Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  Ben’s face stays carefully blank.

  “You think Senator Hammond would be interested in cosponsoring a bill adding guns to school supply lists? Looks like kids will need ’em.”

  “I can see you’re looking to bait me into an argument and normally I’d be all over that, but you’ll have to take a rain check. The clock is ticking on my lunch and I’m starving.”

  I tilt my head. “How hungry are you, would you say?” I ask, reaching for my cooler.

  His face lights up. “Did you bring me something?”

  I pull out a Tupperware that holds one of the two wraps I made this morning and slide it across the desk. He pumps a fist in the air and shuts the door, then folds himself into one of my desk chairs.

  “You’re an angel.” He opens the lid and takes a deep inhale, breathing in the bouquet like a sandwich sommelier. “Were you not even going to tell me about this? What if I hadn’t come over here?”

  “I figured your homing beacon would guide you this way sooner or later.”

  He smirks, nodding at the TV screen. “Mind if I shut that off? You know I can’t stomach CNN while I’m eating.”

  “Sure. You’re already eating my food, why don’t you commandeer my TV too? Anything else I can get for you? A cold beverage, perhaps?”

  “If you have one, that’d be great.” He winks as he gets up.

  I ogle his backside as he leans over to switch off the TV. If I had loose change handy, I’d toss some at him and watch it bounce off. When he turns back around, I run a quick audit. Today he has on a silvery-green tie with a pattern of tiny diamonds all over it. His shirt is neatly tucked into navy suit pants, his brown leather belt right at my eye level, though I refuse to let my gaze stray south of the equator. His sleeves are haphazardly rolled to his elbows, a heavy-looking watch hugging his left wrist, and all I can think is: Forearms. Hair. His casual handsomeness makes my stomach hurt.

  I need to quit noticing everything about him. Maybe if I pinch myself every time I do, I can train myself to stop, like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Or I could try electroshock therapy. Hypnosis.

  I want to squeeze my eyes shut and crawl under my desk, but I force a smile instead and watch him eat. He’s like a human vacuum cleaner, devouring everything in his path.

  I prop my chin on my hand. “So do you really believe all that stuff?”

  “You’re referring to . . . ?”

  I nod toward the TV.

  “Ah.” He finishes chewing, then swallows. “Passing that bill wasn’t going to change anything and you know it.”

  “So I guess we shouldn’t try.”

  He takes another bite, not answering.

  “How does it feel to be on the wrong side of history?”

  “Upholding the Constitution feels great, actually, thanks for asking.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Look, you really don’t want to debate me on the Second Amendment. I will nail you to the wall.” Sweet baby Jesus.

  My mind immediately goes to A Bad Place. I’m in Christian Grey’s red room of pain and Ben’s got me in wall restraints. He smiles seductively as he skims down my torso with a riding crop.

  When he speaks again, I nearly seize out of my skin. “You’ve been warned.”

  “Right, because ‘assault weapons for everyone’ was what our forefathers had in mind when they wrote about a well-regulated militia.”

  “You were there? Please tell me about your conversation with the framers of our Constitution.” Ben is feisty today.

  “So you think anyone should be able to order a gun on the internet, no questions asked?”

  “Not no questions asked.” He hoovers his last bite, then eyes my untouched wrap like a stalking predator.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  As he smirks, a disturbing realization settles in my gut. I’m about to ask a question I don’t want the answer to.

  “Do you own a gun?” Please say no.

  He blinks at me. “Of course I do. I’m from Texas, Kate.”

  I taste acid. I want to rail at him. I want to howl in frustration. I want to erase the last ten minutes of my memory, Men in Black style.

  “What?” he asks. Guess my crappy poker face is betraying me again.

  “That’s just . . . so disappointing.” Understatement of the century. I feel like throwing up.

  “Why?” He looks genuinely interested. “I shouldn’t be allowed to defend myself? Exercise my American right to own a firearm?”

  “You should do whatever you want, Ben.”

  I’m suddenly drained, my desire for debate dead and buried. As if I needed another reminder of why we’ll never work.

  “You’re the one who picked this fight. Defend your position.”

  “I’m too tired.” And heartsick.

  He squints at me as if not quite believing I’m giving up. “This isn’t small-town Texas or Tennessee. We live in a dangerous city with an incredibly high murder rate. I consider it a matter of safety to own a gun.”

  “How about leaving things to the police? You know, people adequately trained to use firearms?”

  “I am adequately trained to use a firearm, and I’ll protect what’s mine. I won’t apologize for it.”

  “‘I’ll protect what’s mine’? Listen to yourself! This isn’t caveman times.”

  At my use of the forbidden word caveman, his eyes narrow to slits.

  “Calm down, crazy eyes. I didn’t call you a caveman. I was simply referring to caveman times, where men used to go out and hunt and gather their dinner. They also protected their little women with clubs. I thought we’d moved past that mindset in the twenty-first century, but I guess not.”

  He scowls at me. We’ve slipped back into our old personas: foe versus foe, enemy combatants once more. It’s helpful, really; a reminder I obviously needed. We’ve been getting entirely too close lately, our battle lines so blurred I’d almost forgotten how things really stand between us.

