by K NILSSON
He laughs. “I thought those kinds of pickup lines weren’t allowed.”
He was cocky. I liked that. It was a cousin to arrogance and cruelty; I liked that even more. Was this what it felt like to find your true north?
He shook my hand and started a conversation like a gentleman. But in my heart, I knew this man; the dark Viking was dangerous.
Chapter Twenty
Saint
While we were struggling with something to say, I saw Max swipe Carrie's phone from the purse she had laid on the bar, and he was fiddling with it in the corner. Hopefully, the installation would be fast and seamless.
This place was three martinis short of a dive bar, though you couldn't tell from the number of patrons standing three deep at the trough. Its only redeeming qualities were that it had a great piano bar and the lingering smell of a good steakhouse.
“You look familiar,” she said.
I laughed. “Ahhh, high school. Remember the time we made out in the parking lot fifteen minutes from right now?”
She laughed. “That was cheesy.”
“My name is Saint Gabriel, Sawyer Saint Gabriel. Everyone calls me Saint.”
She paused, took my hand, and joked. “
“You’ll have to tell me about your name. There’s a story in there somewhere.”
I grinned.
Then she said, “My name is Carrie Drazen.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Suddenly remembering that my mother taught me some manners, I asked Carrie if she would like something to eat.
“I heard this place has good steaks,” she said.
“Then I’ll get us a table.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I took a woman to dinner. But I looked forward to breaking the ice with Carrie, so sharing drinks and steak was not an opportunity to let slip by.
The place was so packed, we took the first table available. People paraded past our table often. Meanwhile, Max walked by and dropped the phone back into her handbag, which was hanging from the back of the chair. Smooth move.
Though the location of the table wasn’t conducive to conversation, we managed to break the ice.
Carrie said she was a student at UCLA majoring in psychology and planned to go to medical school to be a psychiatrist. That information wasn't in the dossier, but I'm glad it came straight from her mouth. It won't appear as if I've done homework on her.
“What prompted you to study psychology?” I asked.
“I come from a wealthy family, the Drazens, and one of our foundations includes scholarships for survivors of crimes and private funding for counseling services. I also have a personal interest in helping young victims of sexual abuse.”
I let that last sentence hang. I’d thought this Drazen princess was only interested in extracurricular activities and was going to school because it was a contingency for her trust fund money.
“I’ve found that helping others who have suffered loss and betrayal is cathartic. It puts things in perspective for me.” She continued and then she looked sheepish.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My parents encouraged us to do community service through the church and participate hands-on with the charities we support. So I have some experience with helping the needy. It feels good to help others. It makes me realize how lucky I am and consider my blessings. Although sometimes I feel guilty, like I’m taking part in an opportunity like this for the wrong reasons.”
“Oh, the guilt of the wealthy.” I was sorry I’d said it the minute it came out of my mouth.
Carrie looked hurt. “I don’t have rich kid guilt. Sure, my family has money, but they’re socially responsible. We make donations and get our hands dirty if necessary.”
“Why? You can hire anyone to get their hands dirty.”
I was sorry that came out of my mouth too, but I wanted to hear her deny it.”
“Where would be the joy in that?”
“Joy. Pffft.” I just couldn’t behave.
“I’ve suffered… in a manner that no child should ever experience, and at times, I can’t shake it. I help others so I can forget my pain. That’s the guilt I have.”
Then she smiled like a Cheshire cat and changed the subject.
“What do you do for a living?”
One of my caveats when trying to avoid telling the whole story, was to tell as much of the truth as possible. That way it’s hard to trip yourself up.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said with a straight face and watched her expression.
“Why that?” she asked softly, looking into my eyes.
“I became a private investigator because I have an insatiable need to catch proper women behaving improperly and photograph them in their most humiliating moment.”
I thought her breath hitched.
“That’s an interesting line of work. You must tell me more about it sometime.”
Carrie showed the physical characteristics of a woman who was turned on and trying to keep a lid on it. Her pupils were dilated and cheeks flushed. She licked her lips and shifted in her seat. That wasn’t what I’d expected, but I could work with it. I was sure the corner of my lips curved into a slightly cruel smile.
“What? No outrage against misogynist investigators?” I used my boyish grin, the grin women said they find devastating.
Her face was placid, it was a schooled expression, I bet it was practiced on a daily basis in the Drazen household. I bet the girl could play poker. I wasn’t surprised. Knowing how not to show your hand must also be on the curriculum for deportment classes. Then she surprised me.
“I think it’s hot and dirty and all kinds of kinky,” she said with a breathy voice.
That wasn’t the answer I expected either. Maybe I was the naïve one. Could this young woman, this beautiful breathy princess, be my saving grace?
I needed to hook up with Max, see if he’d installed that app on Carrie’s phone before I said something I’d regret.
