You frown. “You don’t even know when it is.”
“It doesn’t matter when it is.” My tea is very well stirred at this point, but still I clink my spoon against the china.
“I’ll pay you normal rates for your time, of course.”
I look up sharply, eyes blazing. “I amnotan escort, Jonathan Cartwright.”
“That’s not what I meant! I swear, I just... I know you’re not—I meant, it wouldn’t be, like, adate-date. It’d be part of my training. See how I do. A test.”
Nicely recovered. I hide a smile. “I see. Very clever. But still not a possibility, I’m afraid.”
You are suddenly on the couch beside me rather than standing casually at the window as has become your habit. Too close. Cologne tickles my nose. I glance sideways, see your Cartier watch, a square chunky thing of silver with a black leather strap, masculine and elegant.
“Why not, X?”
I cross my legs knee over knee, sip my tea. Do not look at you. “It’s... not done. Not possible. Not for me. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
“Why, X?” Your hand ventures along the couch back.
I freeze, silently begging you not to do that, not to put your arm around me.Don’t do it, Jonathan. For me, and for you, don’t do it. I’ve come to like you, against all odds, and I don’t want to see anything happen to you.
“Jesus, X. You are the prickliest woman I’ve ever known. I’m not even touching you and you’re all tensed up.”
“I amnotprickly.”
You snort. “All right, babe. Whatever you say.” Sarcasm is rife in your tone.
I fix you with a glare. “Babe?”
You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry. But youarea little... standoffish.”
I stand up, empty teacup in hand. I am not even cognizant of having finished my tea, yet the cup is empty. I move into the kitchen, rinse the cup, set it upside down in the drying rack. I feel you, a foot away.
“If I am prickly or standoffish, perhaps it is for a reason.” I compress myself into the smallest area possible up against the sink as you invade my space. “It’s a warning, Jonathan. One you would do well to heed.”
“Hands off, huh?”
I let out a breath as you back away. “Yes. Hands off.”
“Property of Indigo Services?” Your voice is sharp.
I catch my breath and look up. Suddenly you seem to see more deeply into the truth of matters than I had assumed you were capable. “Don’t, Jonathan. Just... don’t.”
Yet you do. “Are you a hermit, X? I mean, I’ve never seen you even step over the threshold of this condo.”
“Jonathan. Stop.”
You pace away, out of the kitchen. Glance around. “I mean, damn, X. I don’t see a TV, or a radio, or a computer. I don’t even see a fucking pencil sharpener. Like, I don’t see one single electric appliance, except for the fucking refrigerator and toaster. And the thing with the elevator? The whole scary-as-fuck elevator operator-slash-bodyguard? Or is he a prison warden? Do you have a cell phone? Shit, even a landline? Do you have any contact with the outside world in anyway what-so-fucking-ever?” You come to a stop behind the couch.
I cross the room and step up close to you, razors in my gaze, ice radiating off me. “I believe it is time for you leave, Mr. Cartwright.”
“Why? Because I’m asking questions you aren’t allowed to answer?”
Yes, exactly.I do not say that, though. God, no. That would be disastrous. I just stare you down, and, to your credit, you do not look away. You just return the stare, possibly seeing more than I am meant to allow.
You reach into your hip pocket and withdraw a slim silver case, depress a button, and the case flips open, revealing business cards. You slide one card free, close the case, stuff it back into the pocket of your slacks. A shuffled step, and you’re crowding me, staring down at me. The card pinched between thumb and forefinger, you slide it into the V of my cleavage without touching my skin.
The card stock pokes at my flesh. Your eyes are too knowing. Too perceptive. When did you stop being a spoiled boy and become this confident man? You do not rile my flesh, you do not incite panic or breathless fervor in me, but that is no fault of yours.
