FOLLOWING YOU Read online

  FOLLOWING YOU

  EVA LESKO NATIELLO

  FINE LINE

  PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2020 Eva Lesko Natiello

  www.evaleskonatiello.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Published by FINE LINE PUBLISHING

  Printed in the United States of America.

  cover design by Bianca Bordianu

  e-book formatting by bookow.com

  For Margaux and Mark

  when this began you followed me,

  now I follow you

  Also by Eva Lesko Natiello

  The Memory Box

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Lawrence

  Chapter 2 - Shae

  Chapter 3 - Honey

  Chapter 4 - Shae

  Chapter 5 - Lawrence

  Chapter 6 - Shae

  Chapter 7 - Shae

  Chapter 8 - Honey

  Chapter 9 - Shae

  Chapter 10 - Shae

  Chapter 11 - Shae

  Chapter 12 - Shae

  Chapter 13 - Honey

  Chapter 14 - Shae

  Chapter 15 - Honey

  Chapter 16 - Honey

  Chapter 17 - Shae

  Chapter 18 - Shae

  Chapter 19 - Lawrence

  Chapter 20 - Shae

  Chapter 21 - Lawrence

  Chapter 22 - Honey

  Chapter 23 - Shae

  Chapter 24 - Shae

  Chapter 25 - Honey

  Chapter 26 - Lawrence

  Chapter 27 - Shae

  Chapter 28 - Honey

  Chapter 29 - Honey

  Chapter 30 - Honey

  Chapter 31 - Honey

  Chapter 32 - Lawrence

  Chapter 33 - Honey

  Chapter 34 - Honey

  Chapter 35 - Honey

  Chapter 36 - Lawrence

  Chapter 37 - Honey

  Chapter 38 - Shae

  Chapter 39 - Shae

  Chapter 40 - Shae

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Questions

  A Note From The Author

  Chapter 1

  Lawrence

  Wednesday, December 16, 2015, 3:00 p.m.

  Lawrence slipped away from his desk, snaked down the hall, and ducked into the supply room completely unnoticed, while the detective bureau minions became transfixed by a candle-lit sheet cake bought to mark a colleague's occasion of some sort. He could literally teach a class in Everyday Stealth Techniques.

  “Hey, Lawrence!”

  Damn it.

  Lawrence poked his head out. “What’s up?”

  “Did you get those photos?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Lawrence quickly barricaded the door with a tower of water-cooler jugs to prevent intrusions by the office underlings. That lame interaction just cost Lawrence solid time with Shae. Valuable together time.

  He threw a ream of copier paper on the dirty linoleum floor so as not to soil his khakis and wedged his commanding physique between a stack of soda cases and a tower of ladies' products. Inside snug latex gloves, his hands glistened with anticipation sweat.

  Lawrence’s phone lit up with the most delectable image of Shae Wilmont—IShop’s host extraordinaire—selling his favorite product line, Fruits&Flowers Ultra-Emollient Body Cream, on today’s Beauty Hour livestream. With his nose pressed hard against the screen, he snorted her. Every pixel.

  “Oh, God.” He exhaled a hot burst.

  Shae’s snug azure sweater clung to her exquisite hills and valleys. The V-neck drew the eye not so subtly to one of her special areas, while the cashmere teased one’s desire to touch. She stood behind a line of lotions. It reminded Lawrence of a border of heirloom tulips: impressive, gallant. Watching Shae without sound, he focused on her effervescent movement. The sway of her hips, the gleam of her green eyes, the lure of her knowing smile, the supple flesh of her décolletage, her fingers as they wrapped a bottle of lotion, but mostly, her lips as they formed words like “luxurious” and “sensual” and “velvety.” Anything with an “l” exposed tongue. The “r" in “dreamy” and “creamy” required open puckered lips.

  The camera zoomed in for a close-up. His cilia quivered. Gently, he touched his nose to the screen and breathed her in.

  Mid-breath, he froze.

