Just to be Close to You – Ryder
Just to be Close to You
Ryder
How I “Met” Her
Several Months Ago
I sink into a chair so stiff it might as well be display-only.
Every surface in the room gleams — a museum of tastefully lifeless décor.
A house meant to impress, not be lived in.
Nate Taylor thinks this makes him clever.
That he can steal from me and hide behind beige wallpaper and brushed nickel trim.
He honestly believes I’d never find out he’s been siphoning money from my accounts for years.
I glance at my watch.
Nate Taylor should be walking through the front door any second now…
Headlights flash through the windows, and the garage rumbles open. The distinct tap of loafers on the tile follows, and then?—
I hit the lights.
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“What the—” He gasps, dropping his briefcase to the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
“Wrong question.” I lean forward. “I’m in a good mood though, so I’ll let you try again.”
“I’m calling the police.” He pulls out his phone.
One of my men glances at me with a Should I stop him? look. I shake my head.
“I’m serious,” Nate says, lifting his phone to his ear. “If I were you, I’d leave while you still can.”
“I’ll leave once you give me all the money you stole back,” I say. “All thirty-six million, four hundred sixty-eight thousand, and seventy-eight cents.”
His phone slips from his fingers, the screen shattering on impact.
“You can just give me the account number for the offshore bank where you’re hiding it, and we’ll all be on our way…”
“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he stammers. “I… I don’t owe anyone any money.”
His face drains of color as he looks between me, Chester, and my guards.
“You’re confusing me with someone else. This is a mistake.”
I drum my fingers along the armrest, letting the silence stretch. Civilian white-collar criminals like Nate operate differently. You can’t take what you’re owed in blood — not in the suburbs. They like logic. Paper trails. Questions with clear answers.
“Your firm is Walt, Yule, and Taylor Financials, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You run the client section?”
He nods.
“So, you would be in charge of charging clients for your services—” I don’t pause for a reply. “And surely you’d notice charging a set of dead clients two hundred grand a month… There’s no way that shit didn’t come up in an audit, especially once it hit the millions.”
His expression caves, giving me everything I need.
“Those dead clients’ money came from my accounts,” I say. “So you’ve been stealing from me.”
He swallows hard.
“But if you give it back today — in full and with interest — I’ll forget this ever happened.” I pull out a business card and click my pen. “Offshore account number. Now.”
“I don’t have it in an offshore account.”
“Then where is it?”
“I have some of it in a bank, some in stocks, some…”
“Tell me that ‘some of it’ adds up to all.”
“No, but… I can get it back to you with a bit more time and some strategy.”
“That’s fair.” I stand. “We’ll come back in the morning.”
“What? No… I need way more time than that—at least six months.”
Chester cocks his weapon. I’m tempted to do the same.
“You want six months to pay back what you’ve been stealing for years?” I take a step forward. “I’m not in the insanity business, Mr. Nate.”
“Please… I can give you some collateral. Insurance.”
“Like half of my money?”
“My house.”
“It’s worth three million at best, and I’m not a fucking real estate agent.”
“I have cars, stocks, high-yield CDs that mature later this year?—”
He lists off assets I’ve already evaluated. All together, it’s maybe ten million. None of it liquid.
“What about my wife?” Nate blurts. “You can have my wife as collateral, to make sure I pay you back.”
Chester raises an eyebrow. So do I.
People usually beg me not to touch their loved ones — not offer them up.
For a second, I almost feel bad for him. Almost.
I write 7 o’clock above the address on my card — something I only give to people I owe, or those I actually want to talk to.
“Six months from now, you’ll meet me there with my money,” I say. “You can keep your wife. I’m not interested.”
I walk out first. My men scatter to their cars like shadows on this Twilight Zone-looking street.
“Why do you always do that?” Chester asks as we head to mine.
“Do what?”
“Let them pretend they’re innocent,” he says. “Your father would never. He’d bust their kneecaps and give them ‘til Friday.”
“If it was enough to break me, I would’ve,” I say. “But it’s not. And I’ll get it back either way.”
Chester nods and heads to his Porsche. I slide behind the wheel of my McLaren.
As I crank the engine, a car pulls into the driveway across the street.
She steps out to water the flowers — the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
A navy sundress clings to her waist. Hair pulled high off her neck.
There’s something careful about the way she moves, like she’s used to shrinking herself. But even from here, she’s luminous.
I glance at her left hand. Ring. Of course.
And suddenly, I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere.
I just watch...
Several Weeks Later
For weeks, I watch her. Follow her from a distance.
It starts as surveillance — vetting. I need to be sure she’s not involved in Nate’s theft. But it morphs. Fast.
I start timing my drives to the end of her shift at Crafts & Notes . I linger across the street to watch her unlock the store or press a tuning fork against her ear while she checks a violin’s bridge.
She repairs my daughter’s instruments — that’s our first thread. Our “connection.”
I find myself chasing that thread constantly.
Waiting to see her. Waiting to be seen.
Hating myself for it.
But she never looks up. Never notices.
And I have to remind myself:
She doesn’t belong to me.
She’s married.
She wouldn’t want someone like me anyway.
“She’s married, ” Chester cuts into my thoughts one day, watching a courier deliver her latest batch of repairs. “Stop stalking this woman and focus on something productive. Something like ending Rush Banks once and for all.”
That’s all it took to walk away.
Or, so I thought…
Several Weeks After Visiting Nate
The BMW behind me has been riding my ass for twenty minutes.
Annoyed, I speed up. Switch lanes. The BMW does the same.
It matches me, mile for mile. I can’t see through the tinted windshield, and it’s making itself impossible to ignore.
When I flash my signal to exit off 180A, the car doesn’t. Good.
But when I pull off anyway — it follows.
Now I’m pissed.
I send an alert to my team, a code to prepare them in case this person is stupid enough to follow me down my private road.
They are.
Still bumper to bumper, all the way to my gate.
I grip my sidearm and grab an umbrella, stepping out into the rain with every intention of ending this idiocy myself.
But it’s her.
Autumn.
What the hell is she doing?
The question flickers and dies. I don’t care about the answer right now.
She’s even more beautiful up close.
And I want her even closer.
Her face drains when she sees me. She throws the BMW into reverse, speeding back down the drive like she’s seen a ghost.
I watch until she’s gone. Long gone.
Then I smile to myself.
I changed my mind, Nate.
I do want your wife…
End of Season 2