The Client 9: In Which She Kisses Without Telling (The Truth)

In my rush to get dressed, my holster was facing the wrong way and, rather awkwardly, I reached between my legs and pulled my gun out of it. Parker didn't even flinch when I pointed it at him.

“You've got some d.a.m.n nerve,” I said, my voice low despite the fact that all the occupied rooms were soundproofed. I took a moment of silence to measure up Nathan Lancaster, Sr.'s murderer.

Wyatt Parker's years in prison had made him frail, bristles of greying hair atop his somewhat oversized head. The white dress s.h.i.+rt and slacks he wore hung off his haggard body. Bespectacled slate-grey eyes blinked back at me.

“I need to talk to you,” he said to me, wringing his hands. “Please.”

“No, what you need is a trip back to b.u.t.t-fúcking haven because you're violating your parole by being here.”

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, “Miss Anosova.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How do you know my name? Actually, I don't care. How'd you get past the bouncers at the door?”

“They…don't know who I am. Please, this is important.”

That gave me pause. But then, of course, Nathan hadn't given security photos of Parker, persona non grata, because who would've expected the man to be brazen enough to attempt to come anywhere near him?

“Put your hands up,” I said slowly, putting my gun away, “and walk towards that door at the end of the corridor.”

He raised his empty hands. “What's behind the door at the end of the corridor?” Suspicion laced his voice. As if I had several cops waiting to pounce on him in the d.a.m.n supply closet.

“Do you want to talk, or not?”

He turned and headed for the closet without another word. Behind me, the door to the Gla.s.s Room stayed firmly shut. Reed was taking a h.e.l.l of a lot of time to come out but that was just working in my favour.

Parker was visibly relieved to find a small, lit s.p.a.ce of brooms and mops instead of cops. He turned to look at me once I shut the door behind us. Five seconds in and I was already starting to feel claustrophobic.

“Make this quick and talk,” I snapped, folding my arms across my chest.

“I wasn't sure you were a bodyguard until I looked up your last name,” he said softly, wringing his hands again. “I thought you were…Reed's girlfriend.”

“That'd better not be what you so desperately needed to say,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I didn't mean to offend you.” He huffed out a breath. “I'm not well.”

“I can see that.”

“I'm dying. That, and good behaviour, is why I'm out here today.”

I swallowed. I couldn't feel sorry for this guy. He was a murderer. He'd orphaned two little boys. I couldn't pity him.

“What am I supposed to do about that? Some would say you got your just desserts.”

His eyes held mine. “I've never killed anyone, let alone my best friend.”

“Not this nonsense,” I muttered to myself, reaching for the door handle. Parker's hand stayed mine. I could've broken his digits for touching me. Could've. Wasn't going to.

“Miss Anosova, please. Nate and Reed were like sons to me,” he murmured, his voice wistful. “I couldn't convince anyone of my innocence. I don't care about that anymore. But it's important that those boys know I didn't – couldn't – have done what they say I did.”
My hand fell to my side. Curiosity was getting the better of me. “Then who killed their father, if you didn't?”

“You'll listen?” His watery eyes were hopeful. “You'll listen to my story? To the truth?”

“I'll listen – but whether it's the truth or not is up for debate.”

***

The house was, thankfully, empty when we got back from Imo Gen. I had stared daggers at the back of Samuel's head throughout the whole car ride back to the estate as if it were his fault that my boss trusted him and not me with his brother's safety. Reed probably thought my silence had more to do with the good f.u.c.king he'd given me and how I was regretting it.

I was. A little. My mind was all over the place. I was mad at Reed for treating me like I was something special. I was mad at Nathan for making a fool out of me by hiring an ex-soldier to pose as a chauffeur-slash-butler. Most of all, I was mad at myself for wanting to be that something special that Reed saw – and also, for listening to the load of garbage Wyatt freaking Parker had forced down my throat.

The load of garbage that was starting to smell like the truth. Like I said, my mind was messed up if I was going to listen to the mutterings of a total nutjob.

I managed to get to the bottom of the stairs when Reed finally said something.

“Can I ask you a question?” He had his hands in his pockets while he watched me lean against the banister for support as I wrenched my heels off.

My feet hurt, I was feeling as crazy as Parker, and my stomach was all of a sudden mad at me for some reason, so no, I didn't feel like dealing with one of Reed Lancaster's brilliant questions.

I stared at my feet for a long time. Yeah, there's a blister. Super. “Actually, I'm just going to hit the sack right now,” I mumbled, gripping the offending pair of Louboutins in both hands before gingerly taking one step up the staircase.

