Hit&Run

by Freya Barker

  “Why don’t you join me instead?” he coos, holding out his hand. His voice is hypnotic and for a brief flash I’m tempted, before reality hits with brute force and I take a step back, bumping into something solid.

  “Steele,” a voice sounds behind me, as two large warm hands land on my shoulders. “You’re needed upstairs in your suite. Let Rosie do her job.”

  Kyle Steele’s eyes narrow on the man behind me and his face changes into something a lot uglier; but he seems to listen, snatching his towel off the chair on the side of the pool. Jake, whose voice I instantly recognized, removes his hands and shifts to partially shield me as Kyle stomps by. That doesn’t stop the star from bending down to my eye level, and with childlike defiance to his security detail, proceeding to flirt with me.

  “I’m sure you know how to find my suite after your work is done.”

  I can immediately sense a dark energy pour from the other man shielding me, but before he has a chance to react, I quickly respond, “I’ll pass, thank you, Mr. Steele.”

  “You sure? You don’t know what you’re missing.” His cocky smirk sickens me as he grabs his less than stellar package and suggestively fondles himself in front of me. That’s apparently enough for Jake, who grabs his arm and starts hauling him out of the pool area. Kyle is taller than Jake by a few inches, but although he is nicely muscled, he’s no match for the sheer force of the solid security guy.

  “You okay?” Jake walks in a little while later, when I’m wiping fingerprints off the mirror in the gym.

  “Fine.”

  He moves in close, scrutinizing my face like he’s trying to gauge my truthfulness.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, taking a step back when I nervously spray more Windex on the mirror, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the rack with weights of all shapes and sizes—watching me. I try to focus on wiping the streaks from the glass, but it’s difficult when I feel his eyes boring into my back.

  “I’m really okay.” Flustered, I finally snap and swing around to face him. His expression is impassive, but his eyes intense. “No need to worry,” I add for good measure, and because I don’t know how else to get him to stop staring.

  “You felt it,” he states, unfolding his arms as he straightens up and takes a step closer.

  There isn’t a question in my mind what he is referring to, since I’ve not just felt it once in the parking lot, but again when he interrupted my little showdown with Mr. Steele, but I’ll be damned if I admit it. So I do what any woman who recognizes she is well out of her playground would do, I pretend to be clueless.

  “Sorry, I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to, but I should probably get this done.” I suck at lying. I hate that I suck at lying, because now his formerly impassive face breaks open in a wide grin. It transforms that taciturn expression into something stunning, which only serves to make me feel even more out of my league.

  “What time are you done?”

  I shake my head; it’s like he didn’t even hear my denial and I don’t know what else I can say, so I don’t say anything. That doesn’t stop him either.

  “I’ll find out,” he says, turning toward the door, and it looks like he’s finally going to leave me be. But just as he gets to the door, he adds, swinging his head around, “We’ll grab breakfast.”

  My mouth drops open, and by the time I have my firm denial formulated, he’s long gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  JAKE

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  I expected her to try and make a run for it, which is why I tried keeping my eye on the lobby monitor. I also expected a reaction when I caught up with her—but I didn’t expect the strong reaction my body had at her words.

  AFTER I LEFT HER IN the gym, I went straight to the surveillance room where Dimi was waiting with a concerned look on his face.

  “You like her.” He barged right in, making it sound like an accusation. “I knew it,” he added with smug satisfaction.

  “She’s a job.”

  “Bullshit. I’m not blind and I’m not stupid.”

  “It doesn’t matter, whether I do or don’t is irrelevant. I’m doing my job; I’m handling Rosie Perkins.”

  “Hope so,” Dimi mumbled, as he turned back to the monitors, pissing me off even more. “Maybe I should take over.”

  “Like hell you will,” I barked, to which Dimi only raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say a word.

  Not until hours later, when I’d dozed off with my head on the desk, and Dimi alerted me to our subject grabbing her coat and purse from the staff room, ten minutes before the end of her shift.

  “Looks like she’s making a run for it.”

  By the time he finished his sentence, I was already ripping open the door to the stairs, which I took two steps at a time. I caught up with her at the rear door, her friend watching with a bemused look on his face from behind the front desk.

  “IS THAT A STATEMENT or an invitation?” I respond to her comment, and watch as her eyes go big when I continue, “because if it’s the first, the fact that I’m standing here should be obvious—and if it’s the second, the fact that I’m standing here should also be obvious.”

  In the background, I can hear Grant bark out a laugh, but apparently Rosie does not think it’s funny. Fuck. Maybe Dimi is right and I should hand this over to him.

  “We have a date,” I forge on, because like hell I’ll hand her off to Dimi.

  “I don’t recall...” She tries shaking her head adamantly, before her buddy cuts her off.

  “Go on, you crazy bitch,” he calls out, waving his hand in the air. “Last week you were whining because I was getting it on with Olaf, and you haven’t had action since a Bush held office. Least you can do is give it a try.”

  I swallow down a chuckle when her pale face goes beet red and she throws a glare in her friend’s direction. “You are out of my will,” she bites off, which only serves to make him laugh louder.

