by Lucy Score
“Despite what this looks like, I have some self-respect. I’m not going to let you just show up, look at my boobs, and then camp out in my apartment until Dickie comes home.”
“They’re great boobs. And the pizza has bacon on it.” He opened the box over his shoulder so she could see it. “Come on, Thorn. Just an hour or two, some free pizza, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Her groan was frustrated and conflicted. He smelled victory.
“How about now?” he asked, hefting the bag in his other hand. “Chocolate marshmallow ice cream.”
She sighed, and he knew he’d won.
“Ugh. Fine. Give me two minutes to get dressed.”
“No need to on my account,” he joked.
“Hilarious. Two minutes,” she reminded him, snatching the pizza out of his hand. He was still grinning when she slammed her door, leaving him and the ice cream in the hall.
Exactly two minutes later, Nick was just raising his knuckles to knock when the door opened. She’d combed her wet hair back from her face and—unfortunately—put on a pair of shorts and a Shippensburg University t-shirt. There was a slice of pizza in her hand. She looked cute, fresh, annoyed.
He brushed past her, enjoying another hit of citrus, before heading to the doll-sized kitchen where he produced two plates from the cabinet.
“Come on in. Make yourself at home,” she said dryly.
“You’re not going to be annoyed the whole time, are you?” he teased.
“I can almost guarantee I’ll be annoyed as long as you’re in my apartment,” she shot back.
“Here.” He handed her a plate with another slice on it before plating two of his own. He ripped off two paper towels and gave her one.
“You could have just waited in your car,” Riley complained as he headed for the couch.
He sat and toed his shoes off. “Why do that when I can have date night with my new girlfriend?”
“You’re so weird,” she said. “Water, beer, or a soda?”
“Water.” He wanted the beer. But technically, he was on duty.
She put two glasses of water on the coffee table and sat down next to him.
The ugly couch was as comfortable as it was attractive. It was small enough that their elbows were touching. Her skin was still a little damp from her shower, and that was wreaking some havoc with his gentlemanly efforts.
“You seem tense, Thorn,” he observed.
“Gee. I wonder why?”
“If it makes you feel any better, seeing you half-naked was the highlight of my week,” he offered. Hell, probably his month. “I’d be willing to even the score, you know. To make you feel better.”
Her laugh was a little warmer. “Keep your pants on,” she told him.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with the name Mom.
They both watched it.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” he asked.
“Definitely not.”
“You’re an interesting girl, Thorn.”
“I’m not,” she insisted.
“Sure, you are. You’re an enigma. A mystery.”
“I know what an enigma is,” she said, shooting him the side-eye.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a dump like this?”
She peered at him over her second slice of pizza. “I don’t actually know how to take or answer that.”
“Is there more than one way to take that question?”
“You could mean any number of things. For instance, you could be wondering what a girl as obviously insane as I am is doing living on her own and not in some kind of asylum. Or you could be wondering how badly someone had to screw up to land here with half of Harrisburg’s AARP members for roommates and the couch from hell.”
He grinned. “Your brain must be an exhausting place to be,” he predicted.
“You have no idea,” she said.
“Seriously, how did you end up here? You’re what? Thirty? You went to college,” he said, gesturing at her shirt. “Then what?”
She sighed, and her shoulders started to inch away from her ears. “Thirty-four. Nicely done, by the way. It’s a long, boring story, and you don’t seem like the type of guy who likes to be bored.”
Nick had a hunch there was absolutely nothing boring about Riley Thorn.
“Come on, Thorn. I’ll tell you all my secrets if you tell me yours.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she said lightly.
“More pizza or are you ready for ice cream?” he asked, holding up his empty plate.
“Ice cream,” she decided.
“You talk. I’ll scoop,” he said, returning to the kitchen and digging out a pair of bowls from her minimalistic kitchen supplies. “What’s a smart, ‘doesn’t appear to have any serious drug problems or mental issues’ woman like you doing in a dilapidated mansion with third-hand furniture and no cable?”
“It can all be summed up by saying I make poor life choices,” she said, dropping her head to the back of the couch and watching him.
“Lost your life savings in a Ponzi scheme?” he pressed. He was a curious guy by nature. He liked knowing people’s stories, their motivations, the whys and hows that brought them to their present. That innate nosiness was part of what had set him on his previous and current career paths.
“If you consider marriage a Ponzi scheme, then yes,” she said.
“Ah. The shit sandwich Mrs. Penny mentioned,” he guessed, digging into the ice cream.
“You’ve got a good memory,” Riley said. It sounded more suspicious than complimentary.
“I do when I’m interested in something.”
Bowls and spoons in hand, he returned to the couch.
“Mrs. Penny is very interesting,” she quipped.
“You’re no snooze fest yourself, Thorn. So you got married.”
“I got married to the wrong guy that I desperately wanted to be the right guy. Fun fact: Wanting something desperately doesn’t magically make it happen. He cheated. We got divorced. His family lawyer was a shark, and I dragged myself out hemorrhaging profusely. Metaphorically speaking. He got the house, the car, my job, and here I am a year later, living out my days as a proofreader and live-in tech support for senior citizens.”