“Is this what all women do, or is it just you, Lena?” he countered, his voice suddenly hard.

That tone made me turn to look down at him. “All women do what exactly, Reed? And choose your words very carefully. Heels are weapons of ma.s.s facial reconstruction.”

“Do what you did with me in that stupid club and then pull away like you're doing right now,” he snapped, glaring at me.

I scowled back at him. “s.e.x, Reed. It's called s.e.x,” I bit out, “and no, I'm not pulling away. It's late, I'm tired and you probably excavated my insides with your d.i.c.k because everything's kind of hurting right now.”

He drew his lower lip into his mouth, suddenly looking uncertain. “Will it ever stop hurting you?”

“I really wish you wouldn't say stuff like that, Reed.” I sighed. Fatigue was kicking in. I didn't want to fight it, or this man. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He let out a breath. “It's late. You look tired. We'll talk tomo- Holy s.h.i.+t, you're bleeding!”

I followed his gaze to my right foot. Sure enough, there was a crimson trail down my leg and ending on a cherry-wood step. I mentally cursed.

“Ah, that would be my period. Random, as usual,” I muttered. If I were even a little sentient in the brain department, I would've felt the warmth running down my skin.

I looked up and found Reed's face as red as my leg. He quickly looked away, clearly embarra.s.sed for me and for himself. Tough. This was a fact of life.
“Guess this is my cue to leave and take a shower,” I told him, turning to go. “Sleep tight.”

He didn't say one word.

***

Fúck biology… Fúck the human body… Fúck Shark Week…

I had no idea whether I was saying the words aloud but, curled up in the foetal position the next morning, I felt like death and s.h.i.+t all at the same time.

Imagine if someone breaks into this place right now, the cruel voice in my head began, and you're paralysed with cramps, totally useless. Of course, Samuel doesn't have to go through this c.r.a.p, and that is precisely why men are more cut out for jobs like this.

“Shut up.” The voice in my head was going to be unlucky if she ever met me in a dark alley.

A knock at my door made me close my mouth in a bid to stop conversing with voices in my head.

“Who is it?” I yelled.

“It's me. Margo. Can I come in?”

No. Go away. No one should see me like this. No. One.

“Yeah, yeah.” Resigned, I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. How peaceful it looked, all white and spotless. How lucky.

I heard Margo's soft footfalls as she approached the side of my bed. Leaning over me, she said in a rush, “Are you OK? You don't look OK. You were supposed to be up an hour ago because Mr. Lancaster has to go somewhere with his brother again and –”

“I'm fine. I…just need a moment to…” My voice trailed off as a sharp pain stabbed my abdomen and I s.h.i.+fted back onto my side. Exhaling heavily, I managed to ask, “Is Reed waiting for me?”

Margo looked suspicious. “No, but he's with Sam, so he's fine. You're obviously sick.”

“I don't get sick,” I snapped, acutely grateful that I now knew that Sam was capable of taking care of Reed.

“I'm sorry. I meant, you seem sick.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“It's that time of the month, isn't it?”

I gave in, groaning loudly. “I wish I were a guy.”

Margo let out an actual laugh.

“What's so funny?” I pulled myself into a seating position, giving her a dark look.

She grinned down at me. “You are. You seem so scary and mean…but you're being a baby about something I go through once a month, too.”

“I've never experienced this before.” I closed my eyes. “I took several hot baths at four this morning. Practically scalded myself in the process. I put a stupid warm towel on my stomach – all it did was soak my sheets. I went down to the kitchen and drank my weight in hot water. No dice. This pain…is worse than being knifed.”

Margo's eyes widened. “You've been stabbed before?”

“One of my brothers did it. Long story…oh, G.o.d.” I felt it again, too low to be considered a stomach ache.

“Ibuprofen works for me. I never leave home without it,” said Margo. “I'll go get some for you. Just take a sick day.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, lowering my head again. “I'm sorry for thinking that you're a spineless wimp, Margo. You're fine by me.”

*

Much later, I woke up to the smell of chicken noodle soup and for a second, lost in childhood memory, wondered if Brenda had gotten me s.h.i.+pped back to my parents' house while I slept off the medication.

But I can't leave yet. I need to talk to Reed about what Wyatt Parker said, even if it doesn't make any sense.

“Hey.”

Reed was sitting in bed beside me, a sketchbook spread out on his lap. I instantly s.h.i.+fted away from him, sitting up with my back against the mound of pillows.

“What are you doing? Here, in my bed?” I hissed. “Brenda or Margo could –”

“I locked the door,” he calmly stated, impatiently pus.h.i.+ng a wayward strand of hair off his forehead.

