LOCK Page 2

  "I don't think so. My family is pretty low down on the wealth scale. No rich uncles, no billionaire stepparents." I snorted. "And I'm the youngest of four siblings in my family, so it's not like I'd even be high up on the list if there was anything to inherit."

  "No rich patron in college?" asked Neal Webb, but he was teasing me now.

  I grinned back at him, enjoying the mild what-felt-like-flirting-but-of-course-couldn't-possibly-be-that. "If so, why would I have all this student loan debt? No, and no sugar daddies, either. I know that's what you meant."

  "Ah." His brows rose. "Good to know."

  There, that settled the unspoken "Are you gay?" The answer hung in the air between us. He didn't offer his own outing, or anything to the opposite. He crunched some fries mildly.

  Fine, be ambiguous and hot! Leave me to wonder.

  Not that I really thought he'd be remotely on the Kinsey near me, but let me have my daydreams. And "ambiguous" was definitely a step up from "Keep your gay ass away from me, bro."

  "So, you're enemy-less, and you don't stand to inherit anything."

  I nodded. "Right. Back to the talent thing. If I did have an ESRB whatever — that wouldn't necessarily mean anyone would want me dead, would it?" I mean, I'd read up on the bureau; basically, it would be a step up in the world from store clerk. "If I understand it right, if you have a talent, they'll train you and then you get scouted by business, or government, or whatever. Even the good talents don't make people want to kill, do they?"

  "Not generally. Some do increase various risk factors, though. There might be the rare occasion where someone tries to kidnap someone with talent, and we deal with those pretty harshly. But it's unusual for the development of a talent to lead directly to a risk of death. Your...family isn't hostile to talent, are they?" He looked uneasy asking, and I wondered if there was an extrasensory talent version of honor killings — or those "make you straight" camps some people sent their kids to.

  "Er, no." I probably looked as appalled as I felt.

  His face relaxed a little. "There could be other risk factors involved in finding out you have a talent, of course," he said thoughtfully. "I've heard that clairvoyants shouldn't push themselves, because it increases their risk of strokes and brain hemorrhages. But you're hardly likely to find out you're a clairvoyant and try to push yourself right away, before even being trained. For one thing, you wouldn't know how."

  "I'm pretty sure I've never predicted anything in my life," I added.

  "Then, I suppose we'll just have to wait and find out." He went back to eating, a slow, methodical kind of eating that made it seem like a more important meal than it was.

  "You're pretty calm about this." I crunched down the last of my fries. When had I eaten them all?

  "So are you," he pointed out.

  "Oh, well, it doesn't feel real. I'll probably get the shakes tonight and not be able to sleep," I added, blasé.

  "Well, you don't need to. Nothing's going to get past me."

  The words reassured me more than I wanted to admit. He had an air of competence and strength that made me feel safe with him. Safe, turned on — all that jazz.

  "Do you think there's such a thing as a bookstore clerk serial killer?" I asked after a few minutes.

  He managed not to snort into his lemonade. "I've never heard of one, no," he said cautiously.

  "Are there any that target ESRB people?"

  This time, he hesitated. He put his drink down carefully. "I've heard of such things. They're above my pay grade, so I don't have a lot of details. It's mostly rumors. But, again, that would be dealt with pretty harshly and pretty quickly by the ESRB. You must admit they have the resources," he added gently.

  I nodded, thinking of the big brains getting glimpses of probabilities and futures and all that shit. Of course, I really only knew about it from a few slick articles, a couple of books that were mostly fluff, and a whole lot of science fiction takes on the subject. That, and one TV procedural where an empath regularly consulted with the police, but I wasn't sure how applicable those were to my situation.

  "And your name didn't come up in connection to anything like that. You were on a list of people at risk. Those with the talent for it regularly write out such lists. You were also the lowest one on this list, so I really think this is more about covering bases than much actual danger. But I'll definitely treat the assignment as seriously as I would my other assignments," he reassured me.

  "That's good to hear." I leaned forward. "Can you tell me about your other assignments...assuming they're not all classified?" I'm sure my eyes gleamed.

