Page 5 of Crawl
I run my fingers across the clean marble countertop. Though the home was built over a century ago, it’s been renovated every few years, as that is what Winstone does best. Rumor has it that he even did some renovations himself.
I scan the countertop for instructions like the agency directed, but it’s empty, so I explore. Three rooms and an office downstairs, three bedrooms and another office space upstairs. Buteverywindow in the common area downstairs is open. My insides burn, my fingers itching at my sides to close them, but it’s not my place. It’s Winstone’s. And if he suddenly prefers open windows, then I’ll let it be.
Except it seems strange. Jenna, my best friend, said that he kept his windows covered with newspaper and the blinds drawn. Why is everything so… open?
Maybe it’s better this way. Even if I can’t hear someone coming, there are more ways to get out.
In the kitchen, I check the stainless steel refrigerator. A mechanical device hisses above me, the camera lens following me as I walk. I open the doors to the fridge—fresh-squeezed orange juice, organic health-prepped meals, protein shakes—then turn, letting my eyes scan the ceiling carefully. Every few feet, there’s another small black camera in the shape of a half-sphere. My skin heats. Jenna mentioned that he likes to watch.
But at least I can use that as an excuse.
I pull out a small home security device I brought with me, setting it up with the Wi-Fi password the agency provided. Most of the assaults happened in his office, so I go to the downstairs office and place it on the fireplace mantle, in between a miniature globe and a set of old books.
“Remedy Basset,” a male voice calls, deep and reverberating, a fluidness to his tenor. My skin flames and immediately cools. My new boss. I bring my eyes to his.
He’s a full foot taller than me, with broad shoulders and a firm chest. Stubble on his face. But his skin is smooth and unblemished like he’s still too young to be a self-made billionaire developer. He can easily pass for his late thirties. Almost like Winstone has a son, an heir he doesn’t talk about. His black hair has a tapered fade on the sides, with a side-swept textured mess on the top, the kind of style where you can tell he knows how good he looks. Then I notice it—the touch of grey at his temples. Maybe heisolder but looks good for his age.
His dark brown, almost black eyes, peer at me. A dark uneven circle blemishes the outside of one pupil, and a line crosses the outside of the other: freckles on the whites of his eyes. A vein tenses by his temple. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his muscles veiny and thick. Calloused, tan hands.
The recluse gets out, then.
He steps forward. I stretch my fingers at my side, biting the inside of my lip. I bow my head curtly like I was trained at the agency, and extend my hand. He’s just a man. Just my new boss. It doesn’t matter if we’re alone. I can handle this.
He takes my grip, both of his hands swallowing mine, and I force my lips into a smile. But inside, I’m seething. He has the nerve to humiliate and bruise my best friend, and thinks he can shake my hand like I’m just another waiting victim?
Not this time.
“Cassius Winstone,” I say, matching his words.
“Call me ‘Cash.’”
I nod politely. “Cash.”
“What brings you to Key West?”
There’s a familiarity to his tone, a polished effortlessness that makes me swallow hard, but I push those thoughts away. He reminds me of my stepdad and stepbrother; he’s full of smug grins and even tones, like he can do nothing wrong.
Trying to hold in my anger, I purse my lips together. “I grew up here.”
“Which part?”
I tilt my head. Why does he care? “Did you ask your last assistant these questions?”
“I didn’t have an interest in her like I have an interest in you.”
Everything inside of me is on fire, the sensation roiling in my gut. I don’t know how to take those words, so I level his gaze like I’m not afraid of him. Those dark eye freckles study me with laser-like precision. I press my chest forward, arching my back, trying to get his eyes to move to my chest, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Why Key West?” he asks.
“My mother found a good position teaching. And my stepdad did glass-bottom boat tours for a while.”
“So you never made it out?”
My fingers ball into fists. The prick.
“Why leave when I was lucky enough to find this position with LPA?” I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. “We thank you for the low rent agreement you have with our agency. We’re indebted to you.”
“I’m keeping you chained to this rock, then.”
