Force

by Taylor Longford

  Startled yet again, I spun around to face Mr. Harmlessly Homeless and exclaimed, "Where did you come from?"

  "From behind you," he answered with a superior look on his face. "Obviously."

  "But why didn't I see you?" I demanded. "Before. When I walked into the alley?"

  His eyes flicked upward and I followed his gaze to a tall, narrow window a few stories up. A thick sill jutted out several inches from the brick wall. "Because I didn't want to be seen," he answered.

  I studied the window for a while, trying to decide if he was suggesting that he'd been crouching on the windowsill. Which was impossible, of course, because there was no way to get up there. Unless he was a crazy good climber or something. But if he'd been sitting up there when I reached the alley, wouldn't I have seen him?

  Maybe not, I decided. The window was a good twenty feet above eye level and who searches above eye level when you're looking for a mortal human being.

  "I…brought you some clothes," I said and pushed them in his direction.

  He took the jeans and T-shirt, eyeing them critically for a moment.

  "And I made you some sandwiches," I said, offering him the paper sack.

  "Sandwiches," he echoed doubtfully. He tucked the clothes under his arm and reached for the bag, opening it and looking inside. "Food?"

  "Yes, food," I answered, wondering what part of England he was from. I mean, wasn't the sandwich invented in the U.K.?

  His large hand disappeared inside the paper bag and rummaged around, finally extracting the sandwich. For several seconds his thick fingers fumbled with the plastic before he got it open. Once that was out of the way, he lifted the white bread to his mouth and took a big bite. Then he closed his eyes and moaned as he chewed.

  I couldn't help but grin.

  He opened his eyes. "Good," he grunted like some kind of Neanderthal.

  "Thought you'd like it," I said, and buried my hands in my front pockets.

  He devoured the sandwich in three more bites. Then went to work on the second one.

  "I should have brought more," I apologized.

  He shook his head. "This is good. I don't want to owe you more than I can pay back."

  "There's no charge for the sandwiches," I argued mechanically. I mean, I didn't expect him to reimburse me for four pieces of bread and some peanut butter. I didn't expect to be paid back for every favor I did.

  "We'll see," he answered.

  I pushed out a soft snort. Because if I knew anything about guys and their promises, this guy would soon forget his good intentions to pay me back. But that was beside the point. Because I'd told him I'd help him find a job and I always keep my promises. "So…uh…after you've changed into those clothes, I'll take you over to Mama Chan's."

  "Mama Chan's?" he questioned, and lifted a golden eyebrow.

  "She owns a restaurant a few blocks away," I told him, and gestured across town. "She's doesn't care too much about ID and paperwork and stuff like that. And she doesn't mind paying cash. I think I can talk her into giving you a job."

  "What kind of job?" he questioned as he disappeared around the side of the dumpster with the clothing under his arm.

  I turned my back on him so he could dress in privacy. "I don't know. Washing dishes maybe. Or bussing tables."

  "Bussing?"

  "Clearing tables."

  "Oh," he said, sounding disappointed.

  "What's wrong with washing dishes and clearing tables?" I demanded.

  It took a few seconds for him to answer. His voice echoed in the narrow alley. "I was hoping for something more fitting to my skills."

  "Skills?" I exploded, annoyed at his reluctance. The guy was sleeping in a dumpster. He wasn't in any position to be picky. "You have skills?"

  "Aye," he answered.

  "Like what?" I asked, spinning to face the dumpster that was hiding him.

  "Well, I'm good with a…I'm good at fighting," he said.

  "Fighting," I snorted. "Oh yeah, that will get you a great job."

  He stepped out from behind the dumpster, his eyebrows knitted into a fierce scowl, his sheathed sword and knife clamped under his arm while he stuffed his pouch in his back pocket. "I was thinking of something in security, maybe. Like a bodyguard."

  "Well, Mama doesn't need a bodyguard," I snapped. "And I don't know anyone else I could talk into taking a chance on a homeless guy like you. You want a job or not?"

  "I never said I wanted a job," he countered smoothly. "What I want is to find my family."

