Slow Burn

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Slow Burn Page 3

by Roxie Noir


  “Of course,” Gabriel says.

  I show him the rooms on the ground floor. They’ve all been modernized, though this floor is still fairly formal: living room, dining room, sunroom. Even the kitchen and family room are conspicuously clean, thanks to my mother. She runs a tight ship.

  I introduce Gabriel to everyone else who’s here: my mother, my brothers Daniel and Paul, my sisters Pearl and Joy. Everyone is perfectly polite, stiffly courteous, ready with polished and canned answers to nearly anything he could say.

  He compliments my mother on her beautiful home. He asks my siblings what grade they’re in, whether they play sports, that sort of thing.

  Finally, we head outside. The heat hits us like a warm, wet blanket as we cross the carefully-manicured lawn, and I take a deep breath of the humidity, my heart hammering again, because now’s the time.

  “Sound carries much less easily out here,” I say. “So you don’t need to worry about disturbing anyone.”

  I slow my pace. He matches me and looks over, his hands in his pockets. Another bead of sweat trickles down his neck and I force myself not to think about where it might be heading.

  “All right,” Gabriel begins. “Now that we’re out of earshot, I propose a deal.”

  Chapter Four

  Gabriel

  Ruby’s facial expression doesn’t change, even though she looks up at me. Aside from the moment she saw me, sitting in her father’s office, it’s barely changed at all: a lovely, warm, nice-girl smile that looks like it belongs on the front of a book about raising perfect daughters.

  It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. But it’s also a little strange.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “We start over,” I say. “Both of us forget about this morning. The first time we ever met was in your father’s office an hour ago.”

  Ruby exhales softly. It sounds like she’s relieved, but the girl is nearly impossible to read behind her façade.

  “I think that would be for the best,” she says evenly. “My father frowns on drinking, either by his family or his staff. He’s a teetotaler himself. I’m sure some people would consider this job a months-long, full-time nightmare.”

  She glances at me quickly, and for a moment, there’s something teasing and wicked in Ruby’s eyes, but then it’s gone and she’s all sweetness and light again.

  “I’m sure some people would consider it that,” I agree. “But I’m thrilled and honored to be part of the Senator’s service detail, and I look forward to the unique challenges that this position will offer.”

  I think I’m teasing her, just a little, though it’s so slight I can barely tell myself.

  “Good,” Ruby says, and she’s smiling. I open the door.

  We’re to the front door of the carriage house. The Senator said it was small, but it’s two stories, bigger than any apartment I’ve ever lived in before.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” I ask. I have no idea whether there’s anything in here besides water, but this environment is so painfully, rigidly polite that I feel rude otherwise.

  “No, thank you, I should be getting back,” she says, and tucks one strand of blonde hair behind an ear. “Besides, it might look improper if I were alone with you in your lodgings.”

  I have to clench my teeth together before I tell her she’s welcome to come by any time and do more than look improper. Since this morning, she’s changed out of her ugly sweater and into a t-shirt that doesn’t do her any favors either, but it doesn’t change the fact that when I look at her, I can practically hear her shouting my name.

  “That wouldn’t do at all,” I answer her, turning the knob. “We’ll have to be sure to guard against impropriety.”

  “Certainly.”

  “If you ever have a suitable chaperone, feel free to stop by,” I say. “Maybe we’ll have tea and scones and discuss suitable topics.”

  Ruby glances at the main house, and I swear there’s a hint of a smile — a real one, not the sweet, innocent one — around her perfect lips.

  “Then you’d better learn something about cross-stitch, knitting, or flower-arranging pretty fast,” she says, and for just a moment there’s an edge in her voice. “We ladies prefer not to trouble ourselves with weightier matters.”

  Then the sweet smile is back.

  “Please, make yourself at home,” she says. “And thank you again.”

  “My pleasure,” I say, and open the door as she walks away.

