Chapter #11Chance Meetings That Are Anything But by: Seuzz   Only five years ago Margaret's house was closer to the outskirts of Oxford than it was to the center, but there's been an explosion of development in recent years, which is why there's now a commercial district complete with a Starbucks only a block away from your house. You duck inside the coffee shop, to see if your shadow will follow.
He does.
This is quite tiresome. It's one thing to be followed, but you're a professional, and it offends you to be tracked so artlessly. You think about ducking into the restroom to make a quick change, but decide to confront him directly. Ten to one he's just a creep.
So you stand before the counter for a minute, contemplating a possible order. You can sense your shadow directly behind you, but he says nothing. You pretend to give up, and take a seat at a nearby table. Then it's his turn to stare at the board before sitting down at a table facing you. You take out your phone and shoot Frank a short text: "Running late." While still staring at your phone, you cross the open space to plop into the chair next to your shadow. "You like following pretty girls, mate?" you growl.
"I beg your pardon," he says stiffly.
"You heard me. You were following me up the street and you followed me in here."
His eyes are stony. "I came in here for some coffee."
"So why didn't you order one?"
"Why didn't you?"
"So you were watching me."
"You bothering the lady?" a voice cuts in.
You and your shadow crane your heads up at the interloper. He's a tall man, young and unshaven, in a t-shirt, sports coat and jeans. His accent is flat and American, like yours.
"This is no one's business--" your shadow starts.
"Then it's not yours, either," the American says. "So take yours somewhere else."
The man who followed you turns quite pink. Your would-be Galahad shifts subtly on his feet, and out of the corner of your eye you see the baristas go quiet and watchful. The American isn't just tall; he has broad shoulders, and looks like he's used to muscling people around.
Your table companion flushes more deeply, then stands with a muttered oath and leaves. Your rescuer stares at his back until he's out the door.
"Thank you," you say, and start to gather up your stuff.
But he's sat down in the other's vacated seat. "I hope you don't mind," he says. "I liked the tone you pulled with him. Aw, hell, I liked the sound of your voice. I get tired of these put on accents over here."
You do a very rapid calculation, and put your purse back down. He wants to make your acquaintance, and after your fast deductions, you want to make his acquaintance too. "You haven't been over here long if you think the accents are 'put on'," you say.
"I know they can't help it," he shrugs, and leans back with an insolent air. There's something very cowboyish in his attitude, though his accent is pure middle American. He turns his hazel eyes on you. "My name's Taylor. I hope you don't think I'm Jack the Ripper."
"No one looks like Jack the Ripper these days," you reply. "Styles change."
"I guess they do. What can I call you? Hell, what can I get for you, as long as I'm being so gallant?" He jerks his chin at the counter.
"I just came in to get away from-- Oh, my name's Marta." You put out your hand.
He takes it lazily, off-handedly. "Pleased to meet you. No, I haven't been here long. Probably won't stay long, either. If I wanted damp, Starbucks, and high prices, I'd move to Seattle."
"So why are you in the UK?" You assume his answer will be a lie. The obvious tail and this subsequent "rescue" feel exactly like a set up, with you as the mark. But unless "Taylor" is better than he seems, his unspooled falsehoods will not be far from the truth.
"Looking for something to keep me busy," he says. "Something exciting. More exciting than farm work. I'm from Iowa."
"Colorado," you say on your behalf. "The outdoors look like they'd suit you, Taylor." You look him up and down appraisingly. He doesn't just have the shoulders, he has the chest, and you bet he's strong all the way down to his calves. "How much excitement have you found over here? Something better than--?"
"Rescuing pretty girls in coffee shops?" His lips twitch into a smile. "Yeah, I'm flirting hard, but you look healthy too." He obviously caught you scoping him out--you were far from subtle--and puffs up a little.
