Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  “You do? Damn. That’s going to make it harder to explain the lime delivery I have coming in next week.”

  I laugh. “What’s coming next? Clown makeup?”

  She gasps. “This is amazing. No one ever gets my John Wayne Gacy jokes.”

  I tsk. “Sounds like your friends are a bunch of losers who don’t understand serial-killer humor. So what got you into true crime?”

  She chews her food and considers the question before responding. “There’s a lot of reasons. I don’t know. I guess I always just find it sort of fascinating. Like why do people think that way? Who has a problem with someone and jumps to murder as the solution? It’s nuts. Plus it’s a safe way to prepare myself for if I’m ever in a situation where I might be murdered. It alleviates all my ‘maybe I’m going to die today’ anxieties. It’s probably hard to imagine since you’re such a beefcake, but there’s always some anxiety involved in being a woman. You can’t even walk by a stranger on a street in broad daylight without wondering if they’re going to attack you.”

  “That makes sense. And despite the beefcake appearance,” I roll my eyes and nudge her with my shoulder, “I do sort of know what you mean. I’ve had a few stalkers. And I had a woman try to kill me. It does make one a bit jumpy.”

  She gasps. “That’s right! I saw it on the news and I guess I just didn’t think about it because you’re . . . well, you, but oh my God. You were almost murdered.” She leans forward. “Tell me everything.” Her hand is back on my arm and her eyes are riveted on mine.

  Her excitement is contagious. A spark of energy clicks to life inside me. “There’s not much to tell. Marissa was a reporter for Stylz. She dated Marc for a short time. He broke up with her when he walked in on her propositioning me. Naked.”

  She grimaces. “Sounds like a bad soap opera.”

  I laugh. “It felt like a bad soap opera. After her plan to seduce me didn’t work, she wrote an article accusing me of sexual assault.”

  “That’s why you and Gwen did the whole fake-dating thing.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes. “Yes. That was a dumb decision. At least it brought Marc and Gwen together. But anyway, what I didn’t know at the time was that Marissa had not only used Marc to get to me, she had also been sending me anonymous letters and weird, creepy fan mail. I get a lot of threats and strange women having delusions that we’re in a serious relationship, but I never thought they would come from someone I knew personally. Even someone as crazy as Marissa. After she ran a horrible article about Gwen and Marc, I had my attorney sue her for defamation, and well, she didn’t take it kindly.”

  “That was the article that outed Gwen and Marc’s relationship, right?”

  “Right.”

  “While you were fake-dating her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But didn’t you like Gwen, too?”

  “I did. And I was upset at the time, but then I realized what Marc felt for Gwen was different. For me, she was a nice, normal woman I thought I could develop something with. Marc loved her.”

  She snorts. “Nice normal supermodel.”

  “Yeah, but you know Gwen. She’s chill.”

  “She is. Super nice. Can’t hate her. Dammit.”

  I grin. “It all worked out.”

  “Except you got shot.”

  “Right, well, after Marissa got notice of the lawsuit, she showed up at my apartment, yelling and screaming. Some paper and pictures fell out of her purse and that’s when I realized she was my stalker.”

  “Ho-ly shit.” She puts the chow mein container back on the table and tucks her legs under her on the couch next to me.

  My eyes are drawn to her sleek legs and tiny toes. She’s so delicate and small, it brings out some kind of protective instinct in me. I want to throw her over my shoulder like a caveman and drag her off somewhere.

  Which sounds awful. And since humankind has progressed somewhat since the Neolithic period, perhaps I should amend that statement to add I want to drag her off with her enthusiastic consent and treat her with the utmost respect.

  I clear my throat. “When I called her out for being the stalker and threatened to file charges and a restraining order, she pulled out a gun and shot me. Here.” I pull the sleeve of my shirt up to show her the scar on my arm.

  She traces the small mark with a finger. “Wow.” Her breath puffs against my shoulder and a thrill of awareness shoots down from the small touch on my arm to my stomach. All too soon she pulls back. “What happened to Marissa?”

  I clear my throat and focus on her question. “She was charged with second-degree attempted murder because they couldn’t prove it was premeditated.”

  “Uh, I think showing up to your place with a gun is pretty premeditated.”

  “You’d think so. But she also had a psychologist testify she wasn’t of sound mind, and while they couldn’t prove insanity, the court was pretty lenient since it’s her first offense and they think she could improve with proper treatment. She got five years, but she could be released sooner with good behavior.”

  Bethany shakes her head. “Unbelievable. I fucking hate that. They’re always giving attempted murderers a break, and why? Because the person they tried to kill had the audacity to survive? It makes me real punchy.”

  I laugh. “Tell me about it. I’ve always been into true crime, but after all that happened, it made me even more curious to try and understand why people do the things they do.”

  “My friend Ted thinks my true-crime obsession is why I’m overreacting to all the strangeness in the apartment.”

  “I don’t know. I think you should always trust your instincts. It’s better to be overly cautious and wrong than not cautious enough and dead.”

