by Ellie Hall
“I’m Holly Gallagher. We’re all so thrilled to have you. The children can hardly contain themselves.”
January smiles warmly and it freaks me out a little. She seems so... so... genuine. “I’m sure their excitement is for the dogs and not me.”
Holly chuckles as women do when they get together and January shares a moment with her. In two seconds flat they’re BFFs or something. I don’t get females.
We’re led through several corridors until we reach a courtyard nestled between the buildings. It’s a child’s oasis with lots of open space and a playground on one side. The event’s already in progress when we arrive. There’s a guy doing wildly intricate balloon sculptures and several game booths, face painting station, and all you can eat carnival food.
“The adoption kennel is right over there,” Holly points out. A fenced-off area near the makeshift stage holds at least twenty dogs of varying breeds. A few kids at a time are let inside to play with them while a line of more kids wait impatiently. On the stage, a magician is finishing up his act, and Holly directs us in that direction. I’m scanning the whole courtyard because I’m supposed to be January’s tough bodyguard, but there doesn’t seem to be any threats—unless you count the creepy clown trying to not make the kids cry.
We pass by the adoption kennel and January slows down to greet the Kanines for Kids staff. She knows each and every one of their names, asks specific questions about their families, and checks with a couple of the girls about how the dogs are doing. One of them makes a quip and January laughs lightly, a soft, bubbling giggle that’s completely contradictory to her iconic celebrity influencer persona.
Eventually, January makes her way to the stage while I stand by, watching the crowd like a watered-down secret service agent. Holly thanks the magician and goes into a speech about Kanines for Kids, introducing the charity’s founder, January Madison. Founder? As in she found a charity to latch her name onto, or founded, founded it? I’m pretty sure celebrities get paid a nice kickback from charities as a spokesperson for the commercials and stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if her dad’s making her do it. But at least she acts passionate about it when she takes the mic and invites about ten random kids on stage. She talks about her vision for the non-profit, how she wishes for every child here today to adopt a dog if they’re able to care for one. How the organization plans for therapy dogs to visit children’s hospitals once a week to lift the spirits of the kids getting treatment.
“It’s through the generosity of donations that we can continue changing lives every day,” she says, and wait—are those tears in her eyes? “But you didn’t come here to see me.”
Yes, yes they did.
“What’s your name?” She squats down to the eye level of a little girl on tiny little crutches and tilts the microphone to her.
“A-a-allison.”
“Allison. What a pretty name. How old are you?”
Allison giggles. “Five.”
“Wow. So big. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A vet-i are-ium.”
The crowd all goes awww.
I can tell January wants to laugh, but only because Allison is so darn cute it would be a crime to ignore it. With amusement in her tone she says, “Well then, you can come work for us at Kanines for Kids when you’re all grown up.”
Allison beams and January gives her a hug. She interviews a couple other kids like that and then takes her leave, deflecting the attention to the bluegrass band coming on next. She doesn’t pose for a photo op, doesn’t hog the spotlight, isn’t taking selfies to post all over the internet. She’s just a lovely woman, helping dogs and kids. Beautiful, even—effervescent as the wind gently rushes over her dress, tossing her corn silk hair in wisps around her face. I don’t get it which really ticks me off because I don’t like puzzles. Aunt Lucy’s always doing puzzles. Those really difficult ones with ten thousand pieces. When I was in fifth grade, she lived with us for about five months when her divorce was new and had puzzles on every flat surface. That might have something to do with my aversion. But I digress. January is a puzzle, too. Far more complicated than Aunt Lucy’s. Where are the press? The TV stations? The bloggers? I almost feel bad for the extra chunk of change Mr. Madison paid me to take on this responsibility. I’m glad he did, though. But not because of the money.
We don’t stay long after the short appearance. We sneak out the service entrance and get to the limo through a back alley. January doesn’t complain about the pungent smells of the garbage bins we pass. In fact, she’s in a great mood. There’s a spring in her step and a contented smile on her face. I’m wracking my brain to remember if she has a secret twin that only comes out for charity appearances. This can’t be the same woman.
I must have a goofy expression because she squints at me sidelong and says, “What?”
“What?” I repeat like a fool and now I’m grinning stupidly which seems to propel her to come over and poke me in the dimple.
“Poke,” she says as her finger smashes into my face. “Poke, poke.”
“Are sound effects really necessary?”
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” she admits, owning it confidently. I’ll bet she just does whatever she wants, no matter how silly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And I don’t know why I feel a rush of heat spread up my neck when she says that but something inside me loves that she’s been thinking about touching me. Even if only on the cheek with the tip of her finger. If anyone else did that, they’d be toast.
“You were really good with those kids back there,” I say. “Do you make a lot of these types of appearances?”
“No. I’m usually more behind the scenes.”
“Oh. So did your dad make you come out here for this?”
She snorts. “Yeah, right. My dad thinks it’s a waste of my time. But I had to come out for the ribbon cutting of the hotel’s new spa, so my team over at Kanines for Kids set this up.”