"Thanks," you say. "I like the outdoors. I'm lucky I've got a business that keeps me there." He raises his eyebrows. "I have a tour business. Extreme tourism, you could call it. Taking people way out into nature, so far out and so hard and so long that they pay more to get back to civilization than they paid to leave it."
Taylor laughs. "Best kind, isn't it, the kind that pays coming and going. I could go for something like that."
"You're not a trust fund baby, are you?" you ask skeptically. "You said something about farm work, and our rates aren't cheap."
"Are you hiring? I won't lie, I need a job."
"It's just me and my husband," you say. You're not telling lies, like he is, so you'd have to mention Frank eventually. "We haven't needed any help so far."
"That's too bad," he says. "I'm talking about you having a husband, of course."
Maybe he's on the level, you marvel to yourself. If he's trying to worm himself into a mark's confidence, he's making it hard for himself with the unsubtle flirting.
Or, the sixth sense that Rick trained you to hear, he's pushing you to see how "honest" you are being with him.
But you don't want to escape him. You want to know why he and his partner are so interested in you. And he's pushed open a door through which you can invite him.
"Don't be sorry about my husband," you reply in a low voice. "You can't be half as sorry about him as I am, no matter how hard you try." Taylor's eyes sharpen, and his smile turns crooked. "It's been a long time since it's been more than a business partnership."
"And people can change partners, right?" Taylor replies in a voice almost as low as yours. "If you showed me the ropes, what you like and how you do things, I'm a quick study. I think I'm pretty good at giving my partners what they like."
You wonder if you're being too obvious, given that he feels safe in being this obvious with you. "If you want to talk over the possibilities," you say, "my morning is free."
"At your office?"
"At my house. It's just around the corner." You extract a few bills from your purse and hand them to him. "It's not a business meeting unless there are refreshments. How about you pick us out something to take back. For after we've had our meeting."
He grins as he takes the money. As he goes to the counter, you take out your phone but hold it under the table, to blindly tap out a message to Frank: "long delay dont wait dont come home"
You're watching Taylor as you do this, and not half a minute after slipping your phone back into your purse, he takes out his cell to check a message.
Fuck.
You resist the urge to glance around. It must be a three-man team shadowing you. It seems obvious that Taylor is getting a warning that you'd surreptitiously messaged someone--dammit, you shouldn't have tried hiding the phone--and he's just got a warning about what you'd done. Your original footpad wouldn't have lingered to provide cover, so that means there's a third person, probably right here in the Starbucks, who's been watching as well.
Who would think you're so important that they need three people to shadow you? You'd better be extra careful when you get him back to the house.
But you're going to have to make yourself somewhat vulnerable when you do. You really want his memories now, to know what you're dealing with. To do that, you'll have to knock him out, and the best way to cover up temporary unconsciousness is--
"I hope I'm worth the investment, Marta," he says as he materializes in front of you with a bag of pastries.
"You look like you will be, Taylor," you smile back up at him.
* * * * *
"It looks like a cottage out of a fairy tale," Taylor observes.
"That's what I thought when Frank bought it for me," you say as you open the front door. "I was Little Red Riding Hood, and he turned out to be the Big Bad Wolf."
"Just the two of you? No kids or roommates?" He takes off his sunglasses, and his eyes flick quickly--professionally--about the spotless living room.
"How old are you, Taylor? Frank and I are six years out of college. We don't have 'roommates'."
"Aw, well, I dunno how they do things over here," Taylor says. "An' I'm twenty-eight, I'm a coupla years outta college myself." He stretches an arm to scratch his upper back, and his muscles bunch and bulge.
You're suddenly unsure how to play things. If you really were just a young wife alone in your house with a strange lout, you'd be frightened of his manner. But then, you wouldn't have brought him back. You're spoofing him, but he's spoofing you; but does he know that you're spoofing him, and that you suspect he's spoofing you? You want him in bed, so you can knock him out and copy his memories, but you have to play it realistically, so as not to tip him to your ulterior motives.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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