Oh God.
I must’ve been doing my deer in headlights impression when Jacob leaned across the table and said, “Coffee?” I nodded dumbly. He went up to the counter while I scanned the crowd and noted how many people were clutching Moleskine notebooks to their chests. Too many.
Hippy Sparkle introduced the first reader—someone shameless enough to bill herself as a “clairvoyant life coach”—and the date’s awkwardness devolved rapidly to torture. The poet was a plain woman in Birkenstocks and wool socks who looked like she’d just been abducted from a feminist bookstore. She took in the room, centered herself with a deep breath, and said, “Third eye.”
I glanced toward the door. A cluster of earnest lesbians was blocking my exit. Damn.
“Third eye. Third eye. Only sense that doesn’t lie. People be trippin, they trippin, they never stop skippin the money they slippin….”
Aaand there it was. White-lady ebonics. Maybe I was dreaming. If so, someone needed to pinch me. Hard.
Jacob set a huge black coffee in front of me, a veritable cauldron of java in a hand-thrown mug. He followed it up with a handful of creamers and sugars, then slipped back into his seat and put his full attention on the “poem.”
“You say I don’t know but I know, oh I know, I know how this will go and it’s gonna sink low….”
I dumped every creamer into my coffee with the intention of downing the thing in one huge gulp and inventing a sudden urgent excuse to bail, but it must’ve been a fresh pot. Even with all the creams, it was too hot to chug. As I blew and sipped, I scoped out my date from behind the protective barrier of the gigantic mug. His style could use an update—grow out that goatee into more of a beard and take down the sides of his taper fade, and he’d literally stop traffic. But despite the conservative hair, the way he carried himself like he owned the damn place definitely held a certain appeal.
Too bad he wasn’t into me. So not-into me that he was pretending to find the Birkenstock rapper utterly fascinating. He watched her while I watched him and convinced myself it was really all for the best, I could text Carolyn those three little words everyone loves to hear: you were right. And then go put on my checkered smock and earn myself a whopping fifty bucks…minus taxes.
Birkenstock was on quite a roll when Jacob gave a little start, pulled out his vibrating phone and scowled down at whatever it said. He thumbed in something, then turned the screen toward me so I could read it.
Work, sorry. Rain check?
Honestly, the easy letdown was unnecessary. If we were anywhere we could actually speak aloud, I’d tell him so. Nothing I took personally, just a stunning lack of chemistry. I gave him a sorta headshake-shrug combo, like whatever, don’t worry about it, it’s fine.
He stood and rounded the table, then bent to say his final goodbye in my ear—or so I thought. Before I fully grasped what was what, he’d taken me by the chin and steered me into a full-on kiss. On the mouth. In broad daylight. In a goofy poetry slamming coffee shop.
Deer in headlights? Hell, the collision was so unexpected, I felt more like roadkill. This guy was so cocky he even stood there afterward to gloat that extra moment, eye to eye, and dare me to challenge him.
I think I blinked. Maybe.
Actually, it was a bit of a blur, at least until I watched him turn and make his way through the scattering of telepathic poetry queers and head out into the bald light of day.
What was up with that kiss? It was too deliberate, too lingering, to be anything less than a clear message of yes, you oblivious man, you’re hot. And once I received that message, my own libido perked right up to match his Vibe. Still, it was nothing short of baffling. If he’d been into me all along, how could I possibly have sat there with him all that time—half a freaking coffee—and not picked up on a single cue?
I texted Carolyn, Tell me what he says.
She replied first with a simple No. And then a minute later, I’m not letting you two pump me for information about each other.
I ignored that and replied, I can’t tell if he’s into me.
Really?
I’d thought that was the end of it since Carolyn said no, and she means what she says and says what she means. The evening rolled on while I did my time in the checkered smock. Strict ClipLand policy prohibits stylists from even carrying their phones in the salon, but all of us did anyway. We were just careful about shutting off the ringtones.
I was on the bus back home when I finally realized Carolyn had replied. He won’t shut up about you. Happy?
