Kestrel

by A. M. Hargrove

  She nods.

  “Occasionally, I’ll need a date. Mainly for business functions. I’d like to call on you for that, because you can introduce me to people. I would assume being raised here that you’re connected to some of the Charleston business people I need to get to know. However, you really need to spruce up your wardrobe.”

  Her features scrunch up as she says, “Yeah, I do know a lot of people and I can do that. As far as my wardrobe goes, my funds have been really tight, with the house and all. I haven’t bought any clothes since, well, since the storm. I’ve had to sell my mom’s jewelry and all her things that were worth any money just to keep the place going.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “But now, with the sale, I’ll be able to pay off all the debt so that will clear everything up. I’m going to put the lot on Sullivan’s for sale and when that sells I’ll be able to go shopping.”

  “The lot on Sullivan’s?”

  Her body sagged when she answered, “Yeah.”

  “No house?”

  “Oh, no. The Atlantic swallowed it all up.”

  “Jesus Christ. Everything?”

  “Yeah. The driveway and the rubble were all that was left behind. I had to have it all cleared away. But the slab is all that remains. I can show you if you want.”

  “You’re selling?”

  “That’s what I said. I don’t have a choice. I’m liquidating everything I own in order to stay solvent. If I don’t, I lose it all. Taxes have killed me. And honestly, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “Your parents weren’t insured?”

  She let’s out a bitter laugh. “I loved my parents like crazy. But according to Uncle Foster, my dad was a brilliant attorney and an idiot of a businessman.”

  “I see.”

  “So, our arrangement. You’ll want me as a date for various functions?”

  “Yes.”

  She chews on her lips for a second, then says, “Okay, I can do that. And I promise to look presentable as soon as I can afford to go shopping.”

  I want to ask her to fix her hair, but I hesitate.

  “What?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your hair.”

  “What about my hair?”

  “Can you brush it?”

  “I do brush it. It’s simply unruly.”

  “There are things, you know, treatments and such, that can help with that.”

  Her expression morphs into one of distaste. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I just do. Go to a salon.”

  “Salons cost money, Mr. Hart.”

  My wallet is in my hand before I even think about it and I hand her five hundred dollars. “Here. This should do. Tip them well. And find the best salon in Charleston.”

  “I can’t take your money.” She’s insulted.

  “You can if you want to keep Ells’ room.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “No. I’m trying to get you to fix your hair. If you’re going to go out with me, you have to do something with it.”

  She snatches the money out of my hand. “Okay, but I’m paying you back as soon as the deal closes.”

  “Fine with me. But do this as soon as you can.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “Not at all, Dr. Drayton. I’ll call you next week.”

  She walks me to the front porch. “What kind of car is that?”

  “An Aventador.”

  “Oh.”

  Clearly, she has no idea what it is. That’s fine. She’ll ride in it soon enough and find out then.

  ***

  On Saturday night, Shayla and her husband meet me at Huck’s Downtown. When they arrive and after we’re seated, Shayla wants to know how I got reservations on such short notice. This is one of the best restaurants in town and usually it takes weeks to get in here. I don’t tell her I stopped by on the way home yesterday and slipped the host a few c-notes to get a table.

  “I have a few connections.” I smile.

  Ralph hasn’t stopped inspecting me since we’ve arrived. I contemplated wearing a shirt that covered my tattoos, but then decided against it. They both need to know the real me. Shayla examines them as well.

  “Mr. Drummond, one of the reasons for this dinner was so you could get to know me. I hope Shayla has mentioned to you that I would like for her to travel with me when the company moves in that direction. Obviously we are still building our staff and aren’t at that point yet, but we will be soon. Your wife is a talented administrative assistant and I’d like to have her as my right hand. Of course, I only want to do that with your blessing. HTS travels using our limo service or our corporate jet and only on occasion do we use commercial airlines. We offer great security for all our employees by using the best hotels.”

  “Did you have her safety in mind when you took her for that joyride in your Lamborghini?” His eyes drill mine. He’s a tough customer.

  “Actually, I did. Normally, I would’ve driven back roads—had I known them—at excessive speeds, but I didn’t and I drove within the speed limit.” I steeple my fingers as I match his gaze. I don’t back down, but I won’t be an asshole either.

  “How good of you,” he says sourly.

  The waiter interrupts us, asking if we’d care to order cocktails.

  “Wine?” I ask.

  “Scotch. Lagavulin. Neat,” he replies.

  “Shayla?” I ask.

  “Chardonnay.”

  I order a bottle of Chardonnay for us.

  “Look, Kestrel, I won’t beat around the bush here. I didn’t want my wife the take this job. You father was a criminal. A mobster. And I didn’t want her associated with the Hart name. She went against my wishes, anyway, and took the job. As far as I’m concerned, traveling with you is out of the question. That will never happen as long as we’re married.”

  “I see. Can I at least explain some things to you?”

  “As long as you’re aware that I didn’t even want to come to this dinner.”

  Whoa. Talk about hostile. He’s added a new dimension to the word.