“You locked us in my bedroom? How is that not suspicious?”

“They have no idea I'm in here but they will, if you raise your voice like that again.”

My mouth snapped shut and my eyes swivelled to the nightstand. A bowl of soup sat on top of it, a lingering plume of steam signalling that it was still hot.

“Mine?”

Reed lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It's lunchtime. I figured…you'd be hungry.”

“I'm not sick,” I told him, though I was shocked to learn that I'd spent the entire morning comatose in bed. It pained me to feel so weak, so female.

“You shouldn't be ashamed of being human, Lena.”

I bit back a snarky response. Reed was just being Reed and there was no need for me to bite his head off for being sweet.

“Thank you. For the soup,” I clarified.

“You're welcome.” He reached for the bowl and scooted towards me so that he was facing me. One corner of his lips twitched. “You'll let me feed it to you, right?”

“I'm not –”

“Sick. I got it the first time.” He held out a spoonful of soup after blowing over it. “But I want to feed you. I think this might be the one time I can take care of you.”

“Why?”

“I've fantasized about doing a lot of things with you. To you. This is one of them.” He said this so nonchalantly, like it wasn't supposed to make my pússy respond. I couldn't pretend that his words hadn't garnered such a response. My thighs clenched together.

“I don't get sick. Ever,” I said for good measure after a moment of silence had pa.s.sed, opening my mouth and leaning forward. The spoon went in and I closed my lips around it, unable to tear my eyes from Reed's. His eyes were beautiful to look at.

“Is that good?”

“Yes. Very.”

“I was going to make cream of mushroom but I decided –”

“You made it?” I interjected, sitting back. “For me?”

“Yeah. Don't look so surprised. It's not like I made it from scratch.”

I couldn't explain why the microscopic damsel-in-distress that dwelled within the crevices of my subconscious chose that exact moment to show herself – but she did.

I guess it was all because of a dumb bowl of instant soup.

I grabbed a handful of his T-s.h.i.+rt and yanked him to me, unable to stop myself.

“Jesus, Lena, this s.h.i.+t's hot,” he protested, holding the bowl away from us.
“Don't care,” I whispered, putting my lips to his and closing my eyes.

I heard the bowl thump onto the floor, the sound muted by the thick carpet, before Reed's hands gripped the sides of my face and he was kissing me back. I fell backwards and he gifted me with his weight, his hands roaming beneath my bathrobe.

And maybe I was supposed to stop him, to push him away right then, but his warm hands on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s sent a sharp arrow of desire straight through me. My nipples peaked, my back arched as far as his body over me would allow it, and as his tongue slid into my mouth, his fingers ma.s.saged my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I could feel his erection through his pants, stiff against the inside of my thigh.

It would have to wait.

“Reed,” I breathed, putting my hands on his shoulders, “Reed, stop.”

He drew back, his eyes glazed over. “Am I hurting you?” He withdrew his hands and heaved himself off me. Instantly, I missed his weight.

“No. It was just…too much.” I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. “Margo's going to kill me. The carpet. I do care.”

“It's my place. I'll tell her I did it,” Reed said after a while.

“And explain that you were in my bed when it happened?”

“Are you embarra.s.sed to be sleeping with me?” he asked in a guarded tone.

I angled my head on the pillow so that I could look at his profile. “You know exactly why we can't tell people and it has absolutely nothing to do with the way I feel about you.”

He turned on his side to face me. “How do you feel about me?”

“We're not doing this, Reed. Please.”

“Sometimes I think you feel sorry for me,” he growled, swinging his legs off the bed and sliding to his feet. “Keep your f.u.c.king pity. I don't want one iota of it.”

Speechless, I could only watch him storm out my bedroom and slam the door behind him.

Well, I mused, crawling over to the edge of the bed to stare at the now-congealing pool of soup, that escalated quickly.

I found him in the bas.e.m.e.nt, like I knew I would. It was getting late and I hadn't seen him since what I'd dubbed The Souper Bowl Incident earlier that day. I wasn't sure what exactly had happened, except that this was getting out of hand – whatever this was.

Reed was standing in one spot before his easel, his fingers under his chin as he appraised a painting, an intent look on his face. Black paint marred his formerly green s.h.i.+rt and had even found its way onto the bridge of his nose.

“Reed?” Even to my own ears I sounded cautious. “You forgot your sketchbook in my room.”

He didn't look up but held a hand out for the book. I handed it over and waited, waited for something.

Like a thank-you. Or a fúck-off. Or…something.

Instead, I got nothing. And that was exactly what I deserved.

“OK, then. Goodnight, Mr. Lancaster.”