I was. Confused, but happy.
Chapter 22
“It makes no sense. I always know when I’m tripping someone’s trigger,” I told Carolyn.
“And despite your perceived lack of attraction, you agreed to another date.”
I got why she didn’t want to be the go-between, but how could I help myself? I was curious. Plus I had her on the hotseat for as long as it would take to touch up her color, and since we were at my place and not ClipLand, I was determined to take my sweet time and squeeze out every last juicy drop of info. “Seriously, I thought he was faking a call yesterday just to get out of there.”
“It’s the nature of our job. We’re not going to tell an assault victim to hang tight so we can take her statement at our convenience Monday morning—not only would that be completely insensitive, but memories degrade quicker than you’d think. If you weren’t working last night, once we had our statements, he probably would’ve tried to take right back up wherever you left off.”
“He could have. I’ll bet the chick with the lame rhymes was still going strong. Maybe even beatboxing.”
“I still think you’re making a big mistake.”
“And are you able to see the future?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Then don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
It was Jacob who picked the spot for our next date. He called and gushed about a lecture at the Sulzer library on supposedly precognitive cave art. My initial impulse was to say, “Good one—but where did you want to go, really?” But I quelled it when he was gentlemanly enough to offer to pick me up, and decided to go with the flow and see what the evening had in store. Because as much action as I usually saw, I might’ve been a little rusty at “dating.”
In fact, I tried and failed to recall a single actual date I’d ever gone on, one that involved doing an activity as a means of getting to know someone before we climbed into bed together. Not since, what…a high school social? And even that was a thinly veiled attempt to duck into an empty classroom and squeeze my hand down David Garcia’s pants. He totally chickened out. But then I hooked up with another kid from Art Club I’d had my eye on, so it was all good.
In the end, I suppose I was curious. I gave Jacob my address and we made our plans.
He showed up right on the money and called me from the car. “Normally I’d come up, but I’m double-parked.”
“Not a problem, be right down.” How hokey—both the picking me up, and the thought that he needed to do anything more than pull up and beep to impress me. Even so, a flutter of anticipation settled in somewhere behind my sternum and I second-guessed my choice in wardrobe as I locked my sturdy new deadbolt tight. I’d gone heavy on the jewelry, with ripped jeans, combat boots, studded belt and a retro ringer tee. Thought about toning it down, but in the end decided my best bet was to be transparent about what he could ultimately expect.
I found him out front leaning against a black sedan, looking both masculine and polished. He rounded the car—and, get this—opened the door for me. The gesture was so adorably sincere, not a single smart remark sprang to mind. As I attempted to slide in, he smoothly maneuvered himself into a hello-kiss, again square on the mouth, and said, “You look amazing.”
I took him in—conservative, sure, but all big and hard-bodied—and said, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
And again, there was that eye contact. Brief, since the right lane was getting pretty pis
sed off at the two of us, but exceedingly deliberate. Vibe…right? Even though I had a trace of his spit evaporating from my lower lip, weirdly enough, no.
The black sedan was obscenely roomy. Every time Jacob hit the gas, I felt dinosaurs weep over the squandering of their remains. I sprawled sideways in the passenger seat as much as the seatbelt would allow, and watched him as we crawled our way up Damen. He made some apology about ditching me Saturday, though it was fairly perfunctory. Not that it was insincere, but he clearly thought the importance of his job was self-evident.
Hard to say if the reason I couldn’t read his Vibe was because he was used to schooling his expression. Because in his line of work, he’d need to clamp down on all his normal tells. One thing I did read from his body language was an unquestionable arrogance, which was probably an asset at his job, too.
Also hard to say if that arrogance ticked me off or turned me on.
Maybe I did have a weakness for a man with a good, solid pair of cajones. There must’ve been some reason I let Ralph lure me behind the closed door of his office time and time again. And if Red hadn’t been the epitome of self-congratulatory pride, letting him slip through my fingers wouldn’t have done such a number on my ego.
