by Anyta Sunday
I sighed, then slumped out to the living room and snagged my keys and wallet. The clock in the kitchen read quarter to one.
The column could wait a few hours. Maybe escaping would help refresh my mind.
Fifteen minutes later, I was at Crazy Mocha Coffee. Hunter sat in the corner near the window, leaning back in his chair, leafing through a magazine.
Winding around the tables, I halted a few feet from him when he laughed. “And I thought I had a hangover!” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Like the look, man.”
I looked down at myself. What was he talking about—
Oh. The seams did look awfully large this side of the T-shirt. My hand flew to the back of my neck, where the tag scratched the palm of my hand.
“Wonderful.” I scanned for a restroom, but stopped at the counter. There, with their backs to me, were Shannon and Quinn. So much for thinking I’d never see them again.
Hunter cleared his throat. “Yep, guess who decided to tag along. There’s no damn getting rid of them.” He tossed the magazine onto the neighboring table, and it slid off the edge. After a few breaths, he shrugged. “Grab a seat, and I’ll get you coffee if you like.”
“Oh, uh, sure. Thanks.”
He winked and rolled off. “You betcha.”
“Guess I’ll just wait here with my T-shirt inside out until you get back, then.”
I’d meant the comment for myself, but halfway across the room Hunter chuckled. “Rock the look, man.”
“Shan,” Quinn’s voice sailed across the room, getting closer and closer. “I know it’s a pain in the ass, but I’m real thankful.”
“Keep buying me hot drinks, and I won’t throw you out on the street. Yet, anyway.” There came an oof, followed by a short laugh. “Hey, I’m carrying coffees here! Wait, isn’t that Liam?”
I straightened, wiping my palms against my thighs.
“Liam.” Quinn rested his hands on the table as he squeezed into a seat next to me. “Tell me you’re not here using Hunter as your angle.”
“I’m not here using Hunter as my angle.”
Shannon sat on my other side and handed over Quinn’s coffee. “Quit it, Quinn. He’s Travis’s date.”
“Wait.” Quinn frowned. “Date?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I answered quickly, “but probably not the way you’re thinking. We arranged to meet up here.” I pried my hand out of my pocket and rested it on the table. There was no need to be nervous. “To chat.”
He relaxed into the seat. “Yeah, you don’t look his usual type.” His gaze dipped from my face to my T-shirt, where a small grin played at the corner of his lips. He hid it behind his coffee mug, and took a sip.
“Move it, Sullivan,” Hunter called, expertly moving his chair while balancing one coffee. Quinn scooted his chair to the side. “Here you go.” Hunter carefully slid the coffee to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the warm cup and sliding it carefully toward me. Before I could enjoy it though, I needed to fix my T-shirt.
“Sure thing.”
“I’m just going to visit the restroom,” I said, pushing back my chair and hurrying away. When I returned, Shannon was talking to Hunter about why the self-defense course she and Quinn ran was so important.
“Gives these men and women the chance to feel more confident going out,” Shannon said. “They learn the skills to defend themselves and get a chance to run away.”
Hunter asked, “And you’ve been running these since . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but Shannon lowered her gaze and nodded.
“Yeah. It’s not enough, but I just need to do something.”
“This is the right thing to do, Shan,” Quinn said, focusing on his half-full coffee.
I sipped my still-steaming drink. The way Quinn sat there with his prowling grace and deep voice had more than a few males and females glancing his way. The guy could say what he wanted, but he knew how good-looking he was, clubbed ears and all.
He scratched at the top of his shirt, giving me the faintest peek of his chest. I looked at his face, startling myself into splashing coffee over my front—Quinn was staring back at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Gah!”
Hunter glanced over at us, cocking his head at Quinn. “He likes to do that—” With a casual gesture toward me, his hand hit his coffee and tipped it over. He lifted the cup, swearing. “Sorry!”
I moved too slowly, and coffee spilled over the side of the table and onto my thighs. Jumping up, I brushed off as much of it as I could. “Guess it matches my shirt now.”