  Had he locked his desk drawer? With the crime scene photos that had just arrived? He’d been waiting for Shae’s body cream show—watching the clock, counting the minutes. It was easy to lose focus with Shae on his mind. But he didn’t tolerate slip-ups or recklessness on the job—even from himself. Especially now. Lawrence was the new backbone of the Vista Verde Police Department Southern Division Detective Bureau. He’d stake everything on his professional reputation. Covering his ass had become a reflex. Shae had him doing things he’d never imagined, but leaving evidence on his desk wouldn’t be one of them. He patted the front pocket of his khakis. A wad of disposable latex gloves in one, desk keys in the other. He sighed in relief.

  He popped in an earbud, keeping the other ear free to detect if someone challenged the blocked door, which was, admittedly, not foolproof. If the men in the office didn’t shit in repulsive stenches, Lawrence could watch the livestream without this covert effort in the privacy of a bathroom stall. But the odor would ruin everything.

  Lawrence never missed IShop’s Beauty Hour with Shae. Even if it was taped. But livestreaming on IShop’s Facebook page was ideal viewing because one could comment in the moment. When it came to the lovely Shae Wilmont, there was plenty to say.

  Shae chose the yellow bottle, SexyCitrus, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Her chest expanded in a wonderful crescendo of flesh and cashmere. Lawrence imagined himself smelling it. He imagined smelling her.

  Soon, he’d smell Shae in the flesh. Wedge his nose into her armpit—moist and hairy, he hoped. Two things women went to great lengths to avoid. If he knew Shae, and of course he did, chances were slim her armpit was anything but soft, shaven, dry, and scented like gardenia blossoms.

  Shae fondled the bottle directly in front of her perfect set of balloons providing the loveliest tight-angle shot. Balloons, Lawrence noted, could sell anything. The cameraman knew that, certainly. That shot was held for a very long time.

  If only Lawrence had a pair. What he wouldn’t do with them. Girls didn’t know how easy they had it. What a waste it was when a girl had perfectly bouncy balloons and didn’t leverage their usefulness.

  A pair of double Cs—or even young Ds—could coax the price of a new Toyota Corolla under list or fix a flat tire on the side of a freeway. An exasperated pair—with flounce and fervor—could grant entrance to a sold-out show without a ticket!

  “Ba-lloons.” Lawrence sighed.

  His first encounter with this female secret weapon came when he was five, and an especially buoyant aunt (by marriage to Lawrence’s uncle) visited for the first time at Thanksgiving. Her indiscriminate smiling and laughing more than put off his mother, who was devoted to stoicism and thereby kept the aunt at a chilly distance.

  “I’ll have another drink, Paul,” Auntie smiled as she pressed against Lawrence’s father. His mother shot her husband a look. He knew full well about the one drink rule in their house. But,
sure enough, Lawrence’s father glanced at Auntie’s balloons and the snug dress that touted them and poured a second drink. As if under a spell.

  When Lawrence’s father brandished the electric knife to carve the turkey, Auntie gushed and launched from her seat. “I’ll have a go at that,” she said to his father.

  Silence swept through the cramped kitchen. No one but his father ever carved the turkey. They didn’t even dare touch the knife. The closest Lawrence ever got to the knife was after it was returned to its box, and he was told to put it away.

  At first, his father seemed stunned. Then his saucer-eyes found her balloons again, and he slowly handed over the knife, trance-like, as his body relaxed into a massive grin that stretched his mouth out as wide as Lawrence had ever seen it.

  It was brazen the way his aunt (by marriage) posed her desires as statements instead of requests. Lawrence’s mother reminded him of this many times over the year that followed until his aunt and uncle returned. He did notice, however, her large balloons and asked innocently, “Why are your balloons so much bigger than Mother’s?” to which his mother’s eyes grew so large they took up most of her face, making them the largest thing about her in that moment. Everyone sucked in their breath. Except for Auntie. She howled with laughter while her balloons jounced in merriment along with her.

