Page 48 of A Shot in the Dark
I could have Boots drop me off at my family home, but it doesn’t feel right to make him come to a place he’ll never be able to return to with me again. It’s too much like rubbing his nose in it.
A little space between us is probably smart. He’s having an even harder time with this than I am.
“My lawyer’s office in town. You can drop me there.”
“Of course you have a lawyer.” He snorts. “It’s like I said, princess, we’re from two different fucking worlds.” He groans, stretches. “Not sure I like the idea of dropping you off at some lawyer’s office. I’d rather take you to where you’re staying. Have a look around. Make certain you’re safe. You still have a stalker.”
“A: Not your decision to make, and B: I’ll be perfectly safe. Mr. Khail has been looking out for me for a while and I trust hisintentions and ability to protect me. Besides, you yourself said this wasn’t where you were supposed to drop me…”
“True,” he mutters like he regrets having ever mentioned that.
“And you’ve made your role clear from the beginning, Boots, and I actually really appreciate the clarity now that the fog of whatever my—” I wave my hand in the air between us, trying to dispel the memories and find the words “—madness was. You’re my driver. You said it yourself—that I don’t want anything more than a good fuck—which you provided amply and more than adequately?—”
“Not quite the compliment I want to put in a frame…” he grumbles.
I ignore his comment and move on. “You said that I’m not ready for anything serious. No ‘boyfriend’ or anything like that. And you were right. You were right from the start.”
He hangs his head; it’s no consolation to him.
“Boots, you have a job—a life. I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere. Talk to Petey and leadership. Smooth things out. And it’s not like you’re some home security inspector…” I glance down at my feet. My heels—not my fuck-me-heels but a vaguely more reasonable set of pumps. “I think… considering everything… there needs to be some space. Some things you don’t need to know about me. Like there are plenty of things you kept from me. You work in a world that functions on a need to know basis, right? So maybe some stuff you don’t need to know.”
“Ah,” he says as if in epiphany. “That’s it then. The secrecy. You couldn’t handle the secrecy.”
“Sure. I couldn’t handle it.” Damn him for being right.
He clears his throat. “Hazard of the job, I guess.”
“Then go back to the job. Be where you belong. Be who you really are.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I think my home address is something I need to keep to myself.”
“I really fucked this up…”
I want to assure, “There was nothing to fuck up,” but even now I find I can’t lie to him. It’s just not in me. Instead I say: “It’s all over now.”
He swallows hard and readjusts his grip on the wheel. “I’m sorry, princess. Things were going fine there for a while and I lost sight of the road.” He taps the wheel with his hand. “You snuck up in my blindspot and suddenly it was too late. I skidded right out of control.” A long exhale slides out of him. “But, yeah. It’s all over now.”
Fifteen minutes later we arrive in front of Mr. Khail’s law office, not far off Main Street. It’s a small place in a small town.
And in those final minutes, Boots has fully reassembled himself. He parks the car and steps out neatly, pulling all my bags out with a speed and efficiency few have. And that body…Fuck me.
Mr. Khail steps out of the door and Boots shoots me a glance I interpret as asking if the man’s a threat. He’s on high alert; it’s what he does. He’s gone right back to being the professional determined to meet his deadlines. I am once more only a delivery to be made, and, as Boots said:it’s all about the delivery.
Lowering my window, I call, “Mr. Khail!”
Boots appraises Mr. Khail, and I see Boots’ nostrils flare, his chest expanding with a deep breath. Nodding slowly, his expression shifts, softening, as if he’s coming to peace with something or figuring something out. He opens my door, helping me onto the sidewalk like any other driver or doorman might. Then he clears his throat.
“The money…” I’d nearly forgotten.
His thumbs tuck into his waistband, black leather fingers framing his brightly polished belt buckle and my mouth goes dryas I begin counting out bills. “No. It stopped being about money and the job a while ago,” he confides. “At least for me.”
His ability to wound me is uncanny.
This was my decision. It was what I wanted, right? I got exactly what I wanted and Boots gets what he needed: the knowledge that although I may beat him sometimes at chess, he was always right about me.
I was merely a rich bitch needing to be put in her place.
He nearly did it. He should feel like a winner. I want him to feel like a winner…
He hands me a slick black business card.
