by Ashley Beale
I know I promised to be his friend, and honestly I could use the acquaintanceship, but with the way he so easily distracts me I'm not sure I can handle it. I have minimal clarity in his presence, but when I'm not around him I can come up with a hundred clever things I should have said rather than yes. One of those things simply being, no.
I scold myself while rinsing away all the suds from my body, and debate whether I should cancel or not. It'd be easy enough to say I have a family emergency, then take off for Belleview to catch a movie. I doubt he'd travel neighboring towns to find out if I'm lying. Except, I can't find the strength to do so.
Wrapping my towel around me, I walk over to the mirror, wiping the steam to reveal my reflection. My bright green eyes stare back at me, and with a deep breath, I tell myself, "You've got this, Brenna. Don't let anyone change who you are."
With a stronger attitude, I walk into my room to get dressed. Pulling on a pair of white capris, I find the perfect slack yellow tank top, and accent it with light jewelry. Unless I'm laying out on the beach or going to the gym, it's rare I leave my home without looking my best. I went too long not having anything, so it feels nice to be able to look radiant whenever possible.
Plus, I may not have had a mother for long, but one thing I clearly remember was her telling me, "It's okay to be a southern belle. Beautiful women who dress well gain more respect than others. You can't earn respect with looking like you don't have self-motivation. Fine clothes and a few nice pieces of jewelry, and you can instantly become powerful."
By the time I'm done, I still have twenty minutes before I have to be down at his place. I take the opportunity to open a bottle of wine and pour myself a glass. It'll take away from the nerves that I certainly shouldn't have right now. It's just dinner… with a friend… and absolutely nothing more.
I take my precious time sipping away at my half-filled glass, so by the time I'm knocking at Everett's door I'm almost fifteen minutes late. He opens the door with a large smile. "I didn't think you'd show."
"Lost track of time."
"Right," he says all too knowingly. Obviously I'm not fooling anyone but I'm not exactly trying to either. Everett peeks over his shoulder instead of letting me in, then he looks at me a bit apprehensive. "I'm not a good cook."
"Oh, wonderful," I tell him sarcastically. "So tuna sandwiches?"
He chuckles softly, rubbing his hand through his hair in a nervous habit. "I should have stuck with that, but no. I attempted the steak and well- I'm thinking we're going to have to go somewhere to eat. Unless you like the taste of burnt rubber."
Crossing my arms, I perk an eyebrow up, letting him know I'm onto him. "Fine, but you're paying."
"Deal." He seems far too happy about it, and I sincerely hope this isn't some lame attempt at tricking me into a date.
He quickly shuts off his stove and lights while I stand in the foyer of his condo, then he grabs his wallet and keys. When we get into his monstrous truck, he looks around perplexed. "Where is a good place to eat?"
"Are we still having steak?"
With a shrug, he answers, "Sure."
Since he used a pathetic attempt at luring me into this trap, I lead him to the most expensive steakhouse in town, Whiskey Grill. When Everett opens the menu and examines the different cuisines along with the prices, he glances up at me with a crocked look. "It better be worth it."
"Oh, it is," I say. My smile never fades, in fact it probably widens when the waitress takes our order and I get a porterhouse steak with a side of grilled shrimp. Surprisingly, Everett doesn't bat a lash. In fact, when it's his turn to order, I'm a bit shocked that he orders a thirty dollar salmon.
I sip on the glass of complimentary wine the waitress brought us. Everett hands her the menus and peeks over at me, picking up his own glass. "You win," he says.
"I win? I didn't know this was a game."
"It wasn't. I really can't cook, but I know you thought it was some elaborate trick." When I don't answer him, he adds in, "I can get a date, you know. If I wanted to."
"So why don't you?"
He sets his drink down and leans forward. "Are you saying you want me to ask you on a date?" I hate the seduction in his timid voice. I'm also not impressed with myself for making it look like I actually wanted him to ask me.
"No," I tell him quickly. "That isn't what I meant. I mean, why are you always trying to hang out with me knowing that I don't want to date you? Why not ask someone that could be interested?"
