by S. E. Lund
"Why you snooping? Can't you just go over?"
I shook my head. "No. This one's still wild. I'm…" I tilted my head to one side. "I have her milky white thighs, George, but I want her pink little beating heart. She's a pretty little bird, very small and very timid. She'll take some time to," I said and grinned at George, "tame to hand."
"Who is this pretty little bird?"
"Graham's little sister."
George made a face. "His little sister?" he pursed his lips. "The one that got away?"
"The very one," I said, for George had been my confessor during my time in Afghanistan.
I hadn't told him about my plans to have Celia as my personal fuck toy.
"George, she's the sweetest piece of ass I've had in years."
George shook his head. "If you were anyone else, I would say you are crazy."
"Oh, I'm probably insane, but when you see her, you'll understand." The elevator doors opened and I ushered George inside. "And now, my dear man, you go out and buy yourself a bed. I have a job to do, but when I get back, we'll get you some borscht, or whatever the hell it is you Russians eat."
Richardson, my current tech expert, came with me to Celia's dorm while George scoured the local furniture stores for an appropriate sultan’s bed. We had some fake order papers and a story about checking the cable and internet service. While I snooped, Richardson installed hidden cameras and bugs. I was worried about Celia, now that she was known to Victor.
Victor had been digging around trying to understand why I'd pay off so much of her debt—of Graham's debt. I didn’t want to give him too much reason to be interested in her, but I also wanted her to be safe. She needed protection when she wasn’t with me. The bugs and video would make sure George could watch over her when I was busy. Hell, I could connect to her feed anytime I wanted on my smartphone but George would be the one I trusted to take care of her.
"You don't trust this lady friend?" Richardson said as he installed a camera in the room, overlooking the forlorn bed with its rumpled sheets.
"Trust has nothing to do with this," I said, irritated that the man would think of questioning my motives. "This is purely for security purposes. And none of your goddamned business."
"Sorry. Just trying to make conversation."
My pulse was raised; my stomach had that butterfly feeling that accompanied arousal. I had Celia's body at my disposal, but I wanted more. I wanted her mind and heart. I sorted through the items on top of her old dresser looking for hints about her as a person. A selection of hand and body lotions, hair clips, a jar filled with pennies and small change. Pictures of an older woman stuck in the frame of the mirror, middle-aged, with dark hair and dark eyes—her mother. A woman I’d barely met because she spent her time in her bedroom, tripped out on pain killers.
Beside the window sat a telescope. Still attached to the case on the table beside it was a gift sticker taped to the black fabric, although the sides of the sticker were curling.
To Celia on Your 8th Birthday
Love, Dad
The year her father had been killed in the accident that would eventually bring Spencer into her life…
A telescope she'd had all her life. It explained her love of astronomy.
I was almost overwhelmed by the scent that seemed to permeate the apartment. It reminded me of the warm spring evenings I’d spent on leave in Virginia when the scent of cherry blossoms drenched the air.
I sat at her desk and checked out her MacBook. It was open and there was no password so I started snooping into her files. Dozens of PDF documents—all of them journal articles on this or that aspect of law or contracts. Papers she'd written in university. Nothing revealing.
I opened a bottom drawer and rustled through files and papers. Beneath it all, several notebooks filled with lecture notes from her classes. Again, nothing revealing.
But then—a goldmine.
The fucking mother lode.
A diary.
I opened it and flipped through the pages. Written in a tiny hand, with tight script, was the outpouring of Celia's mind dating back a few years. She wasn’t a prodigious writer, skipping months at a time, but here, in the two hundred odd pages, were her private thoughts.
I had to take it. I'd read it quickly and return it and she’d be none the wiser.
I wanted to see what she'd written about me, if anything, and about any men she'd been with. I felt almost breathless as I turned the pages, guilt almost overwhelming my curiosity. On page seventy-three, she wrote about Christmas at home with her mother.
Nothing too uncommon—her mother asking her about boyfriends, about any interesting law students or lawyers she might date, and Celia's frustration that her mother thought only of her romantic life and never once complimented her on being in law school.
I wanted to sit down right now and read the rest, but it could wait till later. I slipped the small book into a pocket in my jacket and turned to her computer. I opened Safari, checking out her browsing history only to find that most of the links were to her webmail account, which I couldn't get into, and to her YouTube account and an assortment of funny cat videos and comic ones of fat men dancing in tutus.
I checked out her pictures and saw dozens of various people, girls her own age, her family—her father. Giant redwoods. The coast of California.
I logged off the computer and turned to the rest of the tiny dorm room. The devices Richardson was installing were state of the art. No one would detect them unless they had the right technology, and most likely Celia wouldn't. You'd have to be in the CIA to trace the little beauties Richardson was installing.
"How long are you going to be?" I watched as Richardson used the existing architecture of the closet to hide the tiny recorder/transmitter. It resembled the other tiny black holes in the wood where nails had been hammered. Richardson even had a little mini vacuum to suck up the wood dust and plaster he had carved out for the device. It was undetectable. It would piggyback onto the building's internet and transmit images to the warehouse through a series of satellite hook-ups and remote servers using wireless technology.
