by Penny Reid
“But what? Not an axe murderer, but what? Unbalanced?”
“No. Not really.”
“Not really?”
He watched me for a full minute, obviously waiting for the truth. At last, I sagged against the door, closed my eyes, and admitted, “Maybe.”
I heard his laugh, a disbelieving huff, and I opened one of my eyes. “Alex, you’re a strange guy. There, I said it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re no poster child for normal behavior either.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Well….” I paused, my hands flew into the air then slapped against my thighs, “I don’t understand what’s going on between us.”
“If it’s not a booty call, then you can’t think of any other possibility?”
“What? Other than you were hoping that this was the beginning of something long-term?” I meant to say it like it was ludicrous, like it was the least possible option, right after the possibility that he’d invited me up to give him a manicure and decorating tips.
He said nothing, just stared at me.
I surveyed him, my brows drawing together with sudden uncertainty. “Alex? Is that what you thought?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned backward, let the crown of his head meet the wall behind him, and peered at me. Finally, he said, “Not really.”
“Not really.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I repeated the word because it was surprising.
He didn’t respond verbally. Instead he nodded, just once, and continued to watch me with his veiled gaze.
“Maybe.” I repeated it a third time, mostly to myself. My eyes moved over the apartment again, although I saw nothing.
I sucked in a breath, glanced at the ceiling, then back to him. The possibility that Alex believed something more than a booty call was going to happen between us was beyond strange; but there he was, watching me, waiting for my reaction.
I heaved a noisy sigh, attempted to find my bearings, and blurted, “So, Alex, what are your career goals? Where do you see yourself in five years?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Is this an interview?”
“Yes.”
“What job am I applying for?”
“The job of my dance and life partner—figuratively, literally, horizontally, vertically, and hopefully, laterally. And, depending on how flexible you are, diagonally.”
“If I’d know I was going to be interviewed, I would have worn a suit.”
“There’s still time to change. I can wait here.”
The corner of his mouth ticked upward. I thought his eyes softened; I couldn’t be sure, but the next words out of his mouth threw me for a loop because they sounded like an insult. “Is being your dance partner so onerous, and does it require so much work that it’s a job?”
I stopped at that, looked past him, at his question—the words hung suspended in the air behind him. For the time being, I ignored his insolent undertone and considered the actual question. I wasn’t used to being the one asked for my thoughts; therefore, I wasn’t used to being the one having to think of an answer.
“I guess…I mean, I hope not.” My gaze refocused on his. “I suppose with the right person it wouldn’t feel like work. But then, every sustaining relationship requires work to be successful.”
“You sound like a textbook about relationships.”
“I’ve read a lot of textbooks about relationships.”
Alex watched me; actually, he stared at me. His stance was unassuming, relaxed. His elbow now rested on the top of a bookshelf adjacent to his position, his head tilted to the side, his fingers threaded in his short hair. His other hand was in his pocket, and he stood with one leg straight, one leg bent—his ankles crossed.
His gaze gave nothing of his thoughts away, which was disconcerting. I was typically creepily adept at reading people and knowing what they wanted; not so with Alex. He was shrouded in some sort of mystical mystery mask.
“What if I don’t want the job?”
“Then what’s really going on? You don’t want a one-nighter, you’re not a serial killer, and you don’t want the job. Why am I here?” I shrugged, gestured to his apartment, knew I sounded exasperated while I tried to use outward pragmatism to sooth the mild sting of his questions.
That, at last, seemed to give him pause. His expression was still unreadable, but the silence spoke for him, and I was dumbfounded by the truth.
He didn’t want to admit it—maybe even to himself—but he did want the job. He wanted the job a lot. He’d been thinking about the job for a long time, and this, this evening, was his move. This was his seduction of me, and I’d mucked it up with my Wookie costume….
But what about the Tuesday night lady caller? Wasn’t he a Wendell? Or was he a Wendell willing to change his spots?
“But I’m not the only one, am I?” I blurted.
He stared at me, blinked. “The only what?”
“Ha! Trick question.”
“Sandra, what are you talking about?”
“Your Tuesday—”
He was saved from answering and I was saved from looking even more foolish by a firm knock on the metal partition at my back. I jumped away from the door, squeaked in surprise. Alex was suddenly by my side and tugging me toward him before I could rein my startled heart.
“Sandra—just…just don’t….”
The knock sounded again, this time louder, more insistent, somewhat obnoxious.
“Crap! Who is that? Is that Mr. Patel? Will he be mad I’m here?”
Alex shook his head, perhaps to clear it, and growled. He was obviously in a state of frustrated misery. Then he said, “Do whatever you want.”
Before I could respond, before I could even register his words, Alex yanked the door open and walked away from it, from me, and paced his apartment like a tiger in a cage.
Revealed was a man. Under a heavy trench coat he was wearing a suit: a black suit and a black tie. His eyes were a large, almost colorless blue; his nose was red, his cheeks were tinged crimson, and he was breathing with some effort—the energy required to climb two flights of stairs had winded him.
