Chapter Fourteen
Nixon
She was there again.
I pulled up to Michael's office building around six, finding a good spot, and parked.
It had been three nights.
Three nights of nothing.
No Tesla.
No Reagan.
No stalking.
I was starting to wonder if my threats had worked, that she had taken some time to consider them, weigh the pros and cons, then rightly decided to let the whole thing drop.
There had been a distinct surge of disappointment, though, at that idea.
Why?
Yeah, that was the fucking question, wasn't it?
Because it made no sense that I wanted to prolong a case I was so clearly not interested in. Except, obviously, I was. In an abstract way. In a way where I couldn't seem to stop fucking thinking about Reagan.
I tried to convince myself that it was a professional interest. That I was trying to work out why a beautiful, successful, worldly, and seemingly content woman like her would stalk such a piece of shit.
It didn't make sense.
Even as I tried to make myself believe that, however, it was clear even to me- and let's face it, I could be a bit dense about things like this- that the interest was a bit more than that.
I didn't spend an hour perusing her Instagram because I needed to for the case.
That was all me. All my curiosity. All my interest.
I hadn't exactly spent a lot of time with her, but it had left more of an impact than I had anticipated.
She was clearly the boss at her work, but she treated Krissy like a friend. She was rich as sin, but she seemed grounded and well-rounded. She clearly gave a shit about the environment. She babbled.
I fucking hated babbling, people who filled precious silences with useless noise. But I found it more charming than I should have.
"Christ," I grumbled, raking a hand down my face, the coarse hairs catching the palm of my hand, reminding me I needed to add a shave to tomorrow's morning routine.
I needed to get laid.
That would explain the uncharacteristic interest in a woman who was clearly a bit of a head case if she was stalking someone.
I just hadn't been around a woman in too long. That part of me was craving contact.
How long had it been?
Three months?
No.
It had to be closer to six.
"Shit."
"Knock knock," Reagan's voice sounded from beside me, in my car, making me jolt to find her leaning in my open window, arms folded on the bottom, giving me a small smile as she reached in, hit the unlock button, and then just... fucking... let herself in.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, shaking my head as she slid into the seat, reaching for the bar underneath to slide it back, giving herself some legroom.
"Well, if we are both going to sit here for another hour or two, I figured we could keep each other company."
"You can't keep me company, Reagan. My job is to make sure you get the hint, and take a hike."
"You're doing rather poorly, wouldn't you say?" she asked, reaching across me to stab her finger into the ignition, then messing with the radio.
Christ. She smelled good, too. Something soft and almost fruity. Peaches, maybe? She smelled like fucking peaches.
"You need to get out of the car, Reagan." Even if I genuinely didn't want that. What I wanted was for her to flick her shoulder-length hair so I could get another hint of that smell, could look at the column of her neck. Lean over and sink my teeth into the flesh.
Fuck.
I would need to pull myself off this case if I couldn't get my shit together.
"Oh, come on. Admit it. You're as bored as I am. And you have a radio. Let me listen for a few minutes before you kick me out," she demanded, settling on, of all fucking things, a bass-thumping rap song.
"Are you serious?" I asked, brows knitting.
"I hope you don't have a stick up your ass about rap. Because we are macking hoes and raking in dough this evening."
"Macking hoes?" I repeated, feeling my lips curve up at the turn of phrase.
"I know. Not very feminist of me, huh? But I choose to believe these particular hoes like being macked. Which makes this an empowering song."
"You're a fucking trip."
"Sh sh. Ja Rule's part is coming up," she hushed me, kicking out of her shoes, propping her feet up on my dashboard, mouthing the words to the verse, shoulders gliding a bit side-to-side. "Don't give me that look. These are the anthems of my youth right here."
"I somehow doubt you were selling crack and shooting people as a teen."
"No," she agreed, smiling softly. "My parents hated this kind of music.
Though, to them, if it wasn't Brahms or Tchaikovsky, it wasn't real music.
So my siblings and I would blast this and sing along at the tops of our lungs just to screw with them.
I eventually got my mother to admit that the lyricism in some of the songs is on-point. "
"Small win."
"Exactly. It just reminds me of those times with my brother and sister when we were young and careless. Do you have siblings?" she asked, turning her head on the headrest to look at me.
"I have three brothers and a sister."
“Big family."
"Yeah."
"Where do you fall?"
"Close to the top."
"Are all your siblings as loquacious as you are?" she teased, lips curving up.
