by Cole Gibsen
So why don’t I cancel? Tonya’s absolutely right. I’m a grown man. I don’t have to do this if I don’t want to.
Unless you do want to, Tonya’s words echo through my brain.
Ridiculous. I shake my head as if to dislodge the words from my head. I’m the Boy Scout. I agreed to do this out of pity, so I’m going to see my commitment through. There’s nothing more to it. I glance at the clock. It’s a pity date I’m dangerously late for. When I’m ready to date—really date—Tonya will be the first to know. I only hope she won’t have given up on me by then.
I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder, lock my classroom, and trudge out to the parking lot. Sheila waits for me, hunkered next to the lamppost, almost as if she knows where I’m going and she’s pouting.
“It’s a pity date,” I say again, patting her gas tank. “You’re still the only woman for me.” With that, I rev the engine and pull onto the road.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into Alfonso’s parking lot, which is filled almost entirely with German imports. The outside of the brick restaurant is lined with gas lamps and landscaped with large leafy plants. It’s the sort of stuffy place my parents were always dragging me and my sister to when we were kids. The kind of place where you had to sit up straight, keep your napkin on your lap, and know which fork to use for the salad and which to use for the entrée.
Pulling my helmet off, I sigh. I hate places like this.
I trudge up the walkway only to stop when I spot Emily.
To my annoyance, my throat, along with another unmentionable muscle, tightens. She looks like she just stepped out of a greasy auto body shop pinup calendar.
I don’t move for several seconds, giving myself time to enjoy the view before I’m spotted. She studies her phone, leaning against one of the brick pillars flanking the entryway. She’s wearing a black high-waist pencil skirt, a red blouse with short lacy sleeves and the top two buttons undone, and black pumps. Her platinum curls have been rolled and pinned around the red handkerchief tied in her hair.
She looks up, meeting my eyes, and it occurs to me my palms are sweating.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Giving myself a mental shake, I march toward her. “Knee’s bothering me tonight,” I lie, hoping not to look more like an idiot than I already do.
She waves a hand dismissively. “You’re not going to believe this. They’re not coming. Un-fucking-believable.”
An older couple walking by stops to gape. Even though I wasn’t the one who cursed, I can feel an apology bubble up my throat—thanks to all the years of being schooled by my parents on manners. Emily, however, glares at them until they move on.
What the hell did I just get myself into?
“Look,” she says, raising her phone inches from my face. It’s a text from Ashlyn that reads:
Please don’t kill me. Your mom caught Harper’s strep. And since she was our babysitter, it looks like we’re not going to be able to make it. Please have fun without us. The reservation is under Lane’s name.
“Can you believe this shit?” she says, tossing her phone into a clutch. “They’re standing us up. Looks like you’re off the hook.”
The relief I expect to feel doesn’t come, and that confuses the hell out of me. “Oh. Great.”
She bites her lip and looks at her feet. “Look, I’m sorry about roping you into this mess. Sometimes I can be a little, um, impulsive. Just because I was feeling pathetic doesn’t mean I should have dragged you into it. I’m, uh, sorry.”
Her admission catches me off guard. This girl has a bigger wall than China, and this is the first glimpse I’ve seen beyond it. “Actually, this wasn’t an entirely horrible idea. Real or fake, I haven’t been out in”—I swallow—“well, a long time. So in a way, it’s a step forward for me. So thank you.”
She gives me a smile. An honest to God genuine smile. It all but knocks me off my feet. Maybe I never noticed before because tattoos and piercings aren’t my thing, but looking at Emily now, really seeing her, she’s absolutely stunning.
“Well, I got to tell you one thing, Reece,” she says. “Of all the almost-dates I’ve had, this has been the best.”
“Yeah? Mine, too.”
We stare at each silently until her smile fades. “I guess I’m going to call an Uber. You are relieved of duty, soldier.”
