Page 21 of The Sin Eater
“Pretty chill, actually, except I had to discourage a guy from giving a shot of tequila to his elderly father in the ICU.”
“Fun times.”
“You know it.”
Even when he’s not smiling, the warmth of his attention does twisty things to my belly, so I grasp for the first subject that comes to mind. “Did you see we had a couple of police detectives hanging around earlier this week?”
“I must have been off that day.”
I hurry on, pretty damned thrilled to be talking about something besides myself. “They said they got an anonymous tip that a guy who died in the ICU had committed a murder.”
“Whaaaat?” He drags the word out, his eyes growing wide.Got him.
“I don’t know a lot more than that”—except for the rest of the story—”but his name was James Smith, and he was the victim of a hit-and-run on Broadway. I got the feeling the detectives don’t have much to go on, so I doubt they’ll get very far with the investigation, if they bother to do much at all.”
Damon rubs his thumb along the side of his pint glass. “Anonymous tip. Huh. That can’t happen very often.”
“Weird, right? He must not have done any time for the crime. I mean, assuming there really was a murder.” I tag that last part on like I didn’t relive the whole scene. God damn. Now my secrets are keeping secrets. “Maybe he was using an alias.”
As our dinners show up, he says, “James Smith sounds like the kind of name you’d pick if you wanted to fall under the radar. I’ll have to ask my sister. She might know someone who knows someone.”
My response is noncommittal enough not to be an actual refusal. I don’t know shit about his sister and who she might know, and I’m sorta sorry I brought the whole thing up. I should have asked him about baseball.
On the other hand, I’m curious as hell. Who was James Smith, and more importantly, who was the woman he murdered?
We manage to get through dinner without any more awkward revelations, which is good. Enough guts have been spilled on this table for one night. We finish our meal and he pays, just like he promised he would.
“You’re a true gentleman.” I’m only half joking. I lead the way to the door with his hand on the small of my back. Feels like it belongs there, to be honest. Something I don’t want to think too hard about.
“Where are you headed from here?” he asks.
It’s not actively raining—though that could change at any moment—so I figure I don’t need an Uber. “My apartment’s by the hospital.”
“Walk with me? I’m going as far as the light rail station.” His smile holds enough hope that I can’t turn him down.
“Sure.”
We head south on Broadway, dodging hipsters and queers and queer hipsters. I pull a couple more lollipops out of my backpack and hand him one. “I’m not usually so... agreeable.” The words are out before I can censure them. I hate giving too much away. “You’re a bad influence.”
He laughs like I’m joking but I’m really not. This level of familiarity is almost more dangerous than getting busted eating sin. I stick the sucker in my mouth before I can say anything else.
“I admit, I figured you’d tell me where I could shove my dinner invitation, so the rest of this has been a bonus.”
I shake my head, stepping around a sandwich board sign advertising psychic readings. “No one’s ever called me a bonus before.” I stop short of calling him a weirdo, though I’m thinking it.
A hot weirdo. A hot, athletic weirdo. Who likes me, apparently. A weirdo I’d love to get naked with, if I wasn’t doing fucking penance. That thought sobers me up, and I pick up my pace. We concentrate on our candy and reach the light rail station too soon, or sooner than I want to, anyway.
“This is goodnight?” he asks, tossing the white stick into a nearby trash can.
It’s pretty damned obvious that if I invited him home, he’d be ready and willing. “Yeah,” I say, sincerely disappointed. “For tonight, it is.”
He reaches out and rubs his knuckles down my cheek, his smile a lot warmer than his touch.
“Your hands are cold.” There’s a crack in my voice that I don’t love.
Shoving both hands in his pockets, his gaze turns wistful. “November, man. It’s that time of year.”
“True.” I shuffle my feet, not sure how to proceed. I’m much better at quick fucks than prolonged goodbyes. “Look, uh, thank you for dinner. I should go. Maybe next weekend we could, uh... “