  After two steps, she turns, my hand still on the knob.

  “By the way, they’re going to ask you to say grace tonight at dinner, since you’re a guest,” she says. “You might want to brush up, just in case it’s been a while.”

  “It has,” I say. “Thank you for advising.”

  “Of course,” she says, and walks away again.

  I close the door behind me and try not to watch the way her body moves underneath her clothes as she crosses the lawn, her hips rolling from side to side.

  Fucking quit it, I tell myself, and pull the curtains closed on the window. Of all the women in South Carolina, you had to find the last one you should go sticking your dick in.

  It’s just a couple of months, Kane. I don’t care if she ties you down and hops on your dick, you push her off.

  I walk into the main room of the carriage house, which is half-kitchen, half dining room, find a glass, fill it, and take a long drink of water.

  Get through it. That’s all you do, and then you can go back to your real life.

  Just get the fuck through it.

  I spend a while in the kitchen, on my phone, trying to figure out how to say grace. My memories of it are fuzzy at best, and mostly from my grandparents’ house back in Wisconsin while we still lived there, when I was really little.

  The problem is that I have no real idea what exactly the tenets of the Senator’s faith are. I know he’s regarded as a near-insane extremist by most of the people in Washington, D.C., and he’s got some pretty backwards ideas about… well, everything, but beyond that I don’t know what the man believes.

  But in God is a pretty solid bet, as is in Jesus, so I settle on a simple pre-meal prayer that doesn’t get fancy, memorize it quickly, and then check out the rest of my new apartment.

  It’s nice. Nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived before, but it’s not hard to beat Marine barracks or the apartments where I lived in DC. They weren’t bad, but Secret Service is a pretty demanding job, so I wasn’t home enough to pay for more than the bare minimum.

  But the carriage house has been redone recently, Ruby said. It’s got three bedrooms, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and redone bathrooms. The Burgesses are very old money, rich back when my ancestors were still peasants in Ireland and Germany, probably eating dirt and gruel.

  And they put all my clothes away, even though I wish they hadn’t. It gives me the damn creeps to think of someone going through my stuff, judging it, then brushing it off and hanging it. I was furious and, okay, slightly drunk when I was packing, so most of my things were just crammed into suitcases.

  Then I think of another reason I didn’t want someone else unpacking for me. I tossed half a box of condoms into a suitcase after ten minutes of deliberation. Because yeah, I took a vow of celibacy, no women while I’m on this job. Sure.

  But I’ve also been Gabriel Goddamn Kane for almost thirty years, and that means I don’t exactly trust myself. No matter how fucking gung-ho I am about my newfound monk status, it’s good to have protection around just in case.

  I’m not gonna fuck anyone. But if I do, I’m not gonna catch anything or get her pregnant.

  I start going through drawers, hoping that maybe they got caught in some shirts or something, but no luck until I open my bedside table, and there they are. Neatly arranged and everything.

  Well, fuck. I’m not in the Senator’s family. I’m not working seven days a week. He’s got no say over whether I go out, meet a girl, and have some fun, right?

  Yeah, right. I�
��ve heard the shit people whisper about Burgess.

  I slam the drawer shut, nervousness prickling up my spine. It’s day one and I’ve already run into his daughter while I was hungover as fuck, thought endlessly about running my hands up under her ugly denim skirt until she moans, and now his staff knows I’ve brought a shitload of condoms with me.

  For a guy who’s supposed to be redeeming himself from a scandal, I’m doing a pretty piss-poor job of it.

  At dinner, they seat me across from Mrs. Burgess, next to the Senator, and catty-corner from Ruby. Her brother Zeke is on my other side, and even though there’s a part of me that would much rather have Ruby next to me, it’s for the best.

  Besides, I’d be shocked if her father allowed her to sit a mere six inches from a man who wasn’t her husband. I might touch her thigh by accident, and next thing you know, there’s sin everywhere.