  “No skin off my nose, Rosebud—you ain’t got nothing worth having. Yet,” he adds, raising an eyebrow and checking me over top to bottom. My turn to squirm a little, and I quickly grab the still seething Rosie by the arm and steer her out the door. She follows me willingly until we get to my truck, and then she stops in her tracks.

  “I can’t go with you,” she sputters. “I don’t date and I have to get home.”

  “Fine, but you’ve got to eat though, right?”

  “I’ll grab something at home, I usually do.”

  “Today you’ll let me buy you breakfast at the all-night diner a few blocks down. I’ll drop you back here to that rust bucket you drive, and you can be home within the hour.” I don’t wait for a response, but hit the release on the locks, and lift her into the truck before she even realizes what’s happening.

  By the time she does, we’re already halfway there, and she huffs loudly before turning her face to me.

  “You’re bossy.”

  ROSIE

  Again with that grin.

  It’s like ten years drop off his face when he shows his teeth. Nice teeth at that. Strong, mostly straight, with a slight overlap of one of his incisors. An imperfection that makes the overall appeal even stronger. Damn him.

  If I hadn’t seen him all over the hotel, and knew he was legit, I would never have let myself be handled the way I let him push me around. I have to admit though, that small but sharp edge of danger, combined with the charge I get from his touch, is very seductive. This is why, when we get to our destination, I willingly let him lift me down from the cab of the truck, only so I can feel that tingle his hands leave behind.

  With his hand on my elbow, he leads me through the door into the old diner. The original fifties interior is old but squeaky-clean and familiar. I remember coming here a few times with my parents when I was a child, and maybe once or twice as a teenager with some friends from school.

  “Menus are on the table. Anywhere will do.” A tired-loo
king man in a white apron waves his hand at the empty restaurant from behind the counter. “I’ll get some fresh coffee going,” he adds, already putting his words in motion as he scoops fresh grounds in the industrial-sized machine.

  “Pick a table,” Jake offers and I walk over to one in the far corner, away from the window. When I sit down and grab a menu, he sits down on the other side of the table, his eyes watching me.

  “Why?” I finally ask when the silence starts drowning out the sputtering of the coffee machine. It frustrates me that I can’t read his face and have no idea what is going on in his head, so I repeat, “Why? You basically manhandle me to come here and I don’t get it.”

  “How come you haven’t dated since the Bush administration?” he returns, completely ignoring my question and reminding me to murder Grant, first chance I get.

  “I’ve been busy.” I demonstratively turn to the aproned gentleman walking up with the fresh pot of coffee, and flip over the upside down mug sitting on the table in front of me. I watch Jake do the same from the corner of my eye, but his attention still appears focused on me. He hasn’t even touched his menu yet.

  “What can I get you?” the man asks, fishing a stubby pencil from behind his ear and a ratty notebook from his apron.

  “Just some scrambled eggs and toast, please.”

  “I’ll have the workman’s special,” Jake orders. “Eggs over hard and oatmeal instead of toast.”

  I peek at the menu and my eyes almost roll out of my head when I see the quantity of food his order includes: three eggs, a short stack of pancakes, three kinds of meat, home fries, and toast. Except he clearly prefers oatmeal.

  “That would feed a family of six,” I blurt out when our server disappears into the kitchen. Apparently he’s our cook as well.

  “It may need to last me the day,” he explains, shrugging. “In my line of work there are no set times for meals, so you tend to fill up when you have a chance.”

  I nod my understanding while I doctor my coffee. Jake drinks his black, apparently, but I need my milk and sugar. Especially since it appears I’ll be forfeiting my sleep this morning; I could use the energy boost. Maybe I can catch a few winks this afternoon if I can get Mom down for a nap, although that’s been more of a hit-and-miss lately, with emphasis on the miss.

  “So what are you really doing up at four in the morning?” I try again, still trying to figure out what exactly is going on. Jake apparently is no fool; his grin indicates he knows exactly what I’m fishing for.

  “Having breakfast with a beautiful woman.”

  I roll my eyes at that, which elicits a chuckle from him. Beautiful, my foot. I’ve been scrubbing floors and bathrooms all night, my hair is flying all over the place, I’ve grown garbage bags under my eyes and I probably reek of Pine-Sol.

  “Laying it on a bit thick, are we?”

  “Not really,” he responds, the impassive mask on his face back in place, which makes him impossible to read. “I wouldn’t be up at four in the morning otherwise.” His eyes are intense and I finally lower mine, not quite knowing what to do with the heat I see there. “I’m not sure I could do what you do, though. Do overnight shifts all the time?” he continues in a lighter tone. “The rare time I have to go through the night, I need a few days of sleep to make up for it. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “You really do get used to it. Eventually.” I shrug, peeking up at him, relieved when I no longer see the smolder in his eyes. “It took me a month to get my sleep pattern reorganized.”

  “Have you always been on nights?”

  “God no, just the past eight months, since I moved back here.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “Denver.” I glance at the kitchen, hoping for our food to appear. Feeling a little like a bug under a microscope with all the questions. I really don’t want to talk about Denver. “My mom’s health started deteriorating and I came back home to look after her.”