  Now there was a woman who knew their power. More than that, she noticed things the average woman didn’t. Maybe even the average man. She was a curious one, that generously proportioned aunt.

  Over dessert, she leaned into Lawrence conspiratorially and whispered, “Don’t let kids make fun of your buggy-eyes; you’re putting them to good use. Being observant will get you far. So will eating your veggies, dear, so you can grow up big and strong like your daddy. You’ll need something going for you.”

  That was Lawrence’s first lesson on the rewards of being curious.

  He rubbed his nose hard against the phone screen into Shae’s soft balloons, and in perfect rows of rapid staccato snorts, he inhaled her. The rush of oxygen left him weak in the knees. He loved what snorting Shae did to him.

  Having removed the cap, Shae curled her fingers around the bottle positioned in line with her cleavage, tipped her head down, nearly grazing her lips to the orifice, and breathed hungrily.

  Lawrence ripped off his latex gloves. He cradled the phone in his bare hands—his skin as close to Shae as possible. The gloves made his skin sensitive, itchy, and irritated, but it was part of the job. He wasn’t going to whine about it. Some part of Lawrence loved the suffering; the angry patches were reminders of his determination not to leave a single fingerprint—a veritable calling card—behind. Lawrence was a detail guy. Though unintentional, his gloves became his trademark, representing his seriousness and professionalism.

  He shifted his weight on the floor, his long limbs in accordion folds—knees tucked under chin, arms wrapped around shins—as he peered through his knees at the phone. He loved it down there, shrinking into himself. Normally he towered over people and exploited his endowment. To shrink—to become invisible, even—was to wield a different power.

  He pulled his phone close to his mouth and brushed his lips lightly against the screen, back and forth over Shae’s soft sweater, careful not to get the saliva that pooled in the corners of his mouth on it. His tongue snatched the drool deposits. The last thing he wanted was the smell of his own breath getting tangled with the fantasy of Shae’s.

  He considered her breath. The nastier, the better, he mused. Mint disguised truth. Bad breath was intimate. Proximity, necessary.

  Proximity was also necessary for the exchange of skin cells. Whose idea was it that shaking hands was innocent, platonic? Really? Having someone’s skin cells and body fluids on one’s hand was more than neighborly. For now, that was next to impossible. Next to. Those words rushed his blood.

  Obviously, smell was the most anonymous of the five senses. One could smell someone without them knowing. Undetected. Unlike touching. People knew when they were being touched. Watching, yes, there was anonymity in watching someone under certain conditions—hovering from a distance online or in person with binoculars. People act differently when they think they’re alone. Tasting was different altogether. Nearly impossible to achieve inconspicuously. Near-ly.

  Lawrence pulled back from the screen. Shae pumped SpicyGinger onto her hand and massaged it in swirls. She brought her hand to her nose and breathed with her eyes closed. Would she call it “intoxicating?” Lawrence looked away briefly to grab his notebook. Last month she said “intoxicating” thirty-seven times. It aroused him each time. As if she said it to tease him. If she said it today, according to his notes, it would eke past “fabulous.”

  She looked straight into the camera. He loved the way she looked at him. Her lips parted into a mischievous smile.

  “This is my favorite.” She fluttered her eyes and exhaled. “It’s intoxicating.”

  Lawrence jabbed the SHOP button. He arrowed up to five. Poked the SPEED BUY.

  Success! The “Sold-Out” banner glided across the screen a moment later.

  A murmur of voices grew animated outside the supply room door. He shook his head as if to erase them from his awareness. He needed one more untainted moment.

  The doorknob cocked. Then a shove against the door. The water jugs shimmied.

  Damn it.

  He ignored the activity at the door.

  Quickly, he propped himself on his knees. Lawrence logged into “Larry’s” Facebook account so that “Larry” could comment on IShop’s live stream. Lawrence’s delicate touch typed “Larry’s” love note to Shae.

