Waking Kiss Read online

  But I didn’t know where that power lived. I wished I’d paid attention that day in the limo. I wished I was a super-security-agency-level info-hacker like Liam so I could find his address off the web. I found the location of his company’s business offices, but I didn’t want to waltz into his place of work uninvited, or linger outside like a stalker, slowly losing my nerve.

  Rubio knew where Liam lived.

  Did I dare approach Rubio for Liam’s address? I couldn’t do it during class hours or work hours, or backstage during performances—that pesky contract thing. I would have to catch him alone again and hope he’d condescend to talk to me. It took days of lurking before I stumbled across him in a little-used rehearsal room, long past work hours. I peered through a crack in the blinds to be sure he was alone, and then I kept watching, just a few moments, out of curiosity.

  Whatever he was working on, it was expressive and slightly wild. I watched him move through steps, his long, muscular legs eating up the floor. It was a miracle, the way he moved. When people talked about things like “God-given talent,” this was what they meant. You didn’t get to his level by work. You either had it within you when you were born, or you didn’t.

  Fernando Rubio did.

  I’d never had a chance to watch him rehearse like this, privately, with his own creative energy. He looked tortured, driven… I wondered what life was like for the Rubios of the world, who had to numb their artistic genius down into the required structure of commercial production. If his tormented choreography was any indication, it was hard.

  When he paused and went to the wall to write down some notes, I slipped in the door, coughing softly so I didn’t scare him. I was breaking every company rule right now. Interrupting a rehearsal, talking to Rubio, looking him right in his shocked, angry eyes.

  “What you doing here, stupid girl?” he snapped. “This is a closed rehearsal.”

  Rules or no, I was tired of him verbally abusing me. “Please don’t call me stupid again. If you do, I’ll report it to Mr. Thibault.”

  “Ha, he doesn’t care. What he do, fire me?”

  “Then I’ll report you to the police for assaulting me at that party.”

  His eyebrows rose, practically to his hairline. “Assaulting? Whut? You—” He snapped his mouth shut like I was too unreasonable to respond to, but I could see color rising in his cheeks. “I was only playing. Not assault. Learn the difference.”

  “I know the difference. Stop calling me stupid, okay?”

  “I’ll stop calling you stupid when you stop ruining my rehearsals.”

  “I didn’t ruin your rehearsal. I have a quick question and then I’ll go.”

  “A quick question?” He looked aghast. “What I look like? Information kiosk? You’re a stupider girl than I gave you credit for.”

  “You can do hard time for assault. I’m almost sure of it.”

  It was hard not to cringe from his black stare, but I knew if I did I’d never gain his respect. He finally made an annoyed sound and turned away. “What you want, then? You have more trouble with Liam? You want another walk home?” He waved a hand at me. “Call a cab. I’m busy.”

  I looked around the dim rehearsal space. “Busy doing what?”

  “I told you. Dance for the spring showcase, maybe. It’s none of your business.”

  “I thought it looked amazing.”

  He glared at me with such vitriol that I took a step back.

  “I need Liam’s address,” I said before I lost total control of the situation. “I need to go see him and I don’t want to call first, because I don’t want him to tell me…to tell me no.”

  Rubio’s eyes narrowed. “No to what?”

  It’s none of your business. I wanted to throw his words back in his face but I needed his help. “Please, just tell me where he lives.”

  He turned away and snatched his phone off the top of the piano in the corner. “I don’t know the house number. He lives in Regents Park, near Cambridge and Chester Gate.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He put the phone to his ear. “Calling Liam to warn him a crazy woman is coming.”

  I ran across the room and yanked the cell from his fingers. He stared down at his empty hand and then back at me in disbelief. “Did you just take my phone?”

  “Will you listen to me first?”

  “Sure,” he snapped. “Then I’ll call him after you leave.”

  “I’m not going now anyway. I’m not going yet.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his lips pursed in a tight line. “Tell me what you want with him.”

  “I want to ask him to help me with something.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you.” When his face darkened I added, “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.”

  “If you go see him, it will get more complicated. I told you what he’s like.” He stepped away from me, executed a few tendus and a perfect pirouette. “If you go to him, you’ll end up getting fucked, literally and figuratively. Maybe that excites you.” He flipped up into a handstand and looked at me upside-down. “I’m getting tight. Go away. I won’t call.” His leather ballet shoes smacked the floor as he catapulted back to his feet. “I don’t get any warning when you show up. You’re just there, poof. Now he can have the same horrible experience.”

  I was beginning to understand that Rubio only had one comfort zone. Nasty. I handed back his phone. “You said Cambridge and Chester Gate?”

  “Yes. Big white house. You know when you see it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, heading for the door.

  “Hey! Ash-lee.” I turned to him. He gazed back at me, one hand braced on his hip. “Be careful. He is stronger than you are. He can make you do things you don’t want to do.”

  “I’m kind of counting on that,” I said under my breath as I left.

  *** *** ***

  I didn’t go right away. Once I knew where he lived, the whole scheme started to scare me. I reconsidered, I waffled.

