by S. Ann Cole
I sense his pause by the sofa handle, where my head is propped on a pillow.
There’s a moment of silence, a moment of hesitation, a moment of something, which makes me tilt my head back, only to have my eyes clashing with his. He stares down at me. I stare up at him, feigning innocence.
Green eyes flick to my manipulated boobs, and a shade of annoyance crosses his face. Uh-oh.
Said eyes return to mine. I hold them. Unyielding.
Until well-manicured fingers curl around his bicep, accompanied with a, “Baby…”
Noah brushes her off without a word, reaching down to pick up the house-phone—my cellphone—from the side table right by my head. He punches in a number, waits, and then the barking resumes. “Adams, this is your last strike. If you go against my orders one more time and give my ex-wife access to my apartment, you are done. Do you hear me? Done.” Pauses. Listens. “I don’t care what she told you! I’m your boss. You listen to me, not her. She can’t do anything to you. You want to keep your job, you follow my orders. Not my ex-wife’s. ”
He presses off the call, tosses the phone down, and turns to face Sienna. “For the last goddamn time, woman, stop showing up here unannounced. I don’t belong to you anymore. If I have a feel for you, I’ll call you. And at the moment, I don’t. So, please, leave.”
“You’ve never had a problem with me showing up unannounced before. You used to like it. What’s changed all of a sudden?”
Noah rubs both his temples. Maybe he still has a headache? Or is Sienna bringing on a new one? This makes me want to grab her by the hair and haul her out myself, but not at the risk of getting sacked.
Pushing up on my elbows, I twist around to see better. The movement must’ve reminded Sienna of my presence because she swivels her head to me, and the confusion in her eyes morphs into rage. They narrow, almost to a squint, and she jabs a finger in my direction, asking Noah, “Is it her? Are you acting like I’m not your everything all of sudden because of her?”
Hands falling from his temples, Noah just stares at her, like the very implication is the single most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
Is it, though? Is it so ridiculous for him to want me? It’s a hot-damn-sexy dream for me. So, why is it inconceivable for him?
In exasperation, Sienna throws her hands up. “Fine! You want to screw the little slut, then go ahead. Screw her brains out. Get her out of your system. Then fire her. Or I can do it for you.” She steps into him, her voice dropping to a soft, caressing drawl, as her delicate hands move to cup his face. “But you will come back to me. You always do. You know we’re meant to be together. We’ve been best friends since the third grade. Don’t let this money-hungry nobody come between us.” Tipping up, she presses her lips to his, parting with a triumphant smile when she realizes he didn’t block it. “I’ll give you a few weeks. Do what you need to do to get your head straight. Love you.”
Turning from him, she glares at me, dripping venom. “Fantastic dick, power tongue, magical fingers. Choke on it.” And then she saunters right out.
Hearing the elevator doors close, I sigh into the residual silence. “That woman is loco.”
But the silence prolongs as Noah wordlessly strolls by me, straight into the kitchen. Not surprising he’s not in the talking mood after that drama. Or maybe he’s still mad at me. Not because he kicked Sienna out does it mean I get a free pass for being a bitch to a bitch.
After a few minutes of listening to him bang around in the kitchen, and the ending beep of the microwave, I hit play on the remote control again.
Focusing on the show is much easier now that Sienna is g-o-n-e and I’m certain the shrieks hadn’t been from mad, passionate, like-it-rough sex.
Some minutes later, when I’m lost and engrossed in the plot, I hear a harrumph. Reluctantly dragging my attention from the television, Noah’s standing at the other end of the sofa where my feet are. Hands holding a tray of two of the Cornish hens I baked for dinner, a bowl of potato chips with avocado dip, and a box of OJ.
Although I’m baffled as to why he wants to sit here, considering there’s a recliner, two sofa-chairs, and another circular luxury sofa in the room that he can use, I scoot up a bit to make space for him.
Before my feet are properly tucked under me, he crashes down and promptly begins ripping the wings off the hen.
