Parker Security Complete Series

by Camilla Blake

  “Of course Elliott would say something like that—he’s totally paranoid.”

  “It’s not being paranoid if you have a legitimate reason to be concerned.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t think so. Although, I think he kind of has a point, especially after what happened to me today.”

  “What?”

  I told her about the guy in the Mercedes.

  “I would’ve spit on his windshield,” she said. “I would’ve drop-kicked his stupid side-view mirror. I would’ve gone right up to his rolled-down window and hocked the biggest loogie in his face.”

  I didn’t doubt that she would. Aoife was not the sort of person who would ever need a security guard—because she could do something outlandish like spit on someone’s car and somehow still manage to get away with it.

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t about to do that,” I said, taking another sip of the sake. The waitress came back over with a platter of brightly colored, artfully arranged sushi. Aoife and I both got to work, pouring soy sauce into the little ceramic dish, mixing in little scoops of wasabi. “I actually ended up running into this guy who works at a security firm. Because I ducked into a building to get away from that guy.”

  Aoife looked impressed. “Oh, yeah?” she said. “That sounds pretty serendipitous to me! See—the universe is giving you signs, too! You just have to be aware enough to pick up on them.”

  “It might’ve been a sign, except I ended up leaving.”

  She swirled a piece of toro sashimi into her soy wasabi mixture and then used the chopsticks to daintily lift it to her mouth.

  “Why did you leave?”

  Why did I leave? I still wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. It all felt like too much. Like there wasn’t really a reason for me to be there.”

  “But I thought you just said you went in there because some guy was harassing you. I wasn’t harassed by anyone today.”

  I sighed. “I’m not trying to make this into some sort of competition.”

  “I know. And I’m not either. I guess what I’m saying is, it seems like you were at the right place at the right time, and you just left? That doesn’t make sense.” She took another piece of sashimi and put it in her mouth, let her eyes fall closed as she chewed. “Holy shit, this is good.”

  Next thing I knew, she was pulling her phone out, rearranging the plate, snapping a few pictures. She took one of me, too.

  “I’m going to post this one,” she said. “The one with you in it. It’s actually a good picture of you. Especially with the filter I just chose.”

  I didn’t say anything as she tapped away at the phone. She put it down a moment later and went back to eating. “What was the guy like?” she asked. “From the security company? Was he nice? Super-buff?”

  “Yeah, he was really nice.” I could still hear his voice, the smoothness of it, the calming effect it seemed to have on me. “And he wasn’t super-buff. Not like a bodybuilder or something. But he was definitely fit, you could tell.”

  She grinned. “Ooh. Tell me more.”

  My face reddened. “There isn’t really anything else to say. You could just tell that he’s a very fit and healthy person.”

  “Then I don’t see what the problem is. I don’t see why you’d run out of there like that. I think you should go back. I can tell just by the way you’re talking about him that this guy was a good guy, and that it would probably be good for your mental well-being if you had him around. Sort of like a professional boyfriend.”

  I recoiled. “It wouldn’t be that sort of relationship.”

  “I know, but it’s like, he’d be there to do some of the things that a boyfriend would do. Have your back. Make sure you were safe. You just wouldn’t have to be bothered with the other stuff, like sleeping with him or cooking him dinner or some shit.” She nodded, as if she couldn’t agree with herself more. “Maybe I’ll have to look into that, too.” She said this more to herself than to me, and then laughed. “Nah. I’m not the sort of person who would need a security guard. But for you, Tea, I think it’s a great idea. I hate to agree with Elliott on anything, but I don’t think he was wrong in this case. You should go back there. Or find another security company that you can talk to.”

  I knew she was trying to be supportive, encouraging, yet really she was just making me feel worse about everything. Lately, I’d been wondering if maybe it would be better if I just became a hermit. It would seem like most signs were pointing to yes. Maybe I could keep my Instagram account going, still have a way to bring money in, but I just would never leave my apartment.

  Fortunately, it was easy enough to get the conversation on another track—I just asked Aoife how her affair was going, a subject she was more than willing to talk about. That’s how it was with most people, I’d realized early on—you just had to ask them a question about themselves, and usually whatever else you’d been talking about prior was forgotten, because most people loved to talk about what they liked, what they wanted. I was used to being the one who asked the questions, the one who listened.

  After the meal was over, Aoife made a big deal about going with me back to my apartment, “Just to be on the safe side.” She was a little tipsy from the all the sake we’d consumed, and my own face felt pleasantly warm, everything seeming a little funnier than it had just an hour ago. So I let her come with me back to my apartment, though when I asked if she wanted to come in, she said that she was meeting up with some other friends and had to get going because she was already late.

  “I’ll be in touch soon, though,” she said, giving me a hug. “And please, think about what I said, about going back to talk to that security guy—okay? You’re the only sister I have, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  I could’ve said the same to her, but instead I just hugged her back.

