Collide Into You: A Romantic Gender Swap Love Story (27 page)

But he never answers.
 

My stomach drops.

A dozen minutes go by. Slowly. I stare at the screen with watery eyes. The question hangs there, but he hasn’t left the conversation. I can tell he’s still logged in. It is official: Jon does not like the idea of me and Dillan together. I step away from my laptop.

I try to lie in bed and fall asleep. I roll over. I turn on the TV. I read Dillan’s case files. Nothing helps. I must have dozed off because two hours later, at four in the morning, I hear the telltale ding of an instant message.
 

I jerk up fast and rush to my laptop.
 

“Sorry for the delay in my answer, Keira. I broke my keyboard. I won’t bore you with how or why it broke. Suffice to say it took me time to find a new keyboard. There is a lot about Dillan I don’t like. But there’s a lot that I do like. In fact, I love him (as a brother) and there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for him. Here’s the deal: he doesn’t deserve you, Keira. Not in a million years. Then I thought about that. In my mind—in any brother’s mind—no one deserves his little sister. So this isn’t against Dillan. Now, if we were talking about Alec Huffman, I might have a different tune. That man is, pardon the honesty, a fucking hottie. Around the time I met Tanner, I had this delirious wish that Alec was gay. (He isn’t, by the way. If wishes were pennies, I’d have zero pennies.) Anyway, too much information. Here’s the thing, Keira: it’s your life. You get to decide who gets the privilege of making you crazy each and every day. If that person is Dillan, then you have my blessing. Not that you needed it, or even wanted it. I’ve been telling Dillan that he needed to find the right girl and settle down. I never considered
you
. I wonder why? You’re probably laughing at all of this. You were probably pulling my leg back there. So I’ll shut up. I have to go on shift as it is, so I can’t stay long. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” After that, sleep comes easily.

Dillan

I
N
THE
MORNING
, I
TELL
Keira everything I can about my job, LouAnn Britton, Johnson Brookshire, and the Joy Fromm case.
 

“And you have a meeting with all of them today. So, you know, good luck.”

I’m wearing her frumpy uniform. It really is rather shapeless, but comfortable. So that’s something. She’s still in my boxers and a T-shirt. I wonder if she had a boner this morning, but I can tell she isn’t in the mood for flirty banter.

“Good luck?” she mimics as she fixes her uniform on me. She isn’t gentle about it, either. The dark circles under her eyes are about as big as the wheels on a monster truck. LouAnn is going to eat her for lunch. I feel sorry for Keira, but I can’t wait to hear all about it later on.
Voyeuristic-pity-curiosity?
Sure. I’ll go with that. “Do I need to be worried about anyone wanting a hookup?” she asks once she’s determined I’m presentable.

“Like an office fling?” I ask.

“I mean, is anyone going to try and assault me today?”

“Well, when you put it
that
way, the answer is no.” I shift my head and give her a dead-on, wide-eyed stare. “Do
you
?”

She huffs. “No, of course not. It really isn’t attractive when you’re flippant.”

I look at the clock. It’s still early. I woke up three hours earlier than necessary so that I could get ready, eat breakfast, and help Keira shave my face. She doesn’t know that last part yet.

“Does that mean you find me attractive the rest of the time?” I ask. She throws me a dark look and I laugh. I knew she wouldn’t answer the question. “Before I go, Keira…” I walk into the bathroom and come out with a razor. Her face is one of pure panic. “You’re beginning to look shaggy. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
 

I take off the uniform top to keep it from getting wet. I’m not sure why I’m worried about getting drenched, but I am. Luckily her uniform includes a tan T-shirt, so it’s not like I’m walking around in the purple bra I managed to put on this morning.
 

Keira has colorful underwear. I love it.

She rubs her jaw and closes her eyes in defeat.
 

“I’ll do it,” she says, and takes the razor away from me. I just laugh at her.
Oh no you’re not.
Turning on the faucet, I fill the sink with hot water and soak a washcloth in the water, then I hand her the washcloth.

“Put this on your face. It will soften the skin.”

Keira covers the lower half of her face. I pull out a bottle of drugstore conditioner from the shower and place it on the counter; I don’t use shaving cream. I take the washcloth away and gently smooth conditioner over her jaw.

