Copyright © 2008 Gemma Halliday
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
Genre: Contemporary
Rating: Tangy for language
9:07 p.m. She walked in her front door. Dropped her briefcase on the floor, kicked off her shoes. Heels. Always heels, this one. Dale wondered if maybe she had a height complex. From a distance, he judged her to be petite, no more than 5’3”. She was slim and compact, not a surprise considering how many hours he’d watched her put in at the gym. Ten in the last week. Even he had to be impressed by that.
She pushed a button on her answering machine, and a mechanical voice told her she had no messages. Not, of course, that Dale could hear it from his car across the street. But he knew there were never any messages by her body language, the way she quickly turned away from the machine, the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly forward. The way she never called anyone back. He wondered why she kept checking day after day.
She crossed into the kitchen, obscuring Dale’s view for a moment. He took the opportunity to readjust his binoculars, wiping a single bead of sweat from his forehead. It was easily ninety, even with the sun setting behind him into the San Francisco Bay. He would have killed to flip on the AC but feared the running engine might attract attention. No, better to suffer the heat. The last thing he needed was some yahoo calling the SFPD on a Peeping Tom.
She emerged from the kitchen, crossing in front of the windows again, a glass of wine in hand. Something white and dry. He knew she didn’t go for that fruity shit. He’d been a step behind her at the supermarket yesterday when she’d purchased the bottle.
He shrugged his tight shoulders. Sweat dampened the back of his t-shirt as he watched her flip on her stereo. Her head rolled back, her eyes closed, and her body instantly swayed to the rhythm. He wished he knew what she was listening to. Jazz? Beethoven? Some pop singer? He had no idea. But in his mind, he liked to pretend it was a smooth Sinatra standard. Light, clean, classic. It fit her.
She carried her glass of wine into the bedroom, her movements fluid as the music relaxed her tense shoulders. She worked too hard. Most lawyers did, but he could tell she was driven in a way that just making associate at age twenty-five, or partner by thirty wouldn’t ever be enough for her. Something inside drove her. Single-minded and relentless, she would never quit, never stop, never be satisfied with less than everything. He admired it. And yet, at the same time, it was exactly what made him know he needed to be here. That as much as he knew it was wrong to follow her, to track her every movement like some sort of hunter with his unsuspecting prey, he had to do this. Had to watch her. Had to follow her. Had to be that shadow, just waiting for the right moment.
Still swaying to the music, she slowly pulled her blouse over her head, exposing a lacy, pink bra that made Dale shift in his seat. This was his favorite part of the night. When it was just the two of them, alone. When she was relaxed and uninhibited. He felt like he was seeing the real her, the real Isabella. Not the tough defense council, not the stylish urbanite, and not the dutiful daughter. Just her. Bella.
And him.
She reached down and unzipped her skirt. It fell to the ground in a pile.
“Wash day, honey?” he whispered to himself.