watch him pass. After playing football for BC, he had been drafted into the pros, but had spent the better part of two years on the bench for Indianapolis before accepting that football was not in his future. Following the example of a fellow alum, he had gone into probation, and the job fit him well. He was earnest and toe-the-line honest. His blazer and slacks were far from high-end, but they showcased his physique. He was triangular, as in ripped above and narrow below. He was definitely tall, definitely dark.
I might be drawn to tall and dark, but I was not drawn to Michael. His tall was too tall, his dark hair too short. I wasn’t into buzz cuts—or into preppy, which he was. There was no chemistry on my part. Zero.
Those few lunches I’d had with him? Mistake. I had initially gone along because he seemed genuinely interested in being a friend, and having lost so many after the accident, I welcomed that. But I was never comfortable, given what he was. And though he never overstepped, never came on to me physically, I got the sense he might if I gave him a sign.
My sign was to gently refuse invitations. Work was a perfect excuse. I never lied; being caught in one of those wouldn’t help my case. I just scheduled bookings that allowed for the required thirty-minutes with Michael and the drive back to Devon, with no time to spare.
Failing at lunch, he invited me to dinner. When I refused, he asked, “Are you seeing someone in town?” The question was within his rights as my probation officer. Knowing with whom I spent time was part of his job.
“No,” I replied.
“You aren’t dating at all?”
“I’m not looking for a relationship. I don’t think I can handle one.”
He finally got it.
So did my coworkers. They knew I didn’t date. The first time Michael showed up here, I introduced him as a friend of my brother. Yes, it was a lie. I apologized to Michael the instant we were alone, but he seemed fine with it. Hell, his status was higher as a family friend than a tool of the corrections department. Besides, we had talked through the issue of concealment during our first official meeting. The resort GM knew I was a convicted felon; I’d had to disclose it when I applied for the job. He knew that the conviction was a vehicular one with no connection to applying makeup. But the references from my practicum advisor, from the makeup artist with whom I had interned, and from the specialist at the Bobbi Brown counter at Saks, where I had briefly worked, were stellar. That was it. He knew nothing else. My first year at the Spa, I lived in fear that he would tell someone even that, but at least I was covered with my boss if Michael’s real identity ever came out.
Walking down the corridor with him now, though, was awkward. He was always serious. Today, he seemed angry.
Guiding me into the makeup studio, he set my box on a chair, drew himself straight, and said in his stern, I-am-the-law voice, “You were on the news this morning.”
That alarmed me totally aside from his tone. “I was? When? How?”
“You were videoed at Grace Emory’s. It was you, wasn’t it?”
My first thought was of all the people who would see my face. Exposure was my nemesis. My second thought was that, of course, my probation officer would be drawn to anything crime-related on the news, and would link the Grace Emory in the clip to the one who was my friend.
My third thought was to deny it. Michael didn’t want me anywhere near a questionable situation. He might not have to know I was there. The press didn’t have my name, and night images were grainy.
But risking it all with a lie, with only a handful of months to go?
“Yes,” I said and lifted my makeup case to the counter. “I was there. Grace is my friend. I was worried about her.”
“You’re not supposed to mix with bad guys.”
“She isn’t a bad guy. Her son was the one charged.”
“Same difference, with a minor.” He leaned against the counter, crossed his ankles, folded his arms over his Vineyard Vines tie. “Do you know anything about what he did?”
“What he’s charged with?” I corrected but absently, as though I was simply lost in thought. “I only know what the rest of the world knows. Grace doesn’t know anything,