  "Well, you're not gonna find them sleeping in a dumpster at the back of an alley. You need to get out and talk to people. You need to get online and network."

  "Network?"

  "On Facebook and Twitter. Social networking."

  He gave me a long look and finally said, "I don't think I'll find my family that way."

  I huffed, exasperated by his defeatism. "I could give you a hand," I offered.

  "You'll help me find my family?" he asked, his eyes lighting with a sudden glint of interest that looked good on him.

  "I'll try," I answered. But I wanted something in return. I wanted him to prove that he was worth the effort. "So…what about the job?"

  He nodded slowly. "I guess I have to eat while I'm looking for my family. And now I owe you for these clothes."

  He looked down at his legs. I looked down too. I was right about the jeans. He looked hot in them. And I was surprised how tightly the black T-shirt fit since it was the biggest one in my stock. It looked like his shoulders were going to go "incredible hulk" and bust a seam any minute now. But I decided maybe it was because he was wearing the T over his vest—which I thought was a little weird—but maybe that's the way they did things where he was from.

  But the girls at the restaurant were gonna eat him alive. No question. And for some reason that annoyed me. I don't know why. Maybe because I knew that even though I was the one who was helping him, that wouldn't stop him from messing around with any girl who fell into his lap. And I was pretty sure his lap was going to be the busiest place in Denver.

  "What's the matter?" he asked, jerking me out of my moody thoughts.

  "Nothing," I shot back a little too sharply. "What makes you think something's wrong?"

  "You're frowning," he answered.

  "I frown a lot," I blustered. "Get used to it."

  He nodded curtly. "I will if you give me a chance."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He rolled his wide shoulders in a powerful shrug, the packed muscles rippling beneath the tight stretch of his T. "If you want me to get used to it, you'll have to spend some time with me."

  "Oh, that's what you figure, huh?" I asked, softening a bit at the thought that maybe he wanted to spend time with me.

  "Aye," he answered, the corner of his mouth twitching again.

  God, he was arrogant. So confident. So sure of himself. Like he assumed that I, along with every other girl, was dying to crawl into his pants. I straightened my spine. And reminded myself that I wasn't like other girls as we headed toward Mama's.

  When we reached the back door of the restaurant, I turned and pointed to the stuff he was carrying. "You'll have to stash the knife and sword before you go in to talk to Mama."

  His eyebrows shot up so high, they disappeared beneath the golden fall of his hair. "I don't go anywhere without my knife and sword," he growled.

  "Well, you're going to work without them," I informed him firmly. "I'll keep them at my place."

  "When will I get them back?"

  "I'm not gonna steal your toy sword," I muttered.

  "It's not a toy," he barked, surprising me with his ferocity before he took a deep breath and calmed down a bit. "It's a fine blade made of forged steel. It's a weapon."

  "Whatever," I muttered, and rolled my eyes.

  "It's a weapon," he repeated like I'd better not argue with him if I knew what was good for me.

  "Okay, it's weapon," I gave in and glanced around, looking for a
place to hide his stuff while he handed me first his sword in the baldric then his sheathed knife.

  "What's your name, anyhow?" I asked, and slipped his stuff behind some sheets of cardboard that were leaning against the brick wall. "Mama will want to know."

  "Force," he answered.

  "No, really," I snorted. "I need your name."

  "It's Force," he repeated.

  "I mean your given name. The name your parents gave you."

  "Is there something wrong with your hearing?" he growled.

  My head whipped around and I gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Are you serious?"

  His scowl told me he was.

  "Force?" I exclaimed. "Your name is Force? As in force-of-nature"?

  His brow creased into a thoughtful expression. Then he shook his head and smirked. "Nay. More like brute-force".

  "Oh," I answered, snuffing out a laugh. "Okay. Glad we cleared that up. What about a last name?"

  "What about it?"

  "Do you have one?"

  He forced out an impatient sigh. "Do I need one to wash dishes and clear tables?"

  "I guess not," I admitted and tugged the heavy door open. "But I don't think Force is gonna work. Why don't we go with Forrest?"

