by Lucy Score
“Where are we going?” she asked. Everything worth seeing on the island was north, not west.
“Let me be spontaneous and romantic here, okay?” he complained.
“I think you’re taking this fake relationship a little too seriously.” She thought about the sex scene that had played out in her head. Maybe he wasn’t the only one.
The western span of the Walnut Street Bridge rose before them. It had once spanned the entire river, but a flood in 1996 famously took out its center sections. The skeletal remains on both shores were all that was left behind.
“We’re not supposed to be here.”
“Live a little, Thorn,” he teased, pulling her around the barrels and No Trespassing signs that were clearly intended to dissuade foot traffic.
She stepped carefully onto the metal grating, peering at the water below.
“Perfect timing,” Nick said, squeezing her hand. She looked up.
“Oh, wow.” The fat globe of the setting sun was just beginning to kiss the tree line on the West Shore.
“Not bad, Santiago,” she said, as orange and pink blazed like fire in the sky, flickering on the surface of the river.
Music and laughter floated to them from the restaurant carved into the opposite shore.
He stood behind her, hands resting on the metal rail in front of her, boxing her in but not quite touching her. Her entire body buzzed with awareness as the sun disappeared, taking with it its warmth. But she had a new heat source. Nick Santiago.
“The way I see it, Thorn,” he said, his voice low and rough in her ear, “is you try so hard to be normal, you forget about what’s really important.”
“What is really important?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“Picture this. You’re on your deathbed.”
She knew better than to actually visualize it lest she accidentally find out how and when she was going to die.
“What’s your regret? That you didn’t convince more people how normal you are or that you didn’t take more moments like this.”
“They don’t have to be independent of each other,” Riley argued. “I can be normal and still have fun.” Probably. Maybe.
“But are you?”
“How many girls have you brought out here?” she asked, changing the subject and turning to face him. She could picture teenage rebel Nick impressing the good girls out of their underwear with his sunset-on-the-bridge routine. She’d have fallen for it. And she’d have treasured that memory forever.
“Have you ever thought about focusing on what something means for you and not anyone else who came before or after you?”
Like Bella Goodshine. Where was Bella tonight? Probably at a fancy dinner with white tablecloths. Not in a bad boy’s arms watching the sun disappear.
She cleared her throat. “So at least two dozen then?” she teased.
“You’d be surprised at how many girls don’t want to get eaten alive by mosquitos,” he said. “But seriously, Thorn. It doesn’t have to be about hitting the club every night or building schools in third world countries or doing yoga with a DJ or wearing a second-hand engagement ring and getting spray tans.”
“What is it about then?” she asked.
Maybe it was the sunset. Maybe it was the three martinis. Or maybe it was just the really hot guy whose big, competent hands were now skimming up and down her arms. It didn’t feel fake.
“Being available.”
Well, she was definitely single.
“Available for what?”
“Adventure. In whatever form it comes your way.” His hands were on her shoulders now, fingers gently kneading the muscles that never seemed to relax.
“That’s very rebel Zen of you,” she pointed out, trying not to purr at his touch.
His laugh moved her hair.
His thumb hit a knot, and she made an embarrassing moany noise.
“How do you stay ‘available’ and still be a responsible adult?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t stop working his magic on her muscles. If his fingers were this good at massage, she could only imagine all the other areas in which they’d excel.
“Responsibility is overrated,” he quipped.
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. Tying yourself down, committing to something over here means you’re going to miss out on all the other things over there. You’re making a trade. Like working an eight-to-five job. Sure, you get a paycheck, but those hours are no longer yours.”
“Or like monogamy.”
“Exactly.” His teeth flashed white in the dusk that settled around them like a warm blanket. “Come on, Thorn. Don’t you get tired of doing what you’re supposed to do all the time? Of being the good girl?”
She bristled. “Maybe I like being good.”
“How do you know for sure if you don’t give being bad a try?” His hands brushed her hair back from her face before cupping her jaw.
Uh-oh. Mayday. DEFCON Whatever Is the Dangerous One. Warning bells clanged to life in her head.
There was another kind of awakening happening between her thighs. But that was more of a “hell yes” than an “oh no.”
“You make an interesting point,” she admitted.
“I think I want to kiss you right now, Thorn. Have a problem with that?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m thinking.”
“You think too much.”
“No one’s here for the show,” she pointed out. She’d give him that out. If there was no audience, there was no reason for the pretense.
“Maybe this one’s just for us.”
Oh, boy.
“I’ll take that under adv—”
The rest of her sentence was cut off by him conquering her mouth. There were a million ways to kiss someone, and she had a feeling Nick Santiago had mastered them all.
It started out playful. Teasing. But she wasn’t fooled. There was nothing gentle about this man.
His fingers flexed into her hair as if they wanted to be doing something else. Meanwhile, she let hers roam, digging into his t-shirt, his hard chest, his broad shoulders.