Swinging my attention back to the television, I try to regain focus, as hard as it is with Noah sitting there, his body emanating some serious sexual waves. Hot damn, when I say this man is eons different from the one I knew three years ago, I mean he’s different. He’s right: Nate is dead.
I’m getting lost in the show again when Noah announces through a full mouth, “Jon Snow dies in the end.”
Indignant, both at the unsolicited spoiler and that my favorite character will die, I jab my right foot to his side. The piece of meat he’s biting into flies from his hand.
“Bastard!” I half-shout. “You just spoiled the whole thing!”
Leaning forward, Noah looks longingly down at the piece of hen on the ground, then shrugs, sits back and rips off a leg and begins chomping again. Being a foodie has never been sexier. “It’s not a spoiler. It’s just the only notable thing that happens in the whole boring season. Oh, and the scene where Cersei is forced to do the naked walk of shame through the streets. Yeah, she had that coming.”
My foot drives toward his side again, but as if he’s expecting it, he throws an arm out and blocks it. “Dude, spoiler!”
He’s unapologetic as he continues with his mouth full, “Also, I think Ayra goes bl—”
“Jerkhole!” I shriek. “Shutupshutupshutup!”
Calmly, he picks up the box of OJ and takes a sip, before looking over at me. “I don’t want to fire you. So that’s your punishment. Strike one.”
For a moment I pause, about to justify going against his orders earlier, but then decide it unwise to do so.
Sienna is a witch, true. But he, as the boss, had demanded I be courteous to all his guests, whether I like them or not. Not wanting to push my luck, I settle for glaring at him instead. He’s spouted the spoilers on purpose. ‘That’s your punishment.’ What a jerk.
“Well played,” I mutter.
“Really, though, the season is boring,” he says. “More so than the previous season.”
“That’s because you’re not a true Throner.”
“I used to be.” He pauses to swallow his food. “But then: One, they kept killing off all the characters I actually like. And two, they only have like two or three—and three’s pushing it—good episodes per season. Ninety percent of the episodes are just people walking in gardens and plotting. It’s a wonder I got through this last one.”
Eye roll. “Like I said, you’re not a true Throner. Now shut up and let me enjoy the rest of the season.”
And he does. He doesn’t utter another word as I laugh and cry and curse through the last two episodes.
By the time I get to the end of the final episode, tears pooling in my eyes at the sight of Jon Snow’s beautifully lifeless face, his dark-red blood coloring a devastating path in the fresh white snow, Noah has long since finished eating, washed his dishes, and is now slumped lazily on the sofa with my feet in his lap, his thumb absently trailing circles around my anklebone.
Ask me how my feet ended up in his lap and I won’t be able to tell you. Too engrossed in the final episode to have been paying much attention to real life events.
As the credits roll, I peer over at Noah. His eyes are closed, but he isn’t sleeping.
When I poke him with my big toe, one eye pops open and stares right at me.
I ask, “What other series do you watch?”
As if deciding the topic is safe enough, his other eye pops open and he shrugs. “Not many. I like Suits. Uh, House of Lies. Ray Donovan, maybe? Oh, Californication. Definitely. Everything else I watch sporadically, not diligently. In my free time, if something’s on and it looks good, I watch it. Like SOA. Tha
t’s good, too, but I’m not crazy enough about it to keep up.”
“Hmm.” I nod. “I watch Suits for one reason and one reason only: Harvey Spector. Plus, I get to learn a bunch of legal stuff. The other three have way too much cursing for my liking. Every other sentence is an F-bomb. Kids and adults alike.”
He blinks at me as though shocked by this, and I hurl a throw-pillow at him. “Whatever. I know, I know, you weren’t expecting that from someone as feisty as me, but it’s true: An overkill of swearing in my TV shows or books turns me off. Too distracting.”
“So, what are your favorites, then?”
My eyes sweep to the ceiling as I think about it. “Along with GoT and Suits, I love The Vampire Dairies, The Originals, Pretty Little Liars, Reign, Nashville, and White Collar.”
He chuckles. “Never heard of any of those except White Collar.”
“That’s because you’re old,” I tease.