His colorless gaze shifted between Alex and me then back to me again.
“And you are…?” He didn’t extend his hand, but his eyes moved over my body like a man unaware of his own leering tendencies; rather, he was either unaware or ambivalent about his own leering tendencies.
“I’m Sandra.” Despite his rudeness, I offered him my hand. He glanced at it, then Alex, then me, then my hand again. He took it, gave it a short, but firm shake, and released it. His hands were sweaty and gross. I fought successfully against the desire to wipe my palm on my skirt.
“Are you a hooker?”
I flexed my superpower—hiding all thoughts and emotions—and gave him an unperturbed smile. It took all my strength of calm to keep from punching this idiot in the throat. Alex seemed to be experiencing similar struggles because I saw him shift forward in my peripheral vision seemingly ready to strike.
Interesting, that.
I stepped subtly in front of Alex, blocking his path to the unknown man. “No. I’m not a hooker or any other type of prostitute.”
“Then what are you? And why are you here?”
“As I said, I’m Sandra.”
“What do you do? What is your occupation?” These questions were demands, but I saw no reason to withhold information.
“I’m a psychiatrist at Chicago General, in the pediatrics department.”
His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, and his eyes shifted to Alex behind me. “Got yourself a private shrink? Probably a good idea.” Then, the lovely man added, “You probably figured this out already, but this sonofabitch is sick in the head.”
“Hmm.” My temper spiked, and I couldn’t help the veiled insult as it tumbled from my mouth. “You speak so well. How proud you must be, considering your obvious cognitive limitations. But I mus
t point out that you haven’t told me who you are yet.” I spoke slowly, pretended that I was communicating with a geriatric hard-of-hearing platypus while giving him my most practiced smile. It was a friendly smile, but clearly without any expectation.
It typically worked quite well with some of my most difficult patients and families.
He either didn’t catch or understand the insulting meaning of my words as the first trace of something other than indigestion or leering licentiousness flickered over his features. I felt Alex stiffen at my question. The man returned my smile, but it held no trace of friendliness. I recognized it as the expression of a person who enjoys delivering bad news.
“Who, me?” He asked, his grin growing increasingly shark-like. “I’m Alexander’s parole officer.”
CHAPTER 9
AH-H-H…OKAY—should have seen that coming.
I nodded once, determined not to show any outward sign of surprise. Without skipping a beat I said, “Yes, but what is your name?”
His smile curved into a frown. “Agent Dumas.”
“Well, pleasure to meet you, Agent Dumb Ass.”
Again, I sensed Alex stiffen, but this time I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh.
“No—it’s Dumas, like the word ‘do’ and the word ‘mass’, like Christmas.”
“Hmm. Funny, you don’t remind me of Christmas,” was all I said. I thought Dumb Ass fit him better and decided that was his name.
“Told you about his past, did he?” The parole agent walked around us and farther into the room. He didn’t look like a parole agent. In my experience, they tended to be fit and dressed casually. This man was dressed like an undertaker, behaved like a Vaudevillian villain (missing a mustache to twist), and looked like a perpetually winded hippopotamus.
“Yes. All about it. Every detail.” I lied, but then I followed up with, “He even filled me in on his time in Europe with the circus.”
The agent snorted a subversive chortle. “Yeah. That’s rich.” He seemed to be looking for something; his eyes bounced around the apartment then settled on Alex. “You can guess why I’m here.”
Alex made no movement, appeared resigned, bored, unconcerned. He said nothing.
“Want to tell me why you attacked someone on Tuesday?”
“He didn’t attack anyone.” Again I stepped forward and blocked Dumb Ass’s view of Alex. For some reason, my momma-bear instincts were raging large and in charge. “In fact, all he did was assist a poor unfortunate who was being manhandled by a heinous, villainous, small-penised body builder.”
The agent frowned at me then issued me another leering once over. “I suppose you were there?”
“Yes.”
“Were you the unfortunate victim? Is that how he got you up here?”
“No and no.”
The parole agent glanced around the apartment and apparently noticed the romanticized surroundings for the first time. “Candles?” He balked then puffed, “Don’t tell me you two…the two of you….” He waggled a fat finger between Alex and me, and to top off his bombastic buffoonery, he chortled. He guffawed.
I turned away from the man, mostly because everything about him was completely disgusting, and I blocked out the room. I didn’t want to see it through his eyes.
“Really? Him? And a piece like you?”
Alex spoke for the first time; his voice was quiet, and his tone was less than friendly. “That’s enough.”
Agent Dumb Ass’s laugh abruptly ended, and my attention was fixed on Alex as he walked toward the shorter man.
“Still no humor, huh?” Though the agent’s inflection was full of bravado, he backed up toward the still open door as Alex approached.
“Where is Agent Bell?” Alex sounded deceptively calm. “Why isn’t she here?”
“She was busy.” The dummy looked uncomfortable.
“I told them not to send you again.”
“Now see here….”