I flinch at the last word. I think she notices. Squinting, she studies my face, searching for…I don’t know exactly. Whatever it is, I look away before she can find it. I glance at my watch. “It is getting late.”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m starving.”
“Me, too.”
I know it’s a bad idea before the words leave my mouth. And still, I say them. “You know, we’re both hungry. It would be stupid if we didn’t get something to eat. And how awful would it be if we did it together? Just two people getting a meal and having a conversation. Could be fun. Could be awful. At least it won’t be boring.”
Her lip twitches in an almost grin before she looks at the door and it dissolves completely. “This kind of place really isn’t my scene.”
“Mine, either.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Bullshit.” She nods her chin at me. “Sport coat. Gold watch. Are those loafers?” She laughs before I can answer. “Good God, you look like you were raised in a place like this.”
I glance into the window, at the row after row of middle-aged white couples dining in their suits and pearls. “I was,” I acknowledge.
“So how can you say this isn’t your scene?”
“Let’s just say my parents had this mold they wanted me to fit in. And no matter how hard I tried, I never could.”
She gives me a thoughtful look before blurting, “I like pizza. And burgers.”
“Great.” I swivel around on my cane. “I know the perfect pizza joint not far from here.” I start for my bike. “I’ll drive.”
“I know you’re the one who pulled me out of my car the night of the accident.”
I freeze. I figured Ashlyn would tell her once I left. But it still bothers me. I like us being on neutral ground, and this feels anything but. “Yeah?”
“You saved my life.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother answering. Instead, I walk the rest of the way to my bike and hike my leg over the saddle. “You coming?”
“Just so you know,” she continues, “that while I’m thankful, it doesn’t mean I owe you anything, if you catch my drift.”
I jerk back. “First of all, whatever you’re implying, let me start off by telling you that had never crossed my mind. If I wanted to get laid, I can think of a dozen easier ways to go about it other than pulling women out of burning cars. Secondly, what the hell is wrong with you that you’d even think that?”
“Oh, honey.” She brushes past me, trailing her fingers along my chest as she does. “That would take months, maybe even years for you to figure out.” She stops beside Sheila, pulls up her skirt, flashing a dangerous amount of leg, and climbs on behind me. “And we’ve got only one night.”
Chapter Nine
Emily
Had I known I would be clinging to a man on the back of his motorcycle, there’s no way in hell I would have worn a skirt. I had to hike the hem up way above my thighs just to straddle the stupid thing. To top it off, I have to cling to this strange man just to keep every other motorist on the road from getting V.I.P access to the Emily Garrett skin show.
Actually, if I’m being honest, I don’t mind the clinging that much. Despite the warm summer evening, the wind carries a chill that Reece’s body wards off. Not to mention he smells amazing, minty with a hint of citrus. And apparently his injury doesn’t keep him from the gym. I can feel the ripples of hard muscle beneath the stupid sport coat I’m wrapped around.
Reece pulls into the parking lot of a dimly lit pizzeria and cuts the engine. I’m hit with the aroma of garlic and cheese, and my stomach roars to life. I remove Reece’s helmet—his
only helmet, that he insisted I wear—and go about patting my head for stray hairs. Not that I care about what I look like or impressing him.
After hopping off the bike and retrieving his cane, Reece extends his hand. I stare at it for several seconds before I realize he means for me to take it. It’s so ridiculous I have to muffle a snicker. Outside of the movies, I wasn’t aware men still did that. Still, I’ll play along. If he wants to be a gentleman, I guess I can act the part of the lady—at least for the night.
I slip my fingers around his and allow him to help me off the bike. The gesture is so foreign to me, I wrack my brain for the last time a guy helped me into or out of their vehicle.
I come up with nothing.
It’s not like I need that sort of treatment. I’m not a helpless princess. It’s probably something yuppie guys like Reece learn from their yuppie dads to work stuck-up girls out of their panties. And I’m a strong, independent woman. That shit won’t work on me.
But I’d be lying if I said that a teeny-tiny part of me didn’t like it.