  For the next few minutes, he regaled me with carefully edited details about protecting unnamed individuals who had come onto the ESRB risk lists. It was fascinating stuff, especially the little pauses as he chose what not to tell me; my imagination went wild.

  He was calm and matter-of-fact about it, but it was obvious (at least to my overheated imagination) that he was the best (and hottest) bodyguard they had.

  When I had to go back to work, he faded back into the scenery at the bookstore, and I hurried to catch up with work, running through my mind all the things he'd shared.

  Was it possible I was a late-blooming talent of some sort? Or, more likely, a late-discovered talent, because I was pretty sure you had to be born with it. If I did have some special ability, was there someone out there who wanted me dead because of it, or was it just a general risk factor, a hazard of the trade?

  Having an ability was a thrilling possibility for someone who'd basically resigned himself to working as a clerk for life and possibly never paying off his student loans. Jobs were not plentiful or well-paying around here, and my education didn't spring to anything really well-paying here or elsewhere. I'd looked into it; I was pretty much stuck here.

  Don't get me wrong; I liked working at the bookstore, and I was great at it. Helping people is easy for me, and I love books, and I'd learned the boss's systems pretty well by now. But that's not exactly career goals, is it? I really only earned enough to pay the rock-bottom minimum on my student loans, which were gathering interest by the bucketful. That, rent, and food — I was basically broke all the time.

  If I had a special talent... I daydreamed about the exotic opportunities it would give me. Maybe I'd become famous, or earn a lot of money. Maybe they'd write news articles about me!

  Or maybe it was some kind of dark, creepy talent, and someone wanted to take me out of commish before it could appear. Were there any like that? I tried to think of what I knew. Again, regrettably little fact, but lots of fiction.

  I'd have to ask Neal later about whether there were any talents that would make me super-dangerous. Would I have to work for the military, if I got something like that? Ew. I didn't want to do anything invasive or deadly.

  "Did you find everything you were looking for today?" I asked the current customer brightly.

  He had, I decided, shifty eyes. That, or he was wearing sunglasses indoors for some other reason. And a coat that was a little too long and dark. For a moment, I imagined a Matrix-like gun pull in slow mo and my last words being, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"

  What a fun way to go.

  "No, you stopped carrying my magazine," grouched the man, so I took the time to get down the details, apologize, offer to special order it, and made a mental note to let the boss know there was at least one customer who wasn't pleased with the current magazine selection.

  After that, I waited on an annoyed, harried-looking woman who just wanted to purchase her coloring books and get out of there, and then a man who'd clearly been buying gifts for a kid, since he didn't look like the sort to read a bunch of hardcover children's books himself.

  It was a long day, and I ended up staying late, as usual; the store had a policy not to kick people out. We just had to work longer. It got really annoying sometimes, but what can you do? I thought again about how nice it would be to have a well-paying job, and, oh, say, actual overti
me when I had to work late, and wondered what sort of talent would bring the best job opportunities.

  It felt like a mercenary approach to getting a talent, but it was about time I started having a more realistic view of money and earning power. After all, I'd have been further ahead of the game if I'd skipped college and just started working at the bookstore straight out of high school, but nobody had warned me about that, had they?

  Of course I'd never lose my love of books, but you can love books in your off hours. It's not as though I had a lot of time to read at work, anyway. That's hardly what they hired me for.

  Finally, the last straggler was gone, and I closed the store. Breaking down the register took some time, and there was some re-shelving to hurry through, but finally I was locking the door behind me, conscious of my back feeling very exposed for, say, snipers to shoot at, as well as the warm, solid presence of Neal Webb beside me, allaying some of my nerves even as I got them.

  "Now, home and to bed," I said with a relieved sigh as we made it back into my car. "Don't you have a car of your own?" I asked.

  "I can rent one, if you'd rather. I thought it best to stay close, rather than tail you. If you'd prefer a bit more space, I can guard you from a distance."

