Back Off: Reed Security: Book One

by Robin Leaf

  So here’s a conundrum. Do I lie and tell him I’m an innocent bystander? Or do I admit that I have given in to the more… lascivious side of my sexual nature, and that I actually like it.

  I’ll test the waters.

  “Do you actually want to know?”

  He pauses. Either he’s not actually sure if he really wants the truth, or he doesn’t want to push me for it.

  “I’ve done… things, Jase,” I shrug, “but nothing that I haven’t liked. Don’t worry. I have no regrets. This case hasn’t compromised any of my delicate principles or anything.” I take a drink. “I won’t let it.”

  He takes a second to look at me… to really look. “But it cost you Cristiana.”

  He’s the only person who knows how much that wrecked me. The night after I let her storm away from me at that video release party, I drank too much and admitted my self-sabotage when I met with him to get the name of the clinic. Luckily, I kept other secrets… the ones pertaining to the real reason I’m investigating his father, but that might be because I passed out on his couch before I could tell him.

  Come to think of it, it’s probably best not to keep whiskey here.

  And then last night, I agreed to help with the security at that club opening, thinking I could be close to her with no consequences. Yet I had to walk away from her again, after I said what I said and made her look at me like she did… like I was her friggin hero.

  I can’t have her. She’s with Ignacio. I missed my chance.

  I really am a tool.

  I smile, even though I don’t feel like it, and pick up my bowl. “And I’d pay it again to keep her safe. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t be where she is now.” I raise my spoon in toast. “And that makes it worth it.”

  Joe consulted me on the security for the tour so that everything will run smoothly. It gets hairy securing large arenas with sold-out crowds, but he maintains the high-level planning and forethought needed to keep everyone safe from crazy fans. All the pre-planning is done, so it should be smooth sailing.

  Jason continues to stare at me, watching me eat, while taking small bites of his soup. I know he’s trying too hard to make his expression seem blank, which means he’s dying to ask me something. Living with the man for almost three years means I learned to read him well.

  I finish my last bite and sit back, raising my eyebrow. “Just ask, Jason.”

  He swallows and looks away for a second. Scratching the back of his neck, he looks back at me.

  “Has this… changed… I mean… do you like…” He looks around the room, stirring the contents in his bowl. “Have you done things with…”

  “I haven’t had sex with men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He sags against the couch, and I’m not sure why.

  “Does it bother you that I didn’t?”

  “No,” he answers, exuding honesty. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s none of my business anyway.”

  I stare at him with narrowed eyes, a tool that works when I want him to tell me something he doesn’t want to admit.

  “It’s… Darla. I think she’s only into women.”

  “She told you otherwise, didn’t she, when she propositioned you?”

  “Yes, but that might have been curiosity. That was four years ago. Since then, she hasn’t…” He sighs again. He does that a lot. He sits forward and resumes stirring his soup. “It doesn’t really matter. I can’t have sex with her anyway. I don’t know why I care. Her friendship is enough. It’s all we’ll ever be.”

  I tear off a piece of tortilla and chew it slowly. “I bet with your new meds, if you were careful, that you could –”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s not an option.” A look of pain flashes on his face. “I can’t… I won’t do that to her. And I don’t think she wants me.”

  I get up to take my bowl to the kitchen, mostly to let him have a second to recover from his brooding. After washing, drying, and putting it away immediately, I return to my seat, and I can tell he wants to ask me something again.

  “Dammit, we’re good enough friends, you should know by now you can ask me anything.”

  “Okay,” he begins, sitting forward on the couch. “What is the… thing you like most… at the club?” He takes a big bite of soup, watching me for an answer.

  By far, that first night with Cristiana is what I liked the most, but that’s not what he means.

  So I roll the question around in my head for a minute, searching for one thing that I can admit. Everything I’ve done would be considered tame by the club’s standards, but to Jason’s limited sexual perspective and his warped sense of sexuality created by the two vastly different lifestyles his father modeled, one public and one private, I should probably keep some things to myself. So I decide to tell him something I first discovered while I was with Cristiana.

