The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

“Yes. Did you?”

“Yes, it was enlightening.” He wanders out of the room. “I’ll be in the steam room.”

“Is that glass too?” I call, my muscles relaxing with the growing distance.

He looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

Of course it’s glass.

He pulls the door closed, and I eventually find the will to breathe. Enlightening? What the fuck, James Kelly? I turn on the spot, taking in every inch of his office. Enlightening. He needs to share some of that enlightenment with me.

By six o’clock, I’ve finished cutting in around all the spotlights on the ceiling and my neck is stiff. I spend the next half hour dividing my time between rubbing some life into my nape and tidying up.

He’s in the kitchen on his phone when I make it downstairs, a T-shirt draped around his neck and a pair of jeans gracing his long legs. He spots me and pulls the T-shirt off his shoulders. “Thanks.” He hangs up and starts to cover his chest.

I blink my vision clear of the magnetic sight and make my way to the elevator. “Have a good evening, James,” I say.

“A drink?”

He’s asked every time. “Anyone would think you don’t want me to leave.”

“I don’t.”

I stop a few feet away from the doors, looking back. He’s holding up a new beer. I eye it. And him.

“Have the drink, Beau,” he says quietly. “It’s got to beat roaming the supermarket until it closes.”

I recoil, shocked, but he doesn’t react to my stunned state. “What?” I whisper. How does he know that?

“Drink.” He places it on the island, and my eyes jump from the bottle to James a few times, my mind vehemently denying my feet from taking me to the beer. To James. To the danger.

“I think I should leave,” I say, regarding him closely.

“I think you should stay,” he counters, resting back against the counter. It’s a staring stand-off, and I swallow down my nerves, my reckless side at war with my sensible side.

Recklessness wins.

I wander over, taking the beer, and rest on the stool when he indicates one. So, now what? We’re going to sit here and chat? Pretend I’ve not spent the past few days burning in his company? Pretend he’s not throwing statements at me that are twisting my mind and spiking this insane curiosity.

“Lara Croft,” I murmur. “Roaming the supermarket.”

“What about it?”

“How . . .” I pause for thought, knowing I can’t spike interest in him. “Why did you say those things?”

“Lara Croft?” he asks.

I nod. “And the supermarket. How did you know I was in the supermarket last night?”

“Because I saw you there,” he replies, simple as that.

“And you didn’t stop to say hello?”

“Why would I do that? You struggle to speak to me at the best of times.”

My jaw rolls. “And the Lara Croft thing?”

“Do you have something against her?”

Jesus, my head could explode. “Never mind.” I sigh, drinking some beer. “What do you do, James?” I ask again.

His eyebrows arch. “I’m assuming you mean business-wise.”

“What else could I mean?” I shouldn’t have said that.

“You tell me.”

I look at him tiredly. Is this what’s going to happen? A duel of words. Trying to decipher hidden meanings? “Yes, in business.”

“It’s totally boring.” He takes the stool next to me, a little too close for comfort, and I inch back a fraction, just to ensure our knees don’t brush. He looks at the flesh of my thighs through the rips of my jeans. “I’m in the cleansing business,” he adds quietly.

“Cleansing?”

“The world.”

Like the environment? Carbon footprints, that kind of thing? “Oh,” I say quietly, taken aback as I swig more beer. I guess that humanizes him. He wants to save the world. Admirable. How about saving me?

I flinch at the wayward direction of my thoughts, and James doesn’t miss it. “I also work the stock market.”

I nod mildly, remembering the many screens in his office loaded with news channels.

“What do you do, Beau?” he asks.

“You know what I do. I’m doing it in your glass box.”

“Oh, you mean driving me to distraction?”

I withdraw. Me? “I paint. Nothing more.”

“Why?”

Why? Yes, why? Why all the fucking questions? “I enjoy it.”

“And you’ve always aspired to do this?”

“Is this a therapy session?”

“I don’t know. Do you need therapy?”

“That’s debatable,” I murmur, my mouth on autopilot.

James’s curious eyes fall to my hand still holding the beer at my lips, and he follows it slowly until I rest the bottle on the counter. His head tilts, thoughtful, and he tentatively reaches for the sleeve of my shirt and pushes it back. I’m powerless to stop him, caught in a trance, studying him closely. Every inch of his face is unreadable. Straight. Emotionless. My scar tingles as he traces a light fingertip over the edge, and I inhale, seeing the ugliness that riddles my arm is exposed.