Matchmaer 04: April

Brooklyn

I listened to the purring of the phone. Tara wasn't known for being an early riser. It was five p.m. in Chicago, three p.m. in Los Angeles, so she should be up by now.

"May I help you?" a female voice asked, but not Tara's.

I rolled my eyes. Tara either wasn't up or one of her entourage was still screening her calls for her. "Brooklyn Lancaster to speak with Tara Reyes."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Give me your number. I'll let Tara know you called, and if she wants, she'll call you back."

"She has my number, and you do that," I replied, my voice cool.

The call ended without an acknowledgement from the woman. I pursed my lips. For what she was paying me, I could put up with Tara's shit, but that didn't mean I had to like it. I'd been working with rich and powerful men and women for the last five years, but I'd never received the constant brushing off and run around that I did from this child-woman.

About an hour later, as I was working on another client's behalf, my phone rang. It was Tara's number. I finished what I was doing before I picked up the handset. I typically handled fifteen to twenty requests a year, with people waiting in a queue to use my services, so I had plenty of work. I didn't need Tara's contract, and she was fast getting on my nerves.

"Brooklyn Lancaster."

"Brooklyn, this is Tara. You called?"

"Yes. I think I've found your companion."

"Great!"

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I'm sure."

I nodded to myself. It was what she thought she wanted, but I suspected when she got what she was asking for, she wasn't going to like it very much. I depended on good word of mouth, so I tried to make sure my clients were completely satisfied.

"Very well. His name is Charles. He's a little older than you and—"

"He's not

old,

is he? I'm not looking for some fat old bastard to use as a father figure."

I ground my teeth. "I'd hardly call twenty-nine old." That was only four years older than Tara, but Charles was much more mature and down to earth, something Tara claimed to want.

"Oh, good. That's fine. What's he do?"

"As I explained to you when you first contacted me, I only make the introductions. The rest you have to learn on your own."

"Can't you tell me anything about him?"

"As I was going to say, his name is Charles, and he's a little older than you. The both of you are booked in a villa on the beach. As you requested, I have protected your anonymity. The villa is rented in Charles' name, and no one involved, other than myself, knows you will be vacationing there. I found someone who is not familiar with you, and he knows only your first name. It will be up to you to tell him who you are, if you choose."

"That's great. What beach?"

"South Padre Island."

"Where's that?"

"Texas, near Brownsville."

"Texas! Why the hell would I want to go to Texas?"

I bit back my sarcastic response. "Ms. Reyes, you specifically asked me to match you with a companion in a location where you could leave your current life behind. I asked you for conditions, and you said there were none except you wanted anonymity. If you had a preference for where you and your companion were to stay, you should have said so during our interview."

"Yes, but," she grunted, "well, aren't Texans a bunch of redneck, racist hicks?"

"This isn't the nineteen fifties, Ms. Reyes. I suggest you check your assumptions at the door." I could tell by the pause she didn't like me talking to her like I was, but I didn't care. This was a mere tickle compared to the wakeup call she was going to receive.

"But I'll be safe, right?"

Did she think I was going to intentionally put her life in danger? "Ms. Reyes, I again suggest you reevaluate your assumptions."

"I'm just asking!"

I sighed. "I can't guarantee your safety, and bringing your bodyguards will likely bring unwanted attention, but I think it's safe to assume you will be as safe there as in Los Angeles. Probably safer."

"But doesn't everyone there carry guns or something?"

"I wouldn't know. However, South Padre Island is a popular winter vacation spot. I hardly think it would be that if there was a significant crime problem."

"Maybe," she finally muttered. "Is he sexy?"

I smiled. "I wouldn't kick him out of my bed."

"Great! When do we leave?"

"You're booked April second through May fifth. I've arranged for transportation from Brownsville to your villa. I can arrange your transportation to Brownsville, or you can arrange it yourself."

"I'll check with my people."

You do that,

I thought to myself. "One last thing, Ms. Reyes. As I explained, there are no guarantees. Each of you may leave at any time, but my fee is nonrefundable. We're clear on that?"

I did my job with no paperwork, no contract or paper trail, to protect my client's privacy. My clients paid my expenses as I incurred them, and my fee was always paid up front. I'd had to refund my fee a couple of times when I couldn't match the client to a companion, but my expenses were nonrefundable. Once I matched my client with a companion, I kept the fee, no matter what happened after that. That was what I was being paid to do. I did the work in good faith, and I expected to be paid for my time and efforts.

