Chapter 11

Eleven

P retty

Smoothing down my pressed hair, I gave my final look the once over to ensure I wasn't doing too much. It wasn't like he was asking me to walk a red carpet. Maybe I should switch the open toe pumps for D'Orsay heels.

Why was I putting this much effort into it? It wasn't like he was actually taking me out. It was likely a professional outing but…it had been so long since I wanted to look nice for a man.

Vernon made it subtle but explicit that if I wanted to look nice, it had to be for myself. Things he used to notice go right over his head now.

The weight gain hadn't affected my looks, but to him, it made me feel invisible. Maybe it was just the company of Mr. Sullivan, but it was nice to dress up for someone outside of yourself. Not that he would notice or anything.

Men as handsome and young as Mr. Sullivan didn't notice women like me. Working moms. Not when they could have their pick at some nineteen-year-old, happy to be a stay at home one. Looking at my life, while successful, I wonder would I have been happier in a route like that? I guess I'll never know.

When I hopped in my car, finding the parking lot of the address he asked me to meet him downright confused me. This couldn't be right. Did I mix up the address? I almost started my car back up when the figure exiting the building was Mr. Sullivan.

Stepping out of my vehicle, Mr. Sullivan stared me down with a look I wish I could decipher the meaning to.

"You look nice." Even the smallest smile brought out those damn dimples.

"Well, I didn't know you'd be taking me to a gun range. Why on earth would you bring me here?"

Mr. Sullivan shrugged. "Why else? To teach you to shoot."

"Well, you're the bodyguard. Why do I need to learn with you around all the time?" I wondered.

"Picture this scenario," he said, his hands going straight into his pockets. "Your husband's not home. An intruder breaks in. You're a woman, and it's a man—maybe two. Twice your size. Your first instinct is to protect your son, but you can't fight them on your own. What do you think your chances would be?"

Now that I gave it serious thought, I didn't know. Everything changed after this stalker situation. My safety, or my son's for that matter, have never been a matter worth discussing until now.

"I know you didn't ask for it, but my opinion's that your odds would fare greater if you knew where to start. I'm not going to be watching over you forever. If you walk away with anything, the least you can do is walk away with this."

While it was true, it didn't sit right with me. Now that Mr. Sullivan was here , I couldn't imagine a time where he wasn't needed. We may have given each other hell at first, but his entire role in my life had been ensuring my safety. Had my husband taken it up as his responsibility, Mr. Sullivan's role wouldn't even be needed.

"I suppose you're right. I pray none of this ever bleeds into the safety of my son. But my husband's already paying you," I answered reluctantly as he offered to open the building door for me.

Once we got past the main room, Mr. Sullivan escorted me past a room full of strangers shooting targets. Already I was feeling out of place. Mr. Sullivan must have sensed that, because it wasn't long before he took us to a private booth.

"I'll be honest, this isn't really my scene," I said with a shudder, hugging my shoulders.

"That's your bias and your insecurity talking. A gun range is one of the few places a person can feel equal, no matter their skill level. Everyone's just trying to learn."

"Not from what I just saw. Felt like I was in a room full of gangsters."

"Trust me, Mrs. Washington. You ain't never met a real gangster before me. Being so makes me observant. It doesn't hurt that I know every family in Boston's syndicates. Mine just happens to be at the top."

Well, at least he was from a successful crime family. Didn't make sense to be breaking the law but be broke. "So…" I started, as I ran my hand along the table of firearms. "Have you ever had to use one of these?"

Mr. Sullivan laughed under his breath. "We shouldn't ask questions we don't really want the answers to." He dismissed before placing headphones onto my ears. He had such big, strong hands. If I had to go by the looks and bravado of him, I'd say everything he did with them, he knew what he was doing.

"First tip, you need a solid stance. Use two hands. None of that shit you see in pictures. Depending on the type of the gun, there'll be a level of recoil. But I'll start you off slow and easy, and we could progress from there."

Mr. Sullivan handed me a small gun, and even that terrified me, given what they could do. He directed me to perform a few drills, and he wasn't kidding about the recoil.

"Relax. Breathe. Take your time," he reassured, as each shot went wildly off target. My nerves were on edge shooting a static target. How would I be able to do this with a moving one?

"I know you're nervous, but there's a version of you that you got to dig down deep to find to bury the current you. Look for that person and you'll be able to center yourself."

