Page 1 of Bulletproof

ONE

2004

In my life, I had been kidnapped twice, shot at, hit, chased down in a car, and yanked off the street. It sort of numbed you to surreal experiences. Because of all that, my brother, Dane, was certain that my gauge that sensed weirdness was way out of whack. It was possible.

Things that other people—normal people—thought were insane or horrifying didn’t normally faze me, so from time to time, I’d have a hard time differentiating run-of-the-mill crazy from severe psychosis.

I also needed to check occasionally to make sure that something that I’d said was okay. I tended to be too accepting of situations and circumstances. Like, if a good friend of mine asked me to keep a gun for them, I would probably do it simply because it was my friend—why would I question it?

This capacity for trust drove my partner, my husband, Sam Kage—we had gotten married in Ontario last year—crazy. Now, being as we lived in Chicago and not Canada, our marriage wasn’t legal, but we did have a domestic partnership that we had registered with the great state of Illinois. I loved that he’d wanted a ceremony, and standing in front of the judge—even though it wasn’t our country—made me deliriously happy. He had been the same, and I missed seeing all that love in his eyes on a daily basis.

The man in question had been gone for three months, moving quickly to four, participating undercover in a federal task force. I craved his presence, his touch, his smell on the sheets, his empty coffee cup in the sink, and the towels he left on the floor in the bathroom. I missed being in bed with him, and my body ached and throbbed with his absence.

I had been working off my sexual energy at the gym, and I had been running like a man training for a marathon. I even beat my brother at racquetball, which, normally, the stars had to be aligned for me to do. When Dane stared at me with wonder all over his face, I told him I needed Sam to come home so I could get laid. As always, when I overshared, I got the look of disgust that he could do better than anybody.

I needed to keep busy, so working on the weekend seemed like a good idea. That was why I volunteered for a Saturday with Michelle Cooper instead of lying comatose around my loft for two days. Normally, when Sam was home, Saturdays were for sleeping in, hours of sex, and a late breakfast/early lunch. Sam in the morning—with his gravel-filled voice, soft eyes, tousled hair, and stubbly beard—could stop my heart. His smile when he first opened his slate-blue eyes, the way they crinkled in half, the curve of his mouth …

I couldn’t help it; I suddenly had to shift where I was standing on the train because my jeans were tight across the front. I needed to stop thinking about my man.

Fiddling with the platinum band on the ring finger of my left hand, I got off at the Oak Park platform and descended the stairs to the street. I loved it there—even used to live there—and adored all the little shops, the great restaurants, and the jewelry store that sold the Baltic Sea amber that my best friend, Dylan Greer, collected.

It had stopped pouring, but it was dark and overcast, the street squishy and wet with puddles, the air still smelling like rain. As I passed a restaurant, the aroma of syrup hit me, and I had a sudden craving for French toast. I made a mental note to stop for brunch at a restaurant I liked after my walk-through/meeting/consultation.

A year ago, Aubrey Jenner—then Aubrey Flanagan—Dylan Greer, and I had had our own business. But Harvest Design folded in the withering economy, and we were forced to sell and find new jobs. I could not find one in my field of graphic design and refused to go back to working for my brother, so I ended up at Synergy.

What I had thought would be an okay job at the time—when I needed something, anything, and I was desperate—I now realized was slowly rotting away my soul.

“Dramatic much?” Dylan asked me over the phone.

She was not enjoying her job as an entry-level graphic designer at Tateman Limited either—because she was so much more than entry-level anything—but at least she was using her skill set.

“Oh, Jory, you are so using the gifts God gave you,” she snapped at me. “You talk to people better than anyone I know.”

I groaned.

“Then quit bitching about it and find a new goddamn job!”

And I needed to, but I could admit to being lazy because the job was effortless and I got paid pretty well.

“Call me later. I wanna go to that store that sells those weird spices, but that guy⁠—”

“Charles.”

“Yeah, Charles. He hates me, so you hafta talk to him.”

“He likes you; don’t be stupid.”

“He likes you, Jory,” she assured me. “He wants to put his hands all over you. I can see it in that predatory way he looks at you.”

“Whatever,” I said, patronizing her.

“He does; you just don’t see it. You never see it until it’s too late.”

Whatever that meant.

“Fine, I’ll call you later.”

“Good. Go to work.”