He was hot. There was no denying that. He was handsome, muscular, and athletic. Seeing him last week in his running shorts with his shirt and brow damp with sweat had been a mighty fine way to start my morning. But…he was a little bit of a jerk, and a little bit of an odd duck.
I was now in the phase of my life where I was actively avoiding weirdos. My weirdo-meter had been pegged, and no matter how much delight I found in conversing with and observing him, the voice in the back of my head wondered if he was calling because I had some sort of kook-magnet or Bat-signal that made these people gravitate toward me. Ha, Bat-Signal. More like Batshit-Signal.
I gave myself a shake. Ken wasn’t crazy or even that strange, and he might very well have been calling me about something as mundane as my messenger bag.
Decision made, I called him, telling myself that if he threw up any red flags, I’d simply block his number, just as I’d done with King a couple of weeks ago. Simple. Elegant. Efficient.
The phone rang a few times before he finally picked up with a breathless, “Dr. Miles.”
It was six PM and he was panting. Clearly, I’d caught him at a bad time.
“Hello, Dr. Ken Miles, this is Steven Thompson. Elizabeth relayed your message. I’m sorry if this was a bad time to call.”
Two more panting breaths. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m at the gym, but I can talk.” He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“No problem.”
There was a lengthy silence and I smiled to myself at the immediate and predictable awkwardness. It looked as if I were going to have to pull the information out of him.
“So…” I began slowly. “What did—”
“Did you know that there was a movie made of Mystery Science Theater?” he blurted loudly.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and made a confused face at the screen. What?
“Uh, yeah,” I said, returning the phone to my ear. “Yeah, I guess I did know that. But I don’t think I ever saw it.”
“A colleague of mine mentioned that it will be playing this week at the Music Box Theater. Do you know the Music Box, over on Southport?”
I couldn’t help myself. I was grinning from ear to ear. I knew the Music Box. Everyone knew the Music Box. This guy was too much.
“Sure, it’s where I see Rocky Horror every year,” I answered, not certain if he knew what Rocky Horror was.
“Good. Well, I thought I’d go see it, since it was on your recommendation, but I don’t really know if anyone I know would like to watch it with me. I thought maybe you’d like to join me.”
His words sounded slightly rehearsed and it went far in softening me toward him. If he were nervous about asking if I’d like to see a cult movie with him, he was probably in need of a friend. The thought made me sad for him and annoyed at myself for being judgy. If he were looking to me—someone who clearly made him twitchy—for someone to hang out with, then he must be lonely.
Poor, handsome weirdo.
Chapter Six
*DKM*
I was running behind. I hated running late.
I was lucky Steven agreed to see me. I knew I hadn’t made a very good first impression, knew he probably thought I was an asshole. So, I figured this date was my one shot at changing his perception of me. I needed to get my shit together, be charming, and engage in conversation without becoming self-conscious. If I didn’t, I was sure there wouldn’t be a second chance.
I had it all worked out in my head. The movie’s one evening showtime was at seven-thirty, so I was going to shower and dress at home—take my time getting ready, then arrive early and purchase our tickets. When Steven arrived, I was going to issue him a devastating smile, tell him it was great to see him, then give him a sexy perusal. I’d tell him he looked nice—which I was positive he would, he appeared to always dress smartly and tastefully—then, when he thanked me and reciprocated, telling me how great I looked, I’d give him a playful wink because my winks always seemed to net positive results.
But, all of that was probably out the door now. Toward the end of my shift, a patient was brought in from the emergency department with respiratory failure secondary to pneumonia and needed to be intubated. It didn’t necessitate the cancellation of the date, but it did mean that I had to leave straight from the hospital to the theater.
I was still going to work my moves in if I could, but mostly, I was going to have to wing it. This date felt a little too important to wing, but I didn’t want to cancel. I couldn’t cancel. I really wanted to see him again, see if that alluring, prickly heat I felt when I was with him could be explored further.
As the cab approached the theater, I opened the selfie mode of my phone camera and took stock of my image. My hair was messy, the waves sticking up slightly. If I had showered, I probably would have tamed them with some gel or something, but as it was, it fell in a way that looked deliberately mussed. I checked my teeth for any specks, and popped a breath mint, satisfied with my appearance.
Before exiting, I unbuttoned the second button of my shirt and fanned, taking a deep breath of my scent to make sure I didn’t stink. The weather was hot and balmy, but the hospital was always cool, so I was fine. All deodorant and laundry scents. Good enough.
Going down this checklist in preparation didn’t soothe my aggravation at my tardiness. I still felt rushed and unready.
As I walked up to the theater, I saw Steven standing under the marquee, looking at the lights. Dozens of white bulbs overhead illuminated his tilted face. There was a glare shining from his glasses, but the rest of him looked almost ethereal. Lean, fair, and unearthly. I snorted, giving myself a mental shake. I was romanticizing him, painting him as an angel, when I knew he had a bit of the devil in him. The temptation I found in him was proof enough of that.
He hadn’t noticed my approach, so I called out, “Good evening, Steven.”