  After she left, I stood there in my apartment. It was dark because I hadn’t yet turned any lights on; the glow from the streetlights outside the windows cast weird shadows. It would be easy to let my imagination run wild right now, to freak myself out, to imagine that there might be someone lurking, that they somehow snuck in and were waiting there to take me out. Sometimes, I did wish that I had someone to come home to, or a roommate even. Because it did get lonely, even when you had more than one hundred thousand followers on social media. Because what did that really mean, anyway? I knew I could post some picture, maybe something minimalist, like that vintage robin’s egg Pyrex bowl, just a photo of that in a long shadow on the kitchen table, and I could write something about loneliness, about connection, and I knew that I’d get a ton of responses, a ton of love—but all from people I didn’t know. Most would have kind words, encouraging things to say; it would make me feel better. But if I scratched the surface of it, I’d realize that I didn’t actually feel better. Because these people were coming through to me via the screen of my phone; these were people I would probably never see or speak to in real life. I could ignore what I was feeling right now, though; I could take that exact photograph I’d just been thinking of, upload it, and lose myself in reading the comments and replying back to the questions that I could.

  Instead, I set my purse on the little table in the front hallway, set my keys in the little cream-colored porcelain dish. I turned the hallway light on, which immediately filled the space with a warm glow, diminishing the shadows. My home looked intimately familiar to me, like an old friend, and I began to feel a little better. I went and took a long, hot shower, read a little bit of the novel I was halfway through, and then went to bed early, all without looking once at my phone.

  In bed, though, sleep didn’t come right away, as was often the case for me. People don’t realize how important sleep is until they have trouble getting enough of it—then it seems like the most important thing in the world. I had gone through bouts of insomnia before, but it had been several years since my last one. I hoped this wasn’t the start of another round of sleepless nights, but as I lay there, tos
sing and turning, sleep felt miles away, despite the fact that I was tired. I tried not to look at the clock. It wasn’t as stressful now as it had been when I had a job I needed to get to on time. Then, not being able to fall asleep was compounded by the fact that I was stressing myself out because I couldn’t fall asleep, as I knew how tired I was going to be the next day, as each moment ticked by, getting me closer and closer to the time the alarm would go off. That pressure was alleviated now, so I wasn’t worried about that; instead, I found myself thinking about everything my sister had said tonight at dinner. And then my thoughts drifted to Ben, and how I had just run out of his office the way I had, but also the calming effect just hearing his voice had had on me. I replayed some of the sentences he’d said to me, could hear his voice perfectly. And it was the sound of his voice, in my mind, that lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Ben

  I woke up to the smell of something burning.

  I threw back the covers and ran out of my bedroom, down the hallway and into the kitchen, where the smell was coming from.

  “Dad!” I exclaimed, not quite able to believe my eyes. Dad was standing there, spatula in hand, looking in frustration down at the stove.

  “It’s fine!” he snapped. “I’ve got it under control.”

  Clearly, though, he didn’t. Smoke poured out of the front of the convection oven; I went over and turned it off. Whatever he had in the pan on the stove was also smoking, but less so. I opened the window over the sink and tried to fan the smoke in that direction.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, clearly irritated. “I’m making breakfast. I’ve been up since four in the morning, I’m hungry, and I’m making myself something to eat. Stop acting like it’s a federal crime.”

  “It’s not,” I said. “I woke up and smelled something burning; I didn’t know what it was. I’m not saying that you can’t make yourself something to eat.”

  “Then back off.”

  The smoke had stopped pouring out of the front of the convection oven, so I opened the door and peeked in. Two pieces of toast, now charred, sat on the rack.

  “Give it here,” Dad said, holding his plate out.

  I tried not to roll my eyes, though I knew Dad would eat those two charred pieces of bread, just to make a point.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I plucked the two pieces of toast from the rack and dropped them into the trash in the cabinet underneath the sink.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Dad said. “That’s a waste of food. No, it might not be the prettiest thing, but I was going to eat it.

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “Come on, Dad. I don’t have to go into the office right away. Let’s go out and get something to eat.”

  “I don’t want to go out,” he grumbled.

  “I know you don’t, but you probably don’t want to eat burnt toast, either. It’ll be good to go out, have a little change of scenery.”

  He continued to resist me, but I could see his resolve wavering. Not for the first time, I wondered what it must be like for him. He was cognizant enough to know that things were different after the accident; he was very aware that he was not the same person, not by a long shot.

  He changed into a clean pair of sweatpants and a new T-shirt, and after five minutes of wrestling with his shoelaces, had his shoes on and we were ready to go.

  We went to the Brown Bag Bakery, which was not too far of a walk from the house. Just enough that Dad would feel like he’d actually gone out and done something, but not so much that he’d decide it was too far and he was turning back before we even arrived at our destination.

  I could tell that he felt uncomfortable at first, but he started to relax a bit after we ordered at the counter and then took a seat near the window.

  “It’s not so bad being out,” Dad said, looking around, taking it all in. It was hard to say if the expression on his face was one of happiness or sorrow. Maybe a mix of the two. “I’ve missed it.”