  “Being watched,” I admit comfortably. “I find that I really like being watched.”

  He sits back, staring at the ceiling again. I’m not sure what direction his mind is going, but it’s obvious I just gave him something to contemplate.

  ***

  “What. The. Fuck. are you wearing?” I ask Charlene when I open the door to my apartment.

  “Hello to you, too, asshole.”

  She pushes past me and slams the bag of food on my bar, opening her purse so she can rummage through it, looking for God knows what. She pulls out a mirror and starts adjusting her hair.

  I take in her outfit. Her pants look like one of those crocheted quilt things made by everyone’s grandmother, complete with what Grand called “granny squares” all attached together and tassels hanging off from just below her knees. They make me laugh, hard.

  “This new and upcoming designer, Marquais, designed them,” she says absently, running her fingers through a part that won’t lay flat. “A friend recommended him, and I visited his store earlier this week.”

  I move around her into the kitchen, grabbing dishes out of the cabinet despite my chuckles. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  She puts her mirror down. “What?”

  “Well, obviously you pissed him off in some way.” I nod down to her lower half.

  She backhands me in the ribs. “Fuck you, Noah.” Picking up her mirror again, she resumes preening. “They’re cute.”

  “Seriously, Charlene,” I wheeze, trying to lower my voice from that high-pitched-laughter talk, “it looks like the back of Grand’s couch threw up all over your legs.”

  She looks a bit hurt, so I try to recover from my fit… unsuccessfully.

  “He told me they were perfect for me, and that I had the only pair in existence. Therefore, they’re a Charlene Reed exclusive.”

  “That’s because…” I try to catch my breath. “… because no one else would wear them.” The dirty look she throws me just makes me laugh harder. “Maybe we can borrow a TARDIS so we can travel back and sell them in 1974? Although you’ll probably have to take a huge loss on your investment.”

  She puts away her mirror and grabs the opened wine off my counter. After pouring herself a glass, she eyeballs me as I wipe my eyes.

  “Are you done?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

  “Maybe, but I reserve the right to revisit the jokes about the pants as long as you’re here wearing them.”

  She smirks. “You know, I could go downstairs and announce to all your employees how much you secretly loved Janet Jackson in high school.”

  I sober. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would. I might even email them the video I took of you singing ‘Rhythm Nation’ in the shower.” She smiles. “It’s my favorite clip from the family video I had made for Mom for Christmas.”

  “Yeah, you definitely kicked my ass in the gift-giving this year, Chuck.”

  “Ugh. Don’t call me Chuck.”

  I open the bag of food, taking out the containers from Chinese Palace around the corner.

  “That reminds me. I hired a new assistant.”

  Go
od, a subject change.

  “Why do you need a new assistant? I thought you said Cheryl was perfect.”

  “She was. So perfect that I had to promote her to office manager.” She takes a sip of wine. “She’ll be running my San Francisco office when I make the move here.”

  She’s finally taking my advice. L.A. makes more sense for an agent in the entertainment business.

  “I’m gaining more clients because word got out that I’m the agent who discovered Ignacio, and it’s throwing more business my way,” Charlene enthuses. “So, I’ve pretty much decided to move to L.A.” She drinks the rest of her wine and pours more. “It’s too hard to keep flying back and forth.” Turning toward me, she bats her eyelashes. “I was wondering if you would help me look for office space.”

  “I have space on the second floor here,” I offer, knowing what her answer will be.

  A year ago, I moved into this six story building I’m still renovating for the headquarters of Reed Security. Two floors is for the business; the rest is living quarters for the employees, and soon, there will be a training facility and a gym. It will just make it easier to assemble a team quickly if they live on the premises.

  “That’s sweet of you, big brother, but I don’t think you need me invading your man space.” She plates some of the Lo Mein she loves. “What if you need the space for expansion? I know you. You wouldn’t kick me out; you’d sacrifice it for me.”