His head whipped toward me, his toothy smile glinting in the lights. He has a great smile, I thought, beginning to relax. This is going to be fine. I’ll be fine.
“Hey, DKM!” he greeted. “You’re looking good. Nice to see you.”
Shit. I was supposed to compliment him first. He got the jump on me again. Not wanting to let the moment pass, I hurriedly improvised. “The lights,” I gestured stiffly. “They’re glowing like aliens in your glasses.” The horror of what I said registered and I immediately, frantically backtracked. “No, what I mean is, not—” Don’t say angel, don’t say angel, you freak.
Steven’s eyebrows rose in bewilderment above his glasses, but he kindly, blessedly, interrupted my stuttering with casual ease. “I get it.” He pointed to the lights above us. “This definitely looks like a UFO hovering above, ready to teleport us on board.”
I smiled, sure it wasn’t the underwear-dropping, devastation-bomb I’d planned earlier. At least it wasn’t a grimace. I felt like grimacing.
“And, you know,” he continued, not devastated or dropping his pants. “It’s fitting, as we’re about to see a cheesy sci-fi.” He waved the movie tickets in his hand.
I felt my face fall. I’d wanted to buy our tickets since I had invited him. My disappointment, which I was trying to mask, must have been evident on my face, because he hastened to add, “I got here first, and I started to think about the show and how I’ve never seen this movie and how there’s a very good chance you’ll think it’s crap. So, I thought if I paid for the tickets, you couldn’t be too mad when it went south.”
Any annoyance I felt evaporated, and I laughed. I was positive I wouldn’t like the movie. It sounded idiotic. But I liked that Steven seemed unsure of his own recommendation, like he cared about my reaction to it. Warmth bloomed in my chest.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, no worries. It’s a cult movie, right?” He nodded. “I assumed it was bad, but also that it needed to be watched with an open mind and low expectations.”
“Exactly!” he said, pointing an index finger at me.
As we proce
eded into the building, I let myself take in the atmosphere of the old theater. Each time I visited, I was impressed by the decor, which was reminiscent of a sumptuous and lavish age. Thick, red drapes, gold accents, and soft lighting emanating from Tiffany and art-deco styled fixtures, perfectly complemented the 1920s architecture of the building.
The theater itself was large, and its ceiling was lit with twinkling stars and a moving cloud formation. It felt like watching a movie in an open-air courtyard. I thought this was an ideal spot for a first date, and as I watched Steven glance around the lobby appreciatively, I gave myself a pat on the back for thinking of it.
Steven brought his eyes to mine and smiled. “I love this place. I feel compelled to wear a fedora and smoke cigarettes.”
We were standing in the concession line and I was absorbing the features of his face, mainly thinking how much I liked the way his smile transformed him. His resting face was hawkish in its angularity—not unattractive but giving a false impression of severity. When he spoke, when he smiled, warmth and friendliness exuded from him. I liked the dichotomy. I liked the face, the voice, the easy kindness. I wanted to make him smile at me again.
As the line moved forward, I realized I’d spent too long staring without replying. I didn’t want to come off as a fawning creep, so with a manufactured sternness I said, “Do not start smoking.”
“Yes, okay, Dr. Bossy,” he said as we stepped to the counter. His voice was teasing, but as we ordered our snacks, I worried I had missed the mark with my reply.
To make it all worse, when I noticed Steven pulling out his wallet, I nudged him aside. “No. No, you will not pay,” I declared.
“Oh, thanks. Thank you.”
By the time we made it into the theater and found seats, I was positive I’d already screwed myself. There was no way that in those few minutes I’d managed to make a better impression. If anything, he was probably sure I was the biggest dickhead in Chicago.
The previews started and Steven held his soda cup toward me. “Here’s to lowering our expectations.”
It took me a beat to realize he was waiting for me to knock my drink into his. I did, hastily, and said, “Cheers, mate,” complete with an atrocious Australian accent. I was glad for the mostly dark room, because my face filled with heat. Steven smiled, but made no comment. Not for the first time, I had to ask myself what in the hell was wrong with me.
Suddenly, I felt stiff and perturbed. My neck felt tight, so I rolled my head. My shoes felt constrictive, so I flexed my toes. I started to get hot, so I pushed my sleeves to my elbows. I tried to do this all casually, subtly, but of course, he noticed.
“Are you okay?” he whispered. The movie had begun, and he’d slouched down a bit, his posture completely relaxed. His eyes, though, they were piercing, knowing.
I smoothed my hair and rubbed the back of my neck, averting my eyes from his. “Yeah, just settling in.”
I forced my muscles to relax, mimicking his position and facing the screen. I could still feel his eyes on me.
“Ken,” he called for my attention. I turned my head to see him smiling at me. “It’s fine, okay? I’m happy we decided to do this. Don’t worry so much.”
For a moment, I was stunned—surprised that he was enjoying himself, but also that he knew what I needed to hear to be put at ease.
The idea of being with someone who could pull back the curtain and see my inner workings, was both thrilling and frightening. But knowing he liked what he was seeing, meant more to me than if he were enamored with the best, polished version of myself.