"Isn't it just good that I get a good shot?" I thought out loud.

"That could happen. But what if someone's trying to tackle the gun from you? Or you drop it? Your first shot, should be your best shot." Mr. Sullivan insisted.

"Maybe this isn't the right firearm for me. Maybe I should just try another one," I said as I carelessly turned to him.

"Pretty, you better not aim that at someone unless you plan to use it," he warned, snatching it out of my hand. "Do you hear me?" he raged, with an angry pointed finger in my direction.

"Yes, I hear you." Mr. Sullivan placed the gun back on the table, as I rubbed the sides of my arms, riddled in my insecurity. "I'm sorry." Just when were just getting off to a better foot. I hoped my actions I didn't change that.

"There's nothing to apologize for. But firearms are not toys. It's not first nature to you, but you could hurt yourself or those around you if you treat it like a toy."

"Okay."

"I apologize for snapping at you. I swear I didn't mean to be so familiar. I've just seen enough eejits to last a lifetime with poor firearm etiquette. Your safety is my biggest concern, but I can't do my job well if you shoot me by accident," he said with a brush to the side of my face to calm me. His opposing gaze looked surprisingly gentle in this moment. Perhaps it was just surprising that he could be comforting.

"Which gun is your favorite one to shoot?" I asked, hoping the question would eliminate some of the tension.

"Do you really want to know?" he said, and he took my nod for confirmation. "Probably a twelve-gauge shotgun."

Curious, I quickly followed up. "Any particular reason?"

"Because they take patience and control. They're simple but effective. They leave behind a mess, but they're never going to leave their target standing."

"Can you show me?" With that prompt, Mr. Sullivan walked over to the target and waited until he commanded my full attention despite a respectable distance.

"See with a twelve gauge, I'd make sure I had the lightest low-brass load for a first timer. Once your chamber load—and this is important—you make sure the butt of the stock is planted firmly on your shoulder. If you don't have the stock locked, trust me, you'll be wearing a bruise because of it," he explained, as he proceeded to shoot, first aiming for the heart, until his third shot went for the head.

"In a realistic situation, the sound would be much louder without the muffs. You'll lose your hearing for a bit. But I've never known them not to be effective."

He questioned if I wanted to see if another firearm would be a better fit. When I asked about the 9mm pistol, he gave me words of caution. "That one's gonna try to jump out your hand, so you've got to maintain your grip to use it. But I reckon that'd be a decent choice for you," he encouraged.

Advising me safer, more practical tips on how to handle the 9mm, I shot three rounds, each poorly executed. He was right. The recoil was a bitch, but it was easier for me to handle.

He handled them so well, like it came so naturally to him. My skill set may never be as impressive, but I could get a little better each time.

"No one is ever an expert to start. I've been doing this since I was fourteen, but even I found it hard in a high stakes situation."

"Are you talking about your time served? Were these the kind of guns you used?"

"Not quite. I'm more used to 30-06 rifles. All day, every day, that was what we were expected to handle. The recoil at your shoulder is nasty work your first time. But you don't need to know how to shoot one of those to defend yourself."

Shooting another unsuccessful round, while he didn't explicitly show it, it appeared to frustrate Mr. Sullivan that I wasn't getting in a shot. "Here, let me show you a different approach," he said as he reached in behind me, stretching his arms against mine to hold the gun higher to reach my eye level.

I was about to fucking faint. Being—feeling—Mr. Sullivan this close to me was the closest I'd been to a man holding me in months. Not only was his touch gentle yet firm, he smelled nice. It should be a requirement to smell this good when you were a man.

His hands went down to my hips and if I passed out from being touched starved, surely, he would have to catch me. "Relax your hips. I can tell that you're very wound up," he said, suggesting that I square my hips for better posture.

"That better?" He asked in a low brooding brogue.

"Mmmhmm…" Shit, was I really this lost for words over my bodyguard? Maybe I just wasn't used to the touching. I sure as hell wasn't used to Vernon's attention after having children. I know it was harmless, but I was trembling before his scent and strength.

"You okay?" Dammit. He must have noticed.

"I'm just nervous."

"Don't be. I'll guide you through it." He spoke in a little hum, forcing me to concentrate, despite the circumstances. I proceeded to empty the rounds and while my aim wasn't perfect, it was better. I'd even managed to shoot the target in a critical spot.