The kiss deepened and reincarnated as something else. Something hard and possessive and all-consuming. The heat building between them made her wonder if the sun had somehow come back up. Some primal noise between a groan and a growl worked its way up his throat, and then he was stepping back. He took his heat and her balance with him.
She gripped the rail behind her as her knees went wobbly. “You make me dizzy,” she breathed.
He let out a definite growl this time as he paced in front of her. “Riley, honey, you can’t tell a guy something like that and expect him not to want to hear it again,” he warned.
“But you’re immune to me, remember? I’m the committed monogamous type.”
He stopped in front of her, but it was too dark to read his face.
“Baby, the way you kiss, there’s a bad girl inside you dying to get out and have some fun.”
For once in her life, Riley thought there might be some distinct advantages to being bad.
26
10:09 p.m., Friday, June 26
Nick managed—barely—to not maul Riley on the bridge before driving them back to her place. This was how guys like him got caught by girls like her. A couple of off-the-charts kisses, a pair of big brown eyes looking up at him like he was a goddamn hero, and he was ready to sign up for a long stint at monogamy.
Hell, he didn’t blame guys for happily giving up their bachelor status. It was probably nice pairing off, partnering up. But he was different. He didn’t need someone depending on him. Relying on him. Needing him… at least, not outside the bedroom.
Riley Thorn would have no problems finding a guy who wanted to be her hero for the rest of his life. Like Gabe.
Man, he hated that guy.
Riley let them in the mansion’s back door and held a finger to her mouth signaling for quiet before they tackled the stairs.
Nick didn’t mind the journey. It g
ave him a chance to scope out the situation on the first two floors. Plus, it put Riley’s very nice ass in front of him. The house was quieter now, but there were still signs of life. A toilet flush on the first floor and a faint chocolatey smell. A TV and microwave popcorn on the second.
There was a plate on the floor and a note on Riley’s door when they got to the third. He peeled it off and read it.
Dear Riley,
I am looking forward to spending time with you tomorrow. Please enjoy this snack.
Love,
Gabe
Great. See? Nick didn’t have to worry about Riley falling for him. She already had a guy leaving heart-shaped brownies at her door. Freaking great. Just perfect.
Wide-eyed with excitement, she picked up the plate and took a bite of brownie. “Ohmygod. The man’s a genius in the kitchen,” she moaned. “Want one?”
“No. Gabe has a Gabe-sized crush on you,” he complained while she unlocked and opened the door.
“Be nice. He’s the first person to ever be impressed with me. I’m not letting you be mean to him.”
“Thorn, he is definitely not the first, and he won’t be the last.”
“Did all of your report cards say ‘does not play well with others’?” she teased.
A few of them had. Also “does not take directions.”
“I play well with others now,” he argued.
“Name two people you hang out with on a regular basis that aren’t related to you and don’t have vaginas,” she said.
“Bob and… Biff,” he shot back.
“Two real people.”
Dammit. “I forgot you had the whole psychic thing going for you.”
“Yeah, well, watch out. Because that burly brownie baker insists that he’s going to teach me how to harness this weirdness,” she said. She reached for the hem of her tank and started to lift it.
“Uh, Thorn?”
“Whoops. Sorry. I’m used to coming home alone.”
“And getting naked?”
“Changing into pajamas. And yes, I realize how pathetic that makes my life sound.”
“Pathetic? You just trespassed to make out with a pretty hot guy—if I do say so myself—on a bridge while the sun went down. Your life is awesome,” he argued.
“Great. Now I have a spiritual guide and a life coach,” she said dryly. “I’m changing.”
She grabbed some clothes out of the scarred dresser and headed for the bathroom.
He hoped she slept in a flannel nightgown and not some cute tank top thing.
He’d already walked off one hard-on from the bridge… and then talked himself out of the second one that popped up on the drive home while thinking about the first one.
She was making him regress in hormonal maturity.
It got worse when she came back. Not only was it a cute tank top with one of those completely useless built-in bras, but she was also wearing a slouchy pair of black shorts that could be easily breached from the top or bottom. He tortured himself with a debate on which way he’d go if given the shot.
She bent to put something away in one of the dresser drawers, and he had to turn away.
She had to be messing with him on purpose. The woman was psychic, for Christ’s sake. She knew exactly what she was doing to his blood flow.
Two could play at that game, he decided.
“Guess I’ll change, too.” He ducked into the hall bathroom, an outdated museum to bathrooms of the 1960s, and returned.
Riley looked up guiltily from the plate of brownies, which was looking considerably lighter. “You sure you don’t want any… uh…”
He felt like he got a piece of his self-esteem back when Thorn lost her train of thought and dropped a brownie on the floor.
“Where’s your shirt?” she finally mumbled.
“Clean one’s in my bag,” he said, making a show of flexing his pecs while casually digging through his bag. He took his time pulling a gray t-shirt over his head. “I got these for you,” he told her, gesturing at his pants.
“For me?”
“Yeah, I don’t sleep in pants.”
“What do you… oh.”
