Page 137 of Pretty Mess

“Get you and your fancy language,” I say just to see him smile.

I’m rewarded by a lightening around his tired eyes, and his full mouth curving.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“You just popped in to ask me that?” I narrow my eyes. “How did you know where I was?”

“Oh, I’ve known where you were since the second you left.”

“How?”

He shrugs. “I have my methods.”

“Well, that’s not disturbing at all. Thank you, Stalky McStalkerson.”

His eyes light with a tinge of humour, and then he looks around, making a moue of distaste. “Well, my methods are obviously fallible, because I didn’t know you were workinghere.”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s a petrol station. Not a suburb in Sodom or Gomorrah.”

“I’m not sure they had suburbs.” He shakes his head. “This is not a nice neighbourhood.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, Wes. What time do you finish?”

“Four.”

“In themorning?”

“No, next year.”

His lip twitches, but then his seriousness returns. “It’s still dark then. The streetlights aren’t functional. I counted three broken ones while I waited.”

“Where—?” I remember the figure in the car. It was him.

He seizes the opportunity to keep talking. “It’s a high crime area.”

“How do you know that?”

“I checked the statistics. There was a murder three streets away last month.”

“Oh my god,” I say faintly.

He’s already removing his phone from his pocket and checking it. “Two muggings in the last week, six burglaries, and I spotted a drug dealer quite openly dealing over the road. Andyou want to walk through this at four in the morning?” He stops to take a breath. “That’s unacceptable.”

Maybe I should be mad at his high-handed ways, but I can’t be. I want to hug him, laugh, and relish the warmth and caring I only got from him. It’s funny that such a reserved man who believes he doesn’t feel anything can make me feel so much. The irony is killing me.

“Well, thank you for doing your version ofCrimewatchfor me, but I’m fine.” I pause. “And how did you know where I was tonight…Julian,” I breathe, thinking of his phone call. “That little traitor.”

“Don’t be too mad at him. I had to endure a long talk before he gave me the information.”

“Talk?”

“Let’s call it what it was—a lengthy diatribe.”

“How long?”

“Enough that I lost the feeling in my legs.”