Chapter Five
Hallstein
From the moment Lisette Grenier took charge, things moved quickly. I was shown to a chair off to the side behind the camera.
Too far away. I had a direct line of sight to the vase, but if someone knocked it over, I didn’t have a prayer of getting there before it fell to the solid wood floor that covered the concrete. That thing, even with just a short fall—that little distance—would shatter.
Still, after many takes, the scene was completed.
Myles put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re breaking for lunch. Why don’t you put the vase in the locker, and then we can grab food?”
I stared at him. “And leave the locker?”
“You’re the only one who knows the combination, right?”
Mutely, I nodded.
“So it’s not like someone’s going to break—”
“I don’t leave the vase.”
“Don’t you, like, gotta piss or something?”
Oh, sure, mention that and—
“Well, now I do. But I’m not leaving the vase alone.”
Myles scratched his stubble-laden jaw.
My libido kicked up a notch.
“Okay. We go to my shop, and I’ll watch the vase while you, uh, do your business. Then you come back, I’ll grab us food, and then we can eat in the prop room together.”
“Would you normally eat in the prop room?”
“Sure.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Okay, if I’m not working on a critical project, then I like to sit and eat with everyone else. I don’t do a lot of socializing outside of work.” He winced. “Forget I said that.”
His admission surprised me. He was so…loud. Outgoing. Extroverted. I pictured him in gay bars and nightclubs every night of the week.
Whereas I was always tucked into bed with a book by nine at night so I could get up at five to do my run, weight training, and then shower before my healthy—and boring—breakfast. Still…
“I’ll forget you said anything if you promise to eat with your friends.
I’m fine and don’t require anything.” I hadn’t thought to make myself a lunch, but I’d definitely do that in the future.
“Grab the vase. Let’s go.”
His words were abrupt, but I sensed no malice. I tucked the vase into the box, nestled in the bedding, and followed him back to the prop room.
Once inside, he pointed to the table.
Reluctantly, I placed the box on the table.
“Now, go pee.”
I hesitated.
He glared.
I retreated, orienting myself and quickly locating the washrooms that Seamus had so helpfully pointed out.
I pissed in record time, washed my hands thoroughly, and practically ran back to the prop room.
Myles was one of those guys. Some things he took seriously while other things were clearly a joke.
I wouldn’t put it past him to hide the box, then flutter those impossibly long lashes at me and claim innocence.
Because of that image, I was nearly breathless when I arrived back at the prop room.
To find Myles buffing his nails with an emery board.
The box lay exactly where I’d left it.
Before I could say anything, he handed me a bottle of water and then vanished.
Okay, then. He’d said he’d find some food for me. I supposed I could’ve followed him with the box…but that felt too weird. I yanked out my phone and sent Amal a quick update text.
She texted back a thumbs-up.
I fucking hate thumbs-up. What does that mean? Good job? Keep going? I sighed. Staring at the phone wasn’t going to find me any ready answers. As curious as I was about the space, I opted not to snoop. Well, I did check out the naked brass woman lampy thing.
Weird.
Since all of three minutes had passed since Myles left, I opened the mail app on my phone.
My breath caught.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Of all days…why today…? As much as I would’ve loved to ignore the email, whatever information it contained might be on the news tonight, so I needed to read it. Holding my breath, I clicked to open it.
I scanned quickly, picking out specific words—well, specific names—and then went back to the beginning and read. Sweat trickled down my back as the words coalesced in my mind.
The crown prosecutor, Remy Stevens, was letting me know that Darryl Klopen had pled guilty. Instead of a trial, he was going to spend five years in prison and two years on probation.
For trying to kill me.
Involuntarily, my thigh tightened painfully. A flash of the agony shot through me. Memories seared my consciousness. All the shit I repeatedly pushed down came gurgling to the surface.
Remy’s words sank in. This is the best we can do. And no certainty a trial would get any more. Finally, You won’t have to testify.
I snickered. Like that was the issue. I would’ve happily testified. Told a jury how that punk kid nearly ended my life. How he’d ended my career. Perhaps not how much I despised him, but definitely—
“Are you okay?” Myles voice penetrated the fog of memory and pain.
I turned my phone over and dropped it to the table, knowing it would go dark after a moment—if it hadn’t already. I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
He put a sandwich before me, gently unwrapping it. “You seemed like a roast beef kind of guy. But I got an egg salad in case you’re a vegetarian. If you’re vegan, then I can go back, they’ve got some great salads—”
“This is fine.” Finally, I met his gaze.
Concerned light-brown eyes met mine. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re sweating. You’re flushed. I’d make a joke about you missing me, but that feels inappropriate.”
I managed a laugh. Forced, but there. “Yeah, I didn’t miss you that much.” And just the absurdity of the image of me masturbating deserved a chuckle. “I’m good about sticking to my house for that.”
He uncapped my water and handed me the bottle. “Ah, see, I’m not that picky. I don’t do such things publicly, but at another guy’s house…”
Now or never. “Yeah, another guy’s house.” Where I expected triumph, though, I just got a small smile.
“I won’t tell.”
I shrugged. “I don’t hide who I am. In my old job…” My stomach clenched at the memory of opening Remy’s email.
“Care to tell me what your old job was?”
To my surprise, Myles hopped onto his work table, unwrapped his egg salad sandwich, and dug in.
“Uh…” If he googled me then he’d know. “I used to be an RCMP corporal.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No shit.” He covered his mouth. “Sorry, shouldn’t talk with food in mouth.”
I managed a smile. “Yes, shit. What, I don’t look like a cop?”
“In that suit? You look yummy. But you definitely need more color.” He tugged a piece of crust off and held it aloft. “Yeah, you’ve got a law enforcement vibe. You’re not that old, though, so clearly you didn’t retire.”
“Well, I did sort of retire. On disability.”
I waited.
He popped the crust in his mouth and chewed. “Huh.” He swallowed. “So, either physical or psychological.”
“Something like that.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“I pulled over a car for weaving. Clearly there was something wrong with the driver. They pulled over, I went to the driver’s side. As he was passing me the paperwork, he hit the gas. My windbreaker caught in the mirror and I got dragged about a hundred meters before I was able to break free.”
“God.”
“You can say that.”
“And…?”
“He drove over my right leg, breaking a pile of bones. Crush injuries.”
Myles winced.
“I spent eight months in a rehab hospital. I had to learn to walk again. You hear people say that, and you think how can someone forget how to walk? Well, when your body is continuously failing you and not listening to your commands, it is really like learning all over again.”
“I want to say I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t do anything and there’s nothing I can do…but I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, I’m sorry.” I pointed to the phone.
“The crown prosecutor from the small town I worked in just contacted me. The guy, well, he was seventeen at the time, pled guilty. He claimed he was high in that moment and didn’t know what he was doing.
” I sucked in a breath. “And all that’s likely true, but he nearly killed me.
He destroyed my career. He could’ve killed other people.
A few years in jail doesn’t feel like enough punishment.
” I ran my hands through my hair. “I’ve never believed in vengeance, but I sure as shit want him to suffer like I did. ”
Myles snagged my left hand and held it within his. “Totally legit to want vengeance. I don’t blame you. Do you…like can you talk to him? Do you want to?”
I let out a shaky breath, even as my fingers tingled in his grip. “I’ll deliver a victim-impact statement. But does a nineteen-year-old really have the ability to understand? He’ll do a couple of years. I’m never going to be a cop again.”
“That was your identity, eh?”
Slowly, I nodded. “And there are gay RCMP officers, but I never came out. I chose my job over my personal life and look where I’ve wound up. Guarding a vase as a glorified security guard and completely alone.”