Blind Date

by Bella Jewel

  I’ll never be able to sleep with that sound trickling into my room.

  With an exhale, my eyes flick to the left. There is another man on this floor who could help me, but the idea of going and asking him makes me cringe. Still, he’s the only option right now, unless I call a plumber, but that’s going to cost me, considering it’s after hours. I have a big test tomorrow, and it’s already well past ten. I need to make sure I get some sleep.

  So, with pursed lips, I trudge out of my apartment and hesitantly move down the hall, praying he’s not asleep, partially hoping he’s not home, but mostly just wondering if he’ll even help me out. We don’t exactly like each other a great deal. I reach his door, hesitate, then knock. A few moments pass and nothing happens, so with a muttered curse, I knock harder.

  Put some force into it, Hart.

  I hear the click of the lock, and the door swings open. Ace is standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of long pajama bottoms that sit low on his hips, showing off that amazing body. And oh, what an incredible body it is. I mentally growl at myself to keep my eyes on his, when all I want to do is let them dip lower, to take a good look at those unbelievable biceps, those hard pecs, and those washboard abs.

  But I don’t.

  That would be rude.

  “Can I help you?” he murmurs, scratching the scruff on his chin where the dark shadow of a few days’ growth can be clearly seen.

  It’s most definitely ready for a shave, but it’s also kind of hot. It only makes him look broodier.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I begin, and then roll my eyes at my own statement before continuing. “But, I, ah, need some help.”

  He stares at me.

  I wait.

  He looks up to the ceiling, then back to me. “You going to tell me what you need help with, or are you going to stand there and just stare at me?”

  Right. Dammit.

  “I was waiting for you to answer.”

  I cross my arms.

  He crosses his.

  Our eyes lock.

  “Lady, I’m tired. I have a bed waitin’ for me that I would much rather be in then standing here dealing with you. Now, I repeat, are you going to tell me what you need help with, or are you going to just stand there?”

  That kind of hurts, and hits me right in the chest. I didn’t want to bother him for this very reason. Embarrassment floods me, and then anger quickly takes its place.

  “You know what?” I mutter. “I’ll deal with it myself. Sorry to bother you.”

  I turn and rush off back down the hall, shutting my apartment door. I make a frustrated sound in my throat, and then sigh and make my way back to the bathroom. I’ll put a towel underneath the now heavily leaking tap, at least that might stop the noise enough for me to be able to get some sleep. I feel slightly stupid for reacting the way I just did, because it probably would have been easier if I had just come out and said it.

  But Ace gets me hot under the collar. Dammit.

  “Out of the way.”

  I flinch and squeal at the masculine voice behind me, and spin around to see Ace standing in my doorway, wearing a black shirt now, and looking more than a little pissed off. Obviously I didn’t lock my door. Obviously he didn’t take me storming off as a hint that I no longer want his help.

  “It’s uncouth to enter someone’s house without knocking.”

  I just said “uncouth.” Kill me now. I’m digging this hole deeper and deeper with every passing second.

  “I knocked,” he mutters, walking over, taking me by the shoulders and quite literally lifting me out of the way. I try to hide the flush in my cheeks as his big arms move me with little to no effort. “You were too busy muttering about me to hear.”

  Was I muttering about him?

  Probably.

  “Right,” I murmur. “Sorry, about, ah, yelling at you.”

  My cheeks burn, but I did overreact … just a little.

  He ignores me, fiddling with the tap, before leaning down and glancing under the sink and fumbling around there for a few minutes, too. Then he straightens, turns, and doesn’t look at me as he says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes with some things to fix this. Don’t lock the door or I will kick it down.”

  I flip him off as he walks out of the bathroom.

  “I saw that,” he mutters, before disappearing down the hall.

  Surely he didn’t see that. I grin, and I’d nearly bet he’s grinning too.

  The second he’s gone, I go into the bathroom and move any unmentionables out of the way, like the lacy panties hanging from the towel rack and the tampons on the sink. That is a little too much for the detective to see, I think.

  He returns a few minutes later with a tool set and some clear plastic packet filled with tiny little black rubber things. I step out of his way, and watch as he places it all down and starts messing around with the tap. My eyes slide to his arms as he moves, watching those biceps flex. Oh boy. That’s hot. It should be illegal for men to have arms like that.

  Especially jerky men.

  After about half an hour, he steps away from the sink, turns both taps on and off, and then glances at me in the mirror. I’m still standing by the door, and when our eyes meet, I feel it right down to my toes. God, he’s intense. Far too intense for my liking. Okay, that’s a little bit of a lie. Maybe if he were nicer, I wouldn’t be so taken aback by his intensity. I might even like it.

  “It’s fixed,” he says, still staring at me. “Anything else you need while I’m here?”

  “No, thank you.”

  His jaw tics a little, maybe out of surprise that I didn’t throw some sarcastic comment his way. “If that starts leaking again, let me know.”

  He turns around, picking up his things and striding right past me and into the hall. I turn, rolling my eyes, and follow him out. He places his tools down onto my kitchen counter, and washes his hands in my sink.