She was matter-of-fact, not “woe is me” and he liked that. “He cheats and still gets everything? Shit sandwich sounds accurate,” Nick mused. He watched her stir her ice cream clockwise.
“He got engaged again yesterday. With the ring he made me give back,” she said. “She’s twenty-four.”
“Ouch.”
“I kind of feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.” She shook herself and scooped up some ice cream. “Enough about me. You ever been Ponzi-schemed?”
He winced. “I’m not the settling down type.”
“No. Really?” She went heavy on the sarcasm.
“Enlighten me, Thorn. What tipped you off?”
“That whole bad-boy confidence thing. You’re too sure of yourself. I can tell you’ve never had a woman damage your self-esteem over the long-term,” she teased.
He laughed, and she smiled at him, those brown eyes warm and bright.
“Funny,” he said.
“Seriously, though. Have you ever done a long-term relationship?” she asked. He was distracted by the way she slid her spoon out of her mouth, the way her hair fell over her face when she looked down at the bowl.
He brushed it back for her, and she looked up at him in surprise.
“I’m more of a buffet guy than a one entree type,” he told her, remembering what Perry had said.
She surprised him with a laugh. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I picked an entree and got food poisoning. Next time, I’ll head for the buffet.”
He shook his head. “No, you won’t. You’re the monogamous kind. You like settling down.”
She laughed again. “You say that like it’s the equivalent of getting chased by homicidal clowns.”
>
“Well.” He gave a shrug. “Yeah. It is.”
“Is that why you’re a PI and not something more—”
“Boring? Soul-sucking? Oppressed?” he offered.
“I was going to say structured.”
He shuddered. “I’m not a fan of structure or security. I like calling the shots, even if that means I have no one else to blame for my mistakes.”
“Hmm.” She was studying him with interest. “Where do you see yourself in five years, Mr. Santiago?” she asked him.
“What is this? A job interview?”
“A social experiment.”
He leaned back against the worn cushion. “I don’t know. I guess I see myself where I am now doing what I’m doing now,” he said. “Maybe just with nicer stuff. What about you?”
“In five years? I want a job I love. A non-shit sandwich significant other. At least one dog and a kid or two. And a bank balance that I don’t have to check every single day to make sure I can afford a cup of coffee. Quiet. Peaceful. Happy. Normal.”
“Adventure. Novelty. Excitement,” Nick responded, pointing a thumb at his chest.
“Clearly this pretend relationship will never work out,” she said smugly.
“But if you ever want to sample this buffet, let me know,” he offered, waving his hand down his body.
She snorted. “I fell for the spray-tanned ‘good’ guy. I’m not going to rebound with the tattooed bad boy. We have disaster written all over us.”
“Disasters can be a lot of fun,” he pointed out.
She rolled her eyes. “That is such a Nick Santiago thing to say.”
By 11:00 p.m., Dickie Frick was a no-show, and Riley had gotten increasingly anxious.
“This is weird,” she said, coming back to the couch from her ninth trip to her peephole. The later it got, the more nervous she seemed.
“Probably got hung up at the bar,” Nick guessed.
“You don’t think he’s in trouble, do you?” she asked, chewing on her lower lip.
She looked legitimately concerned. He cocked his head. “What makes you say that?”
She shrugged three times in a row and looked over his shoulder rather than in his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe just a feeling.”
His fake girlfriend was lying to him.
Nick waited.
“I mean, do you ever just have a gut feeling that something’s not right?” she asked. Her back was ramrod straight. Those brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and he found himself nodding.
“Sure. Instincts. More people should listen to their gut,” he said.
“What if your gut is telling you something insane?” she asked, leaning in just a little closer. The cushion dipped under her weight.
Right now, his gut was screaming “Kiss her,” and he had every intention of not taking his own advice. “I guess you have to weigh the consequences of not listening to your gut,” he said.
If he kissed her, he’d be giving her the wrong idea. He wasn’t looking for “something,” and Riley Thorn was a “something” kind of girl. She was the kind of girl who deserved dinner dates that showed up on time and someone who remembered birthdays and anniversaries. Someone who’d be home by 5:30 every night and volunteer to coach T-ball.
He was not that kind of someone.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she sighed. The sigh turned into a yawn.
He glanced at his watch. “I should go,” he said.
“Do you want me to text you or something if Dickie comes home?”
If. Nick’s spidey sense tingled at that particular word choice.
“Do you have a reason to believe he’s in trouble?” he pressed.
She was still—too still—for a long beat before she finally said, “Not a good one.”
Her face was close. Those big, brown eyes and the worry in them was playing his protective instincts like a damn fiddle. She jumped, and he glanced down, wondering what had startled her. Apparently it was the hand he’d unconsciously put on her bare knee.
They both stared down at the point where their bodies touched.
Not only was she not threatening to punch him in the junk, Riley was leaning ever so slightly into his side. Like an invitation. His gut started a “go for it” chant that was echoed in his groin. If a cute pair of shorts and sad brown eyes were all it took to work him into a sexually frustrated lather, the farther he stayed away from her, the better.