He settles back in his chair, a bit stunned by my honesty. "I'm not looking for a relationship," he says matter-of-fact. "Just a friendship. If you don't want that, I can take some steps back."
Now I feel guilty for being such a prude. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm not used to... this."
"Friendship?"
"Exactly. I don't have friends."
"Why not?"
The waitress finds the perfect time to bring us our appetizers- salad and warm, soft bread. I'm thankful for the interruption because I can feel the conversation drifting to somewhere it didn't need to go.
Once we get eating, our conversation carries into the territory of how delicious the food is, what our favorite kind of food is, and other topics that remain completely safe. By the end of that our entrees are served, so talking altogether dies down.
Half way through the food, Everett places his silverware down next to his plate. Rubbing his stomach to show how stuffed he is from dinner, he says, "I hate that it's such a fancy restaurant, I feel like I can't ask for a doggy bag."
"Then ask for a takeout container." I can't help but to chuckle at myself. "It's a bit fancier, don't you think?"
The side of his mouth lifts up. "I’ll ask her... Ma'am, do you happen to have the finest styrofoam container, preferably in matte black, to hold my leftover cuisine in? Think it'll sound elegant enough?"
"Do it, I dare you."
"Fuck no," he almost shouts. He instantly looks around to make sure no one heard his outburst, which of course causes me to giggle. Oh, and people definitely turned to look over at him. One old couple simultaneously shake their head in discontent. "Oops," he mutters. "See what you made me do?"
I point to myself, feigning dismay. "Me? Well I'd never!" Using my best southern accent. "How dare you place blame on little 'ol me."
Everett stares with delight. "You're not from Florida," he states. I think that much has been apparent. I know I have twang to my accent- I'm from Alabama, and lived in different parts from there up until a few years ago.
"I know," Is my simple response. I don't mind saying what state I'm from, it's kind of obvious anyways, but I don't want to mention the town- or anything more about my past. I'm instantly uncomfortable even thinking about him poking around.
"It's cute. I like it. Alabama, Louisiana, or…?"
"Alabama."
Everything on his face soothes out as he notices my discomfort on the topic. With a bit of a force, he grins softly. "Ready to head back?"
"Yeah, I'm stuffed."
"Same."
When the waitress comes over with the bill, he asks simply, "Mind getting us a couple take out containers?"
"Certainly," she replies, looking over our leftovers before walking away.
Everett tries to make light of the sudden change in our atmosphere. "I should have went with your dare. She didn't seem too impressed."
"Because who takes home fish?" I pinch my nose in disgust. I make sure to smile after, pushing away all my weariness. He saw I was uncomfortable and didn't ask for anything more. I'm a little surprised, but I shouldn't be. He's proven to be considerate of me from the get go.
"You don't like fish?"
I shrug. "Never tried it before."
"You live on the beach. How have you never tried fish before?"
"It smells, and it's slimy, and it comes from nasty water. It has scales, and fins, and stuff. Just... Gross. No thanks."
He chuckles, clearly amused by my disgust of the idea. "Have you
ever gone fishing?"
I think on it, because honestly I think I had gone with my dad when I was young, but I can't quite remember. I finally admit, "I don't know. Maybe."
He cocks his head to the side, probably confused by my answer but doesn't say as much. "I love fishing. Haven't been in years though. As soon as I found out I was moving to a beach location, I knew I had to try deep sea fishing. Wanna go with me sometime?"
With narrowed eyes, I make sure to tell him, "You're not doing this again."
"What?"
"Tricking me into another date."
"Who is tricking who?"
I did trick him by bringing him to this insanely expensive restaurant. "Yeah, oops... But seriously, no dates."
"Then it won't be a date."
"Maybe we should have some rules then."
"Rules?" He chuckles. "For what?"
I feel ridiculous the moment I mention having rules, but I do think it's a good idea. Smart idea at that. That way there isn't any line crossing. If we continue hanging out so carelessly and enjoying each other’s company, we're going to get too comfortable with one another, and lines will certainly become blurred. It's for my own protection- and his. He doesn't realize who I am, what I came from, what I've become. He won't be okay with what I do for a living. Most importantly, I do not want anything with him- more than companionship that is. We're good exactly where we are.
