There are giants—which I can see you becoming, in time—and then there are titans. And even though you have found your footing, discovered the fire in your belly and how to harness it, you are no titan.
But your proximity unnerves me, nonetheless.
“’Bye, Madame X. I can honestly say that without you, I’d never have had the courage to live up to my potential. So... thanks.”
Your hand lifts, hovers a hairbreadth away from my jawline. Your face is an inch from mine. I think for a terrifying moment that you are about to kiss me. I cannot breathe; my heart does not beat. I do not blink. You have me trapped against the back of the couch, and I do not dare put my hands on you to move you. To do so would be tantamount to striking a match in a room full of dynamite; there is little chance an errant spark will find a fuse, but the risk is simply too great.
You back away, one step. Two. A breath, a single lift of your chest, your chin rises. And then there it is, that insouciant smirk, knowing, a little mocking, ripe with boyish, roguish humor. You whirl, twist the knob, jerk open my door, and you’re gone.
When the door has clicked closed, I withdraw your business card from my cleavage and examine it.
Jon Cartwright
Owner, Cartwright Business Services, LLC
Tel: (212) 555-4321
E-mail: [email protected]
You started your own business. I am inordinately proud of you.
When my door opens rather suddenly, I don’t look up, assuming perhaps you forgot something.
It isn’t you.
“Well, well, well,” a deep, leonine voice says. “Looks like our little Jonathan has grown up.”
“Caleb.” I glance up sharply and take a step back, surprised. “Yes. It seems he has.” I extend the business card, feigning casual disinterest. I don’t think it is a believable farce, however.
Dark eyes flick over the card. “Good for him. He has the potential to do well, I think. Perhaps Indigo Services will offer him a contract.”
I remain silent. Business endeavors are not within my sphere of knowledge or influence.
Smooth, panther-silent strides across the room, sit, recline with kingly elegance in the Louis XIV armchair. Examining Jonathan’s card. Speculating. “You parried his questions and advances very adroitly, by the way. Well done.”
“He’s harmless.”
“No, he isn’t. You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. He’s not harmless at all.” The card flips, flips, flips, twirled between index, middle, and ring finger.
I dare. “What do you mean? What harm is there in him?”
“His questions. His curiosity.” Eyes, burning like balefire, scorching me. “He wouldn’t understand the truth, X.” The card flies through the air like a knife, then flutters to the floor.
The truth. Which truth?
I remain silent, knowing my input isn’t required as yet.
“You will accompany Jonathan to his event.”
I manage an admirable pretense of casual surprise, when inside I am utterly stunned, faint enough that I could have been knocked over with a feather. “I will? Really?” I sound more eager than I should.
I am not eager; I am terrified. Or rather, I am eagerandterrified in equal measure.
“You are. You will be well guarded, however. Len and Thomas will be at your side at all times.”
“Why?”
“Why Len and Thomas? Or why am I sending you with Jonathan?”
