by Mark Henry
“What we have here,” she said. “Is Lucy. Her dismissive attitude toward punctuality means she’ll be sitting back over there behind that column.”
Dismissive attitude?
Wade had one of those. He waited impatiently to get a better look as the woman hurriedly strode through the center of the circle of tables. A wisp of a girl with a complexion so pale her black hair seemed to shy away, parting as if she were peering through a curtain, waves of inky distraction down her back to the bow of her ass. Speaking of peering, Wade couldn’t take his eyes off hers. Catlike and dark, they darted from one face to the next as though taking in everything in an instant, cataloging for future use.
Including him. Had she lingered—
Wade figured she had and good.
—and was she intentionally shaking her hips like that? He trained his vision down her body as she strode by; it seemed coiled, taut, ready to spring beneath an odd pairing of tight, schoolmarmish blouse, buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that hugged the curve of her hips all the way to her knees.
If she’d been carrying a stack of books, Wade might have fallen headlong into a librarian fantasy.
Once the organizer had tucked the girl away, Wade had no recourse but to return his attention to the woman on the other side of the table, an East Indian oncologist named Shalamar Singh, as she rejoined her train of thought without the slightest hesitation…and midsentence.
“My parents named me after the nineteen eighties rhythm-and-blues group and not the perfume like so many people think.”
“We’re gonna make this a night to remember,” Wade said, unable to stop the lyric from rolling out. Funny how things like that could trigger in your brain. He wasn’t certain he’d ever heard a song from the band, but somehow…
“Yes!” Shalamar cried, clapping her hands in joy and then patting the tops of his where they rested on the table. “Let’s do!”
Wade curdled, unsure whether she understood him and thinking he should have actually sang the words. The look in her wide eyes was just this side of crazy and as a cancer doctor, Wade could see how she’d need to blow off some steam…just not with him. Conversation would inevitably turn to their work and while they clearly had the whole cutting horrible tumorous things out of people’s bodies in common, Wade wasn’t catching any heat from the woman.
Or possibly the fire was being kindled in some deep corner of the bar.
The bell rang and the men stood up around him and moved to the next table over. Wade followed but instead of sitting down at the table of a suspicious blonde looking over the tops of her glasses at him, he merely leaned over, slapped the table, and said, “Good luck with your journey.”
…
Luce curled her tongue around the cherry, rescuing it from the iceberg floating in her old-fashioned. Still sweet, bourbon-soaked, and absolutely welcome, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall behind her. That she hadn’t crept out the emergency exit had surprised Hitch.
“I can’t wait to see which of these guys braves the gauntlet to seek out your dark hole.”
“Did you mean that to sound filthy?”
“Yes. Yes I did.”
As it turned out, Luce didn’t have to wait long for when the bell rang, a shadowy figure breezed around the column she’d been hiding behind, sipping away. Tall and broad. Luce felt her chest hitch with the possibility of the man with the flotsam of dark hair joining her. But the man that sat down across from her couldn’t have been further removed from the other’s easy sexiness had he taken classes from Pee Wee Herman.
“Hey, pretty lady,” he said, the last syllable stretching out like a toxic gas leak.
“Uh…” Luce gripped the stem of her glass like a dart.
“Gorst Carmody.”
Luce winced. “No. Not really.”
“Oh yes it is. I can tell you’re impressed. And who wouldn’t be?”
Gorst threw one arm over the back of the chair next to him, his tight shirt spreading open, unbuttoned to the naval. His chest and stomach might have been muscular, but it was impossible to tell beneath the thick brown shag carpet of body hair. The detritus of a crumbled, bready appetizer pegged the fur with such a lack of randomness, Luce suspected he was trying to lure girls who were into monkey preening.
“Oh yeah. Very.” She humored him. “Gorst is a very interesting name. Does it mean sloppy eater, by any chance?”
“Oh.” The sound rumbled out like he was gargling. “Did I get a little on me?”
