The Bliss Factor

by Penny McCall

  “Hi, Mom,” she said into the phone.

  “Hello, Sunny. How’s it going?”

  “I’ve been better,” she said, trying to decide how much to tell her mother. Heck, she didn’t even know what to tell her mother. Annie and Nelson already knew someone was after Conn. Getting chased again really wasn’t anything new. Then again, she doubted her parents had shared everything with her.

  “You sound out of breath,” Annie said.

  “We’re in the car, on our way to the grocery store. Look, Mom—”

  “Grocery store,” Annie repeated on a disappointed breath of air. “Well, that is the way to a man’s heart.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “You know,” Annie said, “there’s a lot of other interesting real estate there besides Conn’s stomach. I say go for a nice leisurely tour.”

  Rae let her shoulders slump a little, distracted from the get-information-from-Mom program by the same old contention. “Is that why you didn’t send Conn any clothes?”

  There was a beat of silence, acknowledgment of a direct hit. “Just trying to encourage you to try something new,” Annie said tightly.

  “Don’t you mean someone?” Rae cut her gaze toward the passenger seat.

  “Conn’s a nice boy. You should loosen up and enjoy yourself a little.”

  “‘Loose’ being the operative word? I’ve only known him twenty-four hours.” Not to mention there were guys trying to kill him—or seriously maim him at the very least—and she was in the damage path. Which reminded her, “Listen, Mom, those guys who attacked Conn—”

  “I should let you go,” Annie said, “it’s dangerous to drive and talk on a cell phone,” and she disconnected.

  Rae snapped the phone closed and dropped it in her purse, slowing to take the ramp onto I-75. “Except?” she said to Conn, picking up the conversation her mother had interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Right before I answered the phone, I was trying to figure out how Harry and Joe found us. You agreed with what I said about them not knowing who I was. Except . . .”

  “Except what?” Conn said, still looking confused.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Then just finish the sentence.”

  “It was your sentence,” she reminded him.

  “It was?”

  “Who’s on first?” Rae said, frustrated not only with his inability to understand but his complete lack of concern about it.

  “First what?”

  “It’s a classic Laurel and Hardy routine.”

  He spread his hands.

  “Never mind.”

  “You say that a lot. You roll your eyes and sigh and look at me like . . . that.”

  Rae snorted, which was not on his list. Neither was swearing, and once she realized that several choice words came to mind, not to mention phrases. “Give me another twenty-four hours, I’ll be cussing a blue streak.”

  Conn frowned. “How do you speak in color?”

  “Keep asking me questions like that, and you’re bound to find out.”

  THEY MADE IT BACK TO GROSSE POINTE IN UNDER twenty minutes, exchanging even fewer words. None of them were blue.

  Rae pulled into a parking lot at the corner of Kercheval and Notre Dame, in the heart of the downtown shopping area called the Village. She turned the Hummer off and just sat there a moment, savoring the silence, which had a lot to do with the complete lack of new circumstances for Conn to make into a comedy routine.

  “Is it a good idea to leave the vehicle here?” he finally asked.

  “Hummers aren’t unusual for this area, so it really doesn’t stand out,” Rae said. And anyway, the Honda wasn’t coming after them anytime soon. “First thing tomorrow morning I’m getting rid of this thing, though.”

  “So where’s the food?” Conn wanted to know, his stomach being the only thing he felt any urgency about unless they were being chased.

  “You need some clothes.”

  “After the food, right?”

  Rae set off, in the direction opposite the market. It took a few seconds, but Conn caught up with her, looking resigned.

  Kercheval was the main thoroughfare through Grosse Pointe, lined with the businesses and restaurants that comprised the three blocks of the downtown area. There were only two stores within walking distance that sold men’s clothing. One of those handled businesswear: tweed, silk, serge, no denim. The other specialized in outdoor gear, specifically mountaineering.

  “I don’t know,” Conn said when they walked through the door and he was confronted by displays of camping and climbing equipment, and, with winter coming on, skis and snowboards.

