by Penny Reid
I narrowed my eyes at this claim, and wondered if he meant a fig as in the fruit or a fig as in the metaphorical vagina.
Before I could ask him to clarify, he said, “So what happened?”
“Well, your lady friend, Agent Bell, visited me at work….”
Alex sighed heavily and his head fell against the door behind him. “Is that why you’re here?”
“What? No. I’m here because I figured out that they were the same person—the Tuesday lady and Agent Bell. And that maybe your claim about wanting more than a booty call was true.”
He opened one eye. “Bell didn’t ask you to do anything?”
“No, not at all. She just kept saying you were dangerous, asked me if I cared about my safety, and told me you were a threat to national security.” I shrugged. “You know, what I would typically expect from the federal agent of the guy I’m going out with.”
“Are we? Are we going out?”
I paused and considered my unintentional word usage and the flare of intensity I’d seen behind his eyes when I’d said it. I decided to stall by inhaling slowly.
“Alex….” I released his name on a breath. “I honestly don’t know.”
His expression turned severe, and his eyes looked distant. “Don’t play games with me. If you’re not interested in being with me, then leave me alone.”
“I am interested.”
“But not as something more than one night?” Everything about his asking the question was bitter.
“I don’t know. I don’t even really know you.”
“All right. Go ahead. Ask me anything. I’ll answer if I can.”
I decided to start with a very basic open-ended question. “Who are you?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed, moved over my shoulder, and focused on some point beyond me. I could tell he was thinking, considering, weighing his next words. I was glad, because if he’d answered quickly I wouldn’t have believed him.
His response was reluctant and belated; “Everything I tell you puts you at risk.”
It sounded so melodramatic, yet I recognized he believed the words.
“Then only tell me what Agent Bell already knows so I’m not at risk.”
“Then it’s only a small part of the story.”
“Give me something.”
“Fine.” His jaw clenched and he looked over my head. “I’m a hacker.”
I stared at him.
“You mean you’re a computer hacker?”
He nodded, his expression expectant, guarded.
I turned this information over a few times in my brain and felt some of the pieces click into place. This made complete sense. In fact, I was a little annoyed with myself that I hadn’t picked up on the clues.
“I see.”
His gaze flickered to mine and held. He looked angry, and I perceived something more behind his eyes; again, and as usual with Alex, something I couldn’t quite place.
“So that’s why you have no cell phone.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m allowed to have a cell phone. I choose not to.”
“You choose not to? Why not?”
“Because it’s an effective way for them to keep tabs on me. I’m not interested in making their job easier.”
“And your apartment—I didn’t see a computer or, really, anything else.”
“Anything with a computer chip—sound equipment, television, tablet, gaming system—just gives them a reason to conduct a search.”
Egad. How frustrating. He was living in the modern world with no access to it.
“And, during our date, when you said you’d left the show early just in case you’d been followed. That was the truth?”
He nodded.
“How old were you? When you were arrested?”
“Fifteen.”
Uhhh…what?!
“Fifteen? They put you in federal prison at fifteen?” I repeated, to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
Alex didn’t respond, but he did reach for me; he pushed his hands into my back pockets and pulled me toward him. I allowed him to press my body against his. Truthfully, I was a bit too lost in my thoughts to object.
“I see.” I said again. Although, I didn’t see. I mostly saw, but still truly didn’t see. “What exactly did you do?”
“Something big.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“No. It’s best that you don’t know.” He said the words with such concerned sincerity that I felt their truth.
“Okay. I believe you. So, why did you do it?”
“Because I could.”
“And so…why aren’t you in prison now? Why did they let you out on parole?”
His arms tightened. “Because they know I’ll never give them what they want if they put me back there.”
“They need your help?”
He didn’t respond immediately; at first, I didn’t think he would. Then he said, “They want my help.”
The difference in our phrasing—need verses want—was not lost on me.
“Does that answer all your questions?” He gazed down at me and his eyes lowered to my mouth.
“How did you even get a job after being in prison?”
Alex paused, considered this question for two seconds. He appeared to be vetting it, ensuring it was a safe topic for discussion. Having decided, he continued. “My mother worked for the Patels when I was little, at a different restaurant in North Chicago. When I was released, I looked them up, and they remembered me.”
“What about your mother? Where is she now?”
He pulled away with such suddenness that I almost lost my balance.
“Why do you want to know?”
“What do your parents think about…?”
“We’re not doing this.” Alex set me away from him. “You don’t need to probe into my childhood frustrations in order to make a decision about being with me.”
“It’s part of who you are. I’d like to get to know you.”
“And everything has to be discussed, right now, in this closet?”
“It’s a storage room.”
Alex cursed, stepped toward me in a way that wasn’t precisely threatening; it was more like pissed and impatient. He growled. “Be serious; why did you come tonight? Am I just another stray? Because I’m not interested in being fixed.”
