Out of Reach (5 page)

“We’ll see about that,” I say as confidently
as I can. He chuckles and we return to our drinks in companionable
silence to watch the drama unfold. Sure enough, after a few minutes
of circling the area until she’s sure everyone is aware of her, and
then flirting with the bartender who is an old friend, she heads
for the table in the back. We can’t make out what’s being said but
we can see in just a moment’s time she has become quite chummy with
Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. Speechless, my mouth falls open and I
turn to gape at Kade.

Standing up smiling he says, “Better luck
next time,” and strides back to the bar to finish the Padres
game.

Grabbing the pitcher, I begin to refill my
glass, more than a little shaken about what had just happened. How
did I miss the mark by such a wide margin? The whole thing has me
baffled I know everything about Melanie; there is no way I should
have guessed wrong. We have been inseparable since we were five
years old. In elementary school we started a perfume business
together. She manned the distribution and marketing department,
while I worked on production and packaging. There have been endless
summers of camping trips, bike rides, and lemonade stands. Melanie
was the one I cried to in junior high when my first crush at summer
camp turned me down after I’d asked him to go on the midnight hike
with me. Her mother was the one who gave us the sex talk, for
crying out loud, when I was too embarrassed to ask my own mother
about it. She’s like my sister. I’ve attended every graduation or
awards ceremony she’s ever had. We’ve been on countless double
dates. I held her hair when she was puking her guts out the first
time she’d gotten really drunk. We still have annual shopping
trips, inside jokes, and special days with historical significance
known only to us.

I remember how she cried when I got accepted
to the doctoral program at BU, and how she tried to put on a brave
face when she was helping me get packed up to leave. It was good
she had just gotten the drug sales rep job at Preston-Ward I’d
thought; it would keep her busy and her mind off my move to the
East Coast. When I’d accepted my job at Preston-Ward, she was the
first person I had called to share the news.

Damn it
, I think to myself,
how could I
have guessed so poorly? And how had Kade managed to figure it out
so effortlessly?
Apparently my two friends
are enigmas and I am just figuring it out now. Note to self:
Melanie isn’t as into tall, blonde, surfer-looking guys as I
remember, and Kade can read minds. Okay, well maybe Kade can’t read
minds. I’ve always known he is the king of observation and has a
keen intuition. Today it had just paid off. Plus he has that guy
thing working for him; since guys are ruled by their stupid
hormones, the laws of natural attraction just make more sense to
them.

Glancing over at him perched on a stool by
the bar, I reminisce about us. I’d met Kade in undergrad at the
University of California, San Diego. Both of us were science
majors, so naturally we ended up in a lot of the same classes.
During our first quarter of chemistry, we were assigned as lab
partners. His quiet, efficient nature went perfectly with my OCD,
over-achieving, likes-to-work-alone personality. So naturally, when
we ended up in the same classes together, I gravitated toward him
rather than taking a chance on a new lab partner who might prove to
be unreliable or overly chatty. This unspoken partnership lasted
for four years, and somewhere along the line it turned into an
actual friendship. I think it was Melanie who first invited Kade to
go out with us one Friday night. Since that day, he’s always been
part of our group, mostly as a partner in crime, but occasionally
he’s had to play bouncer or designated driver. Despite our
shenanigans Kade has always managed to keep Melanie and I from
getting into any real trouble. I don’t know what we’d do without
the guy.

Kade’s family is from Boston and I knew he
loved that area, so when I was looking at applying to BU, I
suggested he do likewise. I knew we weren’t looking at the same
program, since he wanted to pursue a PhD in chemistry, but
selfishly I didn’t want to go that far away by myself. I honestly
don’t know how much my request influenced his decision, but that
fall we both ended up in Boston at BU. It was nice having a friend
around, but it wasn’t the same as it had been during undergrad.
Neither of us had much free time anymore, and as we both became
busy with our individual programs, we didn’t see each other much.
By the end of our second year, we were more like acquaintances than
friends.