"Almost done. Just need to clean up and we're through."
I nodded, glancing around the room. When Celia returned to her apartment for the occasional night off, I'd have access to her 24/7. I could watch her sleep, I could watch her eat, I could watch her working at her desk.
I was a peeping Tom, yes, but one of the highest order. And all of it done for her security.
If I told myself that enough times, I might actually believe it.
It was so damn good to see George again.
I reserved the entire dining room of a local Russian restaurant in Boston's old downtown district for the evening so I didn’t have to worry about other diners. It was one of the few run by a family of Russian immigrants not controlled by Sergi Romanov, so of course, I wanted to use it. I didn't want Sergi's people to get too close a look at George. He was my secret weapon and would help me understand and get revenge against the Russian underworld.
We sat at a round booth in the back so we could see the entrance and enjoyed course after course of Russian food specially prepared for George. While we ate, a waiter hovered in the background, watching as the meal progressed, a white cloth folded over his arm.
Potatoes, cabbage, and smoked sturgeon.
Solyanka, a Slavic chowder thick with smoked meats and olives.
Elk dumplings brought in by air express, direct from St. Petersburg.
A half-dozen shots of vodka and toasts to our health, to friendship, to success—to women.
I felt the warmth of the liquor, the food and the company seep into my bones and I finally relaxed, a real smile on my face.
"This sweet little sister of yours," George said, and I could tell from his expression—lips pursed, brow furrowed—that George was trying to broach the subject very carefully. "Do you like her?"
"Do I like her?" I frowned. "Do I like her?" I said nothing for a moment, trying
to gauge why George had asked. "I don’t know if I fucking like her. I'm fucking her. Why?"
George popped another dumpling in his mouth and chewed for a moment, the expression of concern remaining on his face. "I know you don't want me to say, but if you get too close to her," he said and gestured to me with his knife, "Victor and then Sergei will take interest in her. Once you get close to them, they want to know all your business. They want to know your weak spots. They exploit those weak spots."
"That's why you’re here," I said. "I need your advice on how to deal with the Russians."
"If you like her, let her go."
I said nothing in reply. I usually gave George a lot of license. He could say what he pleased, because I needed good advice from someone I trusted, and I trusted George without reservation, having put my life in the Russian’s hands many times in the past.
George drank some wine. "If you like her," he repeated once again, "leave her alone. In Russian vory v zakone, we do not involve our women—not ones we love. They can not become bargaining chips."
"She’s not ‘my woman.’"
"Lie to me, but tell yourself truth." He let that stand for a moment. "If you like her, let her go."
I didn't say anything. He was right, of course. I should just never see her again.
"Come on," I said and waved him off. "I can protect her."
"If you need someone in your bed, pick someone who doesn't matter to you. They will become target."
"George, I know about the risks. I know how to manage risks."
"Of course. I was just reminding." George swirled his glass of wine. "You can't find someone else while you go on your mission for revenge? Or," he said and leaned forward, nodding as he looked at me, thrusting his wine glass at me, "are you in love with her?"
I frowned. "I'm not in love."
I rubbed the delicate etching along the edge of my crystal wine glass and thought about George's question.
I decided that, no, I wasn't in love with her. I wanted her. I wanted to make her want me and offer herself to me.
That was all.
George said nothing, but he gave me a look, his eyebrows raised.
"I'm not in love," I repeated.
He shrugged. "If you really like her," he said again. "If you love her, let her go unless you are prepared to own her. Remember Powell's rule in Iraq."
"The Pottery Barn Rule," I said, frowning. I knew where George was going and I didn't like it.
"Exactly. If you break, you own. If you put her in danger, if you break her life," he said and sat back, "you own her. If you don't like? If she is just pretty fuck, then so what? Collateral damage. Who gives fuck if they take her, torture her, kill her?” George glanced at me, his eyes hooded. “And they will, if they ever want to punish you, blackmail you."
"I know that." I didn't like the way this conversation was turning. Tension rose in my body, and I felt a need to throw something, kick something.
"Mixing business and pleasure?" George shook his head. "Not good idea. Keep separate. Hunter, you can have any pretty little bit of pussy you want with that big pile of money in the warehouse."
"She owes me."
"Well, I say no more," he said and clapped me on the back. "I can see there is no talking with you. Just something to think about."
"I don't want to think right now," I said and thrust my shot glass forward. "Fuck thinking. More vodka."
I walked arm-in-arm with George into the third-floor loft and laughed when I saw the bed standing in the corner by the makeshift bathroom that, even now, plumbers and tillers were finishing, working late the previous night for almost triple time. “Yeah, that’s a sultan’s bed all right, you ostentatious son of a bitch.”
“Why not have best if you have such big pile of money?”
“Have a good sleep. I’m going to do a little light reading.” I pulled out the diary and flashed it at George.
“What is?”
“Her diary.”
“What?” George made a face. "You are reading diary now?" He shook his head.