  “Your favorite is always my favorite.”

  He posted Facebook comments from “Larry’s” account. Purchases and on-air testimonials were from “Lars.” Instagram comments, “Lance.”

  Seconds later someone replied to “Larry.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Larry, she changes ‘favorites’ all the time—the more favorites she has, the more she sells. Don’t fall for it!”

  Lawrence was livid. Who did Cynthia Nebbits think she was? Attention whore! Insidious comment troll! Accusing Shae of…of…insincerity, of…manipulative sales tactics!

  Another shove against the door. Someone was dogged in their pursuit of supplies, and it pissed him off.

  He lashed at his phone’s keyboard, spitting out a reply.

  A voice came from the hall. “Hey! Who’s in there? Open the door.”

  Damn. It was Late Again—a.k.a. Joanne. The third time in as many days he couldn’t avoid her. The supply room was an imprudent choice, but he was desperate.

  He typed fast and hit enter. “Jealous much???? It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind!”

  Shae had moved on to soaps—without him. Damn it. Dealing with Cynthia Nebbits cost him solid time! Of course, he could watch the DVR later, but he couldn’t interact with Shae then. What if she said his name or read his comment on air? He wouldn’t be able to respond! Not to mention, during the live show—for those precious moments—he knew precisely where she was and what she was doing. In real time. Later, while Lawrence watched the recording, she would’ve moved on. Out to dinner, talking to someone else. Looking at someone else. Not smiling at Lawrence. Not ogling him.

  Lawrence—well, “Larry”—didn’t comment every day, though willpower was not his strong suit. He knew he was getting closer, and he wasn’t about to slip up now. No red flags. He had to be strategic about this whole affair.

  “Why is the supply room locked?” someone shouted from the hall.

  The knob twisted frenetically. Another umph of a shoulder against the door. The water jugs tottered. The imminent avalanche shot Lawrence to his feet.

  “Hang on!” Lawrence sniped.

  “I gotta get ink.”

  I gotta get ink. Damn buzzkill.

  Lawrence steadied the tower, then shoved it away from the door. He slipped on a new pair of latex gloves from the stash in his pocket, brushed the seat o
f his pants, and pinched the pressed crease that ran down the front of his khakis to restore some decorum. He yanked the door open and attempted to temper his annoyance while he sidestepped Late Again.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I knew it.”

  What was that supposed to mean? He could say the same about her. He almost fired back, but that’s exactly what she wanted. He didn’t have time for banter with the support staff. Especially someone with such disregard for workplace punctuality and obvious rancor for a new police department superior.

  He strode into the hall.

  “Did you drop this?” she called out.

  Lawrence turned to look.

  She held up a shriveled, clear latex glove. One of the fingers was inverted, and the wrist curled up to where the fingers branched out. A mutated hand. She pinched and waved it with great flourish, all pinky in the air. He had such disdain for her at that moment.

  “You want it?” she said. Was she mocking him? “It’s yours, right?” Her cheeks flushed.

  He quickly shook his head. “No.”

  He wished he hadn’t seen it. The twisted, pitiful thing.

  “Well—” Lawrence fingered the sharp crease of his khakis and forced himself to calm down. He had to get along with these people. He motioned to something in the distance. “Better get back to it.” Unlike her, he had actual work to do. He resumed the walk back to his desk.

  At first, Lawrence deduced the reason for Late Again’s aggressiveness toward him was disguised jealousy. Lawrence came from another precinct. He was offered the job over her, an insider. It was only a hunch—maybe a crazy one—because it was clear to him, and likely everyone else, there was no way an Investigative Assistant was qualified for his job. She lacked the skills, experience, and connections. And not to be sexist, but she was also a girl. He found out later she never applied for the job. Which left only one explanation for her antagonism. She probably wanted him.

  Lawrence surveyed the room to see if anyone caught Late Again putting the moves on “the new guy.” He didn’t need that getting around.