  Like clouds parting in a stormy sky, his face clears and a diabolical smile spreads across his face. I can only describe it as the type of fiendish grin Wile E. Coyote sports after he’s hatched yet another plan to catch the Road Runner.

  “What?” I snap.

  “I know what you’re doing for our bet.”

  An avalanche of dread tumbles over me. “Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no.”

  “You’re coming with me to the gun range, and you’re going to learn how to shoot.”

  I vault out of my chair. “Absolutely not!”

  He stands too. He can never let me have a height advantage, even for a minute. “You’re going. And you’ll see it’s different than you think.”

  “Nope. Definitely not going.”

  He peers at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t decipher, then makes a noise like huh. “You’re scared. I didn’t think you were scared of anything.”

  “You’re damn right I’m scared! I’m scared of bungee jumping and skydiving too, if you’re keeping track.”

  “There’s no reason to be scared. I’ll be right there the whole time and I know what I’m doing. I’ve been handling guns since I was a kid.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel much better.”

  “Kate, do you honestly think I’d let anything happen to you?”

  We stare across the desk at each other in charged silence. Looking into his eyes like this makes my brain fuzzy. He has a very unfair advantage, this one.

  “No,” I finally concede.

  He crosses his arms. “Look, I’ve seen what can happen to someone when their guard is down. You never want to find yourself in that position. You have a responsibility to keep yourself safe, and if you won’t do it for you, then do it for me.”

  I blink, startled by the sudden change in his voice, the sharp vehemence I hear
there. I study the rigid set to his shoulders and the taut, tense line of his jaw.

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  A shadow passes over his features, his expression darkening, before his eyes shutter and he looks away. “I have my reasons.”

  It’s the clearest sign yet there’s more to his overprotectiveness than meets the eye—something I’ve long suspected—but if I’m ever going to find out what he’s hiding, I need to do this his way.

  I exhale. “Fine. I will uphold my end of this bet and go to the range with you. But I don’t like it,” I add, retaking my seat at the desk.

  He grins in triumph, showing off his perfect white teeth. “Excellent. When can you go?” Like we’re negotiating dinner plans.

  “I don’t know. I’m very busy and important.” I violently jerk my mouse to wake my computer.

  “Kate . . .”

  “What? You don’t know my schedule. It’s . . . packed.”

  “Packed with what? TV shows?”

  I glower at him. “I have a speech to write. I’m working on it right now.”

  An ad starts blaring on the random webpage I’m on, exposing my bald-faced lie. I frantically click to mute it, but it’s too late.

  His mouth curves into a smirk. “Tonight, then?”

  “No. Over the weekend or something.”

  “Saturday, then.” His chin lifts in defiance, and I can’t help but admire his jawline in profile. I hate myself.

  “I didn’t say this weekend.”

  “Kate . . .”

  “Fine, Saturday.”

  “Good.” He taps his watch and heads for the door. “This will be a very eye-opening experience for you. I can’t wait.”

  “I can. I can wait forever, in fact.”

  He stops halfway out and turns, gripping the jamb on either side and leaning back in. Muscles. Flexing. I grab a rubber band off my desk and snap it against my wrist. Definitely not painful enough.

  “If you’re a good girl and go with a positive attitude, I’ll treat you to dinner after.”

  My heart does a stutter-step. “You actually owe me two meals now.”

  He snaps his fingers. “That reminds me.”

  “What?”

  The smile he throws me is blinding. “Thanks for lunch.”

  Chapter 21

  Saturday afternoon finds me standing in front of my closet, puzzling over something I never thought I would: appropriate gun-shooting attire. When I texted Ben for guidance, he told me to wear something comfortable that covered most of my skin—a rather alarming directive I don’t want to think too much about. I eventually settle on a pair of jeans, flat brown leather boots, and a cashmere V-neck sweater in a shade of blue that matches my eyes. I keep my hair loose and wavy and my makeup light, taking pains not to overdo it, but I can’t help it—I want to look good for him.

  I want him to notice me.

  When I’m done, I eye myself critically in the mirror. Not bad. This sweater is on just the right side of tight, the V deep enough to hint without screaming, Here are my boobs! I look put together, but not like I’m trying too hard.

  Not like you’re secretly pining for him, you mean?

  I wonder with simultaneous hope and trepidation if he’ll wear something green tonight. The guy has more green in his wardrobe than a leprechaun. Green sweaters, ties—I even noticed green socks one day. I think he’s doing it on purpose to embarrass me.

  I get my answer before I even walk through the glass doors of his building: he’s wearing the Sweater.

  More precisely, it’s the same green shirt-sweater he’d been wearing on the Night That Must Not Be Named. The sweater that clings to every muscle of his upper body like a second skin. The sweater I want to wrap myself in and huff until I’m high. It’s the sweater of all my Ben fantasies.

  I take a deep breath as I walk in and wave casually, doing a passable job of pretending my stomach isn’t tied in knots. He gives me a once-over and visibly swallows. He looks . . . uneasy. So maybe he does notice what I wear—and likes it? The coil in my stomach loosens a bit.

