Money’s tight, that’s for sure. Not that Al’s insurance payout wasn’t generous in the extreme, especially since he’d arranged for maximum coverage in an effort to offset the loss of his hefty annual income. But after I paid off the mortgage and tucked the rest in a fund for Andrea, it didn’t leave much. Frankly, I’m afraid to touch the rest; guess it’s the difference in my background and Allie’s. When you come from money you don’t worry about it drying up like I always seem to do.
So it’s a liquidity issue, not so much a bottom-line one, and that means I need to get that paycheck into the bank pronto. That’s what I tell myself, not that being alone scares the living shit out of me, or that I’d rather go tinker with something at my job than perform an electrician’s task back home. Not that the empty sounds of my own home, the way it groans and settles when no one else is around, spook the hell out of me these days.
No, it’s not any of that, I think, rumbling through the famed archway of my workplace, searching for a few hours of peace.
Being the lowly electrical staff member that I am, I’m supposed to park off studio premises in the massive parking deck. But I risk the illegality of swiping a reserved producer’s spot since it’s Saturday and I’m not here to stay. Still, I’d rather avoid pointless fines, so I give the parking-lot perimeter a cautious scan, and begin walking briskly toward the soundstage that I call home. I’m lost in thought, outlining plans for domestic progress back at the house, when something makes me look to the far right, across Chaplin Park. There’s a woman walking alone, golden ponytail swinging as she moves. Something about that single detail strikes me as graceful, beautiful.
I have to watch her move across the brightly lit lawn. She’s small with a killer figure, this woman, wearing loose khakis that can’t hide the curves. The clingy white T-shirt outlines a well-muscled body, and I know she may be delicate, but she’s not fragile. Tough and strong, that’s what she looks to be, with loads of power packed into that slender figure.
I keep walking behind her, slow, and feel guilty for the way I’m tracking her movements. I mean, so far stalking hasn’t appeared on my resume of failings, so I wouldn’t want to start now. Maybe I’m just puzzled to feel this kind of attraction at all, especially toward a woman. It’s been such a long damn time since my mind or body even went that way. Still, my fingers itch a little with the urge to touch that ponytail, imagining how silky it’d feel if I ran my fingers through it. My body itches a little, too, and I realize it’s not only her hair I’m dreaming of touching now.
Funny, but the thing I keep noticing is how small she is compared to me. Maybe because it’s been so many years since I’ve held anyone in my arms who didn’t actually stand taller than me. And maybe because it’s been just as many years since I made love to any woman at all.
When she darts up the narrow steps leading to her office building I let loose a quiet groan because I know exactly who that is, half-skipping her way up to the door, ponytail swinging down her back. It’s Rebecca O’Neill. And standing there, watching her open the door, I realize I’m in serious, deep, painful shit.
I sure hope Alex is watching over me now, because I may need all the help I can get.
Chapter Three: Rebecca
Stepping into the dark hallway of my building, I’m startled by the unusual Saturday silence. There’s an industrial hum from the computers and the copy machine, but otherwise it’s eerily peaceful. I’m used to endless chatter from the producers’ offices, banter from Trevor and the other assistants as they work the phones. Dead silence in this place is unfamiliar to me, and that probably explains the tight fear coiling suddenly around my heart.
Except this nagging anxiety began on the walk over from my car, when I had the definite sensation of being watched. Correction: of being followed. I spent far too long in my survivor support group not to listen to my instincts, even if the warning signals strike a false note. All fear cues must be acknowledged, because if they aren’t, it could mean my life. I should have listened to them three years ago. If I had, then things might be very different today.
There’s the loud, comforting click of the lock as it fastens into place, and for a moment I stand at the door, practically pressing my nose against the glass pane so I can see the far corner of the building. Nothing’s out there—at least nobody threatening that I can see—only a few cars and a golf cart speeding past with a maintenance man behind the wheel. All seems safe, so after a tense moment I release the breath I’ve been holding inside my chest.