  “Let’s see,” Rae said, “there’s no denim—or leather, for that matter—but waterproof, windproof, and thermal seems to be right up your alley. And don’t ask me what I mean by that, or tell me you don’t have an alley, it’s just a figure of speech.”

  A young woman with a name badge that said KIKI stepped out from behind a rack of thermal underwear, took one look at Conn, and rushed over to him. “Hel-lo, lover,” she said, bunching up the pair of long johns in her hands as she sized him up.

  “What ho,” Conn said, not exactly immune to her charms, which were all too obvious.

  Not that Rae blamed him. She even found herself fascinated by the girl’s ability to get outdoor clothing that tight and low cut.

  “Did he just call you a ho?” the sales attendant behind the register asked.

  “He can call me anything he wants,” Kiki said.

  “I apologize if I gave offense with my turn of phrase.”

  “Mmmm, muscles and manners,” Kiki purred, circling around him, which brought her face-to-face with Rae. “Oh,” she said like she had a mouthful of climbing chalk.

  “Yep, I’m with him.” Rae slipped a finger into the side belt loop of his jeans and towed him toward the fitting room.

  “I’ll be happy to help you,” the girl said, following them. “With anything.”

  “Nope.” Rae surveyed her other options, which consisted of a kid who was probably still in high school and a woman with the body of a gymnast and the face of a forty-year-old. Rae pegged her for early thirties. Wind and sun were hell on the skin. The kid would have been Rae’s first choice, but he was clearly intimidated, so Rae went with the woman, Betsy, according to her name tag.

  Conn’s physique wasn’t lost on Betsy, either, but at least she wasn’t drooling.

  “Cargo pants,” she said to Betsy. “What do you think? Thirty in the waist, thirty-eight length?”

  “Waist sounds right,” Betsy said, “forty length, which is the top end of what we carry.” She retrieved a pair of pants and handed them to Rae. “Black, unlined, and the cloth is a nice, breathable, everyday blend, sturdy and soundless when he moves.”

  Rae looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Men don’t usually like it when their pants rub together and make noise.”

  “O-kay,” she said, handing the pants to Conn and sending him into the little dressing room.

  She stood there with Betsy, listening to the rustle of cloth and trying not to imagine what was going on—or coming off—behind the door.

  Betsy looked over at her, cheeks pink, clearly on the same wavelength. “I think I’ll get some shirts,” she said, and fled to the other side of the store.

  “They fit,” Conn called out.

  “Come out and let me see,” Rae said, which had more to do with the fact that she’d sneaked a look at the price tag, and she wasn’t paying that much for a pair of pants until she knew they were right. And boy, were they right, snug around the hips and butt, making the most of Conn’s long legs despite the pockets at his thighs and calves.

  Something made noise next to her, and Rae tore her eyes off his backside long enough to note that Betsy and her coworker were back, the latter letting her breath leak out on a raspy sigh. Even the high school kid had edged over to check out the fit of Conn’s pants, w
hich was probably a shame since he already seemed to have self-esteem issues.

  “How many do you want?” Betsy asked Rae, never taking her eyes off Conn.

  “Four. All black.” It seemed the only appropriate color somehow.

  “Good call.” Betsy handed her a couple of shirts, one long-sleeved, one short, both extra large and made of some knit material that must have incorporated gold, considering the price.

  “Better than cotton,” Betsy said. “More expensive, sure, but this fabric has the breathability and warmth of wool, while still being washable.”

  “Right, give me six, all short-sleeved.”

  “You got it,” Betsy said, her eyes on Conn’s biceps.

  Rae pointed to the dressing room, and Conn went back in. There were more rustling noises, but Betsy seemed to find it a lot easier to concentrate. So did Rae. She’d already seen him without a shirt.

  “He’ll need a jacket,” she said.

  Betsy scurried off, and Rae picked up socks and boxers, piling them on the counter and calculating the hit to her credit card. It was necessary, but she still winced when Betsy returned with a jacket costing more than Rae’s one and only pair of Manolos. Which reminded her.