“Carrie, I need to go to the restroom to wash my hands before our meal. Would you like to go before me?”
It was the right thing to ask. Thank you, Mom, I said silently.
Carrie made a small chuckling noise and rose to her feet.
“Don’t mind if I do. I could use a trip to the little girls’ room. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her walk away, as did people at several of the tables near us. Carrie was an elegant woman. She didn’t walk out of the room; she glided. No doubt a skill all the Drazen kids had.
Max came right over with his phone and slid into her seat.
“Did it work?” I asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s see if Carrie is sending or receiving anything.”
He tapped on the app icon, selected her name, and watched for relays.
“Nothing so far.”
“Install that app on my phone and show me how to use it,” I said, handing him my cell.
“Yeah sure.”
He was obviously excited about the app. New technology was his bailiwick. He took my phone and installed it.
“See this icon here? Click on it. See her name on the pulldown menu?”
“Yeah.”
Her name wasn’t the only one on that list though. There had to be a half dozen names, and only one of them was familiar.
“Who are these other names?” I asked.
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. I didn’t think he’d planned on me seeing those names.
“Are you stalking someone, Max?”
He gave me a rueful smile.
He thought I was born yesterday. Max’s ex-girlfriend was on that list.
“See that you keep your head in this game,” I reminded him.
He nodded, and I looked at my watch. Carrie had been gone for over ten minutes. What did women really do in the “little girls’ room?” I was a private investigator, and I still didn’t know the answer. Then I sat back and did a reconnais
sance on the room as I should have when I first rushed in.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mr. Nobody
No one could look more like Eileen than Carrie. She was poised, graceful, and more elegant than her mother ever was. Carrie looked and walked like a model and made my dick hard.
Then I looked him over… the one called Saint. The bastard was handsome; I’d give him that. I wondered if she knew he had been stalking her. The past few times I went to the church where she attended support group meetings, he had been parked across the street, watching with binoculars. How amateur could he be? Who hired this clown?
He was an unexpected addition to the chess board, but I didn’t need to make a move this evening. The only thing I was there to do was to see if mini-Eileen would remember me or show a flicker of recognition.
I followed her to the ladies’ restroom. In the ten years since she last saw me, my physical appearance has altered. Thanks to the colored contact lens, my blue eyes are brown. I'm older, bald, with a full beard and muscular from bodybuilding. But no matter what, I would do whatever it took to get her refocused on me so that I got my hands on her again.
For tonight, I wanted to see how she’d respond to the trigger words I planted in her mind all those years ago. That would help to shape my plan.
So I walked down the noisy corridor of the dive. The carpet smelled damp, musty, with remnants of cigar hanging heavy in the air. The place had two bathrooms, one for “Buoys” and the other for “Gulls.” I waited right outside the door. The element of surprise was everything.
Without looking where she was going, Carrie stepped right into me. I grabbed her arms to steady her.
“Oops. I'm so sorry. I should have looked before stepping out…” Her voice trailed off.
“No worries, young lady. Would you like some candy?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Carrie
While walking to the restroom, I replayed how Saint and I met. There had been some serious eye fucking going on. His smile should be illegal. Saint’s hands were large; the palm alone could cover my throat. Dare I hope he was into breath play? I could imagine him pushing me over a club chair, pulling my pants down so they caught around my ankles, then sticking his cock inside me. He’d fuck me hard, his leg up on the bed for leverage to go deeper, and then he’d put his hand on my throat and squeeze my airway. Yeah, I’d file that away in my spank bank.
I did my business, washed my hands, applied more lipstick, and fluffed my hair. When I opened the door, I walked straight into a wall of muscle. The impact jarred my whole body.
“Would you like some candy?”
My mind went blank. I blinked rapidly and tried to focus on something in the hallway to get my bearings. Sounds were muffled and the hallway appeared distorted, as though I was in the hall of mirrors at an amusement park.
Leaning back into the wall, I waited until I felt I could walk. I must have had another dissociative moment, because the wall of flesh wasn’t there anymore when I looked up. I wondered if I’d imagined seeing him, and I wasn’t watching where I was going as I stumbled into the dining room.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saint
A distinguished man appeared to sneak out of the bar from the direction of the bathrooms. He was intentionally bald, and his head was shiny, almost like a white cue ball, except for a distinguishing mark on one side. In contrast to his shiny pate, he had a full salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a nice suit—a designer, I thought—but that was neither here nor there.
Carrie stumbled into the dining room from the corridor. She appeared disoriented and disheveled.
I took three large steps to reach her.
“Is everything all right?”
I ran my hands up and down her arms. There were long scratches on them, and they appeared self-inflicted. I held her hands to keep her from drawing blood as I walked her to the table, then I pulled her chair out and sat her down.