  “Fair enough. You’re right. My father was a criminal. The worst sort and the greatest day in my life was the night he was shot and killed. Langston Hart was the cruelest bastard that ever lived. But HTS has nothing to do with Langston Hart and it never did. I’ve cooperated with the FBI in dismantling Hart Entertainment, which is why I’m now working with HTS. I want nothing to do with anything that had Langston’s hands on it. He was a vile man and the further I can distance myself from him, the better. I’m not asking you to be my friend. I’m not even asking you to like me. What I am asking you is to let your wife work at a highly respectable company, make a hell of a great salary with excellent benefits, and do some business travel with me. She’ll be very respected in her role at HTS and you can believe that neither of you will regret this decision. Now, if you’d like, I can have my security team send you anything you’d like on me to satisfy your distrust of me. I’ve never been arrested. Yes, I’ve had a few speeding tickets, but that’s about it. I drink alcohol, don’t do drugs, and other than my ink here, I lead a relatively boring life. And by the way, each one of my tattoos tells a story, but really that’s none of your business.”

  He sits and stares. I don’t break eye contact, not even to blink. I’m an expert at this because an intimidator raised me. Ralph is a decent sized guy, but he’s not nearly as large as I am. He’s probably five feet eleven and he knows I have him. The wheels churn; I can see him clenching his jaw and the flicker in his pupils. Finally, he dips his head slightly.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. No woo-fuckery here, then?” I ask.

  His brow creases. “Huh?”

  Shayla slams her hand on the table and the glasses rattle. Her laugher fills the room and heads turn. I wink at her as Ralph watches her like she’s lost all her sense.

  The rest of our dinner goes rather well. When we’re done, I ask i
f they’d like to join me for a drink at a bar down the street. They decline, so we part ways. I watch as they climb in the limo and drive off. Then I walk down the street and find another spot to hit. It’s only ten o’clock and I’m in no mood to go home. I find a nice quiet bar and grab a Lagavulin. I chuckle to myself when I think of Ralph ordering this. I can’t deny his taste in Scotch.

  As I sip my drink, I scan the crowd from my corner seat at the bar. It consists of couples, except for me. I spy one couple at a table directly across the room and it appears they’re having an argument. When I take a better look, I realize it’s Carter. She’s frowning and gesticulating and he’s angry-looking. They both have untouched drinks in front of them. He’s a preppie-looking type and she’s looking geeky as usual—thick glasses and hair pulled tight in a sloppy ponytail. She suddenly stands, her chair topples over, she picks it up and stomps out of the place, crying. He’s left there staring after her.

  First, I’m surprised how at shocked I am to have seen her in here with a man. She doesn’t seem the type to date. Second, I’m torn between following her, or leaving her alone. She was clearly upset, crying, and angry. Should I check on her to see if she’s okay? I don’t want it to seem like I was eavesdropping, but I also want her to be safe. This is downtown Charleston, though, a safe area, so I don’t dwell on that part for long. Since Carter’s personal life is none of my business I decide to drop it. A few minutes later, I finish my drink and walk home.

  Turning the corner on Tradd Street, a few feet ahead I see a hunched up figure leaning on a brick wall. As I get closer, I recognize it’s Carter, and I can hear her softly crying. When she hears my footsteps, she jerks upright.

  “Carter? Are you okay?” I ask.

  She’s taken her glasses off and she looks me dead in the eyes. It’s hard to see because it’s so dark, but the reflection of streetlight makes her cheeks glisten where tears have left their traces behind.

  “I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

  Her southern accent is refined, much different than Shayla’s. It’s obvious by the way she’s shielding herself that I’ve frightened her. Should I tell her I was in the bar? Would that seem like I was spying on her?

  “I’m on my way home from dinner. Do you need a hand?”

  “N-No. I’m fine. Truly.”

  “Are you sure? I can walk you home.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  She really is in no condition to walk alone. So I reach for her arm and say, “Come. I insist.”

  She allows me to lead her.

  “So, what are you doing out here all alone?”

  She sags against me. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “I met Ells’ father. We’re sort of friends. And we argued. Like we usually do.”

  Her body leans on mine, like the weight is too much to bear right now.

  “Would it be too nosy of me to ask what you argued about?”

  “He blames me for Ells’ death. It came up again.”

  “He blames you?”

  She stumbles on the uneven sidewalk and I catch her.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “It’s okay. These sidewalks are tricky, I’ve noticed.”

  “Yeah, they are. Have you been on Chalmers Street yet?”

  “No.”

  “You need to go. It’s pure cobblestones. Super tricky. Don’t go after you’ve had more than a couple of drinks. Sprained ankle for sure.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She’s diverting the conversation. “So Carter, why does he blame you?”

  “Simon blames me for everything. Hell, I blame me too.”

  We are getting close to my carriage house so I make a quick decision. “Do you like old movies?”

  “I guess.” Her voice is heavy as though she carries the weight of the world. I suppose in some ways she does.

  “Good.”

  I steer her toward my little place and she asks where I’m taking her. When I unlock the door, I say, “Welcome to my temporary home.”

  She scans the place and says, “This is nice.”