“Guess I am.” Relaxing further into the couch, head lolling on the back, his thumb continues to circle around my anklebone as he asks, “What about music? What kind of music do you like…?”
The word he’s leaving off that sentence is ‘now.’ What kind of music do I like now? Because we, a sixteen-year-old me and a twenty-seven-year-old him, have done this whole likes-and-dislikes conversation before—during one of our morning runs.
Nonetheless, I’m not the girl I used to be back then. And maybe he figured that. Or he’s still playing his stupid game.
Just then, the realization hits me: He’s not playing a game. He’s being real about the situation. In truth, we don’t know each other anymore. We’re strangers. When we last saw each other, I was a pushy, overtly-sexual trust fund brat, and he was a melancholic, heart-broken, overweight man.
A vast amount has changed in that short stretch of years. We have new personalities and new perspectives. New bodies, new minds, new goals, and new fears. We are wholly new people.
I get it now. I get what he’s doing: He’s leaving the past in the dust, instead of moving forward with it like toilet paper on the heel of his shoe.
I get it now. I totally completely get it.
Imitating him, I settle deeper into the couch, make myself comfortable, and together, we talk. We talk about the new us. We talk of our favorite songs, bands, food, colors, and pastimes. We talk about everything there is to talk about. And as deep as I dig for it, the familiarity of the Nate I used to know, I find nothing. Nate is gone. Dead. And in his place is Noah. A whole new man.
I’m stretching and yawning with sleep-tears when Noah mumbles, “Hell, what time is it?”
Reaching my hand over my head for the phone on the side table, I hit a button to light up the screen and check the time. “Holy crap.” I giggle. “It’s quarter to three.”
“Alright, time for you to go bed.” He lovingly pats my feet just before shoving them to the ground. “Shouldn’t have kept you up this late.”
As I stand and stretch, I laugh. “You make it sound like I’m a five-year-old who’s stayed up way past her bedtime.”
“No,” he drags out, his eyes lingering on the area of my stomach that’s being exposed as I stretch and yawn. “But you do have to get up in a few hours and make me breakfast. You’re living here as an employee, don’t forget it.”
His last sentence is said with a twinge of annoyance, his gaze still transfixed on the slip of bare skin between the edge of my tank and the waistband of my shorts.
Is he annoyed at himself for not being able to stop staring or is he annoyed at me?
Letting my hands fall to my sides, I bend forward, knowing he’ll get a clean shot of my cleavage, and snatch up my pillow. “I understand, Mr. Van Der Wells.”
At my formality, he raises his eyes to mine, and I straighten, hugging the pillow to me. “Do you have any special request…for breakfast?”
Swallowing hard, he shakes his head.
“Alrighty! Well, see you in a few.” I turn and head for my room, later singing over my shoulder, “Goodnight, Mr. Van Der Wells.”
He doesn’t give a reply, but right before I close my bedroom door, I’m 99.9% sure I hear him mutter, “Shit.”
ELEVEN
I’M AN ACTIVE GIRL. I’m used to my morning runs. Used to being outdoors. Used to being up and about.
Yet the thought of Andrew or one of his lackeys spotting me and snatching me terrifies me, and has turned me into a house rat.
Kiera has updated me that Andrew’s been calling her every day, twice a day, wanting to know if she’s heard from me. He’s graduated from downtrodden and tears to seriously-pissed-off. And I know what that means: He’s starting to realize that I might be gone for good this time, seeing as I’ve never before succeeded in hiding from him for this long before. Usually I’d be located in a matter of days, sometimes hours.
This time, though, is different. This time he’s stumped. This time, if I stick to my original plan and never leave this apartment, he might never find me.
Unfortunately, I can’t do it anymore. And not because of the amended contract. I just can’t. I can’t stay cooped up in this place. I need fresh air in my lungs. I need to scratch my palm against the bark of a tree. I need to feel my muscles working as my legs sprint, as my arms pump through the air. I need to feel that sweet cardio burn in my chest. I need to live.
Why must I be a prisoner?
The inertia is killing me. So, I decided to start running again.