I stuffed all thoughts of Red back into the mental lockbox where I normally kept them. If I was to survive an official adult date, I couldn’t afford to waste time wondering what I should’ve done differently. I’d sifted through the reruns a million times before. Even if I managed to figure out where I went wrong, what did it matter now? The battle was lost, the war was over, and the troops had fled to the West Coast.
At the library, I got out of the car before Jacob could open the door for me, but he insisted on being courtly at the building’s front door. As I stepped across the threshold, I made a quick attempt to cool his jets by saying, “Full disclosure—I’m not entirely convinced psychic powers aren’t anything more than a bunch of hype.”
“Really?” He didn’t sound threatened at all. More like he found my skepticism intriguing. Or even a bit of a challenge.
The talk was being held in an auditorium that could seat maybe a hundred people, though only a couple dozen intrepid souls had turned up. I’d been hoping to spend my time people-watching to get a handle on what sorts of folks put stock in extrasensory perception, but with the lights off and a slideshow playing, it was hard to tell. The lecture didn’t hold my interest. The University of Chicago professor droned on, trying to make the case that a Paleolithic rock painted with red dots foretold everything from the Thirty Years War to the rise of Hitler. Her voice rose and fell in the darkened room while boring pictures of Bavarian caves blinked past, and I considered how much to read into the steady pressure of Jacob’s knee against mine. He wasn’t clingy, which was good. I’d get sick of someone continually pawing at me. But I assumed he was trying to send a message with all the mouth-kissing and door-opening and knee-pressing…since after spending a good hour and a half right beside him, I had no sense whatsoever as to whether he dug me or not.
After an interminable history lesson, the lights finally came up and the professor opened the floor to questions. I leaned in and whispered, “Can we get out of here?”
The look he flashed me as we walked out might or might not have been a Vibe. I paused to light a smoke, and Jacob turned to block the wind. Hell, he was probably put out he hadn’t picked up a lighter so he could light it for me. I took a drag, thought through how diplomatic I should probably be, and then decided, fuck it. “So what’s the plan here?”
“You mean, dinner?”
“Dinner. Post-dinner…and beyond. Fill me in, Jacob, ’cos I can’t tell if we’re on the same page or not.”
His shoulders slumped. “It’s the lecture, isn’t it? I had no idea it would be so dry. Give me another chance to make a good impression.” This, said with the confidence of someone who was clearly accustomed to making an impression with the velocity of a wrecking ball. “Dinner…” he eased in close. “Maybe takeout?”
“Takeout, huh?” Well, hell. Whether or not I had a handle on his Vibe just yet, if that wasn’t an engraved invitation, then I was a blushing virgin. “Sounds…tasty.”
I named a killer Thai restaurant nearby, and we scored some food and headed back to his place.
Judging by the condo with the underground parking and lake view, Jacob made good money and wasn’t afraid to spend it. His tastes ran hypermasculine, big furniture pieces with lots of dark colors and wood. The only area that didn’t feel like a Leathercraft Furniture showroom was the kitchen, where there were still dishes in the sink, and a few too many gizmos and gadgets crowded onto the countertops.
He served us on big ceramic plates (black, of course) but at least we ate on the couch, and not at that giant, formal slab of a dining room table. There were all of four beers in the fridge, which he split with me. Not nearly enough for a buzz, but enough to make us chatty. Safe topics. Where we’d grown up. Places we’d lived. Siblings (his) and cousins (mine). And eventually, lovers.
“My last relationship was with another cop,” he told me. “It didn’t end well.”
“Do they ever?” I suppose I meant it philosophically, because really, what did I know? He gave an uncomfortable shrug—possibly the first chink I’d seen in his armor all night—and I took pity on the big lug. “Look, I’ve got zero expectations here. You don’t need to impress me.”
“Maybe I want to.”
“You sure about that?”
“I thought I was being pretty obvious.”
And I’d learned the hard way that people will fuck you for all kinds of reasons—some of which had nothing to do with lust. “Not exactly.”
