“How do you know?”
Trevor turns to me with that look I’ve seen so many times before, one that tells me shut the fuck up.
I get a stirring down below.
His look and tone are brutish. They remind me a little of Lukas Thorn. I feel myself shrink into place.
“Okay,” I hear my voice say with a tremble.
He gets out. I don’t wait for him to come around and open the passenger side door. I just get out and follow him.
The sign over the door says Redmond Apts.
There is a low courtyard out front, hidden from the street by an incredibly tall hedge. Trevor types a code into the lock on the latticed door, and I follow him inside just in time. The rain pours down outside almost the very second our feet hit the tile floor.
My room is apparently the first one on the left. Trevor swipes an electronic key while placing his hand under his jacket. That must have been what the Latino man with the pockmarked face handed him.
Then he reaches under his coat and pulls out a large silver gun while pushing the door hard and leaping inside. He holds the gun out in front of him, glancing fast to his left and then to his right.
I’ve seen him do this a few times before. One memorable occasion was when we returned to the Cape Cod beach house after sneaking into the ocean for a swim. Another time was when I thought there might be a burglar in my Newton apartment.
Come to think of it, Trevor is the only man I’ve ever known who carries a gun with him all the time.
He flips the light switch. We’re in an apartment with a hardwood floor.
He checks the front closet, then moves through the living and dining area and disappears around a corner, checking everything in his path.
The place is nice, but not spectacular. Venetian blinds cover the large front window that looks out onto the tiny, hidden courtyard out front. Old parquet floors. 1950s, I’d guess. Charming, though, with a strong Art Deco flair. Ultra-modern furniture in pastels. A chandelier that looks it’s right out of Star Trek. A plain round kitchen table. A pre-widescreen era TV set.
Other than that, everything is ancient. The bathroom is all aquamarine tile. Matching porcelain sink and tub, very solid.
Not elegant, but not bad.
The kitchen is small but well-equipped. There is a full-size refrigerator, empty, along with a gas stove that needs a deep cleaning. A Keurig coffeemaker sits on a kitchen countertop to my left.
Amid the Art Deco theme are three black and white portraits on the wall. Jimmy Stewart, Frank Sinatra, and Lauren Bacall.
Trevor appears, having satisfied himself of the apartment’s safety. He replaces the gun back into its holster under his jacket. “You’ll be safe here.”
“That’s why you walked around with a gun first?”
“I always do that, Smudge. You know that. Paranoia is my friend. It’s kept me alive this long.”
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
He turns to me with that look again. “Once or twice.”
He walks to the window, separating some Venetian slats to look outside. The tropical fronds from the hedge out front are lit oddly by the glow of the amber-tinted streetlights, creating a Venetian blind tapestry of palm frond shadows in slatted silhouettes.
If I were here with Lukas Thorn, it would be perfectly romantic. Oh, wait, no. I forgot, I fucking hate that bastard sloth.
Then Trevor turns and faces me.
God, his green-brown eyes are gorgeous!
My breathing goes slack, and I feel a tingle dancing up the back of my legs. My toes scrunch inside my flats.
For a moment, I’m back to that night, the night three years ago that we dare not mention. Feels like so long ago now. I had just graduated high school, spending the summer at the family cottage by the ocean on Cape Cod when shit got weird.
At my dad’s request, Trevor came out to protect me and we ended up sleeping in the same room.
That was the first and only time that we both lost control.
I can’t say that I never had urges and thoughts about Trevor while growing up. You might label it as a complex or something, yeah. I mean, I always liked the boys at school, and began dating when I was fourteen.
But there was always something about Trevor that showed up in my fantasies and dreams.
The thing is, I always knew he felt the same way. I caught him looking at me several times in that way. You know the way. Like how Clark Gable looked at Olivia deHavilland or Richard Gere looked at Julia Roberts.
When we leaped on each other that summer of my eighteenth birthday, it was like a fury of pent-up energy was finally allowed to release itself.
We made out like wild animals. He ravaged my body with his tongue, the sound of the Atlantic crashing in on the beach.
He ripped his shirt off and was about to fuck me. He reached down and put a finger into my pussy.
Then he stopped.
“You’re a virgin?” he said with incredulous eyes.
“Shut up!” I said, turning red and curling away from him.
“But you were with Brian for two years. And then Todd. You never—“
“No, I never! Okay?”
“I just assumed—”
“Well, I didn’t, okay?”
“Jeez, Smudge. I can’t—“
I leaped on him, but he lifted me up and pushed me off.
Next thing I knew he had moved into the living room and crashed on the couch.
I was so embarrassed I cried for hours, curled up on my bed.
Somehow, and I have no idea how, Trevor and I went back to our regular lives and never mentioned it again.
But now . . . alone again with him in this strange Art Deco apartment under a brewing Miami storm . . .
All those feelings rush back to me as I stand in the center of the palm frond silhouettes. The whipping hot wind outside causes them to dance beneath my feet.
There is a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. Trevor’s eyes glow in the bright flash. I gasp, knowing full well that he’s feeling it too.
Then the wind dies down, and everything becomes calm again. The rain stops.
I put my head down and bite my nail.
He shakes it off too, placing his arm behind his neck and rubbing while he looks around the room again.
“So,” he says, “you’ll be safe here.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
Trevor looks down, sighs, and puts one hand in his right pocket. “Look, Smudge, I know it’s your dad and your . . . friend. But don’t let it get to you, huh?”
“You know stuff, don’t you?”
“Stuff?”
“About my dad.”
He looks away, then down. “Smudge, I’m his driver, his bodyguard . . . his confidant. What can I say?”
I fold my arms and stare at him.
He sighs, scratches his neck, and looks down and to his right. “Remember when Addison was kidnapped?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I got that all straightened out . . .”
“Yeah, how did you get all that straightened out.”
“Never you mind. Then your dad asks me, seeing as I had been in the service, if I know of some girls.”
“Some girls?”
“You know what I mean. In my circles, you can’t help but know shit. So, I said sure.”
“And?”
“And I brought him some girls. Well, actually brought him to the girls, and it became a regular thing. So I wasn’t just your family’s chauffeur, personal assistant, and bodyguard. I was also your dad’s hooker provider.”
“Why?”
“Do you know how much your dad pays me?”
“No.”
“A lot. I can almost retire. Not to mention I feel bad for the guy.”
“Yeah, I know. Because of Mom.”
“If I were married to your mom, I’d pay hookers too. Either that or shoot myself.” We both laugh. As we do, our eyes meet for just a little too long. We pause that way, just gazing at each other again for a solid moment.
“You need some food,” he says, snapping the moment shut.
“Okay.” Anything to keep him here longer. My dirty mind is formulating a plan, a very naughty plan.
Next thing I know, we’re back in the limo heading over to Dade Boulevard. Trevor pulls into the parking lot of a large supermarket, and we walk inside.