Page 4 of A Sublime Casualt
“Peavey and D.” Theo sits a little straighter. “Brother and sister? That’s great. Are they in Wakefield?”
“No, actually, they’re not. New York.” Lie number one. “I have another sister, too, Tammy.” Lie number two. “I’m not that close to any of them.” Especially not Tammy since I completely manufactured her less than a second ago. The more lies I throw at him, the more dilute the truth will be, and damn Tara to hell for tossing Peavey and D in there. Thank God I never used their real names.
He offers a peaceable smile. “Is that where your family is from? New York?”
My mind does a quick review of all the half-truths I’ve fed Gabby over the last year. “Connecticut actually. Hartford.” I chose Hartford because it reminded me of his dead sister’s surname, Hartley. And yes, I do believe she is dead now. Knowing what I know, seeing what I’ve seen, keeping what I kept, the odds of oxygen filtering through her brain are not in her favor. “But they’re with my mom and her new husband in New York at the moment. I didn’t really get along with my new stepfather, so I took off about a year ago. I never really knew my real dad.” I gag on how many half-truths I just bled out. “Anyway, I thought I had a friend in Wakefield, but it turns out he was just passing through and I ran out of money so I stayed.” Gabby might have let him in on the fact I was homeless when she found me. It’s best to stick to the truth when possible. “Joe was kind enough to take me on, and Gabby was kind enough to take me in. She’s really been more than kind.” I pump my shoulders, trying my hardest not to look like a threat. “But now that I have a job, I’m able to pull my weight and help out.” Gabby buys all the groceries for us, and even breaks her vegan code to buy those strictly forbidden dairy products. I’m her charity case and she loves to spoil me. I secretly love it, too.Don’t rob me of the blessingis what she likes to say if I protest too much. I wouldn’t dare rob her of the blessing. Her wallet is a different matter.
“That’s great. My father’s in New York. Manhattan. Expensive as hell. Where’s your family?”
Shit. “I don’t know exactly. They just moved upstate. I can’t keep up with them. They act like a bunch of fugitives.” Very funny. A spike of heat erupts under my arms. I’m the only fugitive I know. “You ready to dig in? Because I’m about to annihilate you. I’ve never met a pancake challenge I didn’t win.”
“Oh, really?” He brays out a laugh and we get right to it. After fifteen blissful minutes of grunting and groaning our way through three different plates each, we come up for air, our faces a little greener for the effort.
“Eighteen pancakes,” he moans. “I give.”
“I guess that means I win by proxy. I was just about to ask for another plate.”
He belts out a laugh. “Please tell me you’re lying.”
“I lie about everything.” I give a cheeky wink. It’s the only pure truth I’ve told all night.
We chat about the weather, local politics, about the bowling alley they might put in just down the road. He tells me about his mother, a supervisor at the Bank of Redgrass, his sister, the business coordinator at Redgrass General. He probes lightly about my home life, my brother, and sisters—plural because I do in fact lie about everything—and I deflect like a master. Finally, the bill is paid—by him, the tip is notably generous—Mr. Nice Guy strikes again, and we make our way out together into the inky crisp blackness that only fall can bring.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says, his badge catching the light from the streetlamp and flickering like a distress signal. “How about we hit the bookstore? My treat, as many books as you want. It’s on me.”
A strange sense of euphoria grips me at the offer.
“You do remember that I said I was addicted to reading. This could be a very dangerous feat for your credit card.” I will politely turn him down, but I’ll admit my arousal is at an all-time zenith. There is nothing more intoxicating, more erotic, orgasmic as the scent of a beautifully stocked bookstore. Libraries are simply its older, far less attractive brother. A bookstore is who a reader really wants to get it on with.
“Second challenge of the night accepted. I’m betting my credit card can outrun your addiction. At least maybe for a night.” His thumbs hitch through his belt loops as he rocks back on his heels. The handle of his gun glints in the light and throws the hammer down over this good time.
My mouth opens to say no. “I’d love to.” I never could trust a damn thing that comes out of it.
We hit the bookstore at the end of the street, and I bolt around scooping up an armful of fiction, mostly romance novels, a few cozy mysteries, a biography here and there. I treat the true crime section as if it had an active case of herpes. I’m pretty sure snatching up an entire array of books about women who got away with murder might lift the brow of this very generous police officer. After all, Theo Stavros might be a totally nice guy, but I’m betting he is also sharp as a tack.
He gives me a ride home in his police cruiser, front seat of course, and it feels as if I were flirting with death. Here I am dancing on the tip of a very sharp knife and enjoying every orgasmic literary minute of it. We hop out and hit the security gate at the condo complex. I type in the combo, then slide my foot through the crack before it shuts and locks me out again.
“Sorry.” I wince while I struggle to hold my newfound books while keeping the gate open. “It keeps the criminals out,” I tease. Or in. But I don’t tell him that part. If he’s as sharp as I predict, he’ll catch on sooner than later. Total transparency is a dangerous seductress.
His teeth flash in the night like solid sunshine opening to a cave. “You busy this weekend?”
“I have Sunday off.” My heart thuds hard against my chest as if socking the hell out of me from the inside. Punishment for being so stupid.
“Great. If you want, we can hike out to the Secret Falls. It’s about a mile in either direction, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that would be great.” Damn me. I suspect I will come down with an incredibly sore throat on Sunday. Maybe cramps. Nothing weirds the men folk out more than a good menstruation. They have no clue what to do with it.
“Good.” His entire face lights up and my insides pinch in response. “Can I get your number?” He winces as if it hurt to ask. But there’s something adorably middle school about the way he kicked his foot against the sidewalk when he asked.
“I don’t have a phone. I’m old school that way.” And remarkably untraceable.
His face smooths out at this odd revelation. Not having a phone these days is akin to not having a beating heart. Society thinks you simply need one to survive. “I’ll pick you up about noon then? Maybe we can grab a bite on our way out. You’ll love it. It’s beautiful this time of year,” he says, walking backward and nearly tripping over a crack in the concrete.
A tiny laugh erupts from me. “Careful! I’d hate to see you shoot yourself in the foot,” I call out as I make my way inside. The gate slams like a gunshot, like a warning to the both of us. “Thanks again for the books!” It’s me who’s shooting herself in the foot. I’m quite good at it actually.
“It was my pleasure.”
And just like that, the night swallows him whole.