  “I told you to cover your skin.”

  Or maybe not.

  I look down at my outfit, confused. Was he expecting a nun’s habit? “I did.”

  “No, you didn’t. There’s going to be flying brass from the shells. It could land in your . . . shirt.” He points vaguely to my chest area. I think he was going to say cleavage. He is all flustered.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t known that. “I brought a jacket,” I offer, holding it up.

  His shoulders relax. “That should work.” He pauses for a beat, eyeing me. “You look . . . nice.”

  “Just nice, huh? Not striking?” I wink at him. Okay, I’m fishing.

  His face goes a bit frozen. “You always look striking,” he says, glancing away before I can react. Maybe I’m not the only one having wayward thoughts tonight.

  “Do my ears deceive me, or did you actually just compliment me?” I feel his forehead with the back of my hand. “Are you ill?”

  He snags my wrist. “I have definitely complimented you before.”

  I pretend to think about it. “Hmm. Nope, I think I would remember if the world had ended.” If he had complimented me, I would have dissected it and rerun it in my head a billion times. Infinity times. A googolplex times.

  He frowns. “No compliments. Guess I’ll have to rectify that.”

  He stands there for a long moment, squinting like he’s running through a myriad of possibilities and rejecting them one by one. After ten seconds of silence, I shoot him a dirty look.

  “What? I’m thinking,” he says, laughing.

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I start to move away but he catches my hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. When he speaks, his voice is an octave lower.

  “Kate, you look strikingly beautiful tonight. Even more distractingly beautiful than you look every day at work.”

  I suck in a breath. I was expecting something like, Kate, you are exceptionally talented at annoying the hell out of me. Not a real compliment. The combination of his nearness, the handholding, and his velvety chocolate sex voice nearly liquefies me into a puddle on the floor. A blush crawls up my neck.

  He looks amused. “Wow. This flustered from one measly little compliment? You’re really opening up a can of worms here.” He tugs me toward the elevator, not releasing my hand.

  I press a palm to my neck, embarrassed. My skin is so hot, my clothes are incinerating.

  “Come on. You know you’re beautiful.” He says it a little shyly, and I feel like the Grinch—my heart grows three sizes. “You leave a trail of men in your wake wherever you go.”

  My laugh is strangled. “That is such a lie.”

  “You just don’t notice.”

  His barrage of flattery has me so off-balance, I’m running a beat behind on our normal banter tempo. “Well . . . thanks.”

  It’s an entirely inadequate response. He deserves a reciprocal compliment, but when I consider telling him I think he’s the sexiest man alive, People magazine be damned, I can’t make my lips form the words.

  “You’re welcome.”

  His smile burns through my chest like a brand. I smile back, feeling timid and hopeful and nervous and . . . happy.

  At some point as we stand there staring at each other, the air palpably changes, a crackling electricity whipping between us like static. My pulse intensifies as his eyes search my face, finally landing on my lips.

  He looks like he’s going to kiss me. Or maybe—he wants to?

  My heart pounds as I mentally prepare for it—this is it—and I can’t seem to access the air in my lungs and I hope I don’t pass out, when a woman with a stroller wrestles open the front door of his building, huffing and puffing and making a ruckus. He drops my hand an
d rushes over to hold the door open, exchanging pleasantries as she struggles into the lobby.

  My brain is absolutely screaming. Goddamn Ben and his chivalrous manners! I want to yell obscenities at this woman and her awful, cherubic-looking baby. Doesn’t she realize what she’s interrupted?

  I hear Stephen’s voice echoing in my head—make a move—and now I’m listening. I frantically try to concoct a plan that’s obvious but not blatant. Unmistakable but subtle.

  I realize these things are oxymorons.

  Ben lopes back over and hits the DOWN button. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder and the missed opportunity is soul crushing. Can he feel it too?

  “You okay there?” he asks, nudging me.

  My expression must be murderous. I need to calm down. No sense in frightening small children.

  “Sure, fine.”

  I’m unconvincing. I’m desperate to get our moment back. I need to do something—anything. I fake-smile at him and let my eyes rove down his body. My brain zeroes in on the shirt-sweater. It’s definitely a sweater. I think.

  “I recognize this,” I murmur, reaching out to pinch his sleeve. I can’t help myself—I have to touch it. It’s calling to me with its siren song.

  He throws me a quick smile as a faint shade of pink blooms up the back of his neck, coloring the tips of his ears. His body language is suspicious and I puzzle over it until it dawns on me.

  Wait—did he wear this sweater on purpose? So I’d be reminded of the night when, by his own characterization, I’d thrown myself at him? Pawed him, as he put it? Is this a signal or am I reading too much into it?

  “So.” He clears his throat, breaking into my reverie. “We’re just heading down to the parking garage to grab my car. The range I like is in Maryland, but it’s a short drive.”

  “You have a car?”

  “Yeah. Though I don’t get to use it all that much.” The elevator dings and he ushers me in, pressing the button for the basement and leaning against the opposite wall. As far away from me as he can get.

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I bet it’s a gas guzzler and terrible for the environment.”

  He rolls his eyes. Guess the moment is truly broken now.