  “Your speech at High Country Bible College is next Wednesday, dear,” Mrs. Burgess is saying as she serves the Senator creamed spinach. “I think this Wednesday you’ve got committee in the morning, and then you’re flying back here from Washington in the afternoon to address the League of Concerned Ladies down in Charleston at their Annual Supper that evening.”

  She sets down the creamed spinach, then takes a plate piled with pork roast, giving him two pieces. The man hasn’t served himself a single bite of food. I’m beginning to wonder if Mrs. Burgess is going to feed him, as well.

  The Senator frowns.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, watching her put food on his plate. When she finishes, he doesn’t even thank her, just starts eating.

  “Well, no, and if you think that’s this Wednesday I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Burgess says, and takes a small, dainty bite of food.

  “This is a wonderful meal, Mrs. Burgess,” I say, because I know my damn manners.

  “Thank you, Gabriel,” she says. “How was your drive down from Washington yesterday?”

  I make polite chit chat about nothing with Ruby’s mother. The whole time, Ruby’s words echo through my head: we ladies prefer not to trouble ourselves with weightier matters. I still don’t know if she was being serious or sarcastic, but every time I glance over at her, I think I see that spark in her eyes.

  I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what to make of any of this. It’s one of the strangest dinners I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some strange fucking dinners.

  But every so often, I catch Ruby looking at me, across the table.

  The next couple of months are going to be sheer torture, one way or another, but I’d be lying if I said I weren’t looking forward to it, at least a little.

  Chapter Five

  Ruby

  I sigh, sitting back on my heels in front of the kitchen table, examining the tableau I’ve set out one more time. Technically, it looks fine — a small pyramid of jam jars, a bunch of flowers in a mason jar, all on a checkered napkin on a rustic wooden table — but when I do this, it always looks like a collection of items I’ve shoved together instead of a picture.

  The heavy camera thuds softly against my chest as I lean forward, chin on the table, and try to figure out what looks wrong. For once, I’m alone in the informal dining room, and I can let my guard down for thirty seconds.

  I can sigh. Roll my eyes. Be annoyed that I’m so crappy at things that my mom and sisters make look so easy.

  Stop keeping sweet for a couple of minutes, because keeping a perfect, angelic smile on your face all the time, acting like the Most Blessed Girl In The World, no matter what you really think? It’s exhausting.

  Chin still resting on the table, I reach out and nudge a snapdragon, then scoot the mason jar full of flowers — grown in our garden, by my mother, of course — closer to the three jam jars, stacked in a pyramid.

  It doesn’t help, but I’m out of ideas, so I raise the camera and start taking pictures. Ever since my parents took me in again, I’ve been helping my mother with her homemaking blog. It’s a huge part of her and my father’s image as the perfect old-fashioned, traditional, woman-at-home, man-at-work couple.

  The blog also brings in a fair amount of money, from advertisements, as well as campaign donations, despite my mother’s talk of women ideally having no income of their own. Actually, all her daughters are part of my father’s career and campaign in some way. We work, we just don’t get paid.

  I’m pretty sure that makes my parents hypocrites, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I snap a few more pictures, and the door to the kitchen opens and someone walks in. Someone’s always walking in, no matter where I am, so I just ignore it until the footsteps stop about five feet away from me.

  I take one last picture and look over. It’s Gabriel.

  I’m not exactly surprised, because he is my bodyguard, but my heart does skip a beat. Since he got in yesterday he’s been spending most of his time getting up to speed on his duties here, meeting with my the rest of my father’s security team, that sort of thing.

  While I’m stuck in the house, at least, I’m not in that much danger. It’s traveling with my father for his campaign that’s the weak spot.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he says. “But I was hoping we could go over your new security procedures for the events this weekend.”

  I rock back onto my feet, and Gabriel steps forward, offering me his hand, but I’m already standing. I fight the urge to take it anyway, just to feel his strong, rough fingers against mine.

