Page 78 of Kept in the Dark
He nods. “Haven’t traced the transactions back all the way, but some of my best spiders are on it. I’ve also been combing his past reports for more mistakes like the one she spotted to see if there’s a pattern to help us determine whose thumb he’s under.”
Wesley’s spiders—his army of anonymous amateur sleuths—have helped us countless times in the past. If he says they can help us find out if Kyle is alive, I believe that.
I move over to stand behind him as he lies down on the bench. I keep a hand poised under the middle of the bar, a safety net for any uncontrolled movements. It is 220 pounds, very respectable. And I note, well above where he began his training last year. “If Kyle is alive, it will change the situation with Nicole drastically,” I observe, pleased that I kept her close. “Where are you with the password on the drive?”
I am not a man who can do two things at once effectively. Wesley proves he is. With a grunt, he lifts the bar off its perch and presses it up and down as he continues our conversation effortlessly. “You know I can’t answer that. Could take an hour, could take a month. Depends on the complexity.”
Though sometimes it is frustrating, I appreciate his unwillingness to speak decisively without proof. I am learning to do the same, though I still leap ahead of the truth occasionally.
I observe the rest of his set, waiting until he finishes the last rep to speak. “Have you shared your suspicions about Kyle with James?”
“I haven’t seen him yet today. When he’s not on surveillance, he’s with Eleanor. They barely come up for air now, since they got engaged.”
“They are loud,” I agree. “And energetic.”
He makes a commiserative expression with his face that might also be a grimace under the strain as he begins a new set. “Is that why you moved to the pool house?”
I moved because after so long living alone, I found it difficult to share a living space.
Not that I seem to have that issue with Nicole. It does not bother me, even when she misses the hamper with her socks and does not wipe the sink after brushing her teeth.
“I enjoy the privacy. Sometimes when they believed no one would hear, they began their sex games before they reached the top of the stairs.”
“Is that jealousy I detect, big guy?” he grits out through his teeth, straining under the weight.
I roll my eyes. All these nicknames. More common from James, but Wesley also occasionally decides not to use my real name. I dislike this practice almost as much as I dislike the monikers they have chosen for me. Bear, Big Guy, Beast… they evoke an image of a giant, lumbering unskillfully through the world. I do not need to be constantly reminded of my size.
“I would have thought that you and Nicole—”
“One more,” I instruct, seeing that he handles a set of five with enough ease. When he finishes that one, I have him complete one more.
“This is why…” he grunts, completing the final push to get the barbell back onto the rack to rest, “I hate when you’re my spot.”
“This is why you have put on 30 pounds of muscle since we have been training together,” I counter, hitting the top of his shoulder with the back of my hand. “This and nutritional improvements.”
He smiles and lays the towel over the back of his neck as he sits up for a rest between sets. “Right,” he says, shaking his head.
“Would you like me to stay while you complete your routine?” I ask.
“I’m fine here. I’ll text you any updates, as usual.”
Scents of the morning waft around me as I cross through the kitchen—coffee, bacon, various perfumes from multiple people having showered using different products. The house is awake. I acknowledge Eleanor as I move to the coffee machine, though my mind is elsewhere.
Armed with a coffee for Nicole, I enter the pool house, and my eyes automatically scan the room for her. I begin at the bed and sweep across until I find her seated in the oversized chair, studying a new article of clothing with a critical eye. Her smile of greeting is enough to put all other thoughts from my mind.
I go to her, hold out the coffee, and drop a kiss onto the top of her head. “Good morning, mymed.”
Her small, sharp inhale brings with it a rush of satisfaction and fresh hunger. “Good morning.” She gazes up at me with a tentative expectation that she hides behind a blank expression, as if she is not affected. A pretty act to save face. I know she is aching, just as I am.
Over the past week, I have been trying to do small things to help acclimate her to my touch. She reacts with surprise and delight everytime, and it warms my cold soul to see her eager and willing for me. I do not want her to think that my distance means more than what I told her it does—that I am trying to earn her forgiveness and deserve her trust. She will be mine, but she will come to me with no fear between us, and I will not have to hold back in any way.
She takes a sip, hiding a smile behind the rim of the mug. “This has oat milk?” she asks, eyes round. “You… know how I take my coffee?”
I know many more things than that. I know what time she rises in the morning. I know she will not sleep in socks, but keeps a pair close to the bed so she can put them on before traversing the cold tile floor. I know she chews her lower lip when she is concerned. I know how she carefully detangles her curls with her fingers in the shower instead of using combs or brushes. I know she gets along well with Eleanor and the others. I know she does not like the television, but listens to the news. I know she has a small scar on her thumb, just underneath the nail. I know that when her heart races, her pulse is visible in a thrumming vein on the right side of her neck.
I know. I watch. I gather the details greedily and hold them close.
“Da. Though I do not understand why it is called a milk. Is it not extracted, more like a juice?”