Quinn grabbed a bunch of napkins from the counter and came back to wipe up the rest. He handed me a few extra. “For the pants.”
I nodded and took them. But I’d need more than a few paper napkins.
I twisted sharply at the tap on my shoulder. There, with his dark copper hair and shy dimpled smile was the guy I’d helped home the other week. Mitch, was it?
He darted a tongue over his bottom lip, glancing to everyone at the table and back. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just saw you, and . . . I have a feeling we know each other from somewhere.”
I peeled the coffee-stained napkins off my thigh and balled them in my hand. “Yes, we met. A week ago. Friday night . . .”
He bit his lip and folded his arms across his skintight V-neck. “Ohhh.”
“Are you going to introduce us then?” Hunter asked. He hooked his hands behind his head and smirked up at Mitch.
“Sure, this is Mitch. He lost his contacts while inebriated, so I walked him home.”
Quinn made a sound like he was swallowing a snort. Mitch unfolded his arms and shook Quinn’s hand, then Shannon’s. His shy smile wavered as he took Hunter’s hand, and when Hunter let him go, Mitch casually wiped his palms on his jeans.
“Are you kidding?” Shannon asked, narrowing her eyes at Mitch. “You think a spinal fracture is contagious?”
Mitch glanced at his hands, frowning. “It wasn’t—”
Shannon shook her head. “It’s just rude, is what it is.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mitch backed up a few steps and glanced at me. “Uh, bye.” He hurried away.
Hunter’s eyes closed, his hands balled tightly, and his nostrils flared. Shannon reached out and patted his hand, but he whipped it away from her, jerking his chair back.
“What the hell was that, Shan?” he cursed under his breath. “You always think you need to come to my rescue. I don’t need you to. I don’t want you to. Why is it you can’t see that I’m just fine on my own?”
“But—”
Hunter was already rolling around the table and toward the front door. “Mitch, man, wait up a sec.”
“Quinn,” Shannon said, blinking rapidly as if to hold back tears.
Quinn sidled over and wrapped an arm around her. “You meant well, darlin’. I know.”
I should move. Do something. Anything. I was just making things more awkward by watching, even if it was my instinct to observe.
My wet pants still clung to my legs, so I skirted toward the restroom. I passed Hunter at the door just as he caught Mitch’s attention.
“Look man, I spilled my coffee before. I know I have sticky hands—I’m assuming that was the reason for wiping them.”
“God, yes, it was.” Mitch rubbed the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry it came across differently . . . ”
“No worries.”
I made my way to the bathroom and dried my pants as well as I could under the air dryer. After a couple of minutes and a rather quizzical look from an elderly man, I gave up. The pants would have to go into the wash as soon as I got home anyway, and home was only a quarter-hour walk. I’d say my goodbyes and leave. Maybe this was a sign that I should be home working.
I left the restroom and paused this time as I passed Hunter and Mitch. Mitch’s gaze slowly travelled down Hunter’s tattooed arms. He gave him a cute, crooked smile. “Well, have a good day!”
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Hunter flexed his arm muscles as if he were aware of their appeal. “Yeah, you too.” He rolled back in a swift move, and I jumped to avoid colliding. “Liam. Nice friend of yours. Sorry about the drama.”
“I was tempted to pull out my notebook and start recording it all.”
He laughed.
I actually wasn’t joking.
We approached our table. Quinn’s voice rumbled through the air, his words hitting me with a slam.
“There’s just something . . . off about that Liam guy. He’s too stiff and awkward. For all his brains, he doesn’t have an ounce of smarts around people. I mean, you saw him just now. He couldn’t even stick up for that guy. It’s no wonder he seems not to have any friends—” Quinn jerked in his seat. “Ouch, what’d you kick me for, Shannon? That’s going to leave a bruise.”
I stopped at the table, but didn’t bother to sit. Why stay where I wasn’t wanted? And besides, I had more important things to worry about. Like getting out of these pants and writing my column.