"Yeah, whatever. I told you what I was looking for. Did you find someone like that?"

I again smiled to myself. "Yes."

"Then I have no problem."

"Very good. Please let me know in the next two weeks if I need to arrange your transportation to Brownsville."

"Okay, I will. Anything else?"

"No."

"Okay, I have to go. Angela keeps glaring at me and tapping her watch."

"We're done."

"Okay. Thanks," Tara said and was gone.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Some clients were more difficult than others. Tara Reyes, while not putting a lot of stipulations on the companion or location, had been one of my more trying clients. She'd said she wanted someone to treat her like a normal person. It hadn't been easy to find someone I thought was strong enough to stand up to her and her bullshit, but I think Mr. Charles Dalmer was just the man for the job.

.

.

.

Tara

I paced in the villa. The view of the white sand beach and the Gulf of Mexico beyond the floor to ceiling windows was certainly spectacular, or would be if it weren't raining. The villa was set on a large plot of lush green grass that ran to the edge of the private beach, with palm trees and lumps of tall grass dotting the landscape.

The villa and grounds, called Sandpiper Cove, were nice enough, with four bedrooms, two with king size beds and two with double full-size beds, five baths, and a three-car garage. Everything except food was provided, from bed linens to pots and pans. The villa had obviously been built to rent to vacationers with its large open floor plan, a panoramic view of the beach, and the gulf beyond. It was only about a quarter of the size of my house in L.A., but it would do for a vacation.

I reached the kitchen and turned back, pacing in front of the windows. I'd been in the villa for almost four hours and was starting to go stir crazy. There was nothing on television and Charles was late. He was supposed to have been here over an hour ago. I stopped and turned on the television again, idly flipping through channels. I didn't have a car or a driver, so I was stuck. I couldn't believe Brooklyn stuck me in an

Uber

rather than hiring a car.

I heard the rumble of a garage door going up and heated with a rush of panic. I felt naked without security. I thought about hiding in the bedroom in case it was some crazy redneck looking for guns or to rape me, but I forced the fear down. Nobody knew who I was. Even the Uber driver hadn't looked at me twice.

After a moment, the kitchen door opened and a tall, tanned man walked in with a large duffle in one hand and a hanging bag hooked in two of his fingers over his opposite shoulder. He was at least six feet tall with hair so light brown it was almost blond. He glanced around a moment before he spotted me. He looked surprised but smiled.

"You Tara?"

"Yes. Charles?" I asked, forcing my voice to be strong.

His smile spread as he dropped the duffle and draped the second bag over the kitchen counter before approaching and extending his hand. "Chuck Dalmer. Nice to meet you."

I took his hand as his name tickled a memory. I couldn't place it, but I was sure I'd heard his name before. His grip was firm but not crushing, and I noticed that he had a working man's hands, the skin leathery and slightly rough to the touch.

"Tara Reyes." There was no reaction to my name.

"Reyes, huh?" he said with a smile as he released my hand. "You royalty?"

"What?" I asked, my brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Reyes. That's Spanish for king, or royalty."

"Oh!" I smiled at his teasing. "No. Sorry. I don't speak Spanish."

"To bad. Not every day a guy like me gets to date a princess."

"My, aren't you the flirt?"

Chuck was just like every other man, practically every person in my life, a fawning sycophant with his clever lines. This was precisely what I didn't want. Brooklyn had said there were no refunds, but if she couldn't get even that much right, I was going to demand my money back.

"Naw," he said, returning to the kitchen to pick up his bags. "What you see is what you get. Which room is mine?"

"There are four. Take your choice."

I followed him up the steps. The two king rooms faced the ocean. "I assume you took one of these?"

"That one," I said, pointing to the one on the right.

Without comment he went to the left one. That surprised me a little. It was like he didn't want to fuck me, which chilled me toward him even more. The asshole. I didn't know where Chuck was from, but from his accent he sounded like the rest of the people I'd spoken to in this shithole of a town, and as I suspected, they were a bunch of racist, redneck assholes.