  Sure, make yourself right at home. I wonder if I should offer him a drink? I mean, he did fix my sink, and I’m always telling him he has no manners. Besides, he’d never say yes. The man can’t stand me.

  “Do you want a drink, or, ah, something?”

  That sounded convincing.

  His eyes flick to me, and he wipes his hands dry on his pants. “Coffee would be good.”

  Dammit.

  He accepted.

  Now what do I do?

  My heart races for a minute, and I just stare at him. He stares right back. Right. Coffee. Simple enough. I shake myself from my stupor and head towards the counter, avoiding his eyes as I turn the coffee maker on. I grab one cup, because there is no way I’m drinking coffee before bed, and start preparing it for him.

  “Doesn’t coffee keep you awake?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.

  He’s on the other side of the counter now, leaning a hip against it.

  “I work most of the night, so no.”

  Right, he’s a detective. I can only imagine how much time he spends poring over cases, trying to figure things out. It would be a job where you couldn’t turn your mind off all that easily. The things he would see in his line of work would keep most people awake for the rest of their lives, I imagine.

  “Understandable,” I murmur. “Anything interesting you’re working on right now?”

  “I’m working on a few homicide cases.”

  I blink and turn, while the coffee brews. “You are?”

  He nods.

  Wow. That’s impressive, and kind of cool.

  “Did you hear about the recent killing? That killer?”

  He nods. “Yeah, it isn’t my case so I haven’t looked much into it, but I have seen a few like that pass through over the years.”

  “Are they any closer to finding the person responsible?”

  I’m so curious, even though he probably can’t answer me.

  He shakes his head. “Serial killers are always tricky, a lot of the time we just don’t get them. They’re usually calculated and
smart as hell, so we basically have to wait for them to screw up and if they don’t, then we’re left in a difficult position. They’re not reckless like most killers, they’re smarter than most of the human population, which makes it tricky.”

  I shiver. “That’s a scary thought … you know … that you’re waiting on someone to screw up just to catch them.”

  I finish up his coffee and slide it to him, “Cream in the fridge, sugar in the pantry.”

  I take a seat at the counter and watch him move around, taking the coffee and helping himself to my fridge. He mixes three spoons of sugar into the cup, and nothing else. Black and sweet. Interesting. When he takes a seat again, he tells me, “Serial killers tend to be extremely clever, and they do a lot of research before targeting anyone. It’s why they’re so hard to catch. I’ve only ever heard of a few that aren’t up there with the rest—most of them are near-genius level.”

  “Hmmmm,” I ponder thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can see what you’re saying. I’ve seen all those serial killer movies.”

  He looks to the ceiling. I am starting to notice he seems to do that a lot when he’s frustrated. How my comment frustrates him, however, I don’t know. “The movies are fiction…”

  I snort. “I’m fully aware of that, but they do hold some truth.”

  Don’t they?

  His eyes swing to me and I swear—I swear—he rolls them a little.

  “You’re not a very easy person to communicate with, are you, Detective?”

  He studies me. “I could say the same about you, Hartley.”

  I blink. “How do you know my name?”

  He keeps staring at me. “I know all I need to know about you. I did a background check when you moved in.”

  My mouth drops open. “That’s an invasion of privacy!”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be living next door to someone who’s a criminal.”

  I’m shaking my head, even as the words keep pouring out of my mouth. “You, buddy, need to learn some serious people skills. It is not okay to do background checks on people. That’s my business.”

  He gives me a look that says I beg to differ. “I’m a cop. It’s mine, too.”

  God.

  I want to punch him right between the eyes.

  I don’t know why he frustrates me so much, but gosh, he does. He really really does.

  “It’s not normal for neighbors to check on other neighbor’s private business,” I point out. “Not that you seem to be overly concerned about being neighborly.”

  He snorts, taking a big gulp of coffee. “I don’t do neighborly things.”

  “You fixed my tap,” I add with a smile. “That’s neighborly.”

  He gives me a look that tells me he really had no choice in the matter. “Because you came to my house, threw a tantrum, and I had no choice.”

  My mouth drops open. “I did not throw a tantrum.”

  His brows go up, as if to say Oh really?

  I grind my teeth. “Well, considering you’ve stalked me, I figure it’s only fair that I’m allowed one act of kindness from you.”

  “I didn’t stalk you,” he says, standing and putting his cup in the sink. “I did a background check.”

  So he knows about Raymond?

  He probably knows everything about me.

  Not weird at all.

  “Same difference,” I mumble, walking to the door and holding it open for him. “I have to get some sleep, I have a test tomorrow. Thanks for doing your yearly neighborly duties and helping me.”

  Unfazed by my little jab, he leans down, picks up his tools, walks to the door and steps out into the hall. “Keep an eye on that tap.”

  With that, he strolls off back to his apartment.

  I can’t help but give a little smile.

  EIGHT

  I blink, once, twice, and then sit up in bed. A sound can be heard faintly traveling through my apartment. I rub my eyes and listen. It sounds like a video is playing somewhere, maybe a television, or the radio. If I listen hard enough, it almost sounds like people talking, but it seems too close for me to be able to hear it that clearly.

