, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I could drink her in, follow every nuance of movement and form without her even knowing.
She hadn’t been a dancer at Kendrick’s long. I’d never seen her, and I’d been coming for a while. Plus, I could tell by the hesitation in her movements; graceful still, but as if she knew she needed to seduce and wasn’t wholly comfortable with the concept.
“You’re stunning,” I told her.
She looked at me beneath her lashes—or, at least, looked in my direction. She ran her hands along the skin of her stomach, rolling her hips in a sensual sway. Her voice, when she spoke, was throaty. “Thank you.”
I watched her with no further
comment for the rest of her dance, pressing the heel of my hand against my crotch in an attempt to quell my hard-on.
Then I booked another peep.
She was so beautiful. Just being in her presence was exhilarating. Sitting there, a pane of glass separating us… I could smell the sweat on her skin, see the pores in her skin. So close.
And yet, she won’t say she loves me.
That’s all I want. Just to hear her sweet, husky tones saying those words. Saying my name. Begging.
I can somewhat understand. After all, she can’t see my face. I’m certain she knows, deep inside, that she belongs to me. That kind of connection is instinctual. She’s wary, though, of expressing her love to the wrong person. She knows that would not be good. It would be a betrayal.
I know it won’t be long. She’ll know next time. I gave her the bracelet, after all, from her car. And I’m there at least twice each week, usually more often than that. She knows I’m watching. She feels my attention, knows now that I find her worthy of my devotion.
From down the hall, I hear the wheeze of Mother’s breath. In… out. It aggravates me, and I work on pulling calm in and out, like those regular breaths. That bitch ought to be dead by now. Her continued refusal to just die is infuriating.
Shiloh, though…
I wonder idly if I need to intensify my courtship, show her that she’s mine.
My heart beats faster at the idea, and I know I’m on the right track. My mouth is dry at the idea of her submission. I’m impatient to have her.
To hold her.
To touch her and bind her to me.
I think I’ll message her tomorrow. Help her start her day by letting her know that I’m thinking of her.
Now, though, I need to visit to Madison.
The cabin is dark as I approach, the headlights cutting through the night and illuminating the rustic wood exterior. I cut the engine and turn off the lights and sit in the car for several minutes, scanning the house and surrounding property for anything out of the ordinary.