After I’d accepted the job at Preston-Ward,
I hadn’t even contacted him to let him know I was leaving Boston.
Such a sad testament to how far apart we’d fallen over the years.
What I didn’t know at the time was he had also taken a job at
Preston-Ward. Apparently we started around the same time but it was
three months before I ran into him. After the initial shock of
bouncing off his chest one day as I rounded a corner too quickly
faded, I hugged him fiercely and blubbered on about how it was so
good to see him and I couldn’t believe how much I’d missed him and
how bad a friend I had been. In his usual calm, controlled manner,
he found me a tissue and took me out to lunch.

“Goodnight, Gwen,” says Joe. Looking over at
him I notice the rest of the gang are reaching for jackets and
purses, getting ready to leave. I glance over at Melanie, who is
happily chatting away with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. Based on my
intel, I decide it looks like I’m going be here awhile longer.

“Goodnight, Joe. I’ll see you in the
morning.” I wave at the rest of the group and tell them,
“Goodnight, all!” Looking down at my watch, I see it’s only 8 p.m.
Sighing, I get up, grab my purse and my glass, and head over to
join Kade at the bar.

Kade

McClaren’s is a noisy little sports bar and
per usual it’s packed. Luckily management is nice enough to rope
off a few tables for us each month. I head for the corner barstool
as the rest of our group claims the reserved seating. Flagging down
the bartender, I snag a beer and pretend to watch baseball,
enjoying the anonymity the boisterous atmosphere affords me.

The pitch of two loud, exuberant voices
shouting behind me draws my attention.

“To our designated driver!” the girls
chant.

Facing the music (so to speak) I turn
around, my face stoically schooled. Two deliriously happy girls,
drinks raised, stare back at me. Both are on the verge of
giggles.

“Behave!” I bark at them, quickly turning
around to mask the deeply satisfied smile spreading across my face.
I love these women. Taking a long swig off my bottle, I return to
pretending to watch baseball.

I fondly remember back to when I first
started monitoring Gwen. I’d had to use Melanie to help me
insinuate myself into Gwen’s personal life. I’d done a fairly good
job developing a working friendship with Gwen by enrolling in most
of her lab classes, but socially we didn’t hang out. Melanie, on
the other hand, was much more interested in me. Once I discovered
her physical attraction, I exploited the fact to secure invitations
to group dates, parties, and the like. After the first few events,
I became just one of the group, at which point I used a little
power to implant the conviction in Melanie’s head that we were just
friends.

What I didn’t know at the time was how
difficult being with those women could be. The dynamic duo and
trouble seem to walk hand-in-hand. Both are too beautiful for their
own good, and once you add alcohol, music, or red-blooded males to
the mix, all hell can break loose. I don’t think even they are
aware of how many fights I’ve broken up or perverts I’ve hauled
outside and dumped in an alley over the years. Hell, the reason for
my aloof behavior anytime we go out is to give myself space to case
the joint looking for anything sinister. I’ve learned over the
years I can’t see trouble before it gets to the girls when I’m in
close vicinity to them. So I perch myself somewhere close when we
go out bar-hopping until I can get a good read on the place. The
hilarious part is how “just another assignment” grew into true
affection.

My gaze follows the waitress who passes
close behind me until a movement in my peripheral vision catches my
attention. Gwen is waving me over to join the group for dinner; I
notice she’s even ordered me something.

Relinquishing my stool I wander over,
thanking Gwen who doesn’t appear to notice as I grab my plate and
take the seat next to Christine. I half-heartedly listen to Mark
and Dan regale the group with stories from their most recent
conference while I eat. Finding a clean glass, I pour myself a
fresh beer from the nearly empty pitcher on the table. Glancing
down the length of the table I see Melanie with a familiar look on
her face stand up. Rolling my eyes I pick up my glass and head over
to claim the now vacant seat next to Gwen. I lean as close to her
ear as I can and whisper, “Care to make a wager?”

“You’re on,” Gwen responds as I settle into
the chair. “Stakes?” she asks.

Looking up at the ceiling I ponder her
question a moment before meeting her gaze. “Loser pays for lunch,
sometime in the foreseeable future.”

“Deal. Do we need to shake on it?”

Rolling my eyes I laugh. “No, now pick your
mark.”

I watch the graceful curve of her neck as
Gwen scans the room, trying to guess Melanie’s intended victim.
“There, across the bar, the blonde with the great smile in the blue
shirt. Do you see him?”