  In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never heard any noise from outside my own apartment. These apartments are soundproof, or maybe it’s just that my neighbors are quiet. Either way, it’s always quiet. It almost sounds like it’s inside the apartment.

  I glance at the clock. It’s seven a.m.

  I studied all day yesterday, and well into the night, not slipping into bed until midnight. Jacob brought me lunch during the day, keeping me entertained for a little while, but eventually I had to get back to it. I was exhausted when I fell asleep, I don’t even think I got up to use the toilet. I rub my eyes again and climb out of bed in search of the sound that woke me.

  I move into the hall and towards the living room. With every step I take, the sound gets louder and louder, until I’m standing in my living room, staring at my television, my body stiff and my heart racing. This must be a dream. It has to be. I know, I just know, that what is playing on the television right now was packed away a long time ago. I know because I cried so many tears as I watched it one final time, then wrapped it and sealed the box. I remember it like it was yesterday, the way my heart felt like it was being torn from my chest as I said good bye to my husband for a final time.

  “I, Hartley James, take you Raymond Watson to be my husband.”

  My voice trails out from the speakers on the TV and I can’t drag my eyes from the screen, from Raymond’s smiling face, from the tears in my eyes. This has to be some sort of joke. It has to be. There is no other way my wedding video would be playing. I didn’t put it in there. I didn’t. I would know if I did. There is no way I’d put myself through the pain of watching this again. Dragging my eyes from the TV, I rush down the hall to the spare room.

  The box the video was in, has been opened, but sealed back shut. Did I do that? I try to think back and recall if I have opened these boxes recently, but I can’t seem to remember doing that.

  Something isn’t right.

  In a panic, I turn the video off and rush back out and dial Taylor right away, trying to calm my racing heart. I’m either losing my mind, or something is very wrong. How and why would my wedding video be playing? Is this some sort of joke? Some sort of trick? I’m sure I didn’t sleepwalk last night. I was so tired and nothing else in my apartment is messed up or different. No. Something is off. I know it. I can feel it. My palms start sweating as I say over and over, “Come on. Answer.”

  “Hey, babes,” she answers on the fifth ring.

  “Taylor,” I croak. “Something is wrong.”

  Her happy tone instantly turns worried. “Shit, Hart, are you okay? What’s happened?”

  I stammer over quickly what has happened, how I found Raymond’s shirt, and now our wedding video is playing. It’s all too much for me, and I’m freaking out. I can’t control it. I’m trying but I can’t. I close my eyes and take a staggering breath when I’m done, waiting for her to respond. Praying she will have some valid explanation that makes it all better.

  “Honey, calm down. I know it seems weird, but is it possible that you may have actually been sleepwalking both of those times?”

  I take a deep breath.

  Calm.

  Be calm.

  “I’d know if I was sleepwalking,” I say, my voice still thick and full of emotion.

  “People don’t,” she says, her voice so calming, so steady. “Some have left their houses and not known it. Hell, there are those people that even eat full meals in their sleep. It is highly possible you’re subconsciously doing these things. Have you been thinking about Raymond more than usual lately? Possibly you dating Jacob has stirred up some old feelings, maybe even some guilty ones, and it has brought it all to the surface?”

  I close my eyes, and think about her question. I mean, sure I’ve been thinking about him more often lately, but I’ve also been really enjoying myself with Jacob, and I thought I had the
guilt under control. I feel okay about moving on. I really do. So why would it be affecting me so much?

  “Sure,” I admit. “I mean, I guess Ray has been on my mind more than normal, but I have felt mostly okay with it.”

  “Still, it is a big step,” she says, calmly. “It’s possible that this is a reaction to you finally moving on. It’s probably normal—remember in college you did it a few times when we were sharing a room.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I remember that night when I sleepwalked out into the hall and someone was trying to talk to me.” I take another breath. “So, you’re probably right, I have done strange things in my sleep before. It just freaks me out and I can’t really figure out why. The logical explanation says that you’re right and I’m overreacting, that makes the most sense, but for some reason, I just can’t shake the worry.”

  “It would freak anyone out. Maybe go and see the therapist you saw after Raymond died, if you’re concerned. She might be able to help you make more sense of it, but from an outsider’s point of view, it kind of seems normal. You’re closing that chapter of your life, and inside you’re probably feeling that a little.”

  “Yeah,” I say distractedly. “Yeah, no, you’re right.”

  “Try not to stress, hon. The more you stress, the harder it’ll get for you.”

  “Thanks, Tay. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Well, you probably wouldn’t sleepwalk, for a start…”

  I laugh softly. She always knows how to make me feel better. Even during the most difficult times, she knows what to say.

  “I’ll call you later. I have a big day ahead, I just needed someone to calm me down. Thank you.”

  “I’m always here, you know that,” she says, her voice soft. “Later, honey.”

  “Laters.”

  I hang up the phone and walk back into the living room, staring at the television screen. My eyes burn as I watch Raymond and me on the screen, so happy, so in love. He was the best man I’ve ever known, and I know I’ll miss him until the day I die. That doesn’t mean one day I won’t love again—I’m sure I will—but Raymond certainly set the bar high. He was incredible. With trembling hands, I walk over and pull the video out, taking it back to the box and sealing it once again.