He didn’t do complications. He didn’t want to feel responsible for someone again.
“So maybe don’t worry about it then,” he advised, giving her leg a platonic pat before pulling his hand back. “Besides, you’re not responsible for his welfare, Thorn. You can’t protect other people from themselves. It never works out the way you think it should.”
“Hmm.”
He got to his feet, suddenly anxious to get some distance between himself and Thorn’s shapely legs. “Thanks for the couch time,” he said, slipping back to the slick, careless charm.
She rose, too, and escorted him to the door for the second time that day. Only this time, he knew it would be the last.
“Thanks for the pizza,” she said. She still looked worried, and he hated that he wanted to fix whatever it was for her. Old habits died hard.
“Don’t worry about letting me know when he gets home,” Nick said. “I’ll catch him at the bar tomorrow.” He’d been avoiding Nature Girls since it was more of a gun-behind-the-bar, what-are-you-looking-at kind of place and played the odds that he could catch Frick at home.
“Sure. Bye, Nick.” The way she said it told him she got the message.
“See ya around, Thorn,” he said, tapping the papers against his palm and taking one last look at the pretty girl with the sad eyes.
11
8:55 a.m., Friday, June 19
The coffee coated her computer monitor in a fine, brown mist.
Coughing, Riley made a grab for the box of tissues she kept on her desk and mopped up the mess. Her morning Bella Goodshine stalking had just taken an unexpected turn. Bud, headphones on, shot her a suspicious look and then went back to ignoring her.
She restarted the video from the beginning.
“Gretchen Gallagher reporting for Channel 50 from Little Amps Coffee Shop, where I’m told an employee recently had a life-changing encounter.”
The camera panned over to the pink-haired barista, and Riley adjusted the volume on her headphones.
“Tell our viewers what happened, Maris,” the reporter prompted.
“Well, it was Monday morning, and a woman ordered a cold jar to go, and as I was cashing her out, she said ‘Ida wants you to get your lymph nodes checked.’ I was like ‘what?’ but she basically ran out the door. I was pretty freaked out because Ida is my great-granny. She died four years ago.”
“Oh, crap," Riley murmured to herself, a feeling of dread beginning to percolate in her intestines.
“So what did you do?” the reporter asked, hanging on the barista’s every word.
“I went straight to the doctor,” Maris answered.
“Please don’t be sick. Please don’t be sick,” Riley chanted.
“It turns out I have thyroid cancer,” Maris said, her eyes going wide. “But we caught it early, and it’s very treatable.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to the psychic Good Samaritan?”
Maris turned to the camera, her eyes watery, her smile wavering. “I’d just like to say, ma’am, you and Great-Grandma Ida saved my—”
Riley closed the interview and yanked off her headphones. In all her adult years of vision-having, there had never once been any concrete evidence that what she was “seeing” was true. She’d never followed up to see if any of the other against-her-will warnings were even necessary or if any of the “lost” items she’d been compelled to locate for strangers were ever found.
This was bad. Very bad.
If Great-Grandma Ida really had reached out from beyond the grave and Barista Maris r
eally did have thyroid cancer, that meant Dickie Frick could actually end up with a face full of lead.
Well, crap.
She spared the back of Bud’s head a glance. He appeared to be in the middle of a very long Reddit rant and probably wouldn’t pay her any attention. She picked up the phone and dialed her mom.
“Riley! Sweetie, how are you?”
“Mom, I have a hypothetical question, and you can’t get all worked up about it, okay?”
“Hang on. Let me put my dye aside. My new alpaca wool came today.” Riley heard a thump and a muttered curse. “There. Okay. You have my full attention,” Blossom announced.
Riley took a breath. “If someone sees something that hasn’t happened yet—”
“If a clairvoyant sees the future,” her mother corrected.
“Whatever. Does that mean they can stop it or change what happens, or is it going to happen no matter what?”
“Sweetie, it’s all so nuanced. You can’t—”
“Not me. Someone,” she insisted.
“Fine. Someone could have a vision of something that might happen, or it might represent something else. Like the tarot cards.”
“So sometimes a gun isn’t a gun?” Riley asked hopefully.
“There are no guns in tarot, silly. But say you or someone dreamed of, oh, I don’t know… a big pile of snakes slithering around.”
“Uh. Gross?”
“Snakes can represent several different things,” Blossom said, ignoring her.
“So visions or dreams aren’t always literal?”
“They’re rarely literal. Honestly, only the most powerful clairvoyants have that kind of direct link to the future or past. Most deal with messages that need to be decoded.”
Powerful? That adjective had never applied to anything in Riley’s entire life besides her ex-husband’s legal team.
“What if a clairvoyant had a nightmare while they were wide awake that their neighbor was shot and killed?” she asked.
“Oh, well then, I’d suggest to the neighbor that they get their affairs settled,” Blossom joked.
“Mom!”
“Kidding! We’re talking about serious gifts here. Most of us get our messages filtered through symbolism and nuance. A vision like that would be so powerful the receiver would be completely unable to deny it.”