When my feet are planted firmly on the ground, Reece extends his arm.
I almost laugh. This guy is un-fucking-believable. “I can walk, you know.” I motion to the cane. “Probably better than you can.”
He frowns and drops his arm as we walk side by side to the restaurant. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off,” he says. “I thought I was being polite.”
“You don’t have to do that shit.” He reaches in front of me for the door handle, and I snatch it before he can. “Not with me.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “My apologies. I didn’t realize I was offending Her Majesty, Queen Badass.”
I make a face. “I’m just reminding you, this isn’t a real date.”
His scowl deepens. “I know.”
“Then you’re wasting your time on me with all that chivalry shit. It’s not going to get you anywhere.”
To my surprise, he laughs. “You think I’m trying to seduce you? Emily, I open doors for everyone. I do it out of respect.”
For reasons I don’t understand, his admission makes me feel uncomfortable. I try to hide this by placing a hand on my hip. “Why on earth would you respect me?”
He reaches past me and opens the door. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Because I’m an alcoholic. Because I’m a barista with no plans for the future. Because guys like you would never in a million years go for a girl like me. These reasons and more flood my brain before I can stop them. I shake my head, trying to loosen them. God, where the hell is this coming from? “Never mind,” I mumble, walking through the door.
I don’t need the voice of my own self-doubt harassing now, especially when I’m trying so hard to give up drinking.
I have to walk sideways through the cluster of people standing around the hostess podium. To my left, three families are squeezed on the lone bench against the wall. Music blares from a jukebox, barely audible over the buzz of conversation.
“Holy crap, it’s crowded,” I say over my shoulder. “At least we know the food’s good.” I dodge elbows and squeeze past bodies until I reach the podium.
A bored-looking teenager glances up from her seating chart. “Just one?”
“Uh, no.” Does she need glasses? I turn to Reece in the hopes of having him chime in, only to notice he’s not with me. What the—? Rising to my toes, I peer over the shoulders of crowd around me to spot him by the door. “Reece.” When my call doesn’t get a response, I shout. “Reece!” Still, nothing.
I hold a finger up to the hostess. “Mark us down for two under the name Emily. I’ll be right back.” Annoyed, I weave my way back through the crowd. What the hell happened to his chivalry? I find him just inside the door. “What’s up?” I ask, stopping in front of him. “Did you change your mind?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.
A chill starts at the base of my spine, winding up each vertebra all the way to my neck. “Reece? Are you okay?”
He inhales sharply, blinking, but it’s as if his eyes refuse to focus. “I just—” He swallows. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten out. It’s loud, isn’t it?”
“Yeah? So?”
He says nothing. His chest shudders as his breathing becomes shallow. His hand flexes on his cane, fingers tightening then relaxing. His knuckles flex to white, to pink, to white again.
“Jesus, Reece.” I hold a hand out to touch him, but fear keeps my fingers hovering above his shirt. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“Hey, buddy.” A large man appears in the doorway behind Reece. He’s taller than Reece by six inches and nearly twice as wide. “Can you get out of the way?”
Reece doesn’t budge.
The guy gives an impatient huff. “Are you deaf?”
“Can’t you see something’s wrong, jackass?” I ask. “Chill the fuck out and give us a minute.”
The man’s brow folds like dough. “You can’t talk to me like that, bitch. And you sure as hell can’t block the door. Now, move.”
Reece isn’t even looking at him, but the second the big guy’s meaty hands reach for his shoulder, it’s like Reece gets struck by a bolt of lightning. He jerks upright, standing taller than I thought possible for a guy with a bad leg. Reece clasps the man’s wrist and bends it. He swings the guy in front of him and drives him to his knees.
The man squeals in pain, but Reece holds firm.
“Reece! What are you—” Before I can get the words out, I notice his face. His teeth are bared, his eyes feral like an animal’s.
My throat tightens and I take a step back. “Reece?” This time, when I speak his name, it’s barely a whisper.