“Ah, crap.” Quinn saw his mistake. I stopped him before he gave me an insincere apology. If he was sorry at all, he was just sorry he got caught.
“No, it’s okay, Quinn,” I said. “For all your social ease, you don’t have the brains to know when to shut up. I get it.”
His mouth dropped open, and Hunter slapped the back of my leg. “Oh, we’re going to get along really well.”
I tilted my head at him. “I’ve got to get going. The party page won’t write itself.”
With that, I left. Back to my big, cold apartment to hang out with Old Faithful, my laptop.
CHAPTER 4
At nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, only Hannah, the chief, and I occupied the Scribe’s offices. The bright fluorescent lights flickered tiredly above us, as if complaining about the long day. My fingers ached from typing, but I still had tasks to accomplish. I could work from home, but I cringed at the idea of hearing my clacking fingertips echo in the emptiness; at least there was a coziness here that absorbed the silence.
After rewriting my third party page piece a fourth time, I submitted the print-ready version to the chief.
One thing down, now on to the next: telephoning Beckman Hall. I was going to find out everything I could about The Raven and make one heck of a column out of it.
Hannah startled, drawing my attention to her. “Liam!” She tucked a strand of mahogany hair behind her ear and bit her bottom lip as she glanced at a piece of paper in her hand. “Come take a look at this.”
I stretched out of my chair and moved around to her desk. Peering over her shoulder, I read the typed letter addressed to the editor of the opinions page.
The Raven’s gonna lose his wings
We’ll smile while he sings and sings
Then we’d love to watch him fly
Through a deep, dark, angry sky
“Who sent this?” I asked, grabbing the torn envelope. No return address or postage. Whoever wrote it had to carry it into Scribe’s offices.
“I cannot and will not publish this,” Hannah said as I lifted up her phone and dialed the chief’s extension.
He answered gruffly, and I briefly summarized the threatening letter.
“Bring it in,” he snapped, “and I’ll take a look.”
I hung up the phone. “Chief wants to take a look. Can I take it to him?”
“Yes, of course.” With trembling hands, she handed it over and I scanned it for clues. Surely the police would have some tricks to figure out who wrote this? They’d dust for prints and record the threat, should anything ever happen to . . .
I shook off the thought and strode into the chief’s office.
He took one look at the letter and sighed. “It’s not the first threat that has made its way to the opinions page.” He stroked his beard as he read it over once more. “I’ll file a report with the police, and we’ll do whatever we can.” Looking up at me with regarding eyes, he said, “It isn’t just these guys”—he hit the letter with the back of his hand—“that want to find the vigilante. The police do as well. Whoever The Raven is, if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, he will eventually be caught and brought to justice.”
“Justice!” The cry came sharply, and my stomach clenched. “He’s saved people’s lives. Protected them. He has a cause and he’s standing up for it. The Raven’s a hero.”
Chief Benedict sighed. “He’s a hero that has sent quite a few students to the emergency room.”
“Only because they asked for it.”
“No one asks for it, Mr. Davis.”
“So you think it’s better that innocent guys get beaten to within an inch of their life? That bats get taken to them and they end up crippled for the rest of their lives?” A hiccup rose up my throat, and my eyes stung with unfamiliar heat.
The chief rounded his desk. I flinched when he drew an arm around my shoulder and gently moved me to a seat.
My whole body shook, and my teeth clenched so tightly that my head ached.
Chief Benedict crouched at my side, one hand still firmly on my shoulder. “No, it’s not better,” he said. “It really, really isn’t. But we must work on other ways of stopping senseless violence. Because violence against violence . . . it will go wrong. What happens to the criminals when The Raven swings just a little too hard? Or lands a kick at just the wrong angle? What happens when blood stains his fingers for good? He won’t be the guy with the good cause anymore, and he won’t be admired; he’ll become a killer and his life will never be the same again.” The chief shuffled on his feet as he pushed himself back up. “And what if one day he’s outnumbered, and he ends up in the hospital—or worse?”
