Still Waters (Greenstone Security 1)

A handful of moments. Actually, not even a handful.

Not enough to warrant obsession. Which was what I had.

I wondered about him. Worried when I found out he was finishing his tour in the army when that same tour had killed Gwen’s brother. Worried about the fact that Gwen was still oblivious to where he was. Actually thought he was in L.A. Luckily she had a child and a husband to keep her too busy to travel the few hours it would take to discover he was not, in fact, in L.A.

Who knew where he was.

Apart from running amuck in my mind.

In some far-off battlefield, one of the many raging on this earth right now.

It was unexplainable, really, the aching sort of despair the thought of him dead gave me.

The same aching sort of desperation to have those arms around me in my fantasies while I had a reliable climax from a battery-operated device.

“Earth to Lucy.”

I snapped my head up from my perusal of the faux fur throw I’d been fingering. “What?”

Polly smiled at me, shaking her choppy layered hair. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

I pursed my lips.

Her blue-violet eyes—the only thing we shared—flared as she jumped onto my sofa in front of which we’d been pacing.

“My levelheaded and ever-focused sister was trapped in her head?” she exclaimed in shock.

I gave her a look. “You’re calling me levelheaded? Really?” I asked, going for avoidance of the question.

No one knew about Keltan and the kiss. A miracle, really. We’d done it on the main street of a small town where gossip was almost as valuable as Benjamins. But the secret stayed just that.

A secret.

Something I wouldn’t tell my best friends about, even though Rosie had grilled me to see if he did indeed turn up at my house in the middle of the night wearing only his socks like she’d suggested. I’d lied to her, hating doing it, but if I didn’t speak of it out loud, I could convince myself it never happened.

If it weren’t for the thoughts of him that invaded my mind when I wasn’t paying attention to actively not thinking of him.

And the e-mails.

Those damn e-mails.

They’d started exactly one week after he left.

From:

To:

Subject: Glass Slippers

First of all, you’re gonna have to tell me who exactly this Lagerfeld guy is so I can kick his ass. But then again, maybe you’re not his girl anymore considering the way you kissed me that morning. Still, I’ll need his information. You know, just in case.

Second of all, I’ve just arrived in an undisclosed location with a company of men who have unfortunately found your Facebook profile and become obsessed with you. It’s not my fault, really. See, I don’t have Facebook. Don’t believe in the institution of it all. Social media? That bloody site is the reason why kids know how to “like” something before they can ride a bike. Not my thing.

That is until I met a girl with hair as black as night, skin as white as snow, lips to make a priest forget his vows and a body that a certain soldier can’t seem to get out of his mind.

Anyway, getting off track. So, I needed to see all that again. Just to make sure I hadn’t dreamed you up in some very detailed and excellent hallucination. Therefore, I borrowed my buddy Duke’s phone and his account. And proceeded to almost crash our Humvee because I was staring at your photo. You know, the one of you in the red dress?

My mates were unreasonably angry at me for almost getting them killed (strange fellas, these are), and they wrestled me to get the phone. And then they saw you.

The obsession began.

I’m just writing you to let you know that, if I do perish over here, ensure an extensive investigation is done to make sure it wasn’t my own men who decided to trim the fat on the competition and take you for themselves.

And the image of you in that fucking red dress is the only thing getting me through these miserable fucking days. And what’s making me determined not to get blown up by an IUD.

I need to see that in person, baby.

Who needs glass slippers when I’ve got the red dress?

K

I had stared at it for hours. Not an exaggeration. My editor had yelled at me for not filing a story on the cost of a new drinking fountain on Main Street.

I hadn’t even written it.

Nor did I after he yelled.

Instead, I wrote something far more dangerous.

From:

To:

Subject: Re – Glass Slippers

Okay, firstly, how did you get this address?

Was it Rosie? I know it was her. I just need confirmation before I can pay the hitman. They get annoyed when I make mistakes and have to call them back for round two.