  “You can go out whenever you want,” I said. “You’re not a prisoner. I think it’d be good for you. A change of scenery. Fresh air. Seeing people other than me.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know if I’m quite ready for that. Maybe someday. Sometimes, it seems like leaving the house is just one big reminder of the way things used to be.” He pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began to shred it. “I didn’t appreciate things enough when I had the chance.” I watched as shredded napkin bits began to form a little mountain underneath his fingertips. “So I hope that you appreciate things. I’m not trying to sound like I’m talking down to you, either, because I know I sure as hell am not in any position to be talking down to anyone.” The pile continued to grow; the napkin was halfway gone. “I was guilty of that, sometimes,” he continued. “In my practice, with clients. I can remember sometimes getting annoyed. Of course I only let those thoughts enter my mind—I would never say any of it out loud, never let it affect my work. Really, though, I’d give anything to go back to those days. Just to appreciate them a little more. Because it can all be taken away from you so quickly.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt in my chest. “Dad,” I said. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  He was looking over my shoulder, his eyes narrowed. I turned, not sure what I was expecting to see.

  It was Camille.

  She glanced up from her phone right when I turned, almost as if she knew I would be looking at her right then. A look of annoyance flashed across her face, but it was gone so quickly, replaced by a big smile, that it would’ve been easy to convince myself I had imagined it. She waved, then walked over.

  “Well, hi there!” Voice full of false cheeriness. “I sure wasn’t expecting to see the two of you here. How are you doing, Ian?” she asked, looking at Dad.

  “I was doing quite well,” he said. “Until I happened to look up and see you standing over there.”

  “Dad,” I said, a warning note in my voice. Not like that was going to do anything, of course. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Could a son no longer take his father out for a quick bite to eat without having to run into some ex-girlfriend? “Hi, Camille,” I said. “We were just—”

  “I didn’t realize you owned the place,” Camille said, looking right at Dad. She had her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised, and it would appear that she was trying to hold back a smile.

  I sighed. It would be a miracle if I could stop this before it escalated. “Let’s just—”

  Dad held his hand up, silencing me. “I don’t own the place. But I do live right around the block. So in terms of neighborhood territory, let’s just said I do own the place. And I’m not interested in some two-timing, manipulative little—”

  “Dad.” I nudged him under the table with my knee, hard enough to get his attention, but not to hurt him. His eyes darted over to me but he was clearly not interested in hearing anything that I had to say at this particular moment.

  “Of all the places to get coffee, you had to choose this one. I think it’s ridiculous the way you treated my son, and the fact that you think there’s nothing wrong with you just showing up here, acting like you were an innocent bystander this whole time, is ludicrous.”

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Camille said. “And if you think you can tell me where I can and cannot go, you’re even worse off than I thought you were.”

  “You’re a bitch.”

  I stood up, using my body to block Dad’s view of Camille. This needed to stop, now. The fact that it was even happening to begin with was mind-boggling—that Dad would be sitting here, engaging in some juvenile argument with an ex-girlfriend of mine. He had always liked Camille because he said she was a spitfire, but part of being a spitfire was not backing down, and I knew she wouldn’t, if I didn’t intervene now before things got even worse.

  “Come with me,” I said, and I sort of herded Camille away from the table. It felt strange to be this c
lose to her again—strange because it had been so long, yet also because her body, her shape, were still so familiar to me. She resisted, but then started to move away from the table. “I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder to Dad, who I knew, without needing to turn around, was glaring at me.

  “Your father’s a fucking psycho,” Camille hissed. “What’s his problem? Do I need to get a restraining order? I shouldn’t be made to feel like this just because I wanted to get a coffee. That’s not right, Ben, and you know it.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You know what he’s dealing with. You know that he’s not going to hurt you.”

  “Do I, though? He seems pretty hostile to me. Telling me that I can’t come here. What right does he have to do that?”

  “He doesn’t really mean it. Is he psyched to see you? No. Should he be? Probably not. But... he’s just saying things. He’s not going to do anything. You’re certainly not in danger.”

  She sniffed. “I don’t think it’s any of his business what happened between you and me. The two of us were in a relationship together—not you, me, and Ian.”

  “He’s my father, though. Of course he’s going to be upset if I’m upset. And I was upset about what happened, Camille. You know that.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, and appeared to be considering what I’d said. “That’s done and over with, though. History. Can’t we just move past that? I thought you had. I know I have.”

  “Just because it’s history doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” I looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. I didn’t want old memories from the past to start resurfacing. I’d worked hard to get to the point I was at now; I didn’t need to start to slide back. “Dad and I are just going to eat our breakfast sandwiches and then we’re going to head back to the house. I’ve got to get into work today. I took him out because I thought it’d be good if he left the house for a little while. Running into you was not part of the plan, but I’m not trying to tell you where you can go. Maybe just stay over there; we’ll stay over here, and then we’ll be out of here once we’re done eating. Okay?”