The General (Professionals 4)

“You don’t mind?” she asked, knowing that, because we were putting on a show of private security, I had to go anywhere she went.

“Nah. Shopping never bothered me. I think I spent so long in the service not doing it, that doing it now isn’t really a chore.”

“Where would we even go? Malls don’t really exist anymore, right?”

Christ.

For a grown ass woman, her life had been so dictated, so sheltered. The only shopping she knew was likely a strip of boutique places by the Tiffany store or hitting the city for designer shit.

“Depends. Do you care what the brand is?”

“God, no. I am sure my IQ has dropped by twenty points over the past several years just by having to listen to all the women in this social circle discuss one name versus another. As if any of it actually means anything. I had a pair of Payless heels that lasted me all through high school better than a pair of Manolos I spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on.”

“Alright, so we’ll hit Hollydell. They have a Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s if you don’t mind rummaging through shit. You can pick up the stacker things you need. And there are two craft stores there too if you want more supplies now that you have the space for it.”

“That might be testing your shopping-doesn’t-bother-me limits.”

“We’ll get me a big coffee before we go. I’ll be just fine.”

“At She’s Bean Around?” she asked, looking hopeful.

“Absolutely,” I agreed as she sat down next to me, her legs under her, cocked at an angle.

Her smile was small, but sweet. “I think it sounds like fun,” she admitted, eyes fluttering away as she found an excuse not to make eye-contact, turning the TV away from On-demand and back to live TV, catching the beginnings of the broadcast, the camera panning out over an endless sea of people in silly hats, brightly-colored glasses over their eyes with next years date on them. Air huffed from their noses and mouths. Noses and cheeks went pink – or red – with cold. And I had the distinct impression that all the woo-hooing and jumping around had less to do with actual enthusiasm and a helluva lot more to do with the fact that if they stayed still, they were risking serious frostbite.

“They’re crazy,” Jenny decided. “I mean, I’m sure the energy of the crowd is contagious. But, I mean, bathrooms…”

“Yeah, adult diapers aren’t exactly my idea of a good time either. Lincoln has the right idea,” I declared. She shot me a confused look. “His new girl has an apartment on the river. They can watch the fireworks from the sliding doors.”

“With heat. And bathrooms. Smart man.”

“What do you normally do for New Years?” I asked, immediately cursing myself when her eyes went a bit hollow.

“Teddy always went to the club.”

“He didn’t invite you?” As if the shithead needed more reasons for me to hate him. Even if he was already dead.

“No. But I have never been a fan of the club anyway. I usually just, ah, watched the coverage in bed.”

Alone.

Lonely.

Probably fucking depressed.

I couldn’t claim to have had any great New Years stories. Before Quin, I was in the service, usually too busy to notice the passing of one year to the next. Since moving back to Navesink Bank, I was usually on a job. Or working in my shop. Or fucking sleeping. I wasn’t sitting up watching everyone having the time of their lives on TV, kissing at midnight, partying until the sun came up… all alone in bed.

“This is the first time I’ve spent a New Years with someone since I was barely more than a kid,” she told me, chancing a look at me from under her lashes.

“This is the first time I’ve watched the ball drop in… likely the same span of time.”

To that, she bumped me with her shoulder. And didn’t move it back away, let it stay settled there as our attention went to the television, both of us pretending we were actually watching.

And, hell, maybe she was.

Maybe I was alone in my inability to focus, to think of anything but the way I could feel her body heat all along my side when she shifted, pulling her legs out from under her when they likely started to tingle, angling them in my direction, almost touching me. An hour past in silence. She shifted again, this time, her knees resting up on my thigh.

I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. That it was just a small couch, that we were bound to touch when trying to get – or stay – comfortable. When that didn’t work for long, I went with my trusty old excuses for why I needed to keep sitting there stiff as a goddamn board, refusing to reach out like everything in me was screaming for me to do.