He rubbed his big mitts through his chest hair, slowly and without releasing eye contact. Crusts and curls of food popped onto the table as the hairs coiled and sprung. Luce snatched her old-fashioned out of harms way, tossed it back, and held up the empty for the bartender to see. The woman sat down a shaker and stood on her tiptoes to see what Luce’s horrified expression was about and then nodded her head empathetically.
Before Gorst could begin his interrogation, or even ask her name, Luce figured it best to deflect. “What do you do, Gorst? Professional waxer? Electrolysist?”
“Funny.”
Luce noticed his fingers inching across the table toward hers, knuckles bristled and dark as tarantula legs.
“I’ve got my hands in several different pots,” Gorst continued. “But none so honey sweet as your—”
“I’m going to cut you off right there, brother.” A tan hand clamped down on Gorst’s shoulder, startling a little more of the crust free and the wolfish smile on the man’s oil slick of a face.
“What the hell?” Gorst started to rise.
From the shadows, the big, thuggy guy she had zeroed in on previously pressed Gorst into the seat with such force Luce was blasted with the scent of fetid air rushing from sasquatch’s terrified lungs.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the man said, voice guttural with intent. “I’m certain you haven’t said anything inexcusable yet. He hasn’t, has he?” He glanced up at Luce, his icy gaze tendered somehow, his face unreasonably relaxed. Luce had to focus to keep her mouth from dropping open.
She shook her head no, quickly.
“Then you just get up and wait over there at the bar until the bell rings.”
Gorst scowled but nodded and slid out from under the man’s palm gingerly, as to not disturb the big man any more than he apparently had. Gorst backed away with his hands raised in surrender, but thankfully didn’t give Luce another look.
Her protector, on the other hand, was staring at her with a confidence reserved for those who always got what they wanted. She got the impression he could see inside her. Past the lies she built around her like a wall. Into her intentions. Her need.
Instead of being creepy, his gaze was magnetic and terrifying.
He wasn’t traditionally attractive, his nose a bit too large for his face, his jaw a tad too square—the kind of guy that looked like he was going to kick your ass even when he was completely relaxed or asleep or holding a kitten. Additionally, that kind of guy could be ah-mah-zing in the bedroom. Not that Luce had achieved a quorum on that—she hadn’t done extensive research in the area or anything—just kind of figured he’d be…forceful.
His skin was tan not ruddy and smoothly shaved.
Good skin.
His shirt stretched across a chest that was obviously thickly muscled and tapered to fit a trim waist. He was tall, but not as tall as Hitch, who stood a few yards distant, taking in the situation with a quizzical expression.
He wore black leather shoes, steel-toed, utilitarian—not the kind of guy that would wear them for fashion reasons or to get into a skinhead club or anything. He needed them for his work.
No noticeable scars or tattoos, which Luce always found fascinating, like conversation starters. But, well, you can’t have everything.
What was undeniable? He was fucking sexy.
“You wanna get outta here?” he asked, wincing back into the crowded bar and the unnatural scene of people struggling to connect.
She wanted nothing more, to be honest. And something told her he knew that. He’d known from the moment their eyes met that if there were two people who didn’t belong speed dating at Weiner’s, it was them.
Luce nodded.
He held out his hand, and for a second she just stared at it, unsure whether he was putting it out there to shake or to pull her into some elicit embrace.
What the hell am I doing? she thought. I don’t hook up with random guys, no matter how hot. But there was something unusual at play, and he seemed so certain and it didn’t have to mean anything. Did it?
She reached out and accepted his hand.
He drew her out of the seat and further into the darkness of the bar until they found an emergency exit and pushed through into an alley.
The door slammed shut behind them and the man took Luce in his arms, clutching her close to the hard frame of his torso, his hips, and a swelling desire she couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel.