"For this. For hanging out," I explain. "Like... no hanging out more than once a week. No swapping phone numbers, so we don't text. No social media stalking, so we're not tempted by anything. We see each other when we see each other, we don't ask too many questions about one another. We're simply... acquaintances that hang out no more than once a week. Deal?"
The waitress brings us the receipt for Everett to sign along with the takeout boxes, interrupting everything happening. Everett pulls the receipt from the black folder, signing it quickly and leaving a tip larger than I had expected, then again our meal was over seventy dollars for the two of us. "Do you want half?" I ask, offering to pay at least part of my portion.
He looks up at me, none too impressed that I offered. "Friend or not, I'm not allowing a woman to pay for dinner, especially when I'm the one that asked for her company. Call me old school or what have you, but you'll never be expected to pay for meals when we're hanging out."
It almost makes me want to throw money at him, begging him to let me pay half so I don't feel like this is more than what it is, but I accept his generosity. "Well, then, thank you. For dinner."
"Thank you for accepting," he adds in. "Now about these rules." We both scrape our plates into the boxes we're given while he speaks. "I don't have Facebook or Tinder, or any of that, so that part is simple enough. I don't enjoy texting either, so that works out as well. As for the hanging out, what if our schedules don't coincide and we're forced to hang out twice in a week? What kind of punishment does that entail?"
I hear the mockery in his voice, which causes an eye roll from me. "Your punishment will be not seeing me for a whole entire month."
"What will your punishment be?"
I think on it for a moment. "Not having a friend to hang out with for an entire month."
Everett chuckles, nodding along with agreement. "Deal. Our friendship will be one day a week and no more than that. It'll be a first for me. A friendship with guidelines and restrictions."
"It's safe," I tell him. Hating that I opened my mouth the moment I do.
His smile spreads. He knows this is harder than it should be for me. Damn him.
When we get back to the complex, I don't want to move from his truck. I'm pretty sure I've never ate so much in my life. "Thanks again for dinner," I tell him when I open the door.
He meets me in front of the truck and walks towards the entrance of our building beside me. Opening the door, he allows me to go in first. "Not a problem," he replies as I walk past. "I hope you enjoyed yourself."
"Actually, I did."
He takes in my smile and gives me one of his own, showing off a hint of a dimple I hadn't noticed before, probably because of his scruff. I'm not sure who this man is, but he is certainly unlike any other guy I've known. Attractive and amiable. He is down to earth, friendly, and... And I shouldn't be having these thoughts.
"Brenna?"
"Huh, what?" I hadn't even noticed he said anything to me. I was becoming lost in captivation, which only makes me more content with the rules. I need to go upstairs and shake all of this off. Maybe I need to ask Kandy for a couple extra clients, bring me back to reality. Go on a shopping spree, or a trip by myself. Anything that erases any thoughts I'm having about Everett and his attractiveness.
With a sweet hint of laughter, he repeats himself. "I asked... what day next week would you be free to go fishing?"
"Wait, you're still going with the fishing thing?"
He almost questions himself, but tries to confidently say, "Well... yeah."
I huff out in frustration. "I don't have to touch or eat any fish, do I?"
"No." The hint of amusement in his voice warms up things it shouldn't. "I wouldn't dare."
I ignore his sarcasm and accept that I can do this and it'll be all okay. I had a relaxing time tonight. He wasn't pushy, he didn't ask questions I couldn't handle, and we've both made it clear more than once we're not to cross lines with one another. I nod my head in reply. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Chapter Eight
Everett
With all the relationships I've had, I've never experienced anyone like Brenna. She's mysterious, feisty, funny, and independent. Everything about her is tantalizing, and I can sense myself wanting far more than a friendship with her. It's apparent that that probably will never happen- I've honestly never met anyone who has walls built from concrete and steel the way she does.
