Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (4 page)

He’d told them on the first day that bracelets were against the rules. When she stood in lineup the second day with her bracelets on, he crooked a little finger at her, and sternly, wordlessly turned and led her across the smooth hardwood expanse of the dojo. She remembered trailing him, remembered how weirdly excited she felt as they arrived at the corner desk. And then he tapped his finger on the spot where she was to put the offending bracelets and waited, regarding her with calm, stern blue eyes.

Something happened then—it was like he was holding her with his eyes, overpowering her with a force of character that turned her on in a way she’d never experienced. She said something funny—she couldn’t remember what—and he simply repeated the gesture, tapping on the desk. And at that moment, she was filled with this glowing feeling about him, and she wanted to give him things—her body, yes, but more.
Everything
. And slowly, watching his eyes, fighting the trembly feeling in her limbs, she pulled off the bracelets. She, who loved disobedience and hated rules—that moment where a martial arts teacher pulled rank became the single hottest encounter she’d ever had with a man, certainly hotter than any of the fucking she’d ever done. And she’d done a lot of it.

She smiled, then, and smashed the bracelets dramatically and saucily onto the desk.

She remembered how sharply his chest moved—a small, quick inhale, like she’d yanked the air from his lungs. And oh, she wanted him. She wanted him with a fever that left her nearly unable to think.

They stood there maybe thirty seconds, but the energy between them seemed to crackle across eons. He moved his hand to her bracelets, fixed them into a perfect stack. Something about him seemed to shine. She felt they both shone, as though they shone for each other.

But then he swallowed. Pulled back and away. It was like they had some sexy ESP between them, and then he cut it off. She felt the loss in her bones.

“Let’s go.” He turned and walked. She could do nothing but follow. And they rejoined the group without fanfare.

In the weeks that followed, Paul became her personal Mount Everest. The more staunchly he ignored her, the more determined she became to feel that connection again. He was twenty-five, after all, a year older than she. In her experience, twenty-five-year-old guys were highly swayable.

But not Paul.

She tried everything—invitations to hang out, inappropriate jokiness, hot outfits, sly, knowing comments, more bracelets, but he commanded and taught her from a distance, aloof. Hell, she even tried applying herself to the lessons. One day, after tireless attempts at a cross-elbow, round-kick combo, suddenly hers were the best in class. It was like she forgot her pursuit and he forgot his aloofness, and they did this whole victory dance together by the heavy bag. They danced in the same way, on a crazy, perfect wavelength. But then he went back to being closed to her.

“Nobility trip,” Karen had pronounced. “You’ll never get him.”

Alix wouldn’t accept it. He didn’t have a girlfriend—she’d ferreted out that fact right away. And some kind of magic had crackled between them. Surely she hadn’t imagined it! It drove her crazy that he wouldn’t pay attention to her. It was more than her wanting to do him; she wanted him on every level. She just liked to be near him, as if the air around him ran thick with happiness and excitement. Truly, she’d never met anyone like Paul. By the third week, she felt desperate and acted too silly in class, perhaps Without warning, without so much as a hint of anger, he stopped the class and pointed to the door.
Out.

“What?” Alix had protested.

And he’d looked her in the eye and told her point blank:
Martial arts are for serious people, not for somebody who treats everything like a game.

With anybody else, Alix would’ve made a smart comeback.

But not Paul. It was as if he’d looked into her soul and had seen the truth of her and had realized that she was not enough.

She’d never forget him pointing toward the door. Casting her adrift. And she’d just turned and left, with Karen following behind.

Oh, she hated herself for scuttling out so obediently. It was just a stupid punching bag class where she was trying to pick up a guy!

But of course that was a lie.

It was a loss—a devastating one. Every time she made a Hardass Paul joke, it was like she was softening the sharpness of that loss. But also, reconnecting with Paul. She despised herself for not being able to hate him.

Yes, she was 100% pathetic when it came to Hardass Paul.

Then, two years ago, she’d stumbled on to the Denali commercial.

Hah!