  "Because that's not my name," he growled.

  "Well, nobody's gonna believe your name is Force so I suggest you take my advice and change it to Forrest."

  "My name is Force," he insisted, his long fingers clamping around my arm and stopping me.

  "Yeah, I got that," I told him, giving his hand a dirty look. "Do you have anything new to say?"

  "Aye," he rumbled, flicking his gaze away in an impatient gesture. "I gave you my name. Now you owe me yours."

  "Oh," I exclaimed on a breath of surprised laughter. He was right. I knew his name and he had a right to know mine. "Sorry. It's Camie. Camie White."

  His eyebrows pulled together as he searched my face. I could almost see the wheels slowly churning inside his head and I assumed he was thinking what a lot of people think when they first hear my name. So I gave him my go-to explanation. "Yeah, I know. I'm not very white. But if it makes you feel better, my dad is."

  But he didn't loosen his grip so maybe that wasn't what he was thinking at all. "What about Camie?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked, my eyes tripping all over themselves trying to be first to meet his gaze.

  "It's an uncommon name," he murmured. "Is it short for something else?"

  I was surprised by his question. I was surprised he was interested. Because, let's face it, most guys don't pay that much attention. Take Morris, for example. He'd had five or six years to ask me that question. But even though he was supposedly SO hot for me, he never had. "Why do you ask?" I countered, getting all mushy and swoony inside despite my better judgment.

  "If you're going to walk off with all my worldly possessions, I need to know about you."

  Oh. Yeah. That brought me back to reality in a heartbeat. "How about I give you my address?" I countered, shaking my head at my naivety.

  "How about you answer my question?" he demanded like he was used to getting what he wanted. Like he was living the whole alpha-male dream and thought that's what girls really wanted in a guy. Well, if he thought that stuff was gonna work on me, he was in for a surprise. Because I was holding out for a knight in shining armor. And this guy might be hot (okay, really hot) but he was SO not a knight.

  "Sorry, that information is classified," I snickered and looked down at his fingers wrapped around my biceps. "Are you gonna let me go or are all of these questions just an excuse to hold my arm?"

  His fingers opened suddenly, releasing my arm. And he took a step back with this disgusted look on his face. Like the one a four-year-old boy gives you when you ask him if he likes girls. You know the one, right? It was pretty comical.

  Anyhow, now that I was free to move again, I stepped through the back door of Mama Chan's restaurant. Immediately, a thick haze of moist heat swallowed me up and I pulled in a deep lungful of warm air deliciously scented with fresh peppers, fried onions and sizzling meat. Man, I love the food at Mama Chan's.

  Jeffrey was banging around at the long, polished-steel bank of gas stoves, managing several pans, tossing the contents of one and stirring sauce in another. Ming stood on the other side of the counter, slicing chicken into strips like someone had pushed his fast-forward button. I found Mama at the other end of the kitchen, chopping onions.

  I turned and shoved Force back against the closed door. "Just stand here and try to look hard-working," I whispered.

  But when I wheeled back toward the kitchen, Mama must have seen me coming. She took one look over my shoulder then… "No," she almost shouted. "No more of your strays, Camie."

  "But Mama—"

  "They never stay," she hissed fiercely, eyeing Force through narrowed eyes. "They put in a few hours on the first day. The next day they show up late. And the day after that, they don't turn up at all. You can't depend on them!"

  "Please, Mama," I muttered quietly, taking the tiny woman's arm and steering her into the short hall between the kitchen and the dining area. "I have a feeling this one's different."

  "That's what you said about the last one!" she exclaimed, looking exasperated. Mama might be small but she doesn't let anyone intimidate her. She's a virtual fireball and runs that restaurant with a steady hand. But she has a soft side, too.

  I glanced back toward the kitchen. "Well, if this one doesn't work out, he'll be the last one. I promise."

  Mama rolled her eyes and sighed. For a long time she didn't say anything and I was afraid the answer was gonna be no. "Okay," she finally said. But her frown was stern as she wiped her hands on her apron and waved a finger at me. "But this is the last time. These homeless boys of yours, they never work out."