"See, there's not a thing you can't do when you put your mind to it," he said, backing away and surprisingly, I was missing his invading presence. It was just for the lesson, but it felt good to be in the embrace of a man. I loved my son's little cuddles, but nothing replaced the strength of a grown man.

"I think we're done."

"So soon?" I asked, disappointed.

"We're done if the plan is to take you to lunch before I pick up your son," he later added. Deciding it was best to wrap things up, I accepted the invitation of sharing a much quieter, intimate setting. He suggested another address and much like the last place, I was dangerously overdressed. Sensing my discomfort, Mr. Sullivan reassured me.

"Next time I'll take you someplace fancier. It's just they make a mean spukie and I get the sense that you ain't used to trying new things."

Truth was, much of what I did try, I never liked much. When in negotiations for certain gigs, it seemed like fancy restaurants were the only place big time folks wanted to talk business.

French, Italian, even some American. Most times, I ended up drinking more than eating, because gourmet didn't always mean good .

"Next time, I'll just dress the part," I defended, as he led the both of us to a booth in a corner.

I'd never been in a public space with a white man without my husband, so I prayed that no one recognized me or cared enough to take a second look. Times were changing but it wasn't but a few years ago that the law matched with the times.

If I were being honest, seeing a Black man with a white woman a lot more normal. The same couldn't be said for the other way around. I think we were more loyal than our male counterparts. Didn't help that white men simply weren't seeking out Colored Women.

Sleeping with us didn't mean the same as being attracted to. Being with Black men just felt safer because I had never had to consider what it would look like to be out in public with a man until now.

I'm ashamed to admit that even I couldn't help but stare at times, wondering how or why a person would want to be with someone outside their race. But if my mother hadn't taken that chance, I wouldn't be here.

"What's a spukie?? At my question, his animated eyes widened in disbelief.

"You don't know what a spukie is? I'm gonna need to see your birth certificate, because ain't no way you're from Boston," he teased.

"From your accent, I take it you're not either." As a short exchange with a staff member came and went, as Mr. Sullivan ordered for us.

"Lived here most of my life. I got some good memories of Cork, but it don't really feel like home anymore," he admitted. I wasn't familiar with cities outside of Dublin, so to hear him speak about his place of birth was interesting.

"What about you?"

It was hard to simmer down all the places that I had lived until Back Bay became my permanent home. "Well, I've lived in Boston most of my life, but once my mom saw I caught the music bug, she sent me to go live in New York where I could nurse my talents."

"Well, that was wise of her."

"I could have gone to Juilliard too, but once I got into show business, it seemed like I was putting off the one thing I was already doing," I proudly admitted.

"Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever heard you play."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Sullivan. You admitting that you've never seen any of my pictures?"

"I haven't. But honestly, I think a character on the screen wouldn't do you much justice. When it comes to you, I kind of prefer the real thing." Did he really just say that? Or was I thinking too much into it?

"I saw some good race films overseas. Sometimes that's all you got for morale in war. I was never lucky enough to see a live performance or anything." he admitted.

"What was it like overseas? Would you do it again? Is it really as bad as they say?" Anxious and unsure of which question I wanted answered first.

"Well, whatever you heard, imagine that and amplify it by a thousand. Nothing can really prepare you for what it takes to survive in that environment. I don't know if I even feel comfortable sharing this with a lass because some stuff just ain't for women's ears."

"Well, what are for my ears?" I challenged.

"On a battlefield, you gotta be a different person. Basically, a monster, for lack of better words. The stuff I've had to do, that kind of shit changes you forever. There honestly, ain't no humane way to kill a man in times like that. Feels like I've lived three lifetimes in the span of a year and a half. I probably wouldn't even be here had it not been for my mate, Moore."

From Mr. Sullivan's account, while he'd had brothers, the army forced you to bond in different ways, something he claimed was almost as strong as the bond he had with his birth siblings. I didn't have siblings, so I didn't know what kind of bond that was like, and in my industry, it was just as hard to make friends. Being a Black woman with an exceptional skill level made a lot of entertainers envious that my talent had put me in that space.

"Was he an Irishman like you?"