Finding it had been a complete accident. She had been on an obscure Internet forum for cocktail waitresses—the topic was disgusting liqueurs, and somebody had put up a link to a little-known Australian commercial for Denali, a peachy liqueur. She’d almost fallen out of her chair when she’d recognized Paul in the clip. There he was, playing the part of Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third, secret agent spokesman for Denali liqueur. Had he thought nobody would see it because it was on Australian TV?

She’d sent the link to Karen along with a crowing email:
How the mighty have fallen! Noble Hardass Paul, playing a James Bond knockoff for a gross liqueur. LOL!

But secretly, Alix loved the commercials. It was like snatching a forbidden little piece of Paul for herself—the only little piece she could have. Paul had rejected her, but Sir Kendall would have her. Sir Kendall was wild and fun, and he romanced every barmaid he met. Sir Kendall would not find her lacking. Sir Kendall was her people.

And so much more.

Sir Kendall was the ultimate dark stranger in a tuxedo. A magnificent male animal whose blue eyes twinkled with secrets as he lingered in dark doorways, always just back from some exotic place. Sir Kendall exuded a predatory charm. His sense of entitlement was arrogant and slightly humorous—you would give him precisely what he wanted, and you would give it gladly. And you knew that giving Sir Kendall precisely what he wanted would be an unforgettable experience.

Paul was American, but Sir Kendall spoke in a low, lazy English accent that had a little Australian in there—a totally fake accent, but kind of hot. His expression was knowingly humorous, even a bit soft, like an angelic child grown into debauched adulthood. His fine dinner jackets and tuxedos always appeared lived-in, possibly even fought-in, clinging wantonly to his muscular chest and shoulders. He’d sweep in, drink a Denali, have sex with a woman—or so the ads implied—and then dissolve into the night as soon as he walked out the door. And there’d be only a Denali bottle left on the screen, with the tagline, “Denali. Always
just
the thing.”

The shadows were lengthening by the time Alix opened her fifth beer and ripped into her chips. She should be getting back, but she was enjoying her private picnic. She threw a chip to Lindy, thinking how she hadn’t checked the Denali Australia website for a while. Maybe they’d put up a new Sir Kendall spot. Alix was always irrationally thrilled when there was a new Sir Kendall commercial.

Her favorite sex fantasy with Sir Kendall began with him knocking at her door. She’d open it, and he’d grunt something about needing directions, strangely drawn to her the second he saw her. Sir Kendall would be a man ruled by stormy emotions and an irresistible hunger for her. And she’d say something clever and dirty about the main road, and he’d regard her sternly, and he’d push her to the wall and kiss her, overpowering her, and they’d have breathless, frantic sex. Who had time to dreamily climb the stairs? They would fuck standing up, right between the coat hooks and the foyer table. Yeah!

In another scenario, Sir Kendall would show up at the door in a ripped-up tuxedo—a hungry and hunted animal on the run from some spy-world threat. Alix would pull him in and help him to the kitchen and feed him, and the more he regained his senses, the harder he would focus on her, overcome with desire. They’d have a sassy little interaction, and he’d pull her up from the chair and push her against the kitchen wall. And he would fuck her right there.

She often tried to cajole the guys she seduced into wall sex, but they never went for it. Sir Kendall would
so
go for wall sex. And he would be powerful, not relying on her to be the seductress.

And that’s when it hit her: a sexy visit from Sir Kendall…it was now totally within her reach!

Okay, she was drunk. And the mosquitoes were coming out. And she had to pee. She put her empties in her pack and started back down. But she couldn’t get the idea out of her mind.

Sir Kendall.

She followed Lindy through the shadowy forest, stumbling here and there.

Sir Kendall was really the perfect test. He didn’t technically exist, and he was far more desirable than a unicorn.

But what would happen to him over the long haul? She couldn’t keep him forever. Or could she?

But…he wouldn’t be there forever because he
always dissolved.

At the very end of each commercial, he’d drink Denali, walk out of the bar, and dissolve. And the bottle of Denali would show on the screen with that tag line.

She laughed to think of Karen’s stunned reaction, but even Karen would have to admit it was brilliant—the world would be safe because Sir Kendall was temporary. Like a fruit fly. Except way better. He would come out of nothing, love her, drink Denali, and dissolve into the night.

Unless he didn’t dissolve. But surely he would.