  I give her a Cheshire grin. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid. I’d have no problem throwing your ass out. In fact, please move in so I can do just that in a couple of years.”

  She sticks out her tongue like she did when we were kids, knowing I’m teasing.

  “At the rate your business is growing, Noah, you’ll need it faster than two years.” Shoving a big bite in her mouth, she adds, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I had a lot of help.” Digging my chop sticks into my food, I eat the Chow Mein straight out of the carton. “I’m prouder of you, little sister, for building your empire from the ground up all by yourself.”

  She smiles. “We’re awesome.”

  “That we are,” I say, holding up my chopsticks for her to tap with hers, like a Chinese utensil high five.

  “You’re place is nice, Noah. It just needs a woman’s touch.”

  Her mission lately is to try to get me to settle down. It’s cute but infuriating.

  “God, don’t start that again, Chuck.”

  She punches me in the arm and grunts, “Stop. Calling. Me. Chuck.”

  It makes me laugh again.

  “You know,” she begins, “you’re turning thirty in a couple of months. Freud says that your twenties are the time for you to find a lifelong mate.”

  “That was Erikson, not Freud.”

  Rolling her eyes, she sighs. “Whatever. You have very little time before you’re doomed to be a bachelor for the rest of your life.” She takes a huge bite and shrugs. “Maybe I’ll get you a cat for your birthday, your very own spinster starter kit.”

  “Why the big push to get me to settle down, Charlene? I’m… happy.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I see behind those baby blues, big brother. You’re lonely.” She puts down her chopsticks, softening her expression. “Who takes care of the guy who takes care of… you know, everyone else?”

  I shovel another bite into my mouth, smirking. “Well, my sister brought me dinner.”

  “You know what I mean, dumbass.” She looks down into her plate. “My new assistant calls me Charlie.”

  Ah, I get it now. She’s trying to set me up with her new assistant.

  Not gonna happen.

  “Why does she call you that?”

  “I don’t know. She’s done it since I met her, and I just don’t have the heart to correct her.” She slurps a noodle into her mouth. “She’s just so adorably kick ass. Told Marquais to go fuck himself up the ass when he fired her, so I hired her on the spot. I figured I needed someone like that in my life.” She shrugs. “Maybe you do, too.”

  Nope. Thanks, but I’m good, little sister.

  “Well, now I know what you did to Marquais to deserve those pants.”

  Eighteen

  Cristiana

  Hours and hours of rehearsals are complete. Costumes are designed, fitted, and ready. Sets are constructed and in place. Tickets have sold out in all the arenas.

  Tomorrow night, we begin the sixty-city tour back and forth across the country.

  Tonight, I can’t sleep.

  Coincidentally, we begin this monster tour in my hometown of San Francisco. Today, I was able to visit my parents and hang out with my brothers before we start the madness. Mama was her usual self, slipping the one I try not to think about into the conversation seamlessly, yet obviously, at every given opportunity. She just hasn’t warmed to Ignacio’s charm. She’s not rude about him, but I can tell she is not happy with the current state of my love life.

  Right now, though, Ignacio snores from his bedroom of the obnoxious suite we share, but I can’t seem to settle down. It’s approaching 1:00 a.m., and my mind and body just won’t shut down. I’m sort of watching some weird Lifetime movie about a psychopathic stepmom, trying to will my mind to shut off for the evening so I can get some sleep. I’m fucking exhausted, but this twitchy nervousness won’t go away. The truth is I can’t stop my brain. Mama bringing him up just put him in my mind after I worked so hard for months to block him out. I wonder where he is… what he’s doing… who he’s with.

  Ugh. I shake my head, hoping the thoughts will fly right out. Sitting here with nothing to do but think of him isn’t working, so I’m compelled to get up and move.

  Which I do, right out the door, hoping wherever I end up will be okay with me in my unicorn PJ pants.

