Kiss Me Awake

by Julie Momyer

The next room was her bedroom, and where she had skimped on the other she had gone all out on this one. Not masculine, but not feminine either. Classy, that was how he would describe it.

  Furnished with a combination of black wrought iron and dark wood, it was tastefully decorated. Lance eyed the shiny blue-gray comforter and the thick pile of pillows smothering the top. He slid his arms around Jaida and decided he wasn’t going to wait for an invitation.

  11

  Shame singed the back of Jaida’s neck. What had she gone and done? It wasn’t one mistake, a random fall from grace, but a freefall that left her hurtling through space and wondering how long before she would hit bottom.

  Lance stayed. She wished he would leave. It was her earlier offer that kept him there, but that was before. Before she’d gone and…

  “I never thought of Carina as an intellectual,” he whispered in her general direction then stretched his arm over the back of her chair, leaning in for her response.

  It was to Carina’s advantage that she came off as an airhead. “That’s why she wins so many cases. The defense doesn’t take her seriously.” But she was as shrewd as they come.

  They were sitting in on Carina’s reading group, the sectional in her living room occupied by six stuffed shirts. It was next to torture, she thought, listening to these pseudo-intellectuals ramble on as though they alone knew the answers to the universe, but Lance seemed caught up in it. Did he take their intellectual arrogance seriously?

  She nibbled at the whole grain cracker smeared with the liver patè Carina brought. Not a favorite. She washed it down with the rest of her tea.

  Lance picked up her empty glass and stood. “I’ll get you a refill.”

  Not without me. Jaida quickly leapt to her feet and followed on his heels, escaping to the haven of her kitchen. “Are they ever going to leave?” she asked. Was he ever going to leave?

  Lance seemed to find her dilemma humorous and laughed to prove it. She watched as he made himself at home opening her refrigerator and filling her glass as though he belonged there.

  “You should have told Carina to hold her snobfest somewhere else.” He opened the freezer and fetched two ice cubes, dropping them into her glass. “You need to learn to say no.”

  “It was her turn to host the group. She was having her apartment sprayed.” And why was she explaining herself to him? He was the one she needed to learn to say no to.

  He handed her the glass. “And how is this your problem? Like I said, you need to learn to say no. You’re a pushover, and she knows it.”

  Resentment reared up. Is that why he showed up today? Because he knew she was a pushover? She had deliberately avoided him since Catalina, and she didn’t want him here now.

  He must have sensed the downturn in her mood. He took a step back and looked at her. “You’re angry,” he said. “Why?”

  She sent a fleeting look up the stairs, her eyes narrowing at the open door to her bedroom. Understanding lit his eyes.

  “Look, when I said you were a pushover, it had nothing to do with that. Carina works you and you let her.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the result of not knowing what you want. You think you do. That’s why you’re so tenacious. You run deeper than you know, and not knowing yourself makes it easy for you to fall prey to deceptive desires.”

  Really? Her mouth slid open and she quickly closed it. Did he psychologically analyze people on a regular basis, or was it just her? How arrogant. He thought he had her all figured out.

  Wait…what did he say about deceptive desires? His remark was too close to the meaning of the rose he left for her. Deceitful desire…deceptive desires. She paired the two phrases in her mind and wondered if that really was the message he intended to send with that rose.

  The anger cinching her lungs withered. She had no right to it. He was right. She needed to learn to say no. She reached deep and managed a small smile, but underneath something indefinable was crumbling and she wasn’t sure she knew how to function without it.

  One by one, Carina’s friends filtered into the dining room, filling their platters with honey-lime sake shrimp, smoked salmon cocktail crepes, and Vietnamese lamb riblets. This wasn’t a chip-and-dip crowd, although there was a bowl of smoked paprika potato chips isolated at the end of the table. Untouched, of course.

  “Well, Sleeping Beauty, it’s about time you woke up and joined the party.” Carina rested a hand on her shoulder then looked at Lance and flashed a smile that was half sweet, half acid.

  Jaida frowned. “I wasn’t…”

  “Too late. Don’t deny it. I saw you nodding off during the most riveting discourse.” Carina slid the toothpick poised in her fingers between her teeth, the pimento-stuffed olive vanishing behind her lips.

  Jaida almost laughed. “Riveting? I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”

  Carina looked at Lance. “Why don’t you go fetch Jaida a plate, Sir Galahad?”

  His mouth tightened and puckered as though he’d tasted something bitter. As soon as he excused himself to do her bidding, Carina cornered her. “I don’t trust that man. He’s up to no good. Probably after the money.”

  “What…”

  “You heard him the other night. He already has that cash spent.”

  “But I told you, all of you, I don’t have it.”

  “As if you would admit your guilt to a prosecutor. I could put you away.”

  The object of their discussion was back with a plate of food. Carina gave her a knowing look, reminding her of the warning before she wandered back to her friends.

  “Thanks.” She took the plate and studied him. He had analyzed her; maybe it was time she did a little psychoanalysis on him.

  Both Auggie and Carina were warning her off. Although Auggie never made his reasons known, Carina didn’t beat around the bush.

