I sit in a room without windows in front of a computer connected to a satellite and the things I see you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I can’t believe. And, yep, sometimes I feel like a voyeur. What people do when they think no one is looking! A word to the wise: someone is always looking. Well, except when I get squeamish and close my eyes then you might just be lucky…at getting lucky.
The guys and Sandra are back, mission successful. I witnessed every second of it play out over my monitor. They infiltrated this rich dude’s compound, extricated the young woman he was keeping there against her will who just happened to be the daughter of…Okay. I’m not supposed to tell you that. Forget I mentioned it. Let’s just say: stealthy, oh-so-stealthy.
They walk through, sweaty in their black commando gear, and I wait for him, Tom, the bad-assed, bad-tempered Englishman from Sheffield.
Why? Good question. I don’t do bad boys. Hell, lately I don’t even do good boys. Here in this lovely encampment in butt-crack West Virginia there is no chance for social life. Sandra and I went to what we thought was a bar, but actually looked like a missed scene setting from “Deliverance.” We stayed just long enough to turn on heel and walk out. One of the patrons actually grabbed the sleeve of Sandra’s blouse as we were leaving. With one hand she immobilized him. Don’t ask me what she did. It was over before I even knew it happened. Some of the other guys stood, but she looked at them steely-eyed and said: “Don’t even think about it.” Amazingly, they didn’t.
You want a visual of me and Sandra? Did you ever see the movie “The Truth about Cats & Dogs” with the willowy blonde and the short brunette? Yep. I am the short brunette, but the willowy blonde, while still played by Uma Thurman, is the one from “Kill Bill.” And, yes, I do know that I have far too much pop culture in my brain.
He comes through last. Staring at his cellphone, he sighs and shakes his head. He glances at me with mischievous blue-green eyes and grins before ruffling my hair. Ah, yes, just the way every woman wants to be treated by the guy she’s got a phenomenal crush on—like a kid sister. But still, he touched me. Inside I have mini-cheerleaders and wicked gymnasts creating an upheaval.
“Hey, Mouse, be ready for the firing range tomorrow,” he says in that thick accent that makes him sound a little like he has a sexy English accent with marbles in his mouth.
And, yes, he started calling me “Mouse” and now all of the guys do. I’m Georgie, short for Georgia, but “Mouse” will do.
“Really?” I ask. “I can learn to shoot?”
“Hopefully,” he says. He grins at me with those full kissable lips—self-devastation— and I sigh and I wonder if it was out loud and if he heard. My cheeks grow red. He winks and then leaves the room. (He winked? The Sheffield badass winked?)
I press my forehead against the cool surface of my desk and wonder how much of a fool I can possibly make of myself and I think: a very big one. A very big one, indeed.