  Since Joe outlawed alcohol in this fucking suite, I head down to the first floor, pretty certain that a hotel this nice has a bar. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I don’t drink, but the night of sleep I received after having those two Cuba Libres was incredible.

  That night with him. The night I was willing to let him break through my shield, and he built his own fucking wall.

  Yeah, that night. Not helping.

  Gracias a Dios, there’s the fucking bar.

  Also, I thank God there’s not much traffic in a hotel bar at one in the morning on a Thursday night, rather a Friday morning, whatever. There’s only one other patron in the bar, a man who looks to be about forty with greying hair, kind eyes, and a handsome face. We make brief eye contact, and he smiles.

  It should be easy to get the bartender’s attention, but he takes his time to notice me. I have to clear my throat before he drops his towel on the bar and meanders over my direction, leaning his hands on the bar.

  “I think I want shots,” I announce before he can ask.

  He smiles, showing off his crooked front tooth. “Of what, gorgeous?”

  The ‘gorgeous’ thing makes me want to roll my eyes. If I’m so gorgeous, you would have approached me sooner. I want to just huff and walk away, but I’m determined not to let this puto ruin my mission.

  “Tequila?”

  Yes, I form it as a question, which probably makes me look less like the badass I usually am and more like someone who has never done this before.

  He smirks. “What kind?”

  I feel my eyes widen and try to recover before he notices. “There’s kinds?”

  Donning another smarmy smile, he stares at me for a second before turning around to grab a bottle off the top shelf. He flips over a shot glass and fills it, kinda like a Great Value Tom Cruise. In fact, he looks a little like a slimy Tom Cruise, but that could be because of his slicked back hair and crooked tooth. I notice his nametag says Mike, not Tom, which would have just been an awesome coincidence. He tops the shot off with a lime wedge and pushes the tiny glass toward me.

  Of course, being new to this whole shot thing, I pick the lime up with my fingers and bring the shot to my nose, sniffing. He laughs when I wince and wri
nkle my nose.

  “You’re not supposed to sniff it, silly girl.” After filling another shot glass with the same clear liquid, he clinks it to mine. “Salúd,” he says and dumps it in his mouth, swallowing the whole thing, before taking his lime between his teeth and squeezing it.

  I copy his movements, and I get about half a squeeze in before the burn of what might as well be gasoline registers. I choke, and it’s not cute little dainty choking. I mean it’s a full on, spazzed-out convulsing, wheezing for air, watering eyes, trying-not-to-die fit, garnering the attention of the kind man at the other end of the bar. He graciously comes to my aid, patting me on the back before grabbing my forearms, encouraging me to lift them over my head.

  “I know I’m pretty, hun,” he jokes, “but I usually only take people’s breath away, not make them choke.”

  I make eye contact with him and attempt a smile through the coughing. Talking will be difficult at this moment, so instead, I wave my hand, indicating I’m not gonna die.

  Not-Tom sets a full glass of water on a napkin, patiently waiting for me to get myself under control. I grab it and take a huge sip, praying the coolness will tame the raging fire in my throat.

  “So what brought that on?” the kind man asks.

  “Shots,” I wheeze, which sparks another hacking fit. Taking another drink of water, I get a piece of ice to chew hoping it will help.

  He laughs. “I’m guessing that’s your first one?”

  I nod, not risking talking again until I can breathe normally.

  “Aww,” Not-Tom’s oily voice oozes. “Did I pop your tequila cherry?”

  Ew.

  The nice guy turns fully to me and pats my knee.

  “Allow me to apologize for my fellow penised individual. Most men would ease you into the tequila shot… prep you up nice with something simpler before banging the hard stuff.” He smiles at me and winks playfully. “Maybe a Buttery Nipple or a Fuzzy Navel. Hell, even a Flaming Orgasm would have worked.” He turns to Mike and raises his eyebrow. “Any bartender worth his salt knows better than to jump right into a tequila shot for a newbie.”