“Your team? This isn’t your dad’s charity?”
“Are you kidding? The only reason he goes along with it is because he realized it’s good publicity. But I showed him.”
So that’s why there was no press. For her to stick it to her dad?
“This charity is near and dear to my heart. I started it with my friend Rachael who’s a nurse at the Beverly Children’s Ward. We saw a need and we’re trying to fill it.”
She’s on full confession mode now and I’m here for it.
“I hate the press. Don’t get me wrong, they have to feed their families, too. But today was all about the kids. I didn’t want cameras and paparazzi to ruin it.”
Wow. That’s... that’s... honorable. And lovely. And absolutely not what I was expecting. We reach the limo and stand there for a moment. I don’t want to break the spell of this new side of January. Or her not-evil-twin, perhaps. She’s smiling at me, inching closer. Every breath of mine is a faulty as she nears until we’re toe to toe. I’m existing between two heartbeats. She tilts her head like she’s thinking. What could she be thinking about, I wonder? She lifts her hands, smoothing her palms over her hair as her head swivels side to side, all the while her eyes remain trained on my—wait a second.
“Are you admiring yourself in my sunglasses?”
She chokes a laugh. So busted.
“The mirrors are distracting. Got me thinking—what if I go dark?”
“Dark as in... the dark side of the Force?”
“Uh, no. I was talking about my hair. Dark brown.” Her tone softens and I can barely hear her when she says, “Like yours.”
Later that night I’m lying in bed, barely able to sleep. I’m living in the Twilight Zone, here thinking about the past few hours—how January knocked on my door with a light tap and when she saw me in sweatpants and a plain T, she stumbled over the words, “I’m ordering room service. Might as well join me.” The only thing I could think of was, “Well I’ll be.”
The meal was mediocre which made January laugh
when I voiced my opinion. Then she somehow got me to spill all about my seven siblings, asking question after question with genuine interest. I found out she’s an only child and does not have a not-evil-twin and that made me a little sad for her. After dinner we talked for another couple hours before turning in and I’ve been laying here ever since. Today has been interesting, making my mind buzz with a whole myriad of thoughts. But there’s a warmth in me, letting my body relax in a strange glow I’ve never experienced before. I let it take over, lulling me to sleep and to where I can dream of a life that can never be. I’m almost there when I hear a crash followed by shouting—a man’s voice coming from January’s suite. I jump into action, stumbling out of bed and to our shared door. It’s locked. She’d locked it from her side? I mean, I don’t blame her. What if I was a sexy sleepwalker?
I ram into the door with my shoulder. I kick it barefoot. It’s not budging. I need a big log. Or a stick of dynamite. I find the fire extinguisher and slam it into the door handle until I finally break the lock. Adrenaline is coursing through me. I’m the Hulk and Black Widow is in distress. She’s standing on top of her bed using a hair dryer as a weapon. She’s holding it two-handed, pointing it at him like a gun. What’s she trying to do, blow him out the door?
“Hey,” I cry, and they just now turn their heads to me as if I hadn’t made a heckavalotta noise banging in the door a minute ago. My eyes are on the guy. He’s huge and it’s now I recognize him. The giant from the parking garage. Tight jeans guy. He’s got to have six inches and a hundred pounds of muscle on me but I have righteous fury (and a fire extinguisher) on my side. I charge at him and the last thing I see is a fist flying at my face before the world fades to black.
8
JANUARY
What am I supposed to do now? Even with a bruise forming on his brow, Enrique is a stunning specimen of a man. Thick, dark lashes fan across his cheekbone, curving in an arch of male beauty towards a long, Romanesque nose. And nestled like two pieces of bubble gum amidst a forest of sandpaper scruff are a pair of generous, kissable lips.
He’s on my bed wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and I’m thinking I should have let the hotel security keep him on the floor. He looks waaay too good tangled in my sheets and the sight is doing things to my sensibilities. I’m hovering over him with an ice pack in my hand, feeling it would be a shame to break the crystals inside when I could just let him sleep. He’s so passed out he wouldn’t even notice if I brush my lips over his, maybe a little nibble.
But the head of security warned me to watch for signs of concussion right before they hauled Jerry away. Plus, I expect the police to come knocking any minute now. I snap the ice pack and feel the rush of cold move through the bag, placing it on his eye. He wakes with a jolt and I have to apply gentle pressure to his shoulders to keep him from sitting up. I keep my hands there (because muscles) and am tempted to let my palms drop just a little bit down his biceps or maybe to those abs where a dusting of hair trails to his belly button.
He sucks in a breath, remembering the danger as he wakes, but I shush him.
“It’s okay. He’s gone now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a crappy bodyguard.”
I breathe a soft laugh. “That was my ex-bodyguard and he’s built like a tank, so you didn’t stand much of a chance.”
“If he hurt you, I swear—“
“He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s a little too clingy, yeah. Dad fired him because he said he was in love with me, but it’s only a mild obsession.”
“A mild obsession had you standing on your bed wielding a dangerous hair blower?”
“I guess.”