He tossed his bags on the bed and began to unpack. "Sorry I'm late. The rain and a wreck slowed me down."

"You drove?"

"Yeah. It was only six hours, or would be if it weren't for the rain. I knocked off at noon. Why?"

I blinked. I wasn't sure why I was surprised, but I was. "No reason. Where do you live?"

"Houston. Where are you from."

"L.A."

He grinned as my heart fluttered. He'd just tossed a pistol on the bed. "I could tell you weren't from around here." He turned on the Texas drawl "You talk funny."

"That your gun?" I squeaked.

"Yeah, why? Oh," he said softly. "Oh, yeah, left coast. Does it make you nervous?"

"A little."

"Well, don't let it. It hasn't killed anyone yet."

I didn't like his cavalier attitude. "That's not funny. I don't like guns. They're dangerous and they kill people."

He looked at me like a parent would a rather dim-witted child. "Then mine must be defective. I've owned that pistol for almost ten years, and as I said, it hasn't killed anyone yet."

His sneering attitude annoyed me. "I don't think that's very funny."

"I didn't intend for it to be. Guns are only as dangerous as the person holding it."

"I still don't like them."

He shrugged. "Each to their own." He continued to unpack, hanging his clothes in the closet. "Listen, I haven't eaten since breakfast. As soon as I unpack, why don't I take you out for dinner? Are you hungry?"

"I guess."

"Good. I bet they have some good seafood around here."

"I wouldn't know. It's my first time here."

"Yeah, mine too."

He hung his shirts, pants, and a couple of sport coats in the closet before tucking away underwear and socks. I watched as he worked.

"So, what brings a big city girl like you to South Padre Island, and why did you hire Brooklyn to find you a, as she calls it, companion? You rich and famous or something?"

I blinked a couple of times as he moved back to the closet to hang a few more pants. Brooklyn had said he didn't know who I was. I wasn't sure I believed her, but now that he'd seen me... He was either a terrific actor, or he really didn't know who I was. He stood at the closet door, watching me, waiting for my response.

I shrugged. "I have some money."

He nodded and dug around in his duffle, his hands coming out of the bag with bathroom supplies. "So rich and beautiful, yet you hired someone to find a loser like me," he said from the bathroom.

I watched him as he worked. I was getting all kinds of mixed messages from him. He immediately chose the other bedroom, as if he were offended by my presence. He'd obviously been surprised to see me, and I first thought he was being nice because it was expected. But now, I wasn't so sure. His beautiful comment caught me off guard.

"Are you a loser?"

He stepped out of the bathroom with a smile. "Well, I'm a damn-sight not rich."

"What do you do?"

"Build houses. Well, me and my dad do."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We build high end custom homes for all the oil money."

That explained the hands. "That's interesting."

He nodded. "Yeah. Dad does the general contracting and plumbing. I help with the general contracting and handle the finish carpentry and electrical." I was nodded like I understood what he was talking about. "What about you?"

"I'm in entertainment," I said, watching for his reaction.

"Ah. What kind of entertainment?"

"Music."

"Interesting. You a singer?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry to say I've never heard of you. I assume you must be pretty big if you're rich."

My smile grew. I had a couple of Grammys on my shelf for

Best New Artist

and

Song of the Year

in 2016, but apparently he'd never heard of 'Tara.'

"I do okay."

"Anything I might have heard?"

"'Love Your Lover'?" I asked, naming the song that had put me on the map.

"No sorry. I'll check it out though. Ready?"

"Uh, sure," I said, even though I was unsure of almost everything. Sometimes I couldn't walk down the street in L.A. with being mobbed, and Chuck Dalmer had never even heard of me.

"Good, I'm starved."

He picked up the pistol still lying on the bed, tucked it into the small of his back, and covered it with his shirt. With his shirt tucked in, all that was visible was the clip holding the weapon to his belt. I wasn't sure why him having a weapon bothered me since I normally had two armed men following me around all the time, but it did.

"Do you need that?"

"What?"

"The gun?"

He grinned. "I certainly hope not," he said, leading me out of the room.

I followed him into the hall and down the steps. Picking up one of the three remote garage door openers on the kitchen cabinet, he led me into the garage where the largest vehicle I'd ever seen was sitting. He escorted me to the passenger side and opened the door. I hitched myself up into the giant truck before he closed the door.