  “Shoes,” she said when Conn came out of the dressing room and handed her the cargo pants, which she dumped on the counter immediately because they were still warm from his body, and the urge was to rub them against her cheek instead.

  Conn sat where Betsy indicated, trying on a couple different styles of hiking boots. “Stiff,” he observed, oblivious to sending Kiki and Betsy into slack-jawed hormonal overload.

  Rae had to admit, if she hadn’t been somewhat immune to him, she’d have been incapacitated by that mental picture, too.

  “Time to check out,” she said, deliberately walking between the lust-stricken and the object of their dementia, which broke the spell. For the most part.

  Betsy rang her up, so at least they could escape the store, which couldn’t happen too soon for Rae—even if she had a feeling the grocery store would be Scene Two of Connor Larkin Does Grosse Pointe.

  The Hummer was on the way, so they dropped the bags and hit the Kroger. Conn walked in, and his eyes lit up like a five-year-old’s in a toy store.

  The Village Kroger wasn’t the newest incarnation of a grocery store, the kind that included a Starbucks and offered hand-rolled sushi. It was small and cramped, but it’d taken over an additional storefront not long before, and the wall between had been knocked down. The space had been given over completely to wine and liquor. Rae steered clear of that area; she had enough trouble without adding alcohol to the mix.

  The aisles ran diagonally in the main part of the store, to make the most of the small space and still leave areas for produce, meat, and deli. The place was crowded on a Sunday afternoon, everyone from maids in uniform to women dressed in couture. Rae barely noticed the other patrons. The other patrons noticed them.

  They got to the checkout, their cart loaded with more food than Rae bought in six months. She could almost feel the blessed peace and quiet of her house—

  “Is she a barbarian?” Conn asked her.

  Rae followed the direction of his gaze to a woman dressed in a full-length fur coat. She’d borrowed the rest of her fashion sense from Olivia Newton-John, right down to the headband and blue eye shadow.

  Her attitude could best be described as prickly. Until she got a good look at Conn. “Barbarian, huh?” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with a little role playing.”

  “Could you make an effort not to be so damned memorable?” Rae said, then rolled her eyes. He couldn’t do anything about his height, or his muscles, or those laser-sharp blue eyes and ruggedly handsome face. “At least stop talking like a living anachronism.”

  “Anak—what?”

  “Try to speak like everyone else.”

  “Why does the opinion of this strange woman concern you?”

  “It shouldn’t—It doesn’t,” she said, feeling as wrung out as she sounded. She’d always hated being different, but what did it really matter? She didn’t know that woman in the fur coat. Sure, she might run into her in the market one day in the future, but the woman undoubtedly wouldn’t remember her, and not just because their social and economic spheres were miles apart. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Conn.

  “Talk however you want,” she said with a shrug she actually meant rather than one intended to hide how much the situation bothered her. That felt good, too. “I have a feeling I’d be back on the circuit with my parents in no time if I spent too long with you.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Yes,” she said, not having to think about that one at all. It felt good to let some things go, just not the career and stability she’d worked so hard to achieve. “I like my life. And it won’t always be lonely,” she added hastily because she knew what he was about to say. “There’ll be a man someday, maybe a couple of kids.”

  Conn started to pile their purchases on the conveyor, including several packages of frozen chicken nuggets. He even used the plastic divider like he’d seen the woman before him do. “I’m surprised you haven’t found that man yet,” he said. “You must notice the attention you draw.”

  “They look, but they rarely approach, and the ones who do always turn out to be . . . wrong for me.”

  “You’re closed off.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.” Her experiences with men had taught her to be cynical about their motives. But then, her childhood had lacked the kind of socialization an eighteen-year-old would have gotten from a public school education. She’d been naïve, and a hell of a target, at eighteen.

  “If it was me,” the cashier said, “I’d open whatever he wanted me to.”

  Rae ran her credit card through the reader, pushed the appropriate buttons, and signed on the little electronic line.