"You'd probably like Atlas. He never shuts the fuck up."
"Atlas. That's an interesting name."
"Atlas, Kingston, Rush, and Scotti," I volunteered, not knowing why I did so. I was not the sort to share personal information with random people.
"And you?" she asked. "What’s your name?"
I'd practically given her a family tree; there was no reason I couldn't give her my name at this point.
"Nixon."
"You're kidding," she said, shaking her head. "Right?"
"No. Why would I kid about that?"
"It's just... funny. Don't you think?"
"My name is funny?"
"Well, no. But also yes. Nixon. Reagan. We both have presidential names. That’s funny.
Was your mother a Nixon fan? I mean, he was disgraced and all of that, but there is no accounting for people's tastes.
People wanted to screw Charlie Manson even with those crazy freaking eyes of his and the swastika carved into his forehead. "
“I…I…” I stammered. I never fucking stammered.
This woman was throwing me off-kilter. I wanted to say I hated it, but I had to admit I was actually enjoying it.
"No. She just... she collected interesting names.
I guess she always knew she wanted several kids, so she stockpiled anything that sounded good. "
"Rush is the weirdest of the bunch."
"Yes, yes he is," I agreed, smirking a bit.
"I meant his name.”
"He came early and fast. In a rush. My mom went off the cuff with that one. But it suits him. He loves cars."
"Does Atlas love traveling?"
"That he does," I agreed, nodding.
"And Kingston?" she asked, brows drawing together.
"I guess he is like our patriarch. It fits in a way as well."
"Nixon was notoriously ambitious, insecure, and paid obsessive detail to his public image. I think your mom might have missed the mark a bit with you."
"I don't know if I should feel insulted or complimented,” I admitted.
"Well, no one wants to come off as insecure. It is the least appealing trait you can possess outwardly. So it is good you don't. But I think if you were ambitious, you wouldn't be the one sitting in your car; you'd be the one calling the shots from an office somewhere. And, well, you need a shave."
"That's fair," I agreed, shrugging.
"Hey, look! See," she said, grabbing for the travel mug in my cupholder.
"You're using it. Which is reducing more paper or styrofoam waste.
Plus, you are a walking billboard for my company.
So, win-win. Is this just plain coffee?" she asked, pulling it up, popping the mouth part open, sniffing, then taking a sip.
"Oh, God. That's awful. Just terrible," she declared before taking another sup. "Ugh. Why do you do that to yourself?"
"Why did you just do that to yourself if you hate it?" I shot back.
"Because it is getting late, and I am getting useless. A little coffee will help me push through."
"It's not even seven yet. That's not late by anyone's standards except maybe a newborn."
"I tossed and turned last night."
"Having nightmares about your upcoming restraining order?" I asked.
To that, a long sigh escaped her. A defeated sound. It was a shame to hear it.
"I've been thinking about that."
"I bet."
"So, what I have come up with is this."
"Can't wait to hear it," I drawled.
To that, she gave me an eye roll, but pressed on. "How about we come to some kind of compromise?"
"You mean where you stop stalking, so I can get off this fuckhead's case?"
Her dark eyes warmed at that. Amused, maybe.
"Not quite."
"You're made, babe. For fuck's sake. Have some pride. Quit the creeping."
"This has nothing to do with my pride." Her feet pulled from the dash, slipped back into her shoes. Her spine straightened, arms moving to cross her chest. I'd hit a nerve, that much was clear.
"Clearly," I agreed.
"Has anyone told you that you are a dick?"
"Not today."
"Well, allow me. You're a dick."
With that, she threw open the door, climbing onto the mostly deserted street.
Somehow, while I was distracted by her, most of the office had cleared out, only leaving a few cars on the street.
I had a second of panic that I'd missed the client—despite having spent the time distracting his stalker—before I saw his car parked down near the corner.
Not satisfied that any progress had been made at all—and maybe a little bit not happy with the fact that I had clearly struck a nerve with Reagan without even meaning to—I opened my door, moving out, rushing up behind her as she tore up the pavement with her long-legged pace.
"Hey, wait," I demanded, reaching out, closing my hand around her bicep, pulling, turning her to face me.
"Let go of me," she demanded, moving to yank her arm, trying to free my hold.
"Hey," another voice joined, raised, a little authoritative. Michael. "Rivers. Get your hand off of her," he demanded, shocking me enough to drop my hand and move back a step.
As Reagan stiffened from crown to sole.
Interesting.