“Then allow me to clarify.” With a sultry bedroom-eyed expression that would’ve been right at home on any afternoon soap, he leaned in for a kiss.
Chapter 23
So the sex was adequate. Actually, that’s not quite right. It was good. Really…pretty good. All things considered, it seemed like I’d enjoyed myself. Jacob went at me like a man with something to prove, and in the throes of the naked, sweaty action, he displayed some solid bedroom skills. Afterward, he even invited me to stay. I probably should have taken him up on the offer. It was late. His bed was comfy. Plus, no doubt he’d do justice to the saying “rise and shine.”
But my heart wasn’t in it, and in the end, I dropped a cab fare I really couldn’t afford and headed home.
I wouldn’t have given the encounter much more thought, if not for the text waiting for me come morning.
Can’t wait to see you again.
My thumbs itched to text back that I couldn’t fathom why, since he really didn’t seem all that into me. But when I thought back on the night, there wasn’t any particular part that proved otherwise. Jacob had showered me with niceties. He’d held the door at the library, bought dinner, and treated me to a bonus round in bed.
So maybe the problem was me. Maybe I just wasn’t into him. Which made no sense, since all in all, he’d be a really sweet catch. Smart. Buff. And no Viagra necessary.
I pondered my reply—on the bus, through a dozen hasty cuts, over a sorry brown-bag lunch, and well into my afternoon slog. I puzzled so long over how I should respond that I must’ve looked like I was playing hard to get. And that only spurred him on. Once my shift was done, I found several hang-ups and one voicemail. “I had such an incredible time last night. Not…the library. You definitely get to pick the place next time.” Next time? What next time? “But after we finally got out of there…I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
Huh. I’ll be damned. For all that I’d convinced myself I wasn’t really Jacob’s type, he sounded pretty hot n’ bothered. I supposed I wouldn’t mind a replay of the previous night’s finale, but treating each other to dinner would start getting old, fast. Frankly put, I couldn’t afford to reciprocate. I’d been living off sandwiches made of 99¢ turkey baloney that was crunchy with beaks and feet, and wouldn’t dream of offering that atroci
ty to a guest.
How terrible would it be to invite this guy over for a hookup and nothing more? Give up this pretense of “dating,” a ridiculous and outmoded social convention perpetuated by people’s need to pair off two by two, and really get down to brass tacks. He was hung, I was limber, and both of us had plenty of fuel in the tank.
But then there were the boxes to consider. When I finally called him back, I said, “I’d invite you over, but I’m in the middle of a project and my place is a wreck.”
“What kind of project?”
“Sorting through a bunch of old merchandise, taking inventory, snapping pictures.”
“I can help you,” he said, without missing a beat. “Let me help.”
“Fair warning. There will be spreadsheets involved.”
“I’d love to help.”
The thought of keying in all that info on my phone was pretty daunting. “Can you bring a laptop?”
“Sure. I’ll grab dinner too.”
Whoever had trained this guy to display such an elaborate mating ritual really should be commended. I pushed through the bus’s stubborn back door and made my way up the block, wondering the whole while if I should’ve just come clean and told Jacob he really didn’t need to impress me if he wanted to get laid. I guess I was curious. Since I’d been specifically warned he was a selfish dick, I wondered how far he’d go to get on my good side. And why.
I hadn’t been exaggerating about the state of my apartment. It looked like it had been ransacked by a band of roving hippies. Charm bags, stone jars, all the oddball things I’d put together from my various craft store excursions were arrayed on every available surface as I tried to figure out what I could charge for them and where they might sell. With any luck, I could unload it all online. Craftacular.com only took a 15% commission, so I had nothing to lose by giving it a try.
Jacob showed up maybe an hour later with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder and his hands full of Korean barbecue. While we took inventory of my collection to get an idea of what I had in stock, I did my best to explain about all the new age crap without sounding apologetic. Funny thing was, I didn’t really understand why I’d gravitated toward it myself. “People are drawn to things,” I said. “Sentiment, psychology, who really knows why. But my customers were happy with their souvenirs.”
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 17