  "No, this is fine." It felt a little weird ferrying a badass bodyguard around in my tiny Smart Car, but if he didn't mind, I didn't, either.

  It was less awkward than I'd thought it would be, taking a guy home. Of course my neighbor Mrs. Tallent's curtains twitched, and I'm sure I heard a derisive snort from her (she'd probably tell me later that you should never date a man without his own car), but I got him inside without dropping my keys, falling over my feet, or otherwise embarrassing myself. Any more than the obvious embarrassment of the actual apartment itself, that is. It was a cute, cozy studio apartment, perfect for a minimalist. By which I mean it was fucking tiny and I didn't have room for all my books.

  I'd been trying to downsize. Really. The couple of shelves I'd managed to squeeze in were jammed full in an embarrassing way, and a few wooden crates made up part of the rest of the difference, and after that I'd just given up and started stacking books against the wall. "I've been trying to convert to digital," I told him apologetically. "But it's hard to get rid of books I like." Especially when a replacement digital copy can cost more than ten bucks a pop. I didn't earn that much at my job, thanks.

  "You like to read, then?" he said, sounding more amused than appalled.

  "Well, what do you think?" I said, giving him a sassy grin. "Now, what do you want for supper: spaghetti, or spaghetti?"

  I'd already splurged today on McDonald's.

  "Spaghetti, I think," he said, stepping carefully around a mound of clothing that I hadn't washed yet. I was meaning to go to the laundromat this weekend. Really.

  "Can you see why it's hard to believe someone would be interested enough to kill me?" I said conversationally as I started some water boiling for pasta. I had some lettuce in my tiny fridge, if it hadn't gone bad, so I could make him a salad as well — he clearly liked his salads — and that would class the meal up a bit.

  "I don't think a lack of huge sums of money has ever guaranteed someone's safety," he said blandly.

  I laughed suddenly. "Maybe somebody hates the idea of book hoarding!"

  He gave me a smile that reached his eyes and did things to my blood pressure. "I'm sure that's not the case."

  I thought for a moment that he was going to say more, but then he didn't, and maybe it was just as well. Despite my probably blatant crush on him, I was actually pretty embarrassed about him saying anything nice to me. I'm all talk when it comes to hot guys, really; I haven't had a lot of experience. (Take that any way you want; it's probably true.)

  He cleared his throat. "Anything you want me to do?" He looked around as if he was ready to do chores.

  Yes, please, because I really wanted a hot stranger sorting my dirty clothes. That would shoot right off the scale of "awkward" and into "mortifying."

  "Just sit and eat," I warned him, brandishing a wooden spoon in a threatening way when he eyed the laundry.

  He made himself comfortable at my tiny fold-out table. I was glad now I'd bought that privacy screen for around my bed. It gave at least the semblance of privacy, which I'd need for my peace of mind if he was going to be sleeping on my couch.

  "I'm sorry about this," I apologized before I could help myself. "I wish I had somewhere better to offer you." I waved to my lumpy couch, wincing a little at the thought of his back.

  He seemed surprised by that. "Don't worry about that. It's not a problem." He grinned to show he meant it. "I could be awake all night in a car outside, keeping watch. It's much nicer to be in the building and allowed to rest."

  That did sound...unpleasant.

  "I hope your back's made of stern stuff, that's all."

  "All of me is." He was looking at me now, and I looked away again. He couldn't mean what those soft gray eyes seemed to imply. This was a job; he was a professional. And I... I was a fairly competent bookstore employee, nothing more.

  I finished setting out the meal quickly and sat down opposite him at the tiny table.

  "Thank you for cooking for me," said Neal politely as we dug in. The spaghetti was fine; al dente with canned sauce, to which I'd added some garlic and tarragon after first making sure he didn't dislike either flavor.

  The salad was a bit sad, just a few leaves that were starting to go limp, with no dressing. He ate as if the meal was delicious anyway. I remembered to get out some bread towards the end of the meal, and we both mopped up our sauce with it.