  “That’s very true. Death would be bad. But I don’t think whatever’s going on in my apartment is going to lead to my imminent demise. There’s probably a plausible explanation. And it is possible I imagined the whole figure-in-the-shadows thing. It might have been pareidolia.”

  “Para-what?”

  “I’m probably saying it wrong. My friend Lucy sent me an article about it the other day. It’s when your brain incorrectly interprets shadows and lights into a recognizable form—it’s why kids see a figure in their closet when it’s actually a coat or something.” She sighs. “And I feel really bad for taking up space in your apartment. You can’t enjoy me being here, eating your food, spoiling your shows . . .”

  “I like having you here. I’m used to having someone around since I’ve been living with Marc. It sucks to be alone.”

  She bites her lip. “What about Angela?”

  “Who?”

  Her brows lift. “Angela Sinclair? Isn’t she your . . .” A hand waves in my direction, toward my lap. “You know.”

  I laugh. “My you know? No, I don’t know.”

  She clucks in frustration. “The gossip columns say you guys are an item. But I haven’t seen her over here. I’m in the way, aren’t I?”

  “Okay, hold up. First off, I told you before, I don’t have time for lady friends, remember? Second, gossip columns are ninety-nine percent bullshit. I barely know Angela. Our fathers are doing business together and I’ve met her twice. And okay, Dad has actually thrown me in her direction numerous times, despite my best efforts. I wouldn’t be surprised if he informed the paparazzi of that bullshit himself. He’s trying to hook us up because he wants our families to combine empires.” I roll my eyes. “But it’s not happening.”

  “So you didn’t go over to Angela’s apartment last week for a little . . . hanky-panky?”

  I chuckle. “No. Angela’s nice, but she’s not my type.” I’m surprised she even knows I went over there. It was the same night I brought her the security stuff. A light clicks on. “Is that what you thought? That I went over to Angela’s for . . . relations and then went to your place with the pizza? And then I was going back there when I left? Is that why you were so weird?”

  “I wasn�
�t weird.” The words come out too quickly, running together.

  “Yes, you were. You told me to drive carefully so I didn’t end up in a sinkhole.”

  “Okay, I was weird.” She grimaces. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business what you do in your, ah, spare time.”

  I smile. I kinda like that she cares. “I’m using my spare time to help you figure out what’s happening in your apartment. Not because I want to get rid of you, but because I want to make sure you don’t get murdered. Is there anyone who wants to hurt you that you know of?”

  “I literally know two people in the city.” She fiddles with the edge of her skirt, as if embarrassed to admit this little nugget of info. “And you’re one of them.”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  She grins. “Your dad. He’s a pig, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  “Yeah, he needs you too much to put out a hit.”

  “Thankfully. So, what do we do about my apartment? How are we going to solve this mystery, Scoob?”

  “Hmm.” I rub my chin. “Let’s see the spreadsheet again.”

  She unfolds herself from the couch and grabs her laptop from the bag she left by the door before resuming her spot next to me.

  It takes a couple minutes for her to power up the computer.

  Once it’s up, I glance over the data. “This is really impressively color coded.”

  “I’m a great secretary. I know it’s weird, but I am good at it. Not exactly what most people want to do with their lives, but I’m good at anticipating needs and tackling details. Managing stuff, tracking data, and analyzing reports.” She shrugs. “And I love doing it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  She scoffs. “Says the second-round draft pick.”

  A rush of pride surprises me. I didn’t know she knew anything about me, she always seems so unimpressed. “You been reading up on me?”

  She shrugs. “I like football.”

  “Who’s your team?”

  “Oakland.”

  I groan. “That’s it. We can’t be friends.”

  She punches me in the arm. “Don’t be such an East Coast West Coast rapper.”

  “I’ll try, but this might be a deal breaker.”

  She rolls her eyes but then smiles at me. “Anyway, Friday seems likely for some action. Or it has been three out of the last four weekends.”

  “And you’ve never tried to locate the source on your own?”

  “What? No way. That’s like one of the basic laws of not getting murdered. Stay out of the forest, don’t pick up hitchhikers—even if they have a broken arm—and don’t investigate strange noises. All of that leads to murder.”

  “Good point. So Friday night we can hang at your place and wait for the weirdness to begin. If anything happens, we can search together.”

  She bites her lip. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t offer if I really didn’t want to help. Besides, someone got in your apartment and it wasn’t through the door.”

  “Thank you for believing me. You have to let me repay you somehow. Seriously. I am in your debt for reals. I don’t have money but I’m great at making color-coded lists and organizing chaos.” She nudges me with a shoulder.

  I consider her bright eyes and an idea flashes through me. “Actually, you might be able to help me with something. And it wouldn’t cost more than your time.”

  “Anything.”

  “How are you at event planning?”

  ~*~

  “Are you here to see Bethany?”

  The man holding the door open for me is familiar. I recognize the meticulously groomed yet amazingly thick mustache. It’s Bethany’s neighbor. The one who helped her when the cops were called.

  “Yeah. Thanks, man.” I nod in recognition. “Steven, right?”