Anyway, she didn’t care what Karen thought, or what Paul thought. Or her parents. They thought she was a screw-up. Fine! Let them think it.

Sir Kendall wouldn’t think it.

Ten minutes later, she was settled into her office chair with her last beer, watching her favorite Denali ad. She pressed
pause
, then ran through it frame by frame, hitting the wrong key now and then. Stupid keyboard! Okay, she was drunk. But not that drunk!

Was she really doing this?

Hell, yeah!

She took a screenshot of the perfect Sir Kendall pose—him leaning in a doorway. He’d slid his hand up high on the door frame, up above his head. His dark jacket hung slightly open, blue shirt unbuttoned partway, but not so much as to be cheesy.

She cropped the image, placed it on her desktop, clicked it a dozen times.

Her heart tha-lumped nervously.

The clock said 7:46 pm. Would he show up tomorrow, Friday, at 7:46 pm? Of course! Why wouldn’t he? That’s how the magic worked.

She sat back and watched his image staring out at her from the dark background of the computer screen.

Sir Kendall’s pose was slightly menacing—you would have to pass close by him to get out to the darkness beyond. But he was vulnerable, too; his neck, belly, even his crotch, were open to attack or ravishment. He was like a powerful mammal demonstrating confidence by leaving himself unprotected—a show of dominance wrapped in an illusion of submission, a pose that said,
Go ahead. If you dare.

Oh, no, what had she done? With shaking hands, she closed the image, dragged it into the trash.
Never mind!
—that was her message to the world of the occult.
Cancel the order! Don’t send Sir Kendall!

But she knew it was too late.

She’d ordered Sir Kendall.

She stared at the screen. The evening breeze stirred the leaves out the window.

She told herself it would be cool. She always complained about people not having enough fun in life. Wasn’t this a fun thing?

No. It was a Crazy Alix thing. Possibly the Craziest Alix thing ever.

Oh, Karen was going to
freak
.

Alix forced herself to get up and go to the kitchen. She pulled some pre-baked potatoes out of the refrigerator and heated them in the oven. The potatoes formed the basis of one of her favorite meals, Mexican potatoes, which was nothing more than potatoes with cheese and salsa piled on top.

She stood over the warming oven, chewing on a carrot.

He’d show up on her doorstep, just like that barrel. Except he’d want to drink Denali. And seduce her. What the hell, it’s what she’d wanted. She loved to have sex, and Sir Kendall would be perfect—he’d have a little Paul in him, except he’d actually want her. And he was a sexy spy.

She’d need to buy some Denali. And food. Did he eat? Of course he did. If he drank, he ate. What did he eat?

Her pulse raced. He would probably eat red meat—steaks, but not burgers. She barely ever cooked steak. Would he settle for fish? Italian food? Would he eat chips? No, he wouldn’t want to get his hands greasy. Paul would eat chips, Sir Kendall wouldn’t. She could see him eating olives, though, maybe with toothpicks. Yes, he’d definitely like olives.

This was so crazy! But, maybe he wouldn’t come. And yet, a part of her wanted him to.

A shopping list began to form in her mind, because of course she would feed him. In the commercials, he liked to have a drink, but a good hostess offered food to a guest. And then what? Would he want to talk? Or go right to the sex-and-romance part? But who says Sir Kendall would be up for sex?

Of course he’d be up for it. Sir Kendall was a madly sexual being.

She stared at her half-eaten carrot, which no longer seemed like food. Her stomach felt like 99% pure stardust.

No more beer! She grabbed a Coke.

Her phone. She turned it on. Six calls from Karen.

Crap.

She called Karen at her conference hotel room.

“Honey!” Karen said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a bitch, I was just freaked out.” Karen apologized some more. Alix assured her it was fine, and that she wasn’t mad at her—not at all.

“Are you okay?” Karen said after a long silence. “Is something up?”

“Um…sort of,” Alix said.

More silence.

“Damn,” Karen said. “What did you order?”

Alix winced. “I think it’ll be okay.”

“No way, you didn’t order anything. You’re messing with me. Are you drunk?”

“That’s totally irrelevant,” Alix said. “It’s a good test—I swear! It’s just that…well, you know that commercial with Sir Kendall? The Denali man?”