“This is going to feel weird,” I say in a tone that suggests I often shave other men.
Just a normal occurrence. Nothing to worry about here.
I move the razor with the grain and then against, pulling skin taut here and there. Above the lip is the hardest. I’ve given her a few nicks, but nothing bad. During the entire ordeal, Keira didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t even blink. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s terrified I’ll hurt her or if it’s because she has complete faith in my shaving capabilities. “There.” I remove the excess conditioner with a dry towel.

Keira swipes a hand over her jaw and nods appreciatively.
 

“Not bad.”

“I’ve got mad skills, Keira. This is just the beginning.”

“Mad skills?” She shakes her head as if she believes me, but not for the reason of shaving. Naturally, I wasn’t referring to shaving in the first place. “You don’t have to keep reminding me that you’ve slept with a hundred women.”

I deserve that. Sort of.
 

“You rounded
really
high, Keira. If you take that weekend-long, fifty-person orgy out of the equation, I’d say the number is in the forty-to-fifty range.” I swallow hard, waiting for her reaction. In most circumstances, it isn’t difficult to admit my number. But I’ve never admitted this information to a woman, much less the one I’m in love with.
 

Am I trying to push her away? No, I think.
You’re being honest with her. Above all, Keira admires honesty in others.
But what if that honesty solidifies my slut status in her mind? A status she cannot—and will not—dislodge? I suppose I’ll have to take my chances. Like I said earlier, I’ll only be honest with her from here on out, even if that honesty drives a wedge between us. A
bigger
wedge, I should say, since one has existed since I met her.

“Do you keep track of them on some sort of spreadsheet, or is that number a guess?” she asks. Her eyes are dark, cold. “Maybe via alphabetical sorting?”

“Judgmental much?” I ask. “I told you that I would be honest with you. It’s the only way you’ll get to know the real me.” I curb the anger and the string of profanities on the tip of my tongue. If this were in reverse, if Keira had slept with fifty men, I wouldn’t exactly be a happy camper, either. I might hate her. I might say things I regret. I can’t be that person. Taking a deep breath, I say, “No, I do not keep a list or a little black book or anything like that. My number of partners is a guess, at best. It may be higher, or, hell, it may be lower.”

“Doubtful,” she mutters under her breath.

“I won’t apologize for experimenting in college or for spending time with women I found alluring and amazing and willing to spend time with me. The problem is yours, not mine. You’ll have to find a way to deal with it while you’re in my body and as we try to return to our own bodies. Now…” I pause, and button up her Army uniform top. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a nation to save, one classified letter at a time.”

I let the door slam when I leave.

Keira

T
HE
PROBLEM
IS
YOURS
,
NOT
mine.
I handled that really well, didn’t I?

I dress carefully. Well, okay, not carefully. I should say I dress with care. Dillan has an amazing closet filled with designer suits. He must make a lot of money. Not that I care about that sort of thing. I find a clean pair of boxers, an undershirt, and I select a Ralph Lauren suit.

While the undergarments are plain and white—which isn’t exactly my normal taste—the suit is gorgeous. The shirt is thick, light blue in color, and made of an extremely soft cotton twill fabric. I tuck the tails into dark gray slacks. The jacket is royal-blue, doubled-buttoned, cashmere, and it feels like clouds against my skin. Holy crap, he has great clothes.

I inspect three rows of ties. There must be fifty of them. But what’s in a number?

Everything. If that number means his number of sexual conquests, then yes, it’s an important number. Forty or fifty women? Really?
At least it isn’t a hundred, like you suspected, Keira. Well, what did you expect?
I knew going into this that my number would be way lower.
 

A grand total of four men.
 

Four men who never once knocked my socks off. Never made me moan with anticipation. Never made me dream of them. Four men with boring, safe names, like Gary, a banker, and Henry, an insurance salesman, and Michael, a car mechanic, and Scott, a political science professor.

You could do with a bit of disorder.

You said it, Ellen.

Dillan was honest with me, and that should be what counts.
 

