Trouble

Trouble. In the form, as it usually is, of a girl. Trouble. Five-four, brunette, petite. That’s not trouble for everyone, but it’s trouble for me. Put one of those in front of me, and I lose that edge. I don’t react quite right. It’s not that I shut down, it’s just, well I get in trouble. Now usually I’m a pretty smart guy, usually I can tell when someone’s lying to me, when they’re trying to play me, and when they really need help. Sometimes it’s all of the above, but at least I can tell. And then I can do something about it. With this kind of trouble, though, the five-four kind with brown hair and dark lips, none of my much vaunted skill is worth a damn. It’s quite a weakness actually. It’s one I’m aware of but that only makes it worse. I know how dangerous they can be, I’ve had too much experience not to, but every damn time I stick my hand in the fire anyway. It’s not that I just do everything they tell me to. I may not be immune to those eyes, but they don’t sap my will either. I do what I normally do, only I have to do it without the tools that make me so good at my job. And that’s tough.

You don’t catch that telltale squint in the eyes if you’re trying to memorize their color. You don’t see that subtle twist to the lips if you’re wondering what it would be like to kiss them. And it’s damn hard to work with a client if she all she needs to do is smile, stretch, and sigh deeply to take your mind off everything else at all. Damn hard.

And this one wasn’t even the client, she was the subject.
But that just made it easier to turn the job down.