“Carrie?”
Her eyes finally met mine, and I saw recognition. Her wits had returned.
The server put the steaks in front of us.
“May I suggest a bottle of zinfandel, sir?”
“Carrie, would you like some wine?”
She shook her head, so I declined the wine and continued to hold Carrie’s hands. They had gotten cold and clammy. For a minute, I wondered if she was in shock. This was ridiculous. I was going to take her home.
“Please wrap these steaks up to go?” I asked the waiter before he could leave.
He looked at her and said, “Right away, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Carrie
I never accepted help from anyone when I got these spells, but I felt Saint was attuned to me. He came. His touch awakened me. I felt such relief.
“Yes, Saint, I want to go home.”
I dreaded going home though. The dreams usually came after. They were getting worse. No one ever came home with me because I didn't want anyone to see me fall apart, wake up screaming, pleading, crying, and my arms all scratched up. Those episodes left me awake for hours. When I lived at home with Margie, she used to come to my room and help put me back together. Mother and Daddy were quite upset when I had the episodes at home, and if it weren't for the fact that Margie put me in the shower and fed me breakfast and coffee, they would have put me in a hospital. I didn’t deserve a sister who was so good to me. She was more like a mother to me than Mom.
“I’ll drive you. Your car will be at your house by morning,” he assured me.
I nodded, almost humbled by his kindness. It wasn’t that people hadn’t been kind to me before, but I didn’t want kindness. I wanted mistreatment. That’s what I deserved. But from Saint, I’d take the compassion.
“You need to eat,” he said. “I had them pack up the dinner so we can take it with us.”
I nodded.
“When we get to my house, would you like to stay and finish dinner with me?”
That was bold. But I didn’t want the steaks to go to waste, nor did I want to miss a chance to kneel at the feet of Saint Gabriel.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saint
After Carrie gave me her address to plug into my GPS, we settled into a comfortable silence all the way to her home in the Palisades. I knew where she lived. I found her when she’d disappeared. The climb to her place was narrow, dark, and steep. My Buick had a few hiccups getting up the grade. At one point, I thought she was sleeping, but she was just quiet.
“Pull up that driveway, Saint. It’ll take you to the front door.”
“Nice place,” I said.
“Thank you. It’s one of my father’s properties.”
“Must be nice,” I said under my breath.
I don't think she heard me because she was smiling. I watched her punch codes in the entry to unlock the front door and admired her dimpled chin. Carrie Drazen was cute and beautiful. How could someone be both at the same time? I was sure there’s another expression for it, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to grab her face and…
Get a grip, Saint. You can’t do jack shit, and you won't do jack shit.
She was in the house before I had a gentlemanly thought again.
“Follow me.”
And I did. I got a view of slightly muscled calves and thighs. Carrie's butt curved out a bit more than other women’s, which was great because primarily, I was an ass man. Secondly, I’d love to taste her pussy. Eating pussy ranked right up there with fucking. I wondered if the carpet matched the drapes, as they say.
She punched in a code on the keypad by the door, and it unlocked. She stepped inside and punched another code into the security system. She had a two-stage security system, front door and foyer. It looked state of the art. I should check it out when she wasn’t around.
I followed her into the kitchen with the sack that held our dinner. The kitchen was fantastic. It was large and modern with white marble counters, leather stools at the banquette, upscale appliances, and
a table that had a slice of a tree trunk for the top. The table was in front of a window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. What I wouldn’t give to see the view in the daytime.
“Let’s eat outside,” she said. “You get the dishes and utensils. They’re in the cabinets next to the fridge.”
Next thing I knew, one of the floor-to-ceiling windows slid open to reveal a deck with a fire pit and plush patio furniture. Lighting the fire pit was as easy as pushing a button. Nice. There were barely there footlights, and music.
“What kind of music is that?” I asked.
“A playlist with classical music, soft jazz, and meditative spa music I play in the background when I study.”
“Interesting,” I said. “When I was in school, I only played hard rock, mostly instrumental, when I studied.”
“What did you study in school?”
“I have a degree in criminology. I minored in private security.”
“Did you have to learn a couple of languages?” she asked.
Yes. I took four years of Italian, and I have conversational skills in Russian.”
I was volunteering way too much information, but Carrie made it easy to talk about anything.
“Why Italian?”
“My mother’s Italian.”
“Really? I would never have guessed,” she said, her mouth tilted upward on one side.
“Yep, she still lives there.” What. The. Fuck. Was I doing?
“Why Russian?”
I put up both hands, palms facing her.
“That’s where I draw the line. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
She smiled apologetically.
We talked some more while we finished dinner. Carrie had an excellent bottle of California red, and we finished the bottle. I needed to wait before driving home, back to the land of the regular people.