“Because you….” I stopped, glanced at the ceiling then back at him. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I had such a great time on our date. Because you’re truly the best kisser I’ve ever had the pleasure of kissing. Because you’re very weird and I like it. Because you’re sexy, and I like that too. Because now I know you aren’t seeing another woman. Because maybe I can help you.”
His expression changed with each of my declarations—surprised, pleased, very pleased, concerned—and he didn’t respond for a long while. Instead, he stared at me; his gaze felt lovely and hot.
At last, he said, “When I told you that I’ve been watching you for two years and I think you are the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, I meant it.”
I pulled my top lip between my teeth and felt his words in the center of my chest. “I know that now.” I nodded. “I believe you.”
“But I don’t think you understand me.” His eyes narrowed, as though to impart some wisdom without being forced to say the words.
“Then help me understand.”
“I don’t trust people,” he blurted.
“I can understand that.”
“No. I mean it. I don’t trust people—ever. And I will probably hurt you at some point—not physically,” he quickly added when my face betrayed my alarm.
“Oka-a-a-y.” I folded my arms across my middle. I was typically fairly adept at following scattered thought processes, but with Alex, I wondered if I was allowing my hopes get in the way of his words. He was trying to be honest without admitting too much or providing specifics.
I respected him for his honesty.
However
, I experienced a degree of irritation with his oblique and indirect warnings.
“I’m saying this wrong.” Alex’s eyes pierced mine and seemed to grow increasingly heated with every passing second. “What I mean is, if you want me to leave you alone, I will. But, if I’m given the option between being with you—even if it puts you at risk or makes you unhappy—and being without you—where you’re safe and content—I’m probably going to make the wrong decision.”
I considered this. It felt like he’d just handed me a relationship Rubik’s cube.
In order to solve the puzzle, I started with what should have been an easy question. “Alex, do you care about me? Do you want me to be happy?”
“Yes...of course.” The hesitation in his words undermined their credibility. “But I want us to be together, and not just for one night. I wouldn’t….” His hands balled into fists, and I got the distinct impression he was having difficulty not touching me. “I wouldn’t be okay with that.”
“You make it sound as though my happiness and us being together are mutually exclusive. What makes you think I’ll be unhappy if we’re together?”
“For all the reasons you’re already hesitating.” His expression and the self-depreciation of his tone caused a sudden sadness to seize my throat.
Alex’s shoulders slouched; he stepped backward and leaned against the door. “We are not exactly compatible. You’re…you’re beautiful, educated, smart, good. You deserve someone who isn’t on parole and is unrepentant for his crimes, someone who is doing more with his life than waiting tables, someone who is going to put your needs and happiness above his own.”
“My pragmatism forces me to agree with your last statement. However, I don’t know enough about your crimes to determine whether you should feel repentant. As for waiting tables,” I shrugged, “I couldn’t care less as long as it makes you happy, fulfilled, and you demonstrate a strong work ethic for our theoretical future offspring.”
“Future offspring?” his eyes were wide, and the words sounded choked.
“Yes. You should know that I always evaluate all dating candidates for their physical and mental health as it relates to inherited and environmentally influenced disorders. I know it might be weird and premature at this point, but I don’t want to put time and effort into a relationship that isn’t going to ultimately meet my requirements.”
“What are the requirements?”
“Partnership, respect, honesty, kindness, communication, commitment, monogamy, children, humor, intellectual conversation, and—hopefully—impressive sexual congress à la der Rüssel.”
“Der Rüssel?” he echoed, fighting back a smile. He watched me for a long moment, his expression incredulous and thoughtful; then, very suddenly, he stepped forward. Alex lifted his hands to my face, cradled my cheeks, and pressed his lips to mine. His mouth was worshipful, reverent, and sinful at once. I melted against him because his body was becoming my true north.
Before tilting his head away, he nipped my lip and kissed my nose. His eyes surveyed me with scorching and vulnerable desire. His hands caressed my shoulders, slid down my back, and gripped my hips. His expression was filled with unmistakable longing, and it was as potent as a drug.
“This isn’t going to work,” he whispered, though he made no move to release me. In fact, he held me tighter.
The words were déjà vu, but it would be a fun day in hell before I would let him walk away without giving this—us—an honest try.
“It can work. We just need to put the right can-do attitude into it.” I said.
“Can-do attitude?” His tone was flat.
I’d thought about him, about the possibility of us, about what I would do if given another opportunity, for the past two weeks. He wasn’t the type I usually sought out. In fact, he’d sought me out. He disliked psychiatrists. He threw apartment-smashing temper tantrums. Regardless, in a very uncharacteristic move, I’d decided to give it—us—a chance.
Not a slamp/Wendell chance—a life-partner chance.
I couldn’t exactly explain why—not even to myself. All I knew was that I felt a connection with him, a shared strangeness, cognition. I was compelled by curiosity and—let’s just be honest—by the chemistry of zing-inducing kisses. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the red dress. After hearing the snippets of his past that he was willing to share, the connection felt more profound, the compulsion more concrete.
