“What if I had an agoraphobic girlfriend who couldn’t leave her apartment?”

Ian scoffs. “That’s your excuse now? How’d you meet this agoraphobic person if she doesn’t go out?”

“I’m extraordinary,” I say, in hopes that the ridiculousness of my reply deters further inquiry.

But Kaga looks at me thoughtfully. “This is happening in large numbers to young people in Japan. It is called hikikomori and means a withdrawing or pulling inward. They do not socialize with anyone but their own families and retreat to their bedrooms. It can last for a few months or even years.”

Surprised, I gesture for him to continue.

“I don’t know much more about it,” Kaga admits. “I have only heard small pieces. Supposedly it affects at least one percent of our young male population. It is a concern. As time passes, the withdrawal feeds upon itself. Social abilities atrophy and even the desire to escape is eaten away.”

“She’s not like that,” I find myself saying. Kaga merely nods—his perceptiveness is eerie at times.

“I thought you were joking,” Ian says. He’s abandoned the game, probably because the massacre is too painful.

Sighing, I give in.

“I’m looking into something for someone.” I hold up my hand to forestall further questions from Ian. He shuts his mouth and slides back in his chair. “I met a woman who has severe anxiety, but she’s not withdrawn. She’s actively trying to get better—she’s suffered a setback and I’m investigating some circumstances that might have adversely affected her recovery.”

“She’s a fighter, then,” Kaga muses.

“That’s right.”

“Of course,” he says. “You, as a soldier, must not only admire that, but respond to it as well.”

Ian makes a gun with his fingers and points them at me. Is he saying I’m dead or down? I’m neither, but I might be falling and it doesn’t seem to be painful at all.

CHAPTER NINE

NATALIE

I allow myself to have a brief pity party that my wonderful progress has been halted and then peel myself off the metaphorical floor. Daphne is correct when she says my best writing comes from torment. But as I stand and type out an entire chapter, I find myself inserting a tall, potbellied space ranger. He’s got a wry smile and good hands that capably manage his phaser.

I work for hours until I forget the outside world exists and my fingers are cramped and my own shoulders ache. When the sun becomes just a thought on the horizon, I put my computer to sleep and fall into the darkened bedroom, asleep before my head hits the pillows.

Somewhere around noon the phone wakes me up. I try to ignore it because I’m having a very nice dream involving Jake. He’s under the covers with me, nuzzling my neck. My hands cling to his broad shoulders as the coarse hair of his legs rub against mine. His hands move down my sides and I start aching in places that I didn’t know could ache.

His head follows the direction of his hands, pausing to lick on my tightened nipples and then lower still. The first touch of his tongue is so tender, I almost weep. He draws his tongue in slow, long movements until I tilt my hips forward in an unspoken plea for more. He palms my butt and rocks me toward his mouth. I’m shaking with pleasure and desire, desperate for more. I beg him to stop tormenting me. He rises to his knees and drags me down with hungry hands until my wet heat presses against his hard erection. He leans forward, all two hundred and sixty pounds of fierce need, sinking on top of me, but the stupid phone will not stop ringing. I shut my eyes tighter, but the heavy pressure of his body dissipates and I’m left clutching my sheets.

It’s probably Oliver. Unhappily, I stick my hand out and fumble on the nightstand without emerging from the covers. If I don’t lift up the sheets, maybe the dream will come back.

“Hullo?” I mumble.

“Did I wake you?”

It’s Jake and he sounds amused. My heart gives a silly pulse as I scramble to answer him. I feel off-balance, as if he somehow knows I was having a naughty dream about him. “I went to bed at four in the morning. It’s still early for me.”

I run a hand over my hair, smoothing the wild strands down, and then laugh silently at myself. Jake can’t see me. If he could, he’d hang up and never call me again because I know from experience my bed head is frightening. My ex used to say that for someone with thin hair, I was able to create an alarming Medusa-like cloud after only a few hours of sleep. Although seeing my hair is the least of the reasons he should run away. The first and foremost is that I’m using him as fodder for my sexual fantasies.

“Were you having trouble sleeping?”

“No, I was working. The words kept falling out and I didn’t want to stop.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m not,” I answer with frank eagerness. I don’t want him to hang up. Talking to him feels good, like spring in my heart after a long dark winter.

“Then I’m not sorry either. I called about some security ideas.”

Oh, I like that he called me and not Oliver—that he thinks I’m capable of making decisions like this. “Thank you,” I murmur, huddling deeper into the covers. I wish he was here with me. We could discuss this over coffee, still in bed, our limbs tangled together. I barely remember the last time I slept with a man. Daphne’s stayed over a few times, but she sleeps in my pull-out in the living room, and as much as I love her, she’s no substitute for a warm male body.

“For what?”

“For treating me like an adult.”

“You look like an adult.”

Is that . . . an innuendo? I want to tell him that I’m very adult. That I just had a grown-up sex dream he starred in, and would he like to come over and act it out in person. Of course, I don’t because rational people don’t go around telling strangers that they are spank bank material, and even if he is okay with that, what if he showed up and I couldn’t bring myself to turn the doorknob. That would be a humiliating experience.

Abruptly I sit up, tossing the covers aside and banishing my foolish thoughts. Jake is not flirting with me; he’s being kind and I need to start acting like the adult we both are pretending I am.

“What are your ideas for improving the safety of my home?” I ask with brusqueness.

He picks up my cue and responds in kind. “I’d like to place proximity sensors around your doors—the front and the balcony. The alarms are outward-facing and wouldn’t be triggered by opening the door from the inside or even walking onto the balcony.”

“You can do that?”

“Technology is pretty great.”

I guess it is amazing. It’d be great if we could implant a device in my brain that would turn off my fear, but then I’d probably walk into traffic and get myself killed. “That sounds good. You wouldn’t have a proximity sensor for an individual, would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, let’s say I fell. Could you have a proximity sensor that could detect the motion of falling and then a period of, say, thirty seconds of no movement?”

“I don’t have anything like that, but it’s possible it could be rigged up. A proximity sensor can detect certain motion, like the deceleration of mass, but it’s not a system I stock and could bring over today. Why?”