Page 70 of Manhattan State of Mind

At 10 p.m. on a Saturday night, I’m the only one in the Olympic-sized pool at the bottom of my apartment complex. The silence is a godsend.

These nocturnal swims have become a sacred ritual, a necessary respite from the incessant madness that comes with helming Quinn & Wolfe and navigating its ceaseless torrent of responsibilities and expectations.

Water, they say, has healing powers. An ancient truth whispered through the ages. It’s the purification in the holy Ganges, the rebirth of Christian baptisms. Water, ever fluid, eternally present, offers a cleansing of sorts.

Maybe I’m looking for some of that healing.

For a man who’s carved out his existence in the pulsing heart of Las Vegas, seeking tranquility in a simple swimming pool appears comically misguided.

As I hoist myself onto the tiled edge, my arms braced against the cool surface, a smirk creeps up my face. A year ago, the concept of parading around in a superhero suit for a woman’s attention would’ve seemed ludicrous. But for Lucy, I’ve become a comic convention cosplayer, amid fucking stormtroopers, all for a chance to relive those intoxicating memories, just beyond her reach.

Lucy and I have done cosplay before, in fact after the last comic convention we went to, we fucked all over my apartment in those costumes. Those are memories I long to revisit, if only Lucy could recall.

The taste of her lips lingers on mine, even through fifty laps of chlorine.

Was that a bad move on my part?

I knew she’d be there. It wasn’t a shot in the dark, it was an undeniable certainty. I know her routines, her habits, her hobbies… I know Lucy. I even knew the exact stall where I would find her.

And in my gut, I knew she was looking for me.

Now, I’ve probably thrown her into a tailspin. Her face looked crushed when I admitted that I’d hurt her. And it killed me all over again. I just couldn’t lie. And now I’m walking a dangerous tightrope because if Lucy connects the faceless identity of the masked man with mine before I’ve had the chance to make amends, to show her the man I’ve become… well, then it’s game over.

Shaking off the daunting thoughts, I push myself to my feet, water cascading off my chest as I grab a towel to dry myself off.

There’s a loud knock on the glass window.

Damn it. My features twist involuntarily into a grimace. Lisa, the model from a couple floors down. A living, breathing embodiment of my past recklessness. She was there that horrible night I fucked up with Lucy.

She beckons at me, her lips curving into a come-hither smile from behind the glass.

She’s dressed in a tiny dress, accentuating her curves in all the right places.

“Hi, JP,” she coos, the glass door to the pool sliding open with a soft swoosh. Her gaze sweeps down, taking in my bare chest before locking onto mine. “So this is where you’ve been hiding? You nearly gave me a heart attack with those splashes.”

“Careful,” I advise in a low rumble, my gaze drawn to the stilettos that teeter dangerously on the pool deck. Who in their right mind would attempt pool tiles in heels?

“What are you doing down here all alone on a Saturday night?” She’s all smiles, her voice thick with suggestion.

Is an explanation needed when I’m standing here in swim shorts?

“Do I need a reason to enjoy a quiet night?” I counter, my words edged with irritability as I secure the towel around my waist. I don’t need any distractions tonight. Or fucking ever again.

She laughs, her eyes filled with amusement and a hint of skepticism.

“You? A quiet night? That’s a new one,” she teases.

She takes a step toward me, and I catch her arm, afraid she might stumble on the slick tiles.

“Care for some company later?” she asks, as her eyes rove over my chest once more. “I should be back around eleven.”

Resisting the alluring tug of the past is no easy feat, especially when it’s dressed in a tight red dress, practically knocking at my door at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night. There’s a ghost of a man inside me who wants nothing more than to take her up on that offer.

I shake my head, keeping my face impassive. “I’m good,” I say, my voice carrying a note of firm politeness.

There’s a brief flash of annoyance in her eyes, quickly smothered as her smile makes a reappearance.

“You already have entertainment for the evening?”