“I don’t do this,” she whispered, noticing the rustling white noise of the air ducts, the forced air blasting, a sound she’d always found comforting, lulling—she even slept with a fan on. The guy couldn’t have planned this better if he tried.
His mouth so very close to hers, he whispered, “I think you do.”
The scent on his breath was sweet with hints of oak, not that she was a connoisseur of breath, but damn, his was like taking a slug of bourbon. Heady. Intoxicating. Luce nodded, rapidly, too many times, even as her body relaxed into his, succumbing to his heat, the strength of his grasp. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Wade.”
“Wade.” The word spilled out of her mouth, even as the man chased it back, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss so deep, so brutally needful, Luce worried they’d be lost in it. She pressed her hand to his chest, considered suggesting they stop, pull away for the briefest of moments to mull over the implications, but found her touch drifting. His dress shirt was crisp, tight, and open a bit at the throat. Luce hooked her finger around the opening, a button opened revealing a black design directly beneath it. She traced her knuckle back and forth in the tight track of hair nestled between his thickly corded pecs, fascinated by the hint of the newly discovered tattoo.
Wade groaned at her manipulations; a low growl that shook her already miniscule reserve. She tossed her head back, offering her throat.
Wade accepted the challenge.
His mouth found the shallow hollow there, his tongue fluttering over it—chasing a gasp out of her—lingering there expertly like a promise of something else, something more.
Something…filthy.
It was about that time, she noticed Wade’s hands searching upward from her waist, tugging her blouse from the belted skirt she wore just to touch her directly, to slide his rough hands across the soft skin of her belly, her back, his thumbs cresting the places where her bra nestled her ribs.
Luce’s brain revved, her thoughts exploding into hyperdrive. What was she doing? She didn’t know this man. He could be a murderer, or one of those people that stole people’s kidneys and left them to die in icy motel bathtubs.
Now, she was getting crazy—not crazy-crazy, she didn’t think there were people hanging from the walls watching them or anything. But her head was reeling, light.
Fizzy.
She glanced past Wade as he kissed the arcs of her breasts, her shirt open and breezy, his hands tracing up her left thigh. Hitch stood a fair distance away, leaning against the brick wall, one foot up, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like a male prostitute. He gave her a thumbs-up.
That did it.
She started to push away. Wade looked up at her, lids heavy with lust. She could feel his arousal against her hip, hard as steel.
“I can’t do this. I’m sorry,” she said. “I want to but I can’t.”
“Are you married or something?”
“No, I’m…I’m trying to prove a point.” She wished she hadn’t said it, but she never was any good at keeping her mouth shut. Another question and she’d be gushing on about maintaining a semblance of normalcy despite auditory and visual hallucinations.
“I don’t know what that means. But, hey, it’s your life.” Wade backed away, nodding, doing the gentlemanly thing by holding his erection down.
She had to admit to herself that there was something endearing about Wade’s discomfort. Possibly it was the blush sprouting around the freckles on his cheeks or the way his eyes lingered on hers just long enough to speak a secret longing before juddering away. His feet shuffled anxiously and Luce sensed he was about to walk.
She did instead, turning flatly and retreating into the darkness of the alley toward the road. Luce turned back only once to find Wade watching her, his hand stuffed stiffly in his pockets.
Chapter Two
“Why aren’t we supposed to hang out, again?” Hitch sat leisurely on the bench, hands cradling the back of his neck, feet crossed at the ankles and clearly obstructing the sidewalk traffic—but tell everyone else that; it was a little unnerving to watch people rush by and walk straight through his legs.
Luce snatched the dog-eared magazine from her purse and opened it to the page she’d been reading. “It says right here that a psychiatrist can’t legally diagnose you with a mental illness if your ‘symptoms’ don’t interfere with everyday, normal life.”
“I don’t interfere.”
“Oh, you interfere. You interfere so much you interrupt your own interference. It’s crazy-making.”
“Well, that’s on you. I’m imaginary.”