“Yes, can-do: positive thinking. Haven’t you ever read The Little Engine That Could?”
“Not recently.”
“Well, I’ll get you a copy. In the meantime, we need a plan.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s disappear, move to Amsterdam or another place with lax hacking laws and no extradition treaty with the United States.”
I dismissed his words as a joke even though he appeared to be quite serious. “We’ll call that plan B. For plan A, let’s just take it one day at a time.”
I sensed his dissatisfaction, so I placed my hands on his biceps and dug my fingers into his muscles to keep him from withdrawing.
“Let’s see what happens. We won’t date. We’ll….” I threw one hand in the air and rotated it at the wrist as I searched for the right words. “We’ll hang out. Isn’t that what it’s called?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He answered darkly. Alex’s palms slipped downward and his fingers flexed on my bottom. “Would you be seeing other people?”
I shook my head. “No. Not unless we called off our hanging out agreement.”
“No. I can’t do that with you.” He cleared his throat, uncertainty darkening his eyes. “I need more assurances.”
“Assurances?”
“I need a timeframe. I need to know I can count on you being with me for a certain period, like six months or a year.”
I pulled away to consider this new development, and his hands slacked on my backside, then tensed so I couldn’t move completely out of his grasp. He’d admitted to having trust issues, and I had to applaud his self-awareness.
“I can give you one month,” I offered.
He frowned. “Six months.”
“Alex, we’re discussing the minimum; it might be longer.”
“Six months,” he repeated, glaring at me.
“Two months, and you have to answer all my questions.”
He shifted closer. “Three months, and I will answer all of your questions at the end of those three months.”
I considered this, and him. I was so swept up in the negotiation I didn’t stop to consider the many, many obvious and logical reasons why—though he couldn’t hold me to it—this was potentially a disastrous idea.
I returned his suspicious inspection with one of my own, “What would be included—expected—during these three months?”
“You couldn’t date anyone else.”
I nodded. “Same for you, right?”
He shrugged as though my request was superfluous. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Hmm, okay.” I bit the inside of my lip, worried it. “What else?”
“We would see each other no less than three times a week for at least three-hour increments.”
“And what would we do?” If he said sex was a requirement, I honestly didn’t know if I would be appalled or approving.
Who am I kidding? I’d be approving.
“What did you do?” he asked, and when I looked befuddled, he clarified, “In your last relationship.”
“You know, go to dinner. See a movie. Go to the park….”
He nodded, his jaw set. “Okay. That stuff.”
“…make out, round the bases, and so forth.” I knew my eyes were wide, watchful. I held my breath, waiting to see if he took the bait.
To my surprise, he didn’t immediately start negotiating frequency, quality, and type of bodily encounters. Instead, Alex withdrew, folded his arms over his chest, rested his shoulder against the door, and gave me his profile. He was a smart guy, so I knew he understood where the yellow bri
ck road I’d paved was going to lead. Therefore, I was surprised to find his expression tinged with icy severity.
“You understand that you’ll be watched, and what we say to each other might be recorded.”
“Unless we find a storage room.”
Some of the ice melted in his expression, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Or a broom closet.”
I returned his smile. “Yes. I know. I plan to bore them by speaking in psychobabble and nerdy innuendo until their ears bleed. It should be fun.”
“I can’t believe you think this is going to be fun. You’re giving up your freedom.”
“No, I’m not. Yes, we’ll have to be creative with how we communicate since Big Brother is watching or listening, but we’re smart people. We’ll make it a game. Think of it as encrypting our verbal communication.”
This earned me a sincere smile as he looked away and seemed to contemplate a sardine crate.
We stood in silence for several seconds. Then, at length, he sent me a furtive sideways glance. “And I can spend the night—with you?”
Ah ha! There it was.
I nodded and tried to appear nonchalant even though his words sent a lava cascade from my throat to my pelvis. “Yes.” I almost choked on the word and had to clear my throat. “I think that’s a fair request.”
I could tell that he was trying to tame the inferno of intensity in his gaze.
This plan, our plan, was very practical, and yet just as odd as our pairing and situation.
There was no getting around the fact that he was a strange guy. But, now that I knew he was some sort of savant computer hacker who was dodging the federal government; now that I knew his trust issues made sense; now that I knew he wasn’t a liar, but was evasive for a purpose; now that I knew he’d been lusting after me for two years the same way I’d been lusting after him, he seemed a little less strange, and quite remarkable.
The three-month plan was sound, yet atypical; and it would give us both time to sort out whether a future between us was even possible.
His smile was small, but felt immense. “Good.”
I stuck out my hand for him to shake. If we shook on it then it would be a deal. He glanced at me then at my hand. Deftly, he unfolded himself and straightened from the door. Alex, holding my gaze, clasped my hand in his, but instead of shaking it, he kissed the tops of my fingers and gazed up at me with conquest in his eyes, and he used my hand as leverage to pull me forward and sink into my mouth.