  “We’re going to watch an old movie.”

  “Okay.” She eyes me warily. “Which movie?”

  “The original Star Wars.”

  She huffs, “That’s not old. I thought you would say, ‘Gone With The Wind’ or something.”

  “Carter, I’m many things, but not a romantic. Sorry.”

  “But Star Wars isn’t even old.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s from the seventies. That’s old.”

  “No!” she insists, laughing. “Old is from like the forties or fifties.”

  “Let’s say we agree to disagree. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.”

  “Scotch?”

  “Ew! No! Wine, please, if you have it.”

  After I fix our beverages, the movie starts playing and we sit on the sofa. She’s at one end and I’m at the other. She chatters incessantly during the film about R2D2, C3PO, Chewbacca, and Han Solo, until the second half when she is completely silent. I glance at her and find she’s sound asleep. It’s almost one in the morning, so I decide to let her stay here. My bed is a king, so there’s room for us both and if she finds that offensive, I’ll deal with it in the morning.

  After pulling the covers back, I carry her to the bed, take her shoes and glasses off, and then cover her up. When I start to undress, I rethink it. It goes against my better judgment for her to wake up to a naked man, so I hunt down some boxers and a t-shirt and then get in bed. As I lay there, a couple of things cross my mind. One, never has a woman shared my bed for the night. Two, she’s making weird little snorting noises as she sleeps. If I weren’t so damn tired, I’d get up and take a look at her. She’s an odd thing, Carter is. As I drift to sleep, my thoughts are only of her.

  Chapter Seven

  Carter

  When I wake up, a couple of things hit me. My face is smashed up against the back of something hard. Not hard like concrete, but firm and slightly pliable as I burrow more tightly against it. Then I notice the smell. Damn, it smells delicious. I tuck my legs up against it and allow my mind to stray. This cocoon I’m wrapped in is so pleasant; I don’t ever want to leave. Reality edges the fog away and I open my eyes. The expanse of a man’s back faces me. Not just any man. Kestrel. I spent the night with him. He must’ve put me to bed. When I try to move, it becomes apparent that my arm is wrapped about his torso and he’s holding on to it.

  Then I hear a chuckle that’s heavy with hoarseness often accompanied by early morning. “Sleep well?”

  “Yeah. I guess I fell asleep during the movie?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks for putting me to bed,” I murmur against his back.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Damn he smells good. Even the sheets smell like him. What the hell is that?

  My unfiltered mouth blurts, “What smells so good in here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He’s surprised by my question.

  I sniff a little and say, “Everything smells good.”

  Then I hear his deep chuckle again. “Glad you approve.”

  “Yeah, so, this is a little awkward.”

  “Hmm. Just think how you would’ve felt if I had slept the way I normally do.”

  That puzzles me.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He rolls over and one corner of his mouth is upturned. I almost catch my breath. With eyes half-closed the man looks edible. Admittedly, I’ve never spent the night with anyone. Lame, I know, but it’s the truth. Do all men look this good in the morning? Is this what I’ve been missing? Shitfire!

  “Think about it, Carter.”

  “Okay, one thing about me, I don’t play games.”

  “Neither do I. Hate them, in fact.”

  “Then …”

  “You’re incredibly naive. I usually sleep in the buff.”

>   My mouth must’ve dropped open because first he laughs, and then he uses his finger to push my chin back up.

  After I process the idea of him naked in bed with me, I say, “Yeah, way more than a little awkward.”

  “So, if that would’ve been more than a little awkward, how do you think you would manage doing anything I would ask of you?”

  He would have to bring that up, wouldn’t he?

  “I’d figure out a way.”

  “Just out of curiosity, because if this relationship moves in that direction, how many men have you slept with?”

  “I, uh, well, uh, that’s really none of your business,” I stammer.

  He grabs my wrist and pulls me across him saying, “Oh, but it is. You see, if I ever agree to that arrangement in full, I want to know exactly how experienced you are.”

  “B-but, I thought you said you only wanted me for certain dates.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

  For a moment, I allow myself to assess him. That he gets his way with women is a given. He’s perfect. Full mouth. High cheekbones that dip into those perfect hollows right beneath them makes me want to touch his face. He has a couple of day’s worth of scruff and I’d love to rub the back of my hand across it. I look up to see chips of emeralds scrutinizing me.

  “You would do that?”

  “How many, Carter?”

  Two can play at this game. Though I’m inexperienced as hell, I decide to be a bit bold. I crawl on top of him and straddle him. He pretends he’s not shocked, but I see the slight widening of his lids and the dilation of his pupils. It’s gone in a flash, but it was there.

  In the most seductive voice I can muster, which is probably goofy as all heck, I say, “I’ll tell you, if you tell me first.”

  “Oh, Carter, you’re playing with fire here.”

  “Maybe, but fire can be a good thing sometimes. It beats the hell out of ice.”

  His head tilts and then he suddenly yanks on my wrist. I tumble down and my face is aligned with his. “You asked, but when I tell you, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “Okay.” My voice comes out as a thready whisper.

  “Dozens.”