“Where is he?” There’s action in his tone and I inwardly laugh at his eagerness to play the hero even with an ice pack on his face.
“Security came in right after you got knocked out. Don’t worry about that. How’s your eye?”
He pulls the ice pack off and tosses it to the side table. “Fine.”
“That’s going to leave a nasty bruise.” Instinctively, I run my fingertips over his brow. A tint of yellow, blue, and pink rise to the surface of his skin. “But you’ll live.”
We’re suspended in this moment—his eyes fixed on mine as I gently stroke the hairs of his brow into place. They’d gone askew from Jerry’s fist and then the ice pack. Enrique flutters his eyes closed like a tamed beast while my nails do their work, righting the hairs in the correct direction, then finding another task of combing back his unruly locks behind his ear, twisting stray curls around my index finger. I find my other hand moving of its own volition, sliding over the mound of his strong chest and across his rib cage. His lips part, a shaky breath escaping them and I want to capture it with my mouth. This desire. I’ve never known anything so compelling.
“Thanks for being my knight in shining armor,” I quip, palming his six-pack. But I shouldn’t have spoken. His hands fly to cover each of mine where they touch him and he holds me there, squeezing gently. His brow furrows and he winces. Am I hurting him? His eyes are still shut and with a grumbly, painful murmur he says my name softly. “January.”
The sound of it sends a thrill of bottle rockets down my center.
Then his eyes flash open and his lip twitches. “February. March.”
I wrench my hands free and throw a pillow at him. “Kinky.”
The bedside phone rings and I answer. It’s the head of security telling me I can make a formal police report in the morning. Meanwhile Enrique finds his way off my bed and to our shared door.
“Sorry about the damages,” he says. “I promise to keep an ear open for any more intruders.”
And just like that, he walks through the rubble of the door wreckage and crawls into his own bed leaving me with the lady blues.
“Don’t worry,” I want to say. I won’t be getting any sleep anyhow.
9
ENRIQUE
I’m in my bed with January. Her hands are planted on my chest, the tips of her long hair brushing against my skin. She’s a take charge kind of girl, pushing me down, rocking me on the mattress. She’s crying out my name.
“Ricky...”
Her voice seems far away.
“Enrique...”
I reach out but my fingers can’t find purchase.
“Mmmm,” I hum. “Baby.”
“Kinky...” Why does she sound so far away? “Wake up.”
I’m only vaguely aware of my surroundings. My body feels heavy with sleep.
“Kinky!” Her hands are on me again and she’s jostling me around now. I crash back into reality.
“Huh? What? I’m up, I’m up.”
“Freaking A, Kinky you sleep like a rock.”
Now I’m in panic mode. “Is there something wrong? What time is it?”
“Three.”
“In the afternoon?” Nothing is making sense. I still might be dreaming.
“In the morning. Get up. We have to go.”
It occurs to me now that there might be more danger. I shoot out of bed, definitely awake now.
“Are you okay? Is he back?”
“No. I’ll explain later. Let’s just go before the paps get here.”
I don’t know what’s going down but that doesn’t matter. If she’s got a tip the Paparazzi is coming for her, it’s my job to sneak her out. I’m dressed, teeth brushed, and out the door in three minutes flat. With my duffel bag in hand, I go get the limo, pulling it around to the service entrance. There won’t be a show today, folks. When I get back up to the rooms, I find January ready to go. One of the security guards is with her, helping her with her suitcase. We’re stealthy as we go down, not saying a word. A covert operation. Just a little more and we’re home free. But just as she’s tucking her head in the car, we hear a shout.
“Over there!” A flash goes off. They didn’t get anything but a car door shutting but I gotta get her out of here. Unfortunately, the Paps are blocking the only exit to the street. More flashes go off.
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” I say through the partition window. “I have to drive though.”
“Let’s give ‘em something to talk about, then,” she says, rolling down one of her windows. Has she lost her mind? She crouches down. I approach the small group of cameras ahead. There’s a movement in the rear-view mirror but it’s so dark I don’t realize what it is until we’re rolling right past the paparazzi. January’s on the floor of the limo, holding up the cardboard Nicolas Cage cutout at the open window, dancing it around. Flashes go off and I even hear one of the Paps shout, “Nicolas, Nicolas.”
A minute later, we’re home free.
“I can’t believe that worked,” she says, getting back up into her seat. We make brief eye contact and burst out laughing. Oh my gosh, how ridiculous was that?
“Wow, what a bunch of idiots,” I say.
“Right?” She’s in tears now and neither of us can stop. “Who knew Nick Cage could come in so handy?”
“I know. I’m never throwing that thing away.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cage,” she says and kisses it on the face.
“I can see what you mean about the gossip photographers. Your ex-bodyguard busting in isn’t even that exciting of a story.”
“That’s not the story,” she admits, sobering up some. “It’s something else. I’ll fill you in when we get out of town.”
She directs me to pull over just before the entrance to the interstate and comes up to the front seat.
“What are you doing?”
“It gets lonely back there.”