“No. You see here.” Alex crowded the other man’s space, and the dynamic of the entire situation shifted. I wondered who was actually in charge. I wondered how Alex, the parolee, could get away with speaking to his agent as if he was the one holding all the cards—and the cards were four aces and a king.
“I told Bell I didn’t want you coming around. She promised me I wouldn’t have to look at your face again. I meant what I said, and I don’t believe in second chances. Now it’s time for you to go because I’m not angry yet, but I will be very soon.”
I held perfectly still. In fact, I held my breath. Even my eyeballs didn’t move.
Who is this guy?
The dummy agent puffed out his chest, blustering under the weight of Alex’s steady stare even as he retreated backward into the hall.
He held his hands up to show he’d surrendered. “You know someone had to come out. After the call we received, someone had to come out and check on you.”
“Bell was here on Tuesday. You’re five days late.”
The dummy shrugged. “We got the call today. They don’t always tell us stuff.”
Alex didn’t respond, and his expression didn’t alter. Instead, he reached for the door and closed it— in the face of the parole agent.
I stood rooted in place, my eyes as wide as my brain was confused. To top it all off, I still wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the room had a draft.
Alex faced the door, his hands on either side of it, his big palms against the doorframe. His head was lowered, and I watched his back and shoulders move as he breathed. They were slow, steady breaths; he appeared to be preparing himself, bracing himself for something arduous and taxing.
The silence stretched, and I shifted on my feet, looked down at my dress, and crossed my arms.
Alex straightened and the air shifted with his movement. In the dim candlelight, he appeared to me like a giant, an unfurling beast. He turned unhurriedly, and I acknowledged his expression for what it was—distrust tinged with fear, shrouded in disillusionment.
I recognized it so readily because it was the usual expression of my patients during initial consults.
“How much do you know?” His eyes were suspicious, searching, a lot incredulous, and completely defensive.
“About what topic?”
“About me.”
“Only what you’ve told me, plus now, the fact that you’ve been convicted of something and are currently out on parole.” I said the words in a rush. I wasn’t nervous, per se, but I was feeling some degree of apprehension. I imagined it was akin to the apprehension of being placed in an alternate reality.
“But….” He frowned, long and severe and plainly confused. “But when he told you he’s my parole officer, you didn’t seem at all surprised.”
“Well, I was surprised. I just decided not to show it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was obviously trying to make you uncomfortable, and he’s clearly a dumb ass.”
He studied me for a long minute, and I let him. Even when he scrutinized me with distrust, I liked the way he looked at me. I liked his eyes on me. Alex was right—I was not a poster child for normal behavior.
At last he said, “It’s hard to tell what you’re thinking.”
“Ditto.”
He smiled ruefully, just a tilt of his lips. “Is that a new thing for you?”
“Not knowing what someone is thinking? Yes. Very new.”
“Me too.” His gaze narrowed, became searching. “Does it bother you that I’m on parole? That I’ve been arrested?”
“It…it concerns me….” I hugged myself tighter. “Especially since I don’t really understand what just happened, and though I was certain before the arrival of your parole agent, now I can’t tell if you’re dangerous or not.”
His smile flattened. “I’m not dangerous—not to you. And I wasn’t convicted for anything violent.”
“Drugs?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Did you sell them?”
“No.”
His gaze grew darker, and he seemed a little aggravated. “I didn’t hurt anyone. It had nothing to do with drugs.”
“Did you steal something or try to steal something? Commit fraud?”
“No-o-o….” he said, drawing out the word; it was elongated, over pronounced. “Like I said, I didn’t hurt anyone.”
I thought about the remaining possibilities in light of what seemed to be his key phrase: I didn’t hurt anyone.
Sometimes people, criminals in particular, have a tendency to justify bad behavior by insisting their actions have no real negative consequences or that their victims were deserving of their offense. This is typically termed pathological distortion in severe cases, neurotic rationalization in moderate cases.
Alex’s behavior thus far—especially the way he’d been so quick to help Marie that night at the restaurant—demonstrated that he did know the difference between right and wrong.
In fact, the more I was exposed to his decision-making, the more he resembled an Eagle Scout or an honorable knight from King Arthur’s roundtable.
I attempted to sort out the conundrum of contradiction that was Alex. “Were you innocent? Wrongly convicted?”
His jaw flexed. “No. I was guilty.”
“Do you think what you did was wrong?”
He gathered a deep breath. “I understand why it’s illegal, but I don’t think what I did was necessarily wrong.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Are you going to tell me what you did? Or are we going to stand here playing twenty questions, the guess my conviction edition?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I did and I don’t want to play twenty questions.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Alex paused, his eyes searching mine. He lifted his hands as though he was going to grab me, but then he balled them into fists and crossed his arms over his chest. Perhaps his stance was so defensive because his next words were so vulnerable. “Because I like the way you look at me, and I don’t want that to change.”
I blinked my surprise and allowed it to show on my face. “How do I look at you?”
“Like you want me.”
I momentarily lost my ability to control my expression. “Uh….”