The door rumbled up as he climbed into the driver's seat and clipped the opener to the visor. "So I don't have to punch in the code in the rain again," he said with a smile as the truck rumbled to life. It sounded like the truck the people who mowed my grass drove, the engine clattering quietly.

"What kind of truck is this?" I asked as he backed out of garage.

"Ford F350. Why?"

The vehicle was amazingly nice on the inside, much nicer than I expected. "Just wondering. It's just that it's so... big."

"Everything is bigger in Texas."

"But do you really need a truck this big?"

He stopped in the drive and looked at me. "Look, I know you're from L.A., but are you going to spend the next month questioning every detail of my life? That's going to get real old, real fast. I know you're concerned about the planet and all that, but some of us have to work for a living, so yes, I need a truck this big. I sometimes pull equipment or haul lumber. Not all of us can drive some dinky little electric car and take public transportation. How the hell do you expect me to carry the wood I build cabinets out of in a Prius?"

"Sorry," I snapped. "I didn't know you were so touchy."

"I'm not touchy, but I get tired of people who have no clue about how the world works telling me what to drive and how to live."

His attitude was starting to piss me off. "It's people like you who don't care about the planet that the rest of us are tired of."

He watched me for a long moment. "Okay, Ms. L.A. How'd you get here? Did you fly?"

"Yes, so?"

"You're rich, right? Did you fly commercial or do you have your own plane?"

That stung. "I don't own a plane."

"So you flew commercial?"

I couldn't hold his gaze. "I chartered an airplane."

"I see. So you only worry about saving the planet when it doesn't inconvenience you?"

I glared at him. He was right, but I still didn't like his attitude. "It was a small plane."

"Yeah, but the commercial airliner was coming here anyway. So why don't you start practicing what you preach before you lecture the rest of us?"

"Are you going to be an asshole for the entire month?"

"Depends. Are you going to continue being a judgmental bitch?"

"How dare you!"

He shrugged. "Like I said, what you see is what you get. You don't like it, I'll be perfectly happy to pack up and go home."

"Then why'd you even come?"

He shrugged again. "I needed to get away, and it sounded like fun. Now, we can either be nice to each other and agree to disagree on certain topics, or we can fight the whole time, or we can go our separate ways. What's it going to be?"

I glared at him. Nobody had dared speak to me like that in years. I softened slightly. He was still a prick, but he damn sure wasn't a fawning sycophant. That's what I said I wanted. It

was

what I wanted, and my respect for him crept up a half a tick.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He nodded and began backing down the drive again. "Okay. Answer me this. Have you ever been out of L.A.?"

"Sure. Lots of times."

He nodded. "Yeah. Let me rephrase that. Have you ever been out of L.A. and not gone to another big city, like New York, Chicago, or someplace like that?"

"No," I said softly.

He nodded as if that was the answer he expected. We drove in silence the two or three miles until we were in South Padre Island proper. He pulled into a parking lot, and with the truck idling, used his cell phone to look up restaurants. I realized how unfair and biased my opinions of people were when I was mildly surprised he had a smart phone.

We talked around where we were going to eat until we settled on a place, his phone sending a map to the truck's navigation system. I felt even smaller. I didn't know how to do that in my car, or even if my car could do that.

We arrived at the restaurant, and if we avoided hot button topics, he was easy to talk to. Wearing a long sleeve shirt and jeans, I could tell he had broad shoulders and a trim waist, but little else. What I could tell was that he had the most amazing blue eyes, eyes the color of the Texas sky, or what I imagined the color of sky would be if it ever stopped raining. Between his eyes, square jawed ruggedness, and easy, friendly smile, he had a nice face. I also noticed he was unfailingly polite to everyone, thanking the waitstaff every time one appeared to serve us.

Since he didn't seem to care if he impressed me, I finally assumed the politeness he was showing toward me, opening doors and stopping close to the entrance so I didn't get soaking wet, was just the type of person he was. I wasn't sure how to react.

I pulled out my credit card to pay. He picked the card up and handed it back to me, replacing it with his own. "I'm supposed to pick up all the expenses. Didn't Brooklyn tell you that?" I asked.

"She did. I'm not going to complain about you paying for the house, but I'm damn sure not letting you buy my dinner."