  "Thanks," I said and leaned over to give her a hug. "You're the best, Mama."

  "Yes, I am," she chuckled reluctantly and shook her head. But the creases on her forehead disappeared as she grinned up at me.

  Together we walked back into the kitchen and my gaze found Force, still waiting by the back door with his muscular arms crossed over his chest. I gave him a pleased smile and his eyes locked on mine in a way that I wasn't expecting. And for some reason, the power of that gunmetal gaze made my heart skip a beat or two. I don't know how many, to be honest. I stopped counting at three.

  I shook off the ridiculous feeling and sauntered to his side, elbowing him in the ribs. "Okay, you got the job," I told him.

  "Oh," he answered, sounding more disappointed than glad which wasn't very promising.

  "You…don't sound very excited," I murmured from the side of my mouth, hoping nobody else in the kitchen noticed our conversation.

  "I was just hoping for something different," he said, his voice kinda flat.

  "Yeah, I know," I growled back at him, getting annoyed at his attitude. "You just wanted a job where you could kill people."

  With his arms still crossed over his chest, he looked down at me, one of his golden eyebrows sliding slowly upward. "I've never killed a man," he said mildly. "Although I've buried a few."

  "You…what?" I choked out, staring up at him.

  "And I've never killed a lass either," he added with an arrogant smirk.

  "Well, who did you bury and why?" I demanded, ignoring his use of the word, lass. At least for the time being.

  "I buried some men who deserved to die," he answered, with a detached coldness in his voice. "And I buried them because they were dead. Isn't that the usual reason for burying people?"

  "How did they die?" I questioned him, wondering if I really wanted to know.

  "No one knows for certain," he answered. "My brother has never talked about it. But I doubt they faced death bravely. And I hope they suffered."

  "Your brother?" I croaked. His brother had killed people? Okay, to be honest, I knew guys whose brothers had killed someone. (All in jail, by the way.) I also knew that stuff like that runs in families. Violence.
Anger. Rage. And as I searched Force's eyes, I suddenly realized the guy didn't have a soft side.

  Okay, so he'd be a good person to have at your side in a fight. And yet…

  And yet, I couldn't help but feel like he'd be a good person to have at your side…period. Besides, I'd promised to help him and I always keep my promises. It was too late to back out now. And I figured I could take care of myself if I was wrong about him. I only hoped I hadn't brought a whole crap-ton of trouble to Mama's back door because she deserved better. I sighed and lifted my gaze up to his. "Just don't blow this, okay? My reputation is on the line."

  "Alright," he muttered, looking resigned as we moved away from the door.

  Without any sort of warning, Ming threw a white apron at him, probably trying to mess with the new guy. But Force snatched it out of the air with reflexes that made me think he could play wide receiver in the NFL. He reminded me of that really fast guy on the Packers. What's his name? Oh, never mind. He's not a receiver. He's on the defense.

  I watched as he shook out the apron and held it up, considering it for a few seconds before he passed the loop over his head and dragged the ties around front. His strong fingers tied the ends in an efficient knot.

  And I just kept watching. I never saw a guy look so good in an apron. Seriously.

  He glanced around the small crowded space, past the bank of stoves to the counter against the wall where plates were piled in the sink. "Will someone show me what to do?" he asked with a regal sigh, like he was some kind of god who'd fallen on hard times.

  Exasperated, I huffed a little. "You just load the things in the dishwasher, close it up and push the button."

  "Dishwasher?" he echoed uncertainly.

  I pointed at the metal box on the counter. To be honest, it didn't really look like the dishwasher in my apartment, or anyone else's home or apartment. So I took pity on him and gave him some quick instructions. "See that box on the counter? The tray slides out so you can fill it with dishes. Then you slide the tray back inside and push the red button. When it stops, the dishes are clean. You open the box and slide the tray out the other side. It works just like a carwash."

  "Carwash?" he muttered, like he was grappling with the most complicated thing on earth.