  “And you do that during the day, while you work the night shift,” he concludes correctly, an odd tone to his voice.

  “I have someone stay with her during the night. It works for us.”

  “You get off at four, drive home and catch whatever sleep you can before she wakes up?”

  “Pretty much. Sometimes she’ll nap in the afternoon and I join her,” I admit.

  “So the last thing you need is something disrupting your morning routine, and here I am, doing just that,” he says, attempting to look contrite, but failing miserably.

  “Yes, you are,” I agree, smiling. “And, if I might point out, you still haven’t explained why.”

  He is quiet for a moment, as he scans my face with those dark eyes. “I think I answered that question already.” His voice rumbles deeply and I feel goosebumps rise on my arms. Then he leans forward, his elbows on the table, and reaches out, covering my folded hands with one of his. “But so there’s no mistaking; I’m attracted to you, I’m curious about you, and I’m trying very hard to stay on this side of the table.”

  The last is said on a growl I can feel in my bones. What does one say to that?

  “Oh.”

  That was the extent of my remaining vocabulary as I feel the blood rush to my head, while my intelligence drains to my toes. I’m so lost in the dark depths of his eyes, I don’t even notice our waiter returning with the food, until Jake lets go of my hands and sits back in his seat.

  “Workman’s special and scrambled with toast. Can I get you a refill on your coffee?”

  JAKE

  Perfect timing.

  One more second and I’m not sure I would’ve been able to stick to my side of the table. Not with her mouth still forming the oh she whispered.

  Son of a bitch. Way to keep my head in the game. I shift slightly in my seat, trying to adjust myself without using a hand, without any luck.

  “Be right back,” I tell her as I quickly get up from the table. “Don’t let it get cold.” I point to her plate before heading to the restrooms. There I make the necessary adjustments, wash my hands and splash some cold water on my face, before leaning my head against the mirror over the sink. This is going to be messy, one way or another. Normally I wouldn’t think twice about misrepresenting myself to a target, if it means getting the job done, but this is different. The job is protecting a spoiled asshole from facing his responsibilities, and the target is an innocent, hardworking woman, who doesn’t deserve to be at the core of this mess.

  By the time I get back to the table, I’m glad to see she didn’t wait and is eating. Without delay, I dive into my breakfast and we eat our meal in reasonably comfortable silence. I’m not sure if it is my profession, or my unhealthy interest in Rosie, that has me notice every little detail about her. The way she uses her knife to slide her food on the fork, instead of stabbing at it like most do. How she dabs her mouth with her napkin before taking a sip of her coffee. And how she constantly has to tuck the one strand of hair that doesn’t seem to want to stay in place behind her ear, while shooting me a quick glance from the corner of her eyes. I notice it all.

  Rosie is still working on her last piece of toast when I signal for the bill. She immediately drops it to her plate and dives under the table to grab her purse.

  “Here,” she says, pulling out a couple of bills.

  “I’ve got it,” I assure her.

  “I can pay for my own breakfast,” she insists.

  “Good to know, but you’re not paying for this one. Put that away.”

  It’s cute, the way she pouts in silence, all the way to the truck and to the hotel lot where her car is parked. I barely have the truck to a stop when she already has the door open. I just manage to reach in front of her and slam it back shut, but she wrestles me for the handle.

  “Stop.” She freezes in her seat and I twist, leaning into her, my face just inches from hers. “I’m guessing you’re tired and you’re used to looking after yourself, but I don’t want to see your wallet come out when you’re with me.�
� She snorts and rolls her eyes at that, while attempting to stifle a yawn, and I bite my lip not to react. She’s funny, and tries hard to avoid looking at me. “Rosie—look at me.” I wait until she finally meets my eyes. “I’m gonna need your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Just give me your phone.”

  She digs through her purse and reluctantly hands me her cell, which I quickly program with my number. I call my phone from hers, so I have her number, before handing it back to her.

  “Call or text me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.”

  “I think I can get myself home, I’ve—”

  “Humor me,” I interrupt, cutting off her objections. She surprises me by quietly nodding her acknowledgment. Her eyes scan my face and her mouth pulls up a bit at the corner.

  “Thank you.” I can barely hear the words, but I can see them clear as day on her lips. Lips I’ve been staring at all morning.

  I’m clearly not thinking when I breach the few inches that separate us, and give in to my urge to cover those lips with mine. Silky, plump, and when I sneak a taste with the tip of my tongue, slightly sweet from the jam on her toast. A soft puff leaves her lips when I pull back a little.

  “Call me,” I repeat.

  “SHE’S A JOB, HUH?” Dimi gloats when I walk into the control room after seeing Rosie off. Rather than engage, I ignore him.

  “Any movement from the suite?” I ask, scanning the monitors for movement.

  “All quiet. You probably have time to get home and catch a couple of hours.”

  I check my watch; five fifteen, and filming doesn’t start until nine.

  “Yeah, but I’ll crash here.”

  PASS has a couple of adjoining rooms for operatives to take breaks, store equipment, hold team meetings, or catch a few z’s.

  “Thanks for bringing me breakfast,” Dimi complains as I walk out the door.