“Regardless,” she said, slapping the magazine back down. “I’m on a quest to prove I’m not crazy. I’ll go through with your fun and games tonight, but afterward, I’m focusing entirely on getting a job. It’s one of the factors. A big one.”
“Are there others? I mean, besides that fact that you see things that aren’t there?”
“Shut up.”
“Or that you respond to your hallucinations?”
“There are others. But the big thing is…get this…you can have as many symptoms as you want, but as long as you can lead a normal life, no diagnosis. Zilch. Nada.”
“Bullshit.”
But it wasn’t bullshit, or any other kind of shit. The article clearly stated that if Luce—well, not Luce specifically—could hold down a job, stay out of jail, and away from certain self-medicating behaviors (i.e. don’t chase the dragon, ride the snake, or any other euphemism that sounds vaguely like an item on a prostitute’s combo menu), maintain significant relationships with people who didn’t want to kill her, then apparently, at bare minimum, she was good to go and straitjacket-free.
In other words, a cinch.
“So it all hinges on you taking direction on a regular basis?” Hitch asked, nodding as though she could fly into a fit of rage at any minute, which she totally wouldn’t ever, possibly.
Luce ignored him, instead wincing up at the blister-inducing sun reflected off the mirrored cliff face of the office tower.
“Soo, not a car dealership then.” Luce glowered at the headhunter’s text and the address below. Suite P667.
When Mr. Thorwald said she’d be interviewing for a clerk’s position at The Parts Department, she’d assumed he’d been clumsy with his capitalization and meant the parts department of a downtown car dealership.
Something swanky, possibly Italian, with company-car perks.
Luce’s wardrobe depended on it: a short skirt to provide a bewildering suppressing fire of exposed thigh, a blouse she could quickly unbutton to reveal a classy glimpse of lace-framed décolletage to discombobulate the mechanic who, she imagined, had miraculously been promoted into a suit that didn’t zip from crotch to neck—also he’d be olive-complected, square-jawed, and blissfully unaware of his sexiness—what was the point of creating an elaborate interview fantasy if the guy looked regular, just stubbly, stuttery, and wrinkled around the cuffs?
Actually, the more she imagined him, the more the guy looked
like Wade. Which was totally understandable, right? That kind of thing lingers like the sound of a showerhead or a vacuum, sometimes a plane engine. Luce had a thing about white noise.
Don’t ask.
Anyways, dressing for these kinds of events was basic science.
Tricks of the trade passed down through generations of suffragettes…and/or hookers, it was hard to say.
“Do you want to run home and change?” Hitch raised one brutal eyebrow, his eyes drifting to her thighs.
“No,” she spat. “And frankly I’m offended by your assertion that this”— she swept her hands about to indicate her outfit— “is somehow inappropriate.”
“So you weren’t being intentionally seductive?”
“Of course I was, but this outfit works in a variety of contexts. Your narrow vision is what I find disappointing.”
“Oh yes?”
“Not just yes, but hell yes!” she huffed.
They stared at each other a moment, waiting for the other to crack, break into laughter, something.
Not this time, Luce thought, eyes narrowing.
“It’s probably on the sixth floor. Suite P667. That couldn’t mean sixty-sixth floor…could it?”
He nudged her and shielded his eyes as he pointed toward the top. “The p stands for penthouse. Bet me.”
Normally, she quite enjoyed Hitch’s company, but when he pushed her, she couldn’t imagine why she’d kept him around so long.
Except.
She didn’t seem to have any control over that.
He was the only man she’d ever felt comfortable enough to use her vibrator around. Also, in the grand tradition of obsessive boyfriends, he was fantastic at compliments as well as snarky and occasionally hilarious put-downs, which, if she were being honest, she loved.
“I’m guessing call center,” Hitch said, finally breaking their embargo.
“Like the last one in America?”
“Precisely. You may have to work on your East Indian accent or your aversion to curry.”
“Uh…that’s a spice allergy.”