  Then the week of Christmas arrived, and all my friends made plans with boyfriends and lovers and families. I had none of those things. When people asked about my holiday plans I lied and said a friend was coming to visit me from out of town. We were free by mid-afternoon Christmas Eve, and I had nowhere to go and no one to spend the holidays with. I hadn’t even planned any kind of special meal.

  Before Liam, this would have been okay with me. I’d been content to slumber away my life like Sleeping Beauty while the world went on around me, while people lived and laughed and loved. But sleeping wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t dream. I didn’t want to live like this. I tore the curtains off my bed in a fit of rage around seven that evening. I’d had enough.

  I showered, dressed in my one pair of decent jeans and my nicest pale pink cashmere sweater, teased and styled my hair, and even put on makeup. I was going to go see Liam, now, even though it was Christmas Eve, because I had to. I had to move forward because I couldn’t stay any longer where I was.

  It was easy to find his house. I directed the cab to the intersection of Cambridge and Chester Gate and immediately located the white edifice I remembered. I paid the driver and stood outside, marshalling my resolve. The house was quiet. No parties. Would he be home? At a friend’s house? At church? I couldn’t picture Liam in church, even on Christmas Eve. He might be inside his big house entertaining a woman. Two women. Three. How many women did a man like Liam need to feel satisfied? Orgies full of women, from what Rubio told me.

  He needs a hell of a lot more woman than you.

  I silenced the voice in my head and took stock of my situation. The cab was gone. I could call another one to pick me up, or I could do what I’d come here to do, which was ask Liam to fix all the broken things about me.

  Like Mr. Thibault told me backstage, I just had to get through it. I marched to the door and rang the bell. It seemed like an eternity before it opened, an eternity to fight with myself an
d not run away. It wasn’t Liam who opened the door, though. An elderly, dark-haired man stared out at me. “Can I help you?” he asked with a clipped accent.

  Could this be the wrong house? I looked down the block but I’d been one hundred percent sure this was the one. “Does Liam Wilder live here?”

  “May I know your name?”

  “Ashleigh Keaton.”

  “Miss Keaton.” His face lit up in a smile. “Won’t you come in?” He shook my hand and practically pulled me inside. For someone so frail in stature there was amazing power in his grip. “Please make yourself at home in the living room while I inform Mr. Wilder that you are here.”

  I picked a couch and sat down, but it reminded me too much of the last time I was here, so I stood again. He turned up the dim lights and palmed a phone, tapping out a message on the screen.

  “What can I get for you, Miss Keaton, while we wait for Mr. Wilder to arrive?”

  “He’s not here?”

  “Not just yet,” he said in a soothing voice. “But he will not want to miss you. Would you like a drink?” he asked, heading into the open kitchen.

  “He doesn’t have to come home from wherever he is. I’ll—I’ll come back another time.”

  “Water? A cocktail? Some hot tea?” He played around with a fancy-looking tea press. “It is a perfect night for tea.” He gestured to one of the stools lining the counter. “Please, come and join me. We will chat while we wait.”

  He was being too nice for me to refuse, so I crossed and sat on one of the leather-topped bar stools. Within moments the scents of cinnamon, orange, and vanilla wafted to my nose. He opened a cabinet and took out saucers and tea cups with a maroon toile design.

  “Do you live here with Liam?” I asked. “You’re a friend of his?”

  “Ah, yes. I live here. I am a friend but I have worked for Mr. Wilder too, many years.”

  “What do you do? Cook?” I only asked because the tea smelled so delicious.

  “Cook, yes. Sometimes. I do many things. Are you hungry? Would you like some Christmas Eve goodies?”

  He started piling homemade cookies on a plate before I could say no. He told me what kind they were as he arranged them. Macadamia, mint cream, Russian teacakes. I remembered putting homemade cookies out for Santa as a child. I was so young when I stopped believing in stuff like that. When the tea was done, he gave me a full cup along with some sugar and cream that he produced from the massive refrigerator.

  I looked over my shoulder toward the foyer. “Please tell me you didn’t call him away from a party or something. A date.”

  The man’s expression didn’t change. “He will not mind being called away.” He stirred his own cup of tea, meeting my eyes. “He has been waiting for you.”

  Liam, waiting for me? He must have had me confused with some other girl. It would be so embarrassing when Liam showed up and found me sitting here in his house, at his kitchen counter. I had to find some way out of here before then. Maybe I could make up a story about leaving the oven on at home…

  “What are you afraid of?” the man asked, his eyes far too keen. “Not Mr. Wilder?”

  In that assessing look, I understood that this man worked for Liam, as a security-agent-bodyguard person, not a housekeeper or cook. His short stature and elderly appearance was a foil, a disguise.

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, feeling a blush burn across my cheeks. “I’m nervous. Embarrassed. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. Not on Christmas Eve.”

  “Ah, but you should have come. This is a great gift for him. He’s been worried about you.”

  “He talked to you about me?”

  “Not too much.” His voice took on a mild lilt. “You have difficulties?”

  Something about his easy manner encouraged me to confide. “I need Liam to help me with something. Something important.”

  “Ah, Liam likes to help. He will be happy to help you, Miss Keaton. And I am also at your service, if there is anything I can do. My name is Mem. It is short for something that would be very hard for you to pronounce.”