He blinks. The change that follows is slow. His lips uncurl, his muscles relax, and finally, his eyes soften. He follows my gaze to the wrist clutched in his hand and the sniveling man it belongs to.
“Shit.” Reece lets go and scrambles backward.
The big guy cradles his arm to his chest and scrambles to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”
It’s then I notice the restaurant has fallen silent. Every pair of eyes is turned in our direction. A man at a far table stands, fists clenched. A young mother pulls her child out of the highchair and onto her lap. The bored hostess actually looks interested.
“I’m sorry.” Reece presses a fist against his temple. “I didn’t mean—shit.”
Part of me wants to go to him, but another part is scared to move any closer.
“What’s going on out here?” A balding man in an apron emerges from the swinging kitchen door and pushes his way through the crowd. The name John is embroidered on the black apron in red thread.
“You need to call the police,” the big guy says, pointing a finger at Reece, who now stands with his back flat against the wall. “That lunatic over there assaulted me.”
Several people murmur their agreement.
“That’s a lie.” I move, positioning myself between Reece and the gorilla. “This asshat started everything.” I don’t care if we get kicked out, but I’m not about to let Reece get hauled off to prison, even if I don’t understand what happened.
Frowning, John pulls a dishrag out of his pocket and furiously wipes his hands. He looks at me, eyes narrowed, studying me in a way that makes me want to squirm. I’m sure I’m moments away from getting the boot, when he turns to the gorilla. “That lunatic over there”—he points at Reece—“is a decorated war hero. Any insult to him is an insult to me.”
The man’s eyes widen. “What? I didn’t know—”
“Doesn’t matter.” John jabs a finger at the door. “Your patronage isn’t welcome here. Please leave.”
The guy opens his mouth to argue, but John cuts him off. “Leave. Before I do call the police.”
Grumbling, the gorilla lumbers back to the door. He keeps his eyes locked on Reece the entire way.
When he’s gone, John turns to the crowd. “Cannolis on the house. Please, everyone, ret
urn to your meals.” He clasps a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward Reece, who’s slumped against the wall, with his head held in his hands. “Let’s go take care of our boy, eh?” he whispers.
My pulse thrums a steady beat inside my head. While Reece’s behavior suddenly makes a lot more sense, I sure as hell don’t know what to do about it. No matter what John said, he’s definitely not my boy. Still, I allow John to steer me over to the corner.
Reece looks up. His eyes are more focused, but his shoulders continue to tremble. “God, John, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I—”
John waves the towel at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“I need to go.” Reece looks around the room, almost as if he’s searching for something. “I need to go,” he repeats.
“I know,” John says. “And you can, but after you calm down a bit. Let’s go in the kitchen. I’ll make you a pie to go.”
Reece doesn’t move for several heartbeats. Finally, he gives a sharp nod.
John smiles and places his arm around his shoulder. “Good.” He maneuvers Reece toward the swinging door, motioning me to follow with a wink and jut of his chin.
Honestly, I’m more than tempted to walk out the door and flag down a cab, call an Uber driver, or even jut my thumb out—whatever it takes to get the hell away from here. Yet I can’t bring myself to abandon Reece. I’ve slipped out of dozens of beds the morning after without so much as a note good-bye. So, why now? What is it about Reece that I feel the need to stay and make sure he’s okay?
With a sigh, I follow the two men beyond the swinging door. The smell of tomatoes, cheese, and garlic make me dizzy with hunger. We must be a sight to the half dozen employees kneading dough, sprinkling toppings, and shoving pizzas into and out of the large wood-burning ovens. But after their initial curious glances, they pay us no attention.
Which gets me wondering, has this happened before?
“I’m going to make you the usual, okay?” John steers us both to a corner with a single stool beneath a stainless steel table. He pulls the stool out and deposits Reece onto it. “Wait here, okay? Give me fifteen minutes. Both of you, relax.”