  Jaida bit into one of the salmon crepes. What if she was right? What if he was after the money? In just how many ways could she be used?

  She looked up to see Lance shrugging into a lightweight jacket. “Are you leaving?”

  He laughed softly and kissed her on the cheek. “Weren’t you listening?”

  Apparently not.

  “I have an early appointment. I’d love to stay, but…” He frowned and spread his hands. “I’ll call you later.”

  Please don’t. She held the sentiment in, concealed it with a smile, said good-bye, and closed the door behind him, thinking again about the rose and what he’d said.

  She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but he was right about her. The question was: what was it that she truly wanted?

  12

  Spencer swiveled in his chair and looked out the large-paned tinted window that took up more than three-fourths of the back wall of his office. Fifty-two floors below, vehicles waged war over parking spots on a Los Angeles street too small to accommodate a population bursting its seams.

  The clock dictated their lives. There were appointments to make, deadlines to meet. The madness spilled from the streets to the sidewalks, the concrete disappearing under the leather soles of a singularly focused workforce. It was a new morning, and from the top of his building he watched the daily rat race playing out from the best seat in the house.

  His building marked the hub of the city and boasted an art deco architectural design, clad in terra cotta tiles that was planned and executed by L.A.’s finest. It was no façade. The inner workings of this business lived up to the success the exterior design suggested, but the achievement was a triviality seeing as he’d built it for one purpose. And she was gone.

  Spencer squeezed his fist, his thumb clicking the ballpoint pen wrapped inside, open and closed, open and closed. An hour into his day and he was ready to call it quits and head home. He huffed a sharp laugh at the thought. Head home to what? What did he have waiting for him there?

  He rocked back in his chair feeling every ounce of tomorrow’s date weighing down on him like an anchor, his legs thick with lead. This sullenness was par for the cou
rse. He could label it as seasonal something or other and clock it annually.

  Spencer swung around in the chair and settling in behind his desk, he flipped the page on the calendar. It was the second one he’d purchased since Jaida walked out. Well, cheers to her. He lifted the chilled glass of water from the sandstone coaster and drank it down. At least one of them was satisfied with the outcome.

  Seven hundred and sixty-two days after her inglorious exit he was coming to terms with what’s what. A half-week ago he’d relived a moment, left the nostalgia at the park, then drove home and emptied the shed where he’d stored her belongings. For too long the steel structure housed a hope that he refused to let die. But hardening the shell of his bruised soul he did the unthinkable and pulled the plug, carting off the remainder of her possessions to the Salvation Army.

  They were just things—things that bound him to another time, another life. He wanted a future, not the past all dressed up and looking pretty. He’d like to say that he felt nothing; that removing the last traces of her existence from his life didn’t affect him, but who would he be kidding?

  He’d reached for the phone at least a dozen times to call and ask if there was anything she wanted back before he gave it all away. But it had been more than a year since he sorted through it and hauled it out back, and just as long since they had spoken. That was answer enough.

  The intercom buzzed and Spencer’s finger grazed the button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Rose is here.”

  Spencer closed his eyes on a sigh. Eugene Rose. This meeting had been planned for weeks, and he’d forgotten. If he didn’t pull himself together he was going to lose his shot at a major deal.

  “Give me one minute and then send him in.”

  He released the button, crossed the slate-woven carpet, and used the mirror to straighten his tie. Focus Spencer. He would get past this. A few days out and this dull mood would begin to fade. He ran his fingers through his hair and said a quick prayer.

  His time up, the door swept open and Spencer held out his hand…

  *

  Spencer stretched his legs out in the back of the company Lincoln Town Car and twisted the cap from the water bottle. Taking a long draw, he grimaced as it wound its way down his throat. Mineral water. He’d grabbed his assistant’s bottle by mistake. He liked his water straight, no frills. And he could do without the irritating carbonation.

  He recapped it, set it in the cup holder then hoisted his briefcase on the seat beside him. Popping the lid, he took out the folder that was tucked in the back slot and flipped through the bound pages.

  His meeting with Eugene Rose more than exceeded his expectations. The new program Rose developed rocked him. His design for security systems possessed capabilities that made what they were peddling now seem archaic and inept, and considering that what they produced and delivered was cutting edge, it was a remarkable feat Mr. Rose had accomplished.

  Spencer thumbed through the thick black folder, perusing the details of the plans and statistics that made this idea worth developing, worth pinning his name to.

  For him, the need to protect was instinctual, and that instinct was the stimulus that led him to form Seraph, a security solutions business that in four short years had climbed well past the hundred million-dollar mark in annual revenues.

  Eugene Rose’s plans would dramatically enhance what Spencer already created. It was impressive technology, ideal in that it covered every aspect of security and protection at the private and corporate level. When governments understood how it would enhance national security, he was confident that Seraph would pick up those accounts without trying.

  He made a few notes in the margins then slid the information and the pen back into the briefcase.

  “Landon, drop me off at the corner.” He snapped the briefcase shut, set the code, and then tucked it under the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Sure thing, Mr. G.”