At some point I’d started clicking my pen, comforted by the rhythm. But there was nothing I could say to the chief. Nothing at all. He was right, and I hated that.
I picked myself up off the chair and gave the chief a sharp nod. “I have a column to draft,” I said. I shut the door on him and his sigh, and slid back behind my desk.
But I didn’t work on my column. Instead, I stared blankly at my screen and my office “friends.”
The Raven saved me, saved many people, and now—now we had to thank him by warning him about the threat to his life. And we had to save him by getting him to stop.
“You okay, Liam?” Hannah asked, shutting her laptop.
I glanced over. “I need to find The Raven and warn him.”
She gave me a sharp nod and looked toward the piles of paper on her desk. “If I come across anything that will help, I’ll tell you.”
“Thank you, Hannah.”
Her smile was coupled with rosy cheeks, matching the hair tie she wore to pull her mahogany hair off her face and into a bun.
“Off now, are you?” I asked, picking up the phone, fingers itching to press the buttons and dial. I needed to call Beckman Hall right away.
Hannah pushed back her swivel chair and grabbed her messenger bag as she stood. “I’d better get back to my apartment else Lotte will complain I have no life at all. Not even a slumming-it-on-the-couch-in-front-of-the-TV life.”
“But if you’re happy, right? It shouldn’t matter.” I glanced from my laptop screen, glowing with the number for Beckman Hall, to Hannah, who was nervously rounding her desk toward mine. I gave her a small, curious frown and she blinked her gaze away from me. Shyly. Coyly.
I tensed.
What was happening here?
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter. If you’re happy.” She blushed and focused on me. “But I do want more than just working. Like . . . like maybe going out on a date sometime.”
I clutched the phone tighter as she tapped her fingertips on the edge of my desk. “Liam? Do you maybe want that too? To go out sometime”—her voice shook at the edges—“with me?”
I swapped the phone to my other hand as if it would help me think of a reply. I wasn’t sure how I felt about dating. Hannah was sweet; she always brought and shared oranges and grapes. I enjoyed talking to
her during the day, and she often gave insightful thoughts on my work. But going out on a date?
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, even though they were sitting high enough already. Before I knew it, I’d laid the phone down and was clicking my pen.
Click, click, click.
“I’m not sure, Hannah. How about I think about it and get back to you?”
“Oh, um—”
I brought up my calendar on the desktop and scanned all the meetings, classes and deadlines I had coming up. “How does the end of next week sound?”
She frowned lightly. “So you’ll get back to me about us going out not this Friday, but next Friday?”
“No, Friday I’ll have to research for the party page, but Sunday would work.”
That way I’d have time to weigh up the pros and cons of dating. I’d made the mistake before of dating someone who worked in the office. Bad idea. But I couldn’t ignore the warm ache at the thought of someone wanting to spend time with me. Someone who actually seemed to like me.
Someone who would discover my dead body before it started to rot in my apartment.
“Okay, Liam.” She gave a small chuckle, then turned and left. “Next Sunday it is.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click, and I stared at it for a good ten seconds before the chief brought me back to the present, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
The chief left soon after, leaving me and the dodgy light alone in the building. Finally, I picked up the phone and dialed Beckman Hall.
The girl who answered sounded almost identical to Hannah, and I did a double take before introducing myself. She recognized my name right away. “I just loved the piece you did on ghosts of university past and present and that. Really great.”
What was it with that Christmas piece? Had no one any real taste? I cleared the strange mix of delight and disappointment from my throat, and my voice came out deeper than its usual baritone. “Thank you. I’d like to speak with a Dylan MacDonald?”
“Just a sec.” She must have covered the phone because, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying, I could make out voices. A long moment later, she said, “I’m sorry, Dylan came back sick from his field trip. He might have glandular fever. He’s gone back home and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Do you want me to leave a message on his door? Or, he has a friend crashing in his room for a couple days . . . maybe he can help answer your questions?”
