21
1035 Words
“Every man’s dangerous. Even the harmless ones.”
“Do you have such a low opinion of your own gender?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s the testosterone. Nature never made a more deadly drug.”
Or a sexier one. All the male pheromones he’s exuding are making me dizzy. I look away, flustered.
“So I thought about what you said. Last night.” I clear my throat. “You know.”
His voice goes husky. “I do. And?”
“And…” I take a breath, gather my courage, and meet his eyes.
“I’m flattered. You’re probably the most attractive man I’ve ever met. But I haven’t been with anyone since my fiancé, and I’m in a weird headspace right now, and I don’t think a fling with a hot stranger would be good for me. Fun and amazing, but ultimately not good for me.”
We stare at each other. He looks serious and intense, his dark eyes locked on to mine.
Just when I’m afraid I’ll burst into hysterical laughter from sheer stress, he murmurs, “Okay. I respect that. Thank you for being honest with me.”
Why am I sweating? What’s happening with my heart? Am I having some kind of medical emergency?
Wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans, I say, “So we’ll just be neighbors, then.”
He draws a breath, rakes a hand through his hair, and glances toward his house. “Not for long. The house will go on the market in the next few weeks.”
Why that should make me feel so deflated, I’m not sure. After all, you can’t get your money laundered if you don’t sell the real estate you’re trying to launder it through.
I’ll think about why that knowledge doesn’t bother me later.
“I’m out of here tonight, anyway.”
“Tonight? What about your job?”
He meets my eyes. In his own, I see heat, darkness, and too many secrets to count.
“Job’s done.”
“Oh.” If I get any more deflated, I’ll be a flat tire. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”
“Guess so.”
I stick out my hand. “It was very interesting to meet you, Kage.”
He gazes at my hand for a moment, his lips curving into a smile. Then he takes my hand, chuckling to himself. “You keep saying that word.”
“It fits.”
“Fair enough. It was interesting to meet you, too, Nat. You take care of yourself.”
“I will, thanks.”
He pauses for a beat, then says, “Hold on.”
He pulls a pen from an inside pocket of his leather jacket, a business card from another pocket. Flipping over the card, he writes something on the back, then hands it to me.
“My number. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case of anything. In case your roof leaks. In case your car breaks down. In case Deputy Dipshit tries to kiss you again and needs his ass beat.”
Trying not to smile, I say, “You can handle a leaky roof, huh?”
“I can handle anything.”
He’s very serious when he says that, serious and a little melancholy, as if his strength is a burden he bears.
I get the strange feeling that his life hasn’t been an easy one. And also that he’s resigned himself to the fact that it never will be.
Or maybe that’s just my hormones, on the fritz from his proximity.
He turns and starts to walk away, but stops when I blurt, “Wait!”
He doesn’t turn around. He simply turns his head to the side, listening.
“I…I…”
Oh, f**k it. I run up to him, grab the front of his jacket, stand on my toes, and kiss him on his cheek. My words come out in a breathless rush.
“Thank you.”
After a beat, he says gruffly, “For what?”
“For making me feel something. It’s been a long time since someone did. I wasn’t sure I could anymore.”
He stares down at me, dark eyes burning. He cups my face in his big hand and gently sweeps his thumb over my cheekbone. He inhales slowly, his chest rising. His brows pull together until he’s wearing an expression like he’s in physical pain.
Then he exhales, drops his hand from my face, and walks away toward his house without another word. He slams the front door behind him.
Five seconds later, I hear the steady whump whump whump of his fists hitting the punching bag coming from inside.
9
Kage
C
ommunicating with an inmate in federal prison is a complicated process.
No incoming calls are accepted. Phone calls can be made from inside out only and are made collect. Cell phones can’t accept collect calls, so they have to be routed to a land line.
Which means someone has to be there to receive the call. Which means setting up an agreed-upon time in advance.
The length of the call is limited to no more than fifteen minutes. When that’s up, the call will simply cut off with no warning. The inmate can’t call back again.
Keeping the communication private is even more complicated.
Guards listen in on all phone calls. They sit only a few feet away in the visitation area, watching like hawks. They monitor all incoming and outgoing letters and email, the latter of which is restricted and only allowed under special circumstances. Then examined, word for word.
So all in all, communicating with a federal prison inmate is a pain in the ass.
Unless that inmate has paid off everyone within the prison system to get special privileges.
And paid them well.
“You take care of it?”
The voice on the other end of the line is male, raspy, and heavily accented. Max has been a two-pack-a-day smoker for as long as I’ve known him, and it shows in both his voice and his face. His teeth aren’t so pretty, either.
- Writer
