Dahlia bites her lower lip between her teeth and lowers her chin a little bit. “Is that who it is?” she asks quietly.
I just nod slowly, letting their excitement wash over me like a warm stream. Both of them are just vibrating with eagerness. It might even be worth it to try to sneak them in one of these days…
Am I insane?
“Who is Kirkman East?” Ron asks, seeming to wake up after practically falling asleep at the table.
Bunny starts to go on and on about him: his early career in Seattle, how he's so reclusive that people don't even know who's in his entourage, that sort of thing. She seems to have read all about him. Actually, she knows a little bit more than she probably should. His last protection company did a substandard job of controlling the flow of information.
That's pretty typical, to be honest. There's always a battle between marketing and security. Marketing needs to leak information in order to keep social media percolating. If I had my way, the whole thing would be airtight. He'd cut his record or whatever, and I'd make sure nobody left the building and all the windows were wired so that they couldn't even get Wi-Fi. No pictures in and out. No tweets. Not even so much as a scribbled note on a square of toilet paper.
But that would make marketing's job impossible. So apparently their solution is to try to make my job impossible. But it seems I am a little bit more responsible than the last guys, aside from letting his identity slip to these girls. The last group managed to let a stalker into the entourage, who started stealing his clothes and posting them on Craigslist for sale. And there have been other incidents, sometimes more unnerving. People can be sick.
While Bunny describes Kirkman to Ron, Dahlia rests her chin on her knuckles and smiles, listening in. Her profile is beautiful as well, with a long, straight nose and a deep cleft over her chin. A full curve of lower lip, almost a pout, when her mouth is at rest. After three or four seconds, I force myself to look away.
After dinner, Ron grabs me for the game and we head to the living room with a couple more beers. Now there's no more reason for her to wander in. But still, I can't help but imagine a few more times what it would be like if she came in to say goodnight to her father, perhaps dressed in a nightie, perhaps barefoot in a robe... her hair damp from the shower… her skin gleaming with lotion. I imagine it a few times, in between everything else I am supposed be thinking about. It's a harmless fantasy, right?
Harmless as lo
ng as I make sure that it is harmless.
Chapter 3
Dahlia
I pull my crappy red Escort through parking security and roll around the lot slowly, looking for a spot. I'm not late or anything, but I like to be at my desk before anybody else gets to theirs, so no one can ever accuse me of slacking off or not coming in on time.
One of my favorite things in the world is how my heels sound as they echo in the concrete lot. Especially in the morning when it's mostly empty, it sounds like something out of a movie. A thriller, or maybe something with a car chase or some bad guy hiding behind a concrete pylon.
But that's probably just the job talking. Ever since I started working for Coleman Security, I feel like I'm in a James Bond movie. It's not nearly as cool as that, since mostly I answer phones and update the database, but maybe that's because I'm not paying close enough attention.
That's what August advised me, to pay as much attention as possible. Observe the details. Memorize everything. That's what I should do.
After all, I don’t have any real training for this job. I’m not ex-military and I don’t have a degree. I dropped out of college for financial reasons without even really picking a major. I had toyed with pre-law, maybe political science, but hadn’t settled on a direction. And when I had to quit school, I left without a shred more direction than when I started.
So while everyone here seems to be a former cop or intelligence officer or something like that, I’m just a woman with a lot of pencil skirts and smart-looking glasses.
As I move through the front entrance with the metal detectors and a conveyor belt on my right, I casually scan everybody on my left. Just your usual security guards, plus a couple of bail bondsman and a county sheriff. They still use the top floor of this building as jail cells for the antiquated courtrooms on the fourth floor and always seem to be popping up in the elevators and stairwell.
I notice they see me but don’t look directly at me. Arms crossed, chatting casually, they still look around the room constantly, as though on alert for threats. That must be what August was talking about: staying alert.
I’ll have lots of opportunities to learn here, since this place is crawling with companies like Coleman Security. At one time this was a federal building, but the bottom three floors have all gone to private businesses. That is sort of a funny thing about the Washington DC area. Here, it seems like the government and private businesses mingle all the time, even in places where most people would probably think they shouldn't. The line is blurry, and people move back and forth across it when it suits them.
Because the building had so much built-in security, including all of the metal detectors and retinal scanners and biometric keypads, it seemed perfect for bail bondsmen and private intelligence firms. Another local asset is the wealth of ex-military guys hanging around, wondering what to do next after they retire from active duty.
After I left school, I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do next. Bunny offered to get me shifts waitressing at the diner, but I wanted to stay sort of on track for school, even if I wasn’t in school. I mentioned it at dinner and August immediately stood up and walked away, making calls in a hushed tone, scowling and pacing. Within minutes he had set up an interview for me, and Lori welcomed me with open arms.
If I'm honest, that experience was a little disappointing. When I mentioned needing a job and he stood up, I suddenly thought he was going to swoop in and fix everything. I thought I would get a job working for him, not one of his competitors. I mean, it probably would have been a disaster, considering how I always immediately become a gibbering moron every time he's around, but I still liked thinking about it.
Even though I would have to get myself under control, August is definitely the kind of man I think I could work for. He's quiet and observant. He chooses his words carefully, then delivers them through a clenched jaw most of the time. He sounds like the kind of guy who liked to give orders in the Marines. He has a broad chest and wide hands. Rough hands.
Oh my.
As the elevator shoots up to the second floor, I remind myself that I cannot be thinking about August as I walk into the office. I’ll be flushed and sweating through my blouse before anybody else even clocks in for the day if I'm not careful. Whenever August pops into my mind I find myself blushing and hot, sweating in inconvenient places. Not to mention leaving another giant wet spot on my panties.
He just does something to me. I can’t explain it. He first came around when I was seventeen, just a few months after my mother died. My dad met him in a grief support group. One day, they decided to hang out and watch football and drink beer at my house.
I walked in the house as usual and saw him sitting there. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t even speak to him directly and when he turned to wave hello, I ran to my room and shut the door.