  He hadn't spoken a word of complaint, and he ate with every sign of hungry enjoyment, which I must say is a nice feeling when you cook for somebody. Because he was probably right: I wouldn't have cooked if it was just me. I'd have grabbed some granola or something.

  "Tomorrow, I'll cook," he decided. "If that's all right."

  "Assuming you're still here." I pointed my fork at him. "And I'll have to get groceries first."

  "We can do your laundry at the same time," he offered blandly, and I probably blushed. Did it stink? Was I stinking him out already?

  "To combine trips and save gas, I meant," he added hastily.

  I nodded, too mortified to speak. I really shouldn't get embarrassed so easily; it wasn't a great look for me.

  "I didn't mean anything else." He was looking at me with an expression I would almost call gentle. It was weird to see that on a straight guy's face. Or any guy's, if I'm honest. He'd never actually said he was straight, but come on. How many hot gay bodyguards could the world hold?

  One? Just one, please? Actually, even if he was gay, it wouldn't mean he was interested in me. It would just give me more stupid daydreams to be distracted by. Although right now, even that sounded pretty damned nice.

  "And it'll be my treat this time," he said. "You shouldn't be inconvenienced by having me here. This is supposed to help you, not cause hardship."

  For a bodyguard, he was awfully well-spoken. Although what had I expected, a caveman? I just nodded, not sure what to say. It was embarrassing to have him know I was broke and lived in a tiny apartment crowded with books and dirty laundry. It was the truth, though. Maybe one reason I hadn't found a great boyfriend who wanted to stick around.

  I supposed it could have been worse, if my tiny apartment had been covered in pet hair or I collected something weird and creepy, like celebrity hair. But let's face it, looks and brains aside (because let me keep some of my vanity, okay?), I wasn't much of a catch.

  I kind of hated that he had to be nice to me about everything, because I felt ashamed enough already, but at least he wasn't making fun of my place and my life. That would have been worse, definitely. (He wouldn't have been the first one who did, if he had. "I thought you gays were supposed to have good taste" is one such example of a helpful critique.)

  After we ate, I cleared everything up, avoiding his help, and then fetched my spare set of sheets for him. "Ma
ke yourself as comfortable as you can," I said, gesturing to the couch.

  "I don't go to sleep yet. Do you?"

  "Er, no." I was blushing again, I was sure of it. I felt hot, uncomfortable, and extremely...present.

  "Just do whatever you'd normally do," he said calmly, as if he hadn't noticed. "I like to unwind with TV, for instance."

  Was that a hint? Did he want to (oh, fuck) Netflix and chill with me? I'm not sure what my face said, but I know I froze for at least a moment as my brain overheated and had to tick down to a workable temperature. I felt like a computer that was failing.

  "Er, yeah, sounds good."

  Actually, I'd have liked to do some more research on the ESRB and talk over what kind of amazing ability I might theoretically get, but when a hot guy offers to watch TV with me...I watch TV.

  We used the couch as a couch, and I fired up the old netbook and loaded up Netflix. There was some discussion about what to watch, both of us very polite (a little too polite, in fact), but we finally settled on a movie.

  If he'd put his arm around me, I'd probably have exploded from sheer...whatever this was. It was amazing and a little scary to have a crush be so nice to me. It had to be at least a little obvious that I was crushing on him. I mean, I'm not that subtle, even when I think I am, and I'm pretty sure blushing that much was a major tell. I mean, for a trained professional.

  Twenty minutes into the movie, I couldn't stand it any longer. "So, what sort of power do you think I'd get, assuming that was it?"

  He smiled and stretched a little and looked at me, giving me his full attention even though he'd certainly seemed absorbed in the movie just moments ago. "I don't know. I'm not an expert on the subject. Do you have any skills that might give you a clue? Perhaps you've had a talent all along, but it wasn't something they knew how to test for — or that you knew you needed to be tested for."

  He was willing to talk. I exhaled quietly. Good; I wasn't sure how much longer I could be quiet with all these thoughts rumbling around in my mind. I needed to discuss. "Nothing like that. Nothing I know of, anyway," I said, shaking my head.