I flipped through the pages. “I found it at her apartment today when we were installing the bugs. Now I get to know all her little secrets.”
“Let me see.” George held out his hand.
I passed it to him, watching as George opened it and turned a few pages. As he read, George rubbed his chin, where a serious six-o’clock shadow was forming. “Oh, yes?” He raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He turned away from me, shielding the diary from my view.
I followed him, trying to get the diary back. “I’ll take that now, thanks.”
George eluded me, always keeping a step ahead, turning the page and reading carefully, his expression one of fascination. “Ho, ho. Celia. You little minx.”
“Give it to me,” I said, half-smiling, but also half-wanting to pop George a good one.
George turned another page, moving his lips as he read, his eyes wide. “Oh my God.”
I grabbed the diary from George, ensuring I had it still opened to the same page.
March 21
Today I got a video camera! I spent all afternoon learning how to use it so I could connect it to my telescope to take time-lapse photographs of the Milky Way…
The rest was just more of the same, with Celia recording the intricate details of the camera's various settings and capabilities.
“You bastard.” I couldn’t help but smile as George roared with laughter, holding his stomach as he did.
“What you think you find?” George said, wiping his eyes. “Confessions of nymphomania?”
“Well,” I said, nodding. “That’d be a bonus, but no, I thought I might discover the essence of Celia so I could better… know her.”
“In biblical sense?”
“I already did that.” I closed the diary and stuffed it back in my pocket. “Come on, George, you remember the old adage that you have to know your enemy as you know yourself if you want to be successful in battle.”
“Celia is enemy now?”
I put my arm around George’s shoulder and squeezed. “You know what I mean."
I glanced over at the office space we had hastily set up, using some office dividers, a couple of desks and computers. Richardson sat at a desk and worked on a computer. I stood behind him. "How's the system working?"
"Great," he said and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "She's in the bathroom."
"What?"
"She returned home while you were out. I called, but you didn’t answer."
"Damn." I took out my cell phone and turned it back on. I hadn't wanted to be interrupted while George and I enjoyed our meal, but I also hadn’t thought Celia would be returning to her dorm so soon.
On the split screen, two images—live video feed from her apartment. On one side, the fish-eye camera showed the tiny living room from the vantage point of the main doorway. To the right, her bedroom. To the left, a metal desk. Flanking the main window, a small love seat and arm chair. A tiny television on a table beside the love seat. The telescope in the alcove of the bay window itself.
"When did she get back?"
"Around four o'clock."
"What's she been doing?"
Richardson pointed to the screen. "Nothing much. Sitting at her desk, reading textbooks."
Sure enough, when I bent down to check out the video feed, I saw her sitting at her desk, her back to the camera, reading and taking notes.
She was wearing a long white robe of some sort, slippers on her feet. She sat on the chair with one foot tucked under her.
"What's she listening to? Can you turn up the volume?"
Richardson handed me the earphones so I could listen in. Something folksy that I didn’t recognize.
"You're recording this somewhere?"
"Yep. You can access it on your own computer. I've sent you the link to the archives. Once you've watched it, you can delete it or save it."
"You can't really see her well," I said to George. "But come here."
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George came to my side and looked at the monitor. "She looks delicate."
"A delicacy."
George shook his head. "So now, you read her diary, you watch her every move in dorm room…" George patted me on the back. "Poor girl. I feel sorry for her."
"Hey, she asked for my help. She said she'd do anything."
"She didn’t want this, I think."
"Yeah, well, I didn’t want a lot of things. Shit happens." Irritation with George built in me. As fond as I was of him, I didn’t need the man's subtle innuendo. "She needs to be protected. Her stupid brother got her into trouble and now I have to clean up his mess and make sure she's safe."
The three of us watched as Celia disappeared from view. I had no idea what she was doing, but then she emerged in only her bra and panties.
"That's more than enough," I said. "You don't need to watch this."
Richardson smiled and clicked off the feed.
"Well," I said turning to George, taking the diary out again, holding it up. "I’m going to my apartment to do some… reconnaissance.”
“Poor girl,” George said, shaking his head, a grudging smile on his face. “She won’t know what hit her.”
“Oh, she’ll know.” I walked to the door, inexplicable anger filling me. When I got there, I turned and watched George for a moment as the man went over to the bed and ran his hand over the luxurious cover.
Finally, I softened just a bit. "George," I said. “It’s good to have you here.”
“Is good to be here.” George nodded. “Is pretty little bird coming to you for fun tonight?"
"Of course," I said and smiled. "I have a big debt to collect."
George shrugged and grinned back. "Good night.”
I didn’t know what I expected when I started to read Celia's diary, but I learned pretty damn fast that she led a very mundane existence.
Chronicled in the pages of her diary, which dated from a year and a half earlier, was her daily existence in her last year of pre-law.
I felt a bit breathless as I read, a touch of arousal mixed with a smidgen of guilt, but I justified it as intel that would help me carry out an operation with the greatest efficiency and chance of success. Well, it was a good rationalization. I was just fucking curious.