  Just the thought sends a slight tingle across my skin, and I wonder just what the hell is wrong with me.

  “Of course,” I say, a smile on my face automatically. “I’m finished here. Have a seat.”

  I move the jam tableau out of the way, definitely ruining it, and we both sit at the table, around the corner from each other. Gabriel’s not wearing a suit today, just slacks and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. My father doesn’t let his staff make many concessions to the heat, but at least he allows the men to remove their suit jackets when it’s above eighty degrees.

  But that means I can just barely see the outline of the hard muscles in his shoulders, the way his wide shoulders fill out his shirt, his biceps bunching under his sleeves as he rests his hands on the table. My mouth goes dry, and I lower my eyes, trying not to look, even though I feel like there’s something strange and new vibrating through me.

  “I generally find that operations go much more smoothly if the target — sorry, that’s you — is briefed on all the measures and procedures ahead of time,” he begins, placing a manila folder on the table.

  “I see.”

  “Stop me if you have any questions, of course,” he goes on. “Now, the event on Saturday is going to be indoors, and you’ll be sitting on stage behind the speakers. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that security is much easier at an indoor event, so I’ll likely be right off stage, keeping an eye on things without needing to intervene too much…”

  Gabriel goes on about security. He’s got layouts and floor plans of the places we’ll be: the indoor speeches and ceremony on Saturday, then Sunday’s after-church outdoor rally, and he points out where I’ll be, where he’ll be, what the escape routes are, where any “dangerous elements” could be lurking.

  In other words, he’s treating me like an adult. Like I’ve got some element of control over my own life, instead of like I’m a slightly shameful prop to be moved from one place to another while I smile and look pretty.

  After the past couple of months, it’s a huge relief just to be told what’s going to happen. It’s a consideration I rarely get.

  “Now, we’re not really expecting anything to happen,” he says, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward slightly. “As upsetting as those letters were, I don’t think the man who sent them has any sort of solid plan, nor do I think he has the military training to actually carry anything out.”

  I look at Gabriel for a moment, then look away, through the window, then at the flowers on the table.
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  “I haven’t read them,” I say.

  It’s not true. I read the two that I took, and they were creepy, but not terrifying — one was just describing a television appearance I did in detail, and another went on for a full two pages about my pretty, pretty hair.

  Honestly, I was more concerned with trying to figure out whether it was my father’s handwriting, disguised, or not. It could be someone else on his staff, though I’m not sure who he’d trust enough to ask for that sort of favor.

  Gabriel exhales, tapping one finger against the wooden table. I remember to smile at him.

  “You probably should,” he says. “They’re pretty upsetting, and they say some pretty ugly things, but in my opinion it’s always best that the target understands their stalker as best they can. That way you’ll be more able to assess situations for yourself.”

  I must have stolen the wrong letters, I think. The ones I read were creepy, but not really upsetting.

  “I haven’t read them because I’m not permitted,” I explain. “My father says they’re much too graphic and upsetting for ladies.”

  Gabriel swallows, then lowers his voice.

  “Does this room have the same echo problem as the rest of the house?” he asks.

  “Not if there’s no one else in it.”

  He leans forward slightly, and now he’s close enough that I can smell him: the faint scent of Old Spice, combined with an earthy smell, cedar or something. It makes something sinewy and hot constrict around my stomach.

  “I get the feeling you’re not as easily upset as the Senator thinks,” Gabriel says, his voice low and gravelly.

  I scrunch my toes in my shoes, but my smile doesn’t waver.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Gabriel half-smiles, a cocky little smirk that I haven’t seen him make before. My toes scrunch harder.

  “You just don’t seem the type,” he says. “I’ve met a lot of delicate flowers, and you’re not one of them. In this kind of job you learn to read people pretty quickly. Get a sense of what they can handle. And I think these letters would piss you off, but I don’t think you’d fall to pieces or anything.”

 

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