I decide to pick the gaudiest tie possible because, you know, I can’t be too matchy-matchy. When my eyes land on the hot pink tie, I cannot resist it. It’s only then that I realize I have no idea of how to tie a tie.

Internet, here I come.

After watching a few videos, I manage to tie it around my neck, knot it, and, with the third try—after nearly choking myself—I affix it properly.
 

I check myself out in Dillan’s full-length mirror. Wow. It’s simply impressive, even with the brightness of the tie, how the shirt, jacket, and slacks mold against Dillan’s masculine figure.

My roommate is truly a hottie.
And he can be mine…
 

I have no idea of what type of shoes to wear. Who looks at men’s shoes? A brown pair near his bed seem to be well-worn. He must wear them the most.
 

Being in the military has its advantages. I’m told what to wear and when to wear it. Simple. Boring. But easy, predictable, and this way, everyone looks the same. If you take all of the guesswork out of the equation, then decisions can be made on important things, like national policies, saving lives, and proudly serving the nation. If I had to worry about what to wear each day, I might not make it out of my apartment on time.

Okay, that’s stretching it, obviously. I’m not so clueless that I don’t know how to dress myself. Dillan may think I dress like a grandma. And part of me agrees on that statement. I also agree that his number of sexual partners is my problem, not his.
 

I suppose it’s a start, acknowledging that I cannot control everything. That I cannot, and should not, oversimplify things in order to package them into neat, tidy boxes.

Grabbing Dillan’s files on the Joy Fromm case, I lock up and follow his directions to his office. Before I enter his office building, I buy a cup of coffee from a chain cafe, but it isn’t nearly as good as Ellen’s coffee. I shake my head. Once the dust is settled, I hope to never see that woman again.

The lobby of the Brookshire Mierkle building is a busy one.

My hands itch to clip on a security badge and enter through a turnstile.
 

I long to direct traffic into a metal detector and inspect purses, briefcases, and other bags. Ellen may have taken me out of my uniform, but she could never remove nearly a decade of military security measures.

Behind the guard, I see a large portrait of a man in his seventies. Below it, I see a golden plaque with Johnson Brookshire’s name, etched in an elegant font. So that’s Dillan’s boss’s boss. Beside this portrait is another one, just as stately, of another elderly gentleman by the name of Brian Mierkle.

The guard’s newspaper slides down, revealing his face, and I wave. Stupidly. I see no reason why Dillan Pope would wave at a security guard.

“Morning, Mr. Pope,” the guard says. His name tag reads Officer Adams, Pinkerton Protective Services.

I’m startled, slightly, at being called Mr. Pope. I mean, how could I forget I’m in Dillan’s body?
 

“Hi,” I say back before I slip into the opening elevator. “That’s me. Mr. Pope.”

I take a big gulp of coffee before I say anything else idiotic and nearly spit the coffee out. I put
way
too much sugar in the coffee this morning. I’m becoming more like Dillan. I wonder if my tastes will begin to change, too. Like I’ll start to lust after busty blondes and video games.

Hopefully not.

The elevator dings and I exit at the fourteenth floor. I consult my notes.
 

Turn left at the receptionist. Don’t say hi. She hates my guts. I don’t know why. Make another left at the large windows. My office is second on the right.

Okay, got it. I look up, and the receptionist is staring me down. She’s attractive, but not overly so, petite with dirty blonde hair, thick, military-style square glasses, and a disdainful sneer. She can’t be more than twenty-five.
 

“Mr. Brookshire can’t wait to fire your ass today, Dillan,” she says sweetly, even though her words are loaded with venom. She ignores the ringing phone on her desk. “And that tie is hideous. Please tell me that you were suddenly struck blind over the weekend. I don’t normally ridicule the disabled, but I’m willing to make an exception in your case.”

This is…
interesting
. Did Dillan throw her dad off a building or something, because unless he rebuffed her advances, I cannot understand a reason for her hatred.

“Trust me, when I look at you—”
I spot her name on the counter
“—Sheila, I wish that I was blind. Have a nice day.” I take a few steps, stop, and return my focus to her. Her eyes are totally stabbing me right now. “You might want to get that,” I say in reference to the continuously ringing phone. “It’s kind of annoying when people don’t do their jobs.”