The following Monday, I get up a bit earlier and prep breakfast, leaving out the eggs and waffles for closer to breakfast hour.
After that, I go online and check my bank account for last week’s deposit payment. It’s there, the number growing each week. Pleased with my current balance, I close down the laptop, fetch the iPhone given to me by my super-big-and-strong-and-sexy bodyguard, and phone him to let him know I’m going out for a run. Then I don my shrunken gray sports shorts, red sports bra, and running sneakers that desperately need to be replaced, and head out.
Considering it sounded like I woke him from a deep sleep when I phoned him less than seven minutes ago, I’m surprised to find Muscles awaiting me in the lobby, a cup of java in one hand, and not a hint of drowsiness on his stony face.
In all-black sweatpants and a muscle shirt, his alert hazel eyes dart around the room as he lifts his coffee to his lips and sips. Seriously, though, Muscles is hot. Would totally spread wide for him. I bet sex with a man like him is both wild and controlled at once.
Jogging up to him, I’m about to poke him in his side when his low warning, “Don’t even think about it,” stops me, eyes still darting around the lobby, mouth a breadth from the coffee cup.
“Boo,” I mumble with a pout, then walk ahead of him. “So, how’s this gonna work? How are you going to ‘protect’ me while I run?”
“You’ll have to run a route in the park. I’ll pick a spot where I can see you from all angles. If you deviate, I can’t protect you. However…” He pauses, dips into his sweats, and comes up with a fitness watch. “Put this on. It has a tracker. The third button down on the left side is a panic button. You sense any kind of danger, you hit it immediately. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter, swiping the watch from his hand and latching it around my wrist. “No need to be so Men-in-Black-ey.”
As I start to push through the front door, Muscles curls his strong fingers tightly around my arm to stop me. When I twist and look up, I find his face like granite. “Listen, Miss Cooley, I don’t know what you are to him, but he’s all-out serious about your safety. I’m head of his security, I own the company, which means I assign people; no one assigns me. Yet he offered me double to be on you. Trust me. He’s convinced you’re in trouble, and from my own assessment, I’m positive you are in trouble. Your reasons for keeping that to yourself are yours, but I need you to take the precautions I give seriously so I can do my job properly. Understand?”
For a moment, I just blink. Noah offered the owner of the security
company double to be my bodyguard? Why? I mean, yeah, I am in danger, but any bodyguard would’ve sufficed. A bodyguard is a bodyguard. What am I to him that he would assign me his number one man?
Swallowing, I nod my understanding.
Satisfied, he releases me.
At the park, Muscles jogs a lap with me, marking out a route for me to take. We realize after a while that no matter the route, it’ll be impossible for him to see me from all angles. Plus, I’m not a jogger, I’m a sprinter.
We eventually decide on making use of the sports watch if necessary, while he tracks me in real time on his smartphone.
Within the first fifteen minutes of my run, I feel a huge difference in my body. My lungs are wide open, my blood is pumping, my heart is racing, my chest is burning, and for the first time in a long time, I feel…free. This is just what I needed. It’s as if three-thirds of me had been dead. Numb. Finally waking up for its torpor.
I sprint faster, harder, almost laughing at one point, feeling like I’m soaring through the clouds. Oh, how I miss this feeling. Early morning air oxygenating my blood. I can breathe. I can breathe.
As I’m passing Muscles’ post for about the eighth time, I slow and do a double-take. A sweaty, shirtless Noah is there, jogging in place as he talks to Muscles. About me, no doubt.
Muscles says something, jerking his chin in my direction, but as I see Noah’s head start to turn, I pick up speed and sprint off.
Ever since that night we opened up and chatted for hours on his couch, I hardly see him; as ludicrous as that sounds considering we live in the same house. I get the feeling he’s avoiding me. On purpose.
Sometimes he eats breakfast, and sometimes he skips it. And every evening for the past week, he’s messaged me that he would be eating out.
Whenever I do see him, being my flirty and overtly sexual self, he gets this irritated expression and makes every effort and excuse to be out of my presence ASAP.