“Common practice in my field,” he insists.
“Oh, sure. Because that’s not creepy at all,” I say sarcastically, with a theatrical eye roll. “I think I found the stalker, and it’syou.”
At that, Dean throws his head back and laughs, really laughs, a deep soul-shaking sound.
I gasp, my hand flying to my chest, “Oh my gosh! Do that again.”
His brow furrows, confused by my sudden change in mood. “Do what?”
“Laugh. I’ve never heard you do it before. You have a great laugh.”
He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind.
“Seriously. You should do it more often.” I nod confidently.
A small shrug from him. “Not much occasion for it in my line of work.”
That spikes my curiosity. “How’d you meet Caleb, anyway? Get this job? You’re awfully dedicated, staying up all night.”
“I met him at a bar.”
My hand covers my mouth, concern softening the set of my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Do you have a drinking problem, too?”
He does another one of those deep laughs, his rich baritone filling the car. “No. That was the first time I’d been in a bar in over five years.”
“Oh?” I place my elbow on my knee and rest my chin in my hand, regarding him expectantly.
He purses his lips, staring back. “You’re not going to let this go until you get the story, are you?”
“Nope.”
A wry smile twists his mouth. “Fine, but you can’t print it.”
“Understood.” I grin, my anticipation almost unbearable.
Dean turns to watch out the window. “It was over four years ago in L.A. I’d been out of the Army for about six months, struggling to find work I liked. I picked up jobs here and there, but nothing felt right, like something I could do long term. Anyway, I went to the bar that night, thinking a drink might distract me from worrying.
“This man sits down next to me, wearing a baseball cap pulled down low.I thought he was older, with the way he walked, kinda hunched over and slow. He had a southern accent, light, but definitely there. We got to talking. I guess the couple of beers I had loosened my tongue, so I told him some of what was going on.”
Dean gives a lengthy pause here, and my reporter spider sense tells me he’s editing the story, hiding some detail.
“The man was tipsy when he sat down and getting more drunk as the hours passed. After midnight, he lifts his cap to smooth his hair, and that’s when I saw it was all an act—the accent, the walking, the mannerisms.
“I was like, ‘Hey! You’re Caleb Lawson. What’re you doing here?’ and I’ll never forget what he said. He sighed and said, ‘Trying to be someone else.’ And I said, ‘Me too, buddy.’”
Dean pauses again, sadness turning down the corners of his mouth. I resist the urge to reach out to him but restrain myself, not wanting to interrupt his story. “Then Caleb asked if I was going to stop talking to him like a normal person now that I knew who he was. Of course, I said ‘no.’”
A pained hint of a smile crosses his face. “We stayed until the bartender kicked us out. Caleb was pretty sloshed by then, swaying and tripping. I demanded he let me help him home. When we got here,” Dean hooks a thumb toward the building across the street, “he offered me a job. Told me to come back in the morning. I thought, “No way is this guy going to remember what he promised” but, well, Iwaslooking for work. I showed up the next day, and there was Caleb, hungover, with a contract in his hands. He said, ‘You’re used to protecting people. I want you to protect me.’”
Understanding dawns on me. Dean’s workaholic tendencies make sense now. He thinks Caleb saved him, so, in return, he saves Caleb.
I open my mouth to respond when I notice movement outside the window. I catch my breath and point. “Who’s that by the front door? The woman in the trench coat?”
Dean swivels and peers through the snow. He gapes and says, “That’s Mrs. Wilkins.”
“Who?”
“Caleb’s old housekeeper.” He shoots a glance at me over his shoulder. “We fired her once we found out she was selling Caleb’s used underwear on the Internet.”