Being in my line of work, I know that is usually a large telltale sign that something bad has happened in her past. Something more than a horrible break up. Usually an abusive relationship. It explains why she hasn't openly admitted her last name, doesn't want me to find her online, got uncomfortable when her home state was mentioned, and won't get too close. Among other things.
I don't like the thought of any person ever putting their filthy hands on her. If I ever find the son of a bitch that caused her the fear she has about trust and relationships, I swear I'll make sure he is inches from his life, begging and pleading for me to leave him alone. I'll make him fear each morning and every night and all the minutes in between. No fucking asshole should ever touch a female.
My body shakes at the thought. I don't even fucking know if that is what happened to her, it's just the greatest possible answer. Which is why I haven't pushed for more from her. Little hints here, and random questions there, and eventually I'll figure it out.
I could always go into work and pull up her file, figure out where she came from. Who she is. Everything publicly- and even some private information- but I won't. At least not yet. I want to give her the chance in telling me everything. I want her to trust me in time, open up to me, confide in me, whether as a friend… or more.
"Fuck," I whisper-shout to no one except the empty walls in my boring condo. I need to stop stressing about Brenna.
It's not easy- not with the way she dressed tonight- or any time I've seen her. Tight nightgowns that show off her hard nipples though the sheer material, or tiny bikinis that leave far too little to the imagination, tight jeans that let me know she must definitely do squats. Fuck! I'm getting all hot and bothered.
I turn on the water to my shower, making sure it's ice cold. Then with my clothes still on, I climb in. I'm hit with the hard reality that I need to back the fuck off. At least for now.
*~*~*
"What do you got?" My new partner, Jeff Gunther, asks as he settles in the chair across from my desk. He tosses his weathered cowboy hat off to the side of my piled up paperwork.
Unfortunately I don't have much. It hasn't even been a full week since meeting with Gin
ger- well Kandy- and it's not until next Wednesday that I meet with Mona, the first prostitute. These are things he already knows. However, I've had to ask questions with different Johns from the list, and cut them deals. I'm only five in, out of almost one hundred and seventy. Jeff has met with two, but is going to start taking over that portion, mainly for the fact I'm the one undercover and obviously we don't want me to get caught with former clients.
"Not much, man. Still digging in. I've heard reasons why they've sought out whores, which is mainly because their wives aren't putting out anymore. I don't agree with it, but I guess that is their own dirty laundry to sort. Other than that, they all come up with basically the same facts; the girls are hot, young but legal age, Kandy set them up, what kind of lingerie they wear. No one can seem to describe the girls to me without talking about their bust size or if their hands fit tight around the asses. This is all bullshit. They're grown ass men who talk like adolescent teenage boys."
Jeff actually leans back in his chair, sharing a chuckle with himself. "We're all adolescent still. My Pap always told me that women are like novels. They need anticipation, a plot, a reason to be filled with desire. We think they're complicated, but really they're not. They think with their heads and their hearts. Men though," he chuckles once more, "We have two heads for a damn reason, and we think far too much with the wrong one."
"Even so, how can anyone take their hard earned money and spend thousands of it on a hooker? She may know what she's doing in the bedroom, but she's been used by so many people I can't imagine it feels that good. Plus, to come home to your wife, and maybe even your children after. How can you look those people in the face and think what you're doing is okay? I understand about the wanting the sex, but going after it?"
He shrugs. "Why do people do anything that they do? Go into to schools and start shooting, or torture animals, or neglect their children, or do drugs. It's about thrills, fascination, addictions. You know, people like forbidden things. Granted, not everyone, but too many do unfortunately. And when it comes to prostitutes or escorts or mistresses of any kind, well I can't speak for myself, I've always been faithful to my old lady, but I know damn well that it doesn't mean their love for their significant other or family is any less. Sometimes people are ashamed of their fantasies, they don't want their wives to know the things that give them pleasure. Maybe they don't want to choke their newlywed but have no problem with a random chick that's begging for more. They have their reasoning, and it's not our job to figure that part out. It's to shut this operation down."