  “I’m just saying,” the cashier persisted, her eyes on Conn.

  “Is the advice extra?” Rae asked her.

  “Honey, if you need that kind of advice, there’s no hope for you.”

  Rae snatched the receipt and shooed Conn out of the way, pushing the cart out of the store.

  “Did I hear that woman say we could open something?” he asked her.

  Rae grabbed the first item that came to hand, a package of Oreos, ripped it open, and handed it to him. Good thing he was clueless most of the time, she thought, as she beeped the Hummer open and started loading groceries in the back. If he had any idea of the effect he had on women, her included, he wouldn’t be munching obliviously on cookies. He’d be nibbling on her instead. And she’d be letting him.

  chapter 11

  CONN WAS WEARING THE BLACK PANTS RAE HAD bought for him earlier, the ones with all the pockets. The rest of his clothing was black, too, and he was wet from head to toe. Dripping. But the real problem was his hands. One of them held a long, wicked-looking knife with a blade two inches wide, one side of it serrated. The other hand held a gun.

  He was hunkered down at the very edge of a village surrounded by jungle, one shoulder pressed to the trunk of a huge tree. He eased around, lifted a device to his eyes and saw men dressed as he was, faces smeared with stripes of black paint, working their way silently between the crudely built huts, signaling to one another to coordinate their movements.

  And then the night exploded, rocket blasts punctuated by staccato bursts of gunfire, desperate shouts, and the screams of the hurt and dying. Those who’d chosen to be a part of the conflict, and those who hadn’t.

  Conn waited for a streak of light, chose a target not dressed in black, and in the space between heartbeats he squeezed the trigger. The gun jammed. He threw it aside, flipping the knife to his right hand, even though he knew it was no use against large artillery and automatic weaponry. And even though the men being slaughtered weren’t his mission, he left cover, put himself in the chaos of gunfire and death, moving in close to his victims, slashing a throat or jamming the knife between ribs, hear
ing the grunts of his victims, their eyes going flat and dead even as he moved on, searching for the next target. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, flipping the knife and catching it by the tip as he turned and let it fly, just as a rocket blast illuminated the face of a child—

  He jerked awake, already off the couch before his surroundings registered, and then he stayed on his feet, went through the kitchen and out the back door, scrubbing his hands back through his hair. The feelings lingered, despair and self-loathing, but the scene was fading from his waking mind, lost to an illness he didn’t understand. And didn’t want to, just as he didn’t want to know what had happened to that child.

  But he knew what had happened to that child. And who was responsible. There was only one way that situation could have played out.

  His breath steamed on the air. He wore only cotton boxers, but the cold outside couldn’t compete with the one within. He stood there in the dark and quiet, letting the peace of the place wash over him, through him. But the dream lingered. The affliction that seemed such an irritant for Rae Blissfield became his last line of defense as he slipped the ugliness behind it and stepped back on the other side.

  “Is everything all right?”

  He didn’t turn, didn’t have to when Rae stepped up beside him, wearing her fuzzy white robe. She settled into a metal chair, pulling her knees up and tucking the robe around her bare feet.

  “I heard the door open,” she said, resting her chin on her knees. “Trouble sleeping?”

  “Dreams.”

  “Memories?”

  “God, I hope not.” But he knew they were, and it was becoming harder to pull himself back from the ugliness each time.

  “Bad, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re not remembering,” Rae said. “Maybe it’s not just that there was something terrible in your life, maybe you were . . .”

  “Terrible?” He didn’t disagree, but he couldn’t shrug her off, either.

  “You have to admit it’s a real possibility that you’re not a nice guy, right? You react to trouble like you’re no stranger to it. And those guys chasing you, they could have shot us today, but they didn’t. Maybe . . . maybe they’re not the bad guys.” Maybe that was why her parents had made her promise to keep the police out of this, Rae thought. Not that Annie and Nelson would protect a criminal, but they had . . . unusual ideas about what constituted right and wrong.