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Ella

I press my fingers to my mouth. If I think hard enough, I swear I can still feel his lips on mine. My attraction to Jack is somewhat overwhelming to my system. Never in my thirty-five years have I ever wanted someone as viscerally as I want Jack.

Even this morning while curled up on my couch and drinking my coffee, thinking about our kiss has my skin flushing.

Glancing down at my phone, dread devours the arousal I feel.

As I was lying in bed last night, replaying the evening in my mind, the text and the unknown figure haunted me.

Between the night at dinner with Jack and whatever happened outside the restaurant, doing nothing would be foolish.

I shudder as I think back to when this first started. It was right around Christmas last year, and I had just broken up with my boyfriend a few weeks prior. I left work to find a typed note under the wiper blade of my car. It was weird, but nothing overtly threatening. It was something about how I looked nice in the dress I wore that day. I thought maybe it was my ex trying to get back with me, but when I confronted him, he denied it. He also didn’t appear concerned by it, so I decided I wouldn’t be either. Only, the notes on my car continued. They were usually about how I looked that day, but occasionally, they would take a different tone if I went to lunch with a male coworker or on a date.

After one particularly aggressive note, I brought it to the police, but since I had no idea who the culprit could be and there was no real evidence that would lead to identification, they didn’t take it seriously, especially since it was only these random notes.

I never understood that reasoning. How many more times do these kinds of situations have to take a dramatic and sometimes life-changing or ending turn for police to take them seriously?

It wasn’t long after I went to the police that I started getting texts instead of typed notes. I debated going back to the police, but I wasn’t convinced they would take this any more seriously.

Then, two months ago, everything stopped. No texts. No notes. Eerily silent after six months of almost weekly contact. Not that I wished death on anyone, but a part of me hoped they died. Or were in jail for a long time.

Unfortunately, it appears I’m not that lucky.

Last night, I considered going to the cops again, but why bother when I was sure they still wouldn’t do anything?

I nibble on my nail, debating if I should do what I’m afraid is my next best option .

I don’t want Jack to assume I’m taking advantage of what happened between us last night. I can make it clear that while I can’t pay much, I’m willing to work out the level of services he offers that fit within my budget.

Not that I have any idea what personal security services actually cost.

Maybe I can just ask for his advice instead. That way, we don’t have to have the uncomfortable conversation of him telling me I can’t afford his help. I wipe my clammy palms down the thighs of my jeans, then pick up my phone and unlock the screen. It’s a little past ten in the morning as my finger hovers over our text messages.

I quickly type out the message and send it before I can rethink it further.

Me: Hey Jack! Do you have some time today? I have a question I want to ask you. I can meet wherever is convenient for you.

I toss my phone onto the couch next to me, worrying my lip between my teeth. Seconds later, it vibrates.

Jack: I can be at your place in fifteen.

Guilt flashes through me.

Me: I don’t want to interrupt your day. It doesn’t have to be right now. Just whenever you’re free.

Almost instantly, my phone vibrates again.

Jack: I am free. See you in a few.

Me: Do you need my condo number?

Jack: I remember it from the paperwork you filled out.

I stand and rinse out my coffee cup. To help alleviate the anxious energy, I pace my apartment until my phone vibrates with the notification to buzz Jack in downstairs. I resume nibbling on my nail until the loud knock echoes through my apartment.

Unsure how to act after last night, I pull open the door nervously, and my breath catches. Jack’s casual outfit is reminiscent of the day he dropped off the vehicle to me. The worn grey t-shirt looks like it was made for him. When my eyes raise to his face, his mouth is pulled into a half smile, his beard a little thicker than usual, like he didn’t bother trimming it on a Saturday.

“Hi.” My greeting is breathy and much more sexual than I intended. Clearing my throat, I move back to let him enter.

He steps through the door, his hand grazing the side of my waist as he passes by. I squeeze my legs together to ebb the wetness gathering. Goosebumps run rampant across my skin at his touch, so simple but wrought with heady undertones.

I follow him to my living room, trying not to focus on how nicely his jeans hug his ass.

Crossing my space, he takes everything in. For some reason, I’m suddenly self-conscious that he might disapprove of my home. He gives me a probing gaze as he turns toward me, his lips turned up in a small smile. “I’m not complaining, but I’m very curious. What is this question you have to ask me in person?”

I gesture to the couch. “Do you want to sit down?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything .

I fidget with the hem of my shirt. “Right, okay, well, I think I need your advice on a, uh, situation.”

His face sobers. “Go on,” he gruffly prompts.

I start to pace again while I spend the next ten minutes relaying the events of the last ten months. As I finish telling him about last night, I stop to face him with my hands on my hips. “Now, I don’t know if that guy down the sidewalk was actually the same person who sent that text. It seemed odd to have a hoodie on and your hood up when it was crazy warm out. The person was definitely a man, and who knows, maybe my stalker is a woman.” I know I’m rambling out of anxiousness, but I can’t stop. “Statistically speaking, that is unlikely, but I don’t want to be sexist...” I shrug as I trail off and meet Jack’s gaze.

Jack is still. Like, deadly still. His muscular arms are crossed over his chest, fists clenched. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

I continue, wanting to break the tension. “So, my question is, as a security professional, what do you think I should do?”

He finally moves to drop a hand to his hip and pinches the bridge of his nose with the fingers of the other. “Fuck.” His curse is resounding in the uncomfortable silence.

I feel instantly more guilty that I have brought this to him. An embarrassed flush burns my skin as I mutter, “I’m sorry, Jack.”

His head pops up, and he steps toward me. With a finger to my chin, he raises my eyes to his. “Gisella, you didn’t do anything wrong. Except maybe assume that all I would give you is advice.”

I shake my head. “Jack, I don’t think I can afford anything else. ”

His eyebrows push together as he searches my face. “Let me make some calls.”

With that, he walks out of my condo and into the hall, pulling his cell from his pocket.

My breath stutters as I inhale. Unsure if it’s the man himself or the fact that my gut is telling me this is a man I can trust, but I feel the vice that has been compressing around me start to loosen, even if just slightly.