Taking a sip of my beer, I say, “I see him,
and you couldn’t be more wrong. You’re making this too easy, Gwen.”
I rest my elbows on the table and ask, “Are you sure you don’t want
to try again?”

Openly offended, Gwen glares at me. “No, and
don’t insult me. I think I know my best friend a little better than
you do. Who’s your bet?”

I draw out my response to annoy her further.
“You see the table just behind your blonde?”

“Yes.”

“She’s headed for Mr.
Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, on the left.” All I can do is grin under
the frosty attitude being projected my direction.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, her voice
full of prideful assurance. Gripping my glass with both hands, we
sit and silently watch the drama unfold before us. A few minutes
later we see Melanie cozying up to Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. A
speechless Gwen turns to gape at me.

Rising from my chair, I toss over my
shoulder, “Better luck next time.” I stride over to the bar and I
reclaim my favorite stool. I know better than to gloat with Gwen.
Redheads in general have a very short fuse; push them too far and
they go bat shit crazy on you. That’s a mess I’d prefer not to
clean up tonight.

* * *

Around 8p.m. Gwen joins me at the bar. “So,
any idea how much longer she might be?”

Looking her over with genuine concern, I ask
Gwen, “You ready to go already?”

“Yes, it was a frustrating day and I was
tired before we got here,” she admits. I glance in the direction of
the lovebirds and insinuate into their heads the notion that they
are tired and wish to go home.

Turning a smile on Gwen, I tell her,
“Melanie won’t be much longer.” As if summoned, Melanie heads our
direction a few minutes later and I gently tap Gwen on the shoulder
to capture her attention.

“Melanie’s on her way, let’s get you
home.”

Smiling, Gwen slides off the barstool to
meet up with her friend and begin the interrogation. I lead the way
as we negotiate a path to the exit. Holding the door I wait for the
pair to catch up so the three of us can head out into the parking
lot together.

Chapter 7

Melanie drops Gwen and I off in the parking
lot at Preston-Ward, quickly waving as she heads home for the
night. I dawdle in the parking lot under the false pretense of
checking my bike. Really I’m waiting to be sure Gwen makes it out
safely, but I do require a few moments to become reacquainted with
my motorcycle after a week’s absence.

“Hello, old friend,” I say, running my hand
along the seat up to the handle bars. Lifting the helmet I find
Zafir has neatly tucked the keys inside. Strapping on the
protective apparatus, I mount her and fire up the engine, reveling
in the throaty sound as she comes to life. Checking the mirrors, I
see Gwen safely ensconced in her vehicle and I give the bike a
little gas, floating toward the exit. With a firm grip I keep my
girl reined in until Gwen’s Mini has backed out of its space and
pulled up behind me. After checking for traffic, I lead the bike
onto the deserted street. A block later I give the girl her head
and we race off into the night, seeking the highway and the sweet
release of speed.

My head feels clearer with the wind on my
face and the smell of fresh air all around me. Phoenix doesn’t hold
a candle to an evening in San Diego. Exiting the freeway I smile
with pride—the engine hasn’t even broken a sweat, and the bike ...
she feels good in my hands. I take a second leisurely lap around
the block before descending into the underground parking garage of
my apartment building. Stabling the motorcycle in my reserved slot,
I take a few minutes to lovingly clean off the dust she’s
accumulated in my absence. I stow my helmet and follow the dim
lighting of the garage to the elevator. Punching the “Up” button I
wait for the lift, contemplating the future.

A low-pitched ding rouses me from my
thoughts long enough to enter the elevator, make my floor
selection, and hold on until I reach the top. At some point during
the slow ascent, my energy flags, exhaustion accumulated over the
last few days finally overtaking me.

I sluggishly enter the apartment—its open
layout, high ceilings, and wrap around windows greet me. Everything
from the furniture to the amenities have that simple, modern flair,
and I hate it. Some, I suppose, would consider it stylishly chic.
On the whole, it just feels cold and sterile to me, too orderly and
efficient to feel at home in. I vastly prefer old world comfort; I
own several other homes which are filled with warm woodwork and
vibrant colors, the furniture so soft and plush you’d swear you
were sitting on a cloud.