They watched three episodes of Riley’s favorite survival show and waited. By the time they both knew how to evade a charging bull, his kissable roommate was yawning, and the rest of the house was relatively quiet. Nick had assumed, perhaps unfairly, that the elderly were early-to-bed, early-to-rise folks. It proved to be an incorrect assumption.
It appeared that someone was always awake in the mansion.
After a final listen at Riley’s door, he decided it was time to get cracking. Or picking.
“I’m heading over,” he said. He dug through his bag, retrieving his gun, gloves, and lock pick set. “You ever have a fiancé who can pick locks?”
She stepped into her kitchen where she reached into a cookie jar. “You ever have a fiancée who has a key to a crime scene?”
“Smartass.” He took the key and clipped the holstered gun to his waistband.
She followed him across the hall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“I’m going in there with you,” she announced.
“Riley, it’s a crime scene. I guarantee no one has cleaned anything up.”
“I saw his body. Twice. I don’t think week-old bloodstains are going to be any worse than that.”
“I’m the professional here,” he said.
“And I’m the sort of psychic. Nick, dead people talk to me. Who’s more specially skilled than that?”
“Point taken. Go put on a pair of gloves.” Even if the ghost of Dead Dickie chatted it up with her and told her who put two slugs in his head, they’d still have to find good old-fashioned evidence that the cops couldn’t ignore.
He choked back a laugh when she returned wearing elbow-length yellow kitchen gloves. She was fucking adorable. “You’re a hell of a girl, Thorn.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”
It smelled like death, sweat socks, and old garbage.
He debated for a minute, then flipped on the lights. Dickie Frick was not a priority on the Harrisburg Police Department’s caseload. No one was showing up tonight to comb through the scene of the crime.
“Gross,” she said.
But she wasn’t looking at the bloodstain on the wooden floorboards. She was eyeing the mess. There was a pile of old takeout containers that spilled from the kitchen counter into a disgusting sink. A haystack of—presumably dirty—underwear occupied the space behind the door. There was a stack of porn, the DVD and magazine variety, next to a sinus-infection-green recliner. There was a 60-inch flat-screen mounted to the wall and an ancient DVD/VCR combo on the floor.
The bed was a futon. There was a collection of shot glasses displayed on shelves mounted to the wall next to a Baywatch poster.
“Living the bachelor dream,” Riley quipped.
Nick felt defensive. “My place doesn’t look like this.” He hadn’t bought a DVD in a decade, and he’d given his shot glasses away to the twenty-three-year-olds that lived next door.
“Looks like the cops took any electronics he had here,” he said. No laptop or cellphone. No smart home devices or webcams lying around. “There’s not much here.”
The place was smaller and much more disgusting than Riley’s. The dingy windows overlooked the parking lot and alley.
“Look what is here.” She held up a calendar of the township’s summer rec league that had been tucked into a stack of old phone books. Events were circled in red.
“Good eye, Thorn.” Nick put the calendar down on the TV tray serving as a dining table and tissue and lotion holder. He was going to get a real table, he decided. And maybe some plants. He could take care of plants. “You said Dickie wasn’t around much, right?” he asked, flipping through the calendar and taking pictures of each page with his phone.
“Right. Mostly just to sleep… and watch porn.” She peered over his shoulder. “A
re co-ed recreational volleyball and Soccer Shorties leagues really worth getting murdered over?”
“People have gotten themselves killed over stupider shit,” he said. “I need to get access to that bar.”
“Didn’t you already pay them a visit?” she asked.
Nick tucked the calendar back into place and paged through the phone books. “Almost got my face punched in by the bartender. Then one of the servers scammed me out of twenty dollars in return for zero info.”
“Dickie sure wasn’t living like a business owner and successful bookie,” she observed.
She was right. There was nothing in this apartment that hinted at anything but low income. But there were a lot of ways to burn through cash.
“How was he with technology?” he asked.
“Fred had to show him how to change the batteries in his TV remote,” she said. “A couple of months ago, he paid Mrs. Penny’s great-nephew twenty bucks to hook up his TV to the cable.”
“So he might have kept old school books.”
“Like a notebook instead of a database?” she guessed.
“Exactly,” he said. Riley wasn’t half bad as a partner, he noted, watching her stand on tiptoe to peek in the cabinets above the sink. He joined her and peered into the fridge.
“Oh my God. What’s that smell?” She gagged.
“Two shelves of rotting takeout,” he reported, shutting the door.
They did another sweep of the space for a book but came up empty. “If there was anything here, the cops probably have it,” he said. His gaze found its way back to the shiny, new flat screen. Its newness stood out amongst the refuse.
“Will they tell you if they found his books?” she asked.
“Weber won’t. But I have other friendly ears in the department.”
“Speaking of friendly,” she piped up from her study of the neatly stacked cans of ravioli. “How long did you and Sergeant Jones date?”
“How did—Oh. Right. Psychic.”
“Not much of one, apparently. Dickie’s not sending me any messages from the grave.”
“Four dates,” he said. “That’s how many times Mabel and I went out. A fun little fling between co-workers.” Once again, he was telling her more than he intended.