  “Mem,” I repeated. “You don’t have to call me Miss Keaton. You can call me Ashleigh.”

  His smile widened. “Thank you for this honor. I hope we will be friends.”

  *** *** ***

  I was having dinner at my father and stepmom’s place when I got the first text from Mem.

  Little Ishi is here.

  I grimaced, hiding the phone on my knee under the table. It had been a week since I saw her backstage, a week since Rubio flew to her rescue. A week of berating myself for making stupid choices. Send her away, I typed.

  Three minutes later: I am feeding her cookies. She is too thin.

  Mem texted exactly the way he spoke. I applied the capslock.

  SEND HER AWAY

  Then, for good measure, IF SHE’S THERE WHEN I GET BACK, YOU’RE FIRED

  I knew she’d be there when I got back. Mem wasn’t usually so oblivious. Rubio was right, it wasn’t okay for me to play around with her. Rubio realized that, and he wasn’t even aware of her deeper issues, the harrowing abuse in her past. She was too vulnerable, too fragile and emotional with too much at stake.

  Is she gone yet? I texted pointlessly. No reply.

  “Is everything okay?” my stepmom asked.

  I sighed and flipped the phone over in my hand. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  My father looked at me over his glasses. “Work related?”

  “No…a friend. A personal issue.”

  My dad was good about not pushing me to talk, even though he stared at me a little too long with his incisive hazel eyes.

  “I wouldn’t leave,” I finally said, “except that I need to handle this.”

  “Mem is there, isn’t he?”

  In other words, this isn’t just some girl, or Mem would take care of it for you. Sometimes I hated my father’s acuity.

  My stepmom jumped up in the tense silence and patted my shoulder. “I’ll wrap up your dinner for you to take home.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She waved a hand, taking my plate and sailing into the kitchen.

  “Is everything okay?” my father asked once she was gone—and this time I knew he expected a real answer. I scratched my chin, searching for the vaguest possible explanation. “I met a dancer, a friend of Rubio’s. She’s a very interesting person, but she might be in some danger.” From me.

  “She’s in the market for security?”

  “No, not yet. But I’m going to try to convince her she should be.” All this double talk wouldn’t fool my dad any more than it fooled Mem when I tried to hide stuff.

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “Strange of her to turn up at this hour on Christmas Eve.”

  “She’s…slightly strange,” I admitted. “And I don’t think she has any family in town. I’m sure she doesn’t.” Yes, I’ve run checks on her family. No, I don’t want to tell you why.

  “Is this the one who lives in Wyoming?”

  “She’s from Wyoming, yes. How do you know about that?”

  “You used company assets to investigate her.”

  “It’s a private matter. It’s my company, right?”

  “Yes. It’s half your company,” my dad replied in an acerbic tone. He started eating again. “I won’t pry. But if she’s really in danger—”

  “I thought she might need help. I wanted more information.” I clamped my mouth shut before he could analyze the tension in my voice.

  “So you don’t think the security threat is immediate?” my father asked after a moment.

  “I don’t know. I need to see her.”

  “Well, good luck,” he said as my stepmom breezed back in with a tote full of take-away.

  I smiled at the stack of plastic containers. “You know, I have food at my house.”

  “I packed a little extra for Mem, and some chocolate cheesecake,” she said, handing it to me. “I know it’s your favorite.”

  I stood
to give her a hug and a kiss. “Sorry I have to run, Abby.” I didn’t call her mom, but my father’s wife was a much-appreciated presence in my life. “Dinner was delicious, as always. I hope you both have a great holiday.”

  “And I hope your friend comes around,” said my dad. “Safety isn’t something to mess around with.”

  Ha. No one on earth knew that better than me.

  Chapter Seven: Please

  Mem’s phone buzzed on the dining room table. He looked up from our Monopoly game to glance at the screen. “It is Ishi. Mr. Wilder. He will arrive any moment now.”

  It was a good thing, because I was losing my nerve as steadily as I was losing the game. I counted out a stack of hundreds to Mem’s outstretched hand. “What was that name you called him? Itchy?”

  “Ishi.” He placed the money in a neat stack in front of him. “A slip. Forgive me. He does not like when I call him that.”

  “Why? What does it mean?”

  He thought a moment before he rolled to take his turn. “Literally, ishi means ‘human’ or ‘person.’ In another sense it means someone with no name. With no people. No home.”

  I looked around the chandelier-lit dining room. “Liam has a home.”

  Mem inclined his head at me. “Literally—yes, he has a home. But in another sense, he does not. When you know him better, you will understand.”

  If I ever knew him better. I wanted to know him better since Rubio had planted ideas in my head. But now that I’d gotten up the courage to come here, I worried it was a mistake.

  “You are ishi too,” Mem said, interrupting my fretting. “I sensed this right away. You are not like your people, are you?”

  “My people? You mean my family?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head, handing over more money. “No, we’re not close.”

  “Do they ever come to see you dance?”

  “London’s a long way from Wyoming.”

  In a change of pace, Mem landed on one of my dinky properties and had to pay me. “It is a sad thing, to lose the home from which you come.”