  The car rolled alongside the curb, stopping at the double-mirrored doors. Spencer reached for his gym bag and then the door handle. “Be back in two hours.”

  “Will do.”

  At the reception counter, Gina flashed him a newly veneered smile. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail at the nape of her neck.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Gordon. Racquetball today?” Her manicured nails hovered over the computer keys, anticipating his response.

  He grinned. “Am I that predictable?”

  She shrugged. “You know what you like.”

  She had him there. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “Ma’am?” She gave him a look that seared. “That makes me feel like an old lady.” She shuddered for effect, and he smiled, amused at her aversion to the natural course of life.

  “Sorry, Gina.” She couldn’t be more than forty-five, and the subtle cosmetic procedures she’d had done since he’d been a member at this club did a decent job of erasing about eight of those years.

  He leaned on the counter and watched her type in his name. She rattled off a number and he headed for the elevators. In a silent glide, the doors rolled open and his gaze followed the blonde that stepped out. He continued to watch as she crossed the lobby and exited the building.

  “Like what you see? I can introduce you.”

  Spencer gave the fitness trainer a sidelong glance then held his hand out to stop the door from closing. “No thanks, Dave.” Spencer chuckled at the irony. He supposed his reaction could be mistaken for interest.

  Dave nudged him in the ribs, a goofy smile spanning his narrow jaw. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. She just reminds me of someone I once knew.” There were some similarities. Enough to catch his eye and for a split second make him wonder, but it wasn’t Jaida. It never was.

  Gina paged Dave, and the trainer headed for the lobby. Spencer stepped inside the elevator. An hour on the court should get his juices flowing and pull him out of this disabling funk.

  The locker room was empty. He hung his gray suit on the hanger provided then changed into shorts and a tee shirt. He reached for a fresh can of Penn balls that were tucked in his bag and locked the rest of his belongings inside the locker.

  He stood outside of court four where Gina had assigned him and studied the player through the glass, impressed when the man drove the rubber ball into the wall and without any effort, picked up the rebound.

  It didn’t take her long to find him a partner. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. He must be new to the club or a member who had changed schedules.

  He hung back a moment longer and watched, sizing up his game. Spencer was no lightweight, but given the man’s overly developed musculature, and his power-centered wield of the racquet, if the game could be won by brute strength, Spencer would be no competition for him. But fortunately skill was a necessary component, and he was semi-accomplished in that department.

  He waited for the ball in play to fizzle out then opened the door and stepped inside. “How’s it going?”

  His assigned partner turned and gave him a sweeping once over, a stick of gum working his jaw up and down. “Lance Palermo,” he said, offering his name and his gloved hand at the same time.

  Spencer tucked the racquet under his arm and gripped the man’s hand. “Spencer Gordon.”

  “Well, Spencer Gordon, let’s get to it.”

  Palermo bounced a ball on the tight weave of his racquet strings. Sensing the man’s impatience, Spencer took his position and prepared to engage.

  13

  She was in so much trouble. Jaida’s hands shook as she dug through the box of papers. Just papers. No tape. She shifted from her backside to her knees where she sat in the middle of the floor, her home office littered with emptied files, drawers, and boxes. Auggie was going to kill her.

  “Don’t take evidence home. Make a copy.” His instructions rang in her head like warning bells that came too late. How many times had he told her that? Too many times to count, that’s how many.

  She picked up
a stack of loose papers and stuffed them back inside the empty box then pivoted toward the desk, pulling out a lone shoebox shoved under the bottom drawer. She lifted the lid. There was nothing inside but old photographs.

  This tape was the backbone of their case. The backup file stored in the agency computer had been deleted along with a few other files. But those files were of little importance. She had the original; had to take it because the copy that was burned to a disc had been missing for a couple of weeks. Now all three copies were gone.

  Puzzled, she glanced at the bookshelf to her right. She left the video on that shelf right there, second down from the top. She was sure of it.

  Where was that tape? She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Was she so thickskulled that she had to learn everything the hard way? Gale just might walk after all, and it was her fault.

  “Leave me alone!” She yelled at the ringing cell phone then pushed herself up, her legs tingling with life where the blood had stanched. She darted for the kitchen counter where she’d left it, catching it on the last ring.

  “Hello,” she said. Breathing, heavy and strained rattled through the airwaves. Was this a prank call?

  “Hello?” she tried again, anger clipping her tone. No one answered. Her finger slid to the off button. She hesitated and second-guessing herself, brought the phone back to her ear.

  The connection crackled then cleared. “Detective Martin?”

  Ray

  “Are you ready to talk?” She blurted it out, baring her need, her desperation. Maybe it was for the best. She was tired of the games, the hoops she had to jump through. If it wasn’t his aim to deliver what he promised then she would rather know now.

  “You sound eager, detective.”

  “Yes, well, um, you do know and can appreciate that we’re in need of your assistance.” She stumbled over the words.

  He laughed. “What’s with this ‘we’ bit? Tell it like it is. You need my assistance. You need me.” His voice went low and flat. “Now, let me hear you say that.”