"Honestly? He's a Black man. But over there, you couldn't afford to see color. My Pa didn't raise me the best when it came to race, but he ain't never served shit but himself. And the first army mate that stabbed me in the back was an Irishman. So, I don't care about all that race stuff. I just care if you're a good person, and Moore was the best of them. We had our issues at times, but I'd give my life for that man in a heartbeat," he admitted in one breath.

I'd never thought of Mr. Sullivan to have friends of a different race, so I was curious to where their challenges in the friendship lie. "What were your issues? If you don't mind me asking."

Mr. Sullivan grew quiet, and I would have respected if, like many of the other things, he hadn't planned on sharing.

"The first time I was alone with him, he tried to kiss me. I ain't got nothing against what people do in private, but I'm not into that. Honestly, it was my first instinct to fucking beat him like he stole something. But that's how my father would have dealt with the problem, and I ain't beating up no Black man just because he's got a fucking school girl crush."

"So, what did you do?"

"I told him never do that shit again. To anybody . Because if he did it to the wrong person, I was sure they'd fucking kill him. We never talked about it again until I woke up in the medic base after he carried me three miles on his shoulder. When I asked him why he didn't leave me, he said, I'd save his life by not telling anybody what he did. So, he felt like he was just returning the favor."

Mr. Sullivan had experienced far beyond what most experienced in a lifetime. It explained his wisdom, maturity and made him come off as more than your average gangster. I'd surely miss sharing his company when his services were no longer needed. With my husband gone so much, it was nice having a competent adult around for once.

"Anyway, I don't want to bore you with my war stories?—"

"You could never bore me," I said, without thinking. Luckily, our food came to dissolve some of the residual embarrassment

"Oh, so a spukie is a hero?"

"Look at Ms. fancy words," he laughed.

"That's just what they call it in New York," sharing an exchange of laughter. "I've never had one, though. Maybe I should just save some of it. I'm really trying to watch what I eat."

"Live a little. Never heard of someone having a heart attack for eating a sandwich."

"Easy for you to say. You probably have the metabolism of a five-year-old."

"Pretty, if you don't just eat the damn sandwich." Whenever he told me to do something, he always called me by my name and not the formal version Mrs. Washington. It was clear that he was authoritative and used to getting people to do things.

Deciding to do as he asked, I held the sandwich close to my mouth, I was surprised by the simple but myriad of flavors. It was pretty good.

"See what happens when you let someone take the lead. They surprise you," he added. I admit, Mr. Sullivan had a way about him where he dominated the room whenever he entered it.

While I was similar, I typically had to command it, whereas for him, it just came naturally. He was very traditional in that way. I liked that my husband had always made me feel like I had a say in most things, but it made him passive in a lot of other ways. While I would never admit this out loud, it was really attractive when a man took control.

It was attractive when Mr . Sullivan took control.

"Will there be anything else?" The wait staff circled by to check in.

"Just to check, if you don't mind," I said, as I reached for my purse to grab my wallet.

"What the hell are you doing?" He asked defensively.

"You shared something with me today, taught me a lot. The least I could do is treat you to lunch."

"Look, Mrs. Washington, I ain't letting a woman pay for me. I just wasn't raised that way."

"It's not a big deal. It's not like I don't have it."

"Oh, I'm confident that you do. But this ain't just an ego thing. I feel like a woman's time is worth paying for, whether if it's just for company or—other things. I feel like if I let you pay, it'd be a sign that your time don't mean nothing to me. And I appreciate your company."

Time truly was money. But I never had a person explain not wanting me to pay in a way like that. Sometimes it felt like men would refuse my generosity just to prove that they weren't broke. To have someone value my time was new for me.

"Fine," I said, slipping my wallet back into my purse. Sooner than later, we both headed back to our respective vehicles, Mr. Sullivan walking me to mine.

"I'm going to tail you until you get home. Then I'm going to go straight to Elijah's school."

"That's really not necessary?—"

"I don't care what's necessary. I like being good at my job. When you're safe, I'm doing my job. Let me." He dismissed, opening my car door for me and closing it behind me.

He stuck his head through my window and smiled. "Funny how we're always meeting like this," he flirted, before reaching in and putting on my seatbelt.

"After you, Mrs. Washington." As he hopped in his car, waiting for me to drive off. There was something about this man that put me in a constant state of unrest.

Mr. Sullivan was the desperate attention that I craved. I just wish I could do something about it.