An internal weight lifted from me and I smiled.
I smiled through the entire movie.
Chapter Seven
*Steven*
“Well, I’m embarrassed,” I said once we were seated at our table. After the movie let out, Ken suggested we walk down to a nearby sports bar for a bite to eat. I readily agreed, and we walked in companionable silence.
The movie hadn’t been great. It hadn’t lived up to the magic of what I’d remembered of the old TV episodes. Ken had laughed several times—more than I had. And there was one joke about Harvey and Claude Rains flying a pilotless plane that he apparently thought was hilarious. I would never have guessed that he’d have understood a Harvey the Rabbit or The Invisible Man reference. But his laugh was hearty and contagious, so I found myself laughing along.
Ken looked up from a drink menu in surprise. “Are you really embarrassed?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Only mildly. It’s not like I wrote it. But I am the reason you wasted your night watching it. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll be more sparing with my recommendations.”
Ken took a long drink from his water, then shrugged. “I found it amusing. I can see the appeal of taking an old, bad movie and trying to make it funny by adding sarcastic commentary over it. But it was a little absurd.”
“‘Open mind, low expectations,’ right?” I reminded him. “You know, that seems like good advice for all aspects of life. Maybe you’ve stumbled upon the key to happiness, Ken.”
He grinned. “Should I write an inspirational book?”
“Nah, trademark it and sell merchandise,” I quipped.
Chuckling softly, he said, “Somehow, ‘Open mind, low expectations’ doesn’t have the same ring to it as ‘Live, Laugh, Love.’ We’ll just have to keep the key to happiness our own little secret.” He issued me a conspiratorial wink, and I was charmed.
Ken was surprisingly funny when he relaxed. The night started with him being slightly irritable. He seemed overly concerned with making an impression on me, and when I assured him that I was having a good time, he completely transformed. He loosened up, enjoyed the movie and was now engaging in witty banter. At Buzzy’s, I thought I started to see that side of him, but he’d shut down when I remarked on it. He was self-conscious but had a lot of potential.
His apparent irritation with his less-than-smooth conversation and eagerness to pay for things, struck empathy in me. I didn’t like the idea of him feeling as if he needed to buy my friendship or view tonight as an interview or audition. Friendships needed to happen organically. Was it possible he didn’t know how?
I believed I was starting to see the real Ken, see his quirks and attitude for what they were—coping mechanisms and armor for his vulnerabilities. Sure, he had more going for him than the rest of us average folk. He could be a supercilious dickhead when he felt like it, but I wanted to see what he looked like without his shell. Was he playful? Was he sarcastic like me? Was he passionate about anything?
Not only was he evoking empathy in me, he was spurring my curious nature—and that was my weakness. I loved people who surprised me, people who weren’t what everyone assumed they were. At first glance, Ken appeared to be another snotty, privileged white guy. He looked like getting laid and making money would be his primary goals. Those types were boring. But DKM was shaping up to be anything but boring.
When our waitress approached, I ordered fish tacos.
Ken ordered the check to be given to him at the end of the meal.
And a cheeseburger.
I shook my head in amused exasperation and decided to employ my special brand of subtle interrogation. “So, DKM, got any hot romance there at the new hospital?”
His eyes widened in surprise and he made a sound that was most likely a swallow-misfire. Did I say subtle interrogation? I lied. Not much was subtle about me.
“Uh…” He blinked rapidly.
“Are you seeing anybody?” I asked. “If television drama is to be believed, hospitals are rife with beautiful, horny singles ready to mingle.” An amusing thought struck me, and I veered into a tangent. “If you were on that show, they’d call you McPretty. But only because McDreamy was already taken.”
Ken’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“That doesn’t offend you, does it? Calling you pretty?”
“You think I’m pretty?” His expression, rather than appearing offended, see
med pleased.
I scoffed. “Don’t fish. It’s beneath you, McPretty.”
His smile widened, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “I’m not completely sure I know what you’re talking about. But to answer your question, no. You don’t need to worry about that. I’m single and I absolutely do not use the hospital as a dating pool.” He shook his head emphatically. “Working alongside someone you’re romantically tangled with is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Ooh,” I said, infusing my voice with exaggerated curiosity. “Is this a lesson Elizabeth taught you?”
“Is this your roundabout way of pumping me for the backstory?”
“That wasn’t my intention, but since we’re here, go ahead and spill the beans. Or, I could just ask her…” I let the threat hang, knowing he’d take the bait.
His brows lowered. “And, I’m sure the story would be entirely accurate and not at all biased,” he said snidely.
“So, give me the straight version, no embellishments.”
He paused, seeming to weigh his words. “I wanted to date her and thought she wanted the same. But after I gave her some career advice, that she needed to hear, by the way,”—he held up his hands as if defending himself—“she told me that she would rather we just…” A flash of distress crossed his face.
“Just what?” I prompted eagerly.
“You don’t mind hearing about this? Are you sure this is okay?”
“Uh, yeah!” I exclaimed. “I’m nosy as hell, Ken. Just don’t disrespect her. She is my friend and I care about her.”
Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2 Page 5