“I like that killer instinct.” He’s got a throaty voice that I find very arousing.
Then I nearly snort with laughter because Trevor’s just plain wrong. He has to be. This guy keeps striking up conversation with me, expressing interest. I may have been off the market for a long time, but I still know when someone’s a kick-ass flirt. And he’s flirting, big time.
“Killer instinct, right.” I laugh, and it comes out sounding self-deprecating and dismissive. If the lights were on, I’d wave my hand, swatting the notion away with an easy flick of my wrist.
“Well, what would you call it?” he asks genuinely, half-groaning as he maneuvers low on his belly again. He’s got the flashlight balanced against his shoulder, and I can see it’s a tough juggling act.
“Doing my job. And it’s Rebecca, by the way.” I step closer and get my first partial look at his face. He’s got short spiky hair, dark with a little curl and attitude to it.
“Nice to meet you, Rebecca.” As he looks up at me, I find myself staring into an arresting pair of brown eyes. Not that I can see them all that well, mind you, but enough that I’m sure I won’t forget them anytime soon. Just gorgeous, with long, fluttery lashes. Eyes like that can melt you on the spot, especially when accompanied by a smoky-toned southern accent, so I vow to proceed with caution.
“Can I hold that for you?” I gesture at his flashlight with a quick toss of my hair, ensuring that my scars are concealed from his line of sight.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” He smiles as I reach for the light, glancing up at me again, and Lord, it’s a beautiful thing.
His fingertips brush against mine, rough, obviously calloused from long-term physical labor. They’re large and something about their generous size makes me think of whoever it is he loves. Hands like that can protect you when you need it most; keep harm at a safe distance. Can hold you tight when the nights get long and the devouring nightmares won’t keep away.
Now this is subtext: the simple brushing of his hand against mine, the resulting cascade of uninvited fantasies. I’m about to ask his name when a soft voice pierces the pregnant silence threading between us.
“Michael, can I have some money for the commissary?” Startled, I turn to find the outline of a young girl standing behind us, right beside my desk. She’s about seven or eight years old, nine at most.
“I can’t take you there right now, sweetheart.” Michael. So he’s no longer a stranger or the ponderous specter. He has a name.
“But I can walk over there on my own,” she suggests, stepping closer. “I know the way.”
“Not by yourself, you can’t.” Michael’s voice has shifted from its semi-charming timbre, and become the authoritarian vise of a parent.
“I can’t just sit around and watch the guys wire things,” she huffs into the dark. Her voice is early-morning innocent, the kind that smells like dreams and comforters tucked around your face.
“Andrea, I’ve got to work,” he says, kneeling there on the floor. “You know that.”
“Are you gonna help me get on the Evermore set?”
“Maybe, if I can get you a pass,” he explains. “But right now—”
“But you said!” she cries, and it’s not a harsh sound, just a plaintive, frustrated one.
“I said I’d try. Now, go. Back over to the electrical department.”
“So can I walk to the commissary then?”
Long, weary sigh, followed by an exasperated breath. “No. You just heard me say no.”
“But it’s only around the corner.”
“Not by yourself.”
“But you said—”
“No, not by yourself!” Only, it comes out more like “yoursailf,” as his voice kind of snaps, revealing a whole underbelly of tension in that soft twang of a word. Maybe they’ve been at this all morning, or maybe they don’t get along. It’s hard to be sure.
Poor man. He’s obviously quite familiar with the “wear ‘em down” negotiator tactic because this little kid knows it well. In fact, she belongs in my line of work. Just don’t let the agents around here find out about her—she’d make one lethal weapon in the hands of the wrong enemy.
“You know, I was thinking of heading over there,” I suggest helpfully. “To the commissary, I mean.” I’m not sure why I feel so eager to mediate their crisis, but I don’t question my motivation.
“Really?” The girl turns to me, her sweet voice breathy as a sigh.
“Yeah, you know, I was going to go for some breakfast. I could take you. That is, if your…” I hesitate because I’m not sure what to call Michael. After all, she’s called him by his first name, so he must not be her father.