  He nods. He’s on his way out and he’s not alone. I recognize the diminutive brunette next to him. We didn’t get a chance to meet the other night.

  “This is my girlfriend. Natalie Furmeyer.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “We’re going birding,” Steven continues.

  Natalie smiles at me, the gesture small and polite, and then she looks down at her feet.

  Maybe she recognizes me? People generally respond one of two ways when we meet. They’re either overly exuberant and all over me or they’re shocked into silence and running away. Kind of like my romantic relationships.

  I step back toward the elevator and hit the button. “That’s great.”

  “We met through the ornithology club,” Steven continues. “We just came up with a name for the club the other night. We’ve decided to call it Frequent Flyers. Get it? Flyer?”

  They’re wearing matching polo shirts, and they each have binoculars around their necks.

  “That’s . . .” I probably shouldn’t say great again. “Cool. You guys have a good night.”

  The elevator dings.

  Saved by the bell.

  Steven is still standing there, watching me as the doors slide shut.

  Weird. I don’t remember him being so odd before. Then again, I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was more concerned with Bethany.

  It’s Friday night and Bethany insisted on providing dinner at her place while we have our little stakeout. Since I’ve been cooking for us so much, the massive amounts of guilt are eating her alive. Her words. She also said if I didn’t let her feed me, she’d paint giant octopus testicles on my face while I slept. I chuckle. She always says the craziest things.

  We’ve also gotten in the habit of leaving each other random, silly notes. Yesterday’s were my favorite.

  Thank you for always feeding me. I can already feel the vegan powers developing. B

  You’re welcome. The trash is going out today, so if you have to dispose of any bodies, now’s the time. B

  Dammit I have to change my killing schedule to next week! B

  She answers the door in yoga pants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. They’re the simple clothes she typically wears when she’s not working, but there’s something about seeing the slope of her neck and the curve of her ear that makes my stomach somersault and my heart hammer.

  “You didn’t need me to buzz you in.” Her lips purse. “Is the building door broken again?”

  I frown. “Again?”

  She waves me off and then claps. “I got burgers and murders!”

  I follow her into the living room.

  She has the food plated on the coffee table and the TV is set to the most recent true-crime documentary to hit streaming services.

  “You really know how to show a guy a good time.” I take off my jacket and sling it over the chair.

  “I know, right? We gotta have something to keep us occupied while we wait for the weird.”

  “Thank you for getting the food, but seriously, does the building door break a lot?”

  “Sometimes the lock is jiggly.” She purses her lips. “Kind of like my ass.”

  I laugh but then cut it off quick. Wait. That’s not good. My lips tug down as I sit beside her on the small futon. “I don’t think it’s broken now. Steven let me in. He was heading out to bird-watch with his girlfriend.”

  “Ah yes, Natalie Furmeyer, fellow bird lover.”

  “Yeah. They seem . . . interesting.”

  She laughs and gives me a look like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “It’s the mustache. It threw me off at first, too. Don’t worry, he’s harmless except for the never-ending conversations about birds.”

  We dig into our burgers. “They came up with their club name. Did you know?” I ask after swallowing my first bite.

  Her eyes widen. “They did? What is it?”

  “Frequent Flyers.”

  “Oh my. That’s punny.”

  “It sure is.”

  “It makes sense now.”

  “What does?
”

  “Why Steven is so hawkward.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Get it? Hawk-ward?”

  I groan. “Oh, no.”

  “I quack you up, right?” She slaps her leg and laughs so hard at her own terrible joke I can’t help but join in.

  I nudge her with a shoulder. “Toucan play at that game.”

  She gasps and cracks up. “Yes! No harm no fowl.”

  “If you have more, I’m owl ears.”

  She falls against me, laughing.

  “Those were the lamest jokes I’ve ever made,” I say, but I’m wiping tears from my eyes.

  I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time. My cheeks hurt from the strain.

  We spend the next hour eating our burgers and watching the show she put on, guessing about whether the person is innocent or not. The conversation is easy and flowing and full of humor.

  When the food is done, I help her clean up and we go back to the couch.

  Halfway through season two, she yawns.

  A few minutes later, her eyes are blinking to stay open.

  And then not long after that, she’s out. Her mouth hangs ajar and she’s breathing softly while her honey-colored curls reach for me across the back of the couch.

  It’s kind of cute, actually.

  I shut the TV off and most of the lights, leaving just the hall light on. Then I cover her with the blanket from the back of the couch. She murmurs and rolls in my direction, her head landing on my shoulder.

  It’s quiet in the dim room and my eyes get heavy, but the feel of Bethany’s curves pressed to my side keeps me awake. As far as my health conditions go, I have more pressing issues than a limp dick. But when an attractive woman is pressed against me—one I actually like—it’s hard not to think about.

  Hard being the operative word.

  A state I have not been able to achieve in months.

  But the lack of an erection doesn’t stop my heart from pounding at her tempting closeness, at her soft breath hitting my neck, or her full breast pressed into my side.

  I take a slow, deep pull of air into my lungs and then release it, trying to relax.