”Don't start that bulls.h.i.+t again,” he intoned darkly, flipping through the pages of the A4 book I'd just given him. “When I'm inside you, I'm Reed, or baby. You know you can say my name when we're not naked.”

I knew I looked like a guppy with my mouth hanging open the way it was but I couldn't help it. I was floored. Knocked for six. Speechless.
I might've stumbled back a bit.

“What,” I finally uttered, “is your G.o.dd.a.m.n problem?”

“You. You are my G.o.dd.a.m.n problem.”

“OK, I set myself up for that one,” I forced myself to say. “I'm sorry about earlier. I'm sorry you feel that I feel sorry for you. I don't.”

“Poor virgin, stuttering Reed, scared of his own shadow and what's outside his front door,” he snarled, throwing the book over his shoulder. He took the two steps that closed the distance between us. “Let me get him past first base so he feels like less of a fúcking loser. Let me pretend to care about something more than my job.”

“You're way out of line, Lancaster. That is not what's going on in my head!”

“Really? Really, Lena? Because I'd sure as h.e.l.l like to know.”

“You're being an a.s.s. I refuse to engage with you if you're going to continue to be like this.”

He shook his head, the hard look on his face unwavering. “I just want you to spell out this…thing that's going on between us for me.”

“What do you want it to be, Reed? A relations.h.i.+p?” I let out a snort of incredulity. “Women like me don't need relations.h.i.+ps and men like you don't settle for us. I have nothing to give you but s.e.x, and that is clearly not enough for you.”

“Men like me? Inexperienced loners with no idea of how to handle women like you?”

“You're f.u.c.king ridiculous, you know that? It turns me on that you have zero experience! And I've never felt sorry for you.” I sucked in air, balling my hands into fists. “I've l.u.s.ted after you. I've admired you – your talent, your imagination. I've wondered if you let your hair grow to hide a scar that's barely there. I've…I want to not like you as much as I do and it kills me that I'm not strong enough to do that.”

He looked taken aback by my outburst. His lower lip went into his mouth again, the way it did whenever he wasn't sure about something. I didn't want to punch that mouth as much as I had a few minutes ago when it was talking s.h.i.+t.

“I apologise,” Reed offered. “I was…I think, frustrated with you. You're so difficult to care about, Lena Anosova.”

“So I've been told,” I said dryly. Inside, my chest constricted. He cares about you. “If that's all, I'm going to bed. Reed.”

“Lena.” He cupped my chin, his fingers setting the skin there alight. “Are we okay?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “Perfect. We're perfect.” Just one touch and you're soluble, Lena? Pathetic.

“No, you are,” he whispered, the hand that was on my chin now sliding into my hair. His face was getting closer and closer and my eyes were sliding shut of their own accord. “Perfect. I'm sorry for being mad. It was stupid and…the s.e.x is enough.”

His nose brushed mine before I felt him drawing away. My eyes snapped open and I cleared my throat. “It's fine. We needed to clear the air.”

Tell him the other thing.

The air wasn't clear at all. It was still smoggy and dense with a cloud of secrets. Guilt p.r.i.c.kled at my skin, begging to be acknowledged. I fought it away.

“So…I'm glad we had this…talk. I should get going,” I said.

“Yeah. Though, you have something on your” – he swiped a finger across the place where his hand had been – “chin. Paint. Sorry.”

“I'm happy to see you're sans blindfold today. What're you painting today?”

He flushed crimson. “Your hair.”

“My hair?”

“It sounds creepy, so maybe you should just…” He took my hand in his and led me to the painting. “I sketched it f-first but it's the c-colours… Colours I want to get right. From memory. Say something.”

I had seen the sketch when I found his book on my nightstand that afternoon. Seen the way he'd pencilled in every curve of my body, every jut of bone. The way he'd paid special attention to the roundness of my t.i.ts, the V between my thighs.

He had yet to transfer the sketch onto his canvas and add the colours of the ice-cream toppings, of course. Make it real, larger than life. Raw. Erotic. A memory to never be forgotten.

So far, it was only a portrait of my inky mane of hair spread out on the pillows.

“Will you show this to people?” I didn't want that. Or, maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to be looked upon like a Mona Lisa spread open for the world to see. Maybe.

“No. It's mine. Or…yours. If you want it.”

“I want you to keep it. Maybe when I'm gone, you'll look at it and wonder what it is you ever saw in me.” The thought made me want to punch something.

My hand was still in Reed's and he squeezed slightly. “When I look at your beautiful naked body and think of that day – how your pússy tasted of blueberries and you – I'll be wondering what you saw in me.”