by Penny Reid
“Like you want to know me.” He quickly added, but it was not quite an amendment to Like you want me.
“Alex, I’m pretty sure a lot of women look at you like they want you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re very handsome?”
“Yes. But usually they pair it with a giggle and use the word hot.” He took a half step closer.
I nodded, pleased by his honesty. “Good. Because it’s true. So, here is my question, and I know I’ve already asked you this, but what does a handsome young guy like you, capable of making all the girls bring their milkshakes to his yard, want with an old lady like me?”
“You’re not old.”
“I know. I’m not old. But I’m older than you.”
“So?” He shrugged.
“I’m not complaining. I’m just curious.” I mimicked his shoulder shrug and glanced around his apartment. Everything about this moment felt surreal.
I was unused to throwing myself at a man.
I was unused to throwing myself at a man for the sole purpose of a physical mutual appreciation society.
I was unused to learning that the man I was throwing myself at was a convicted felon.
I was unused to having a two-way conversation with a man that was so free of pretense.
In truth, I was feeling a bit flustered—again.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re very beautiful?”
I smiled, liking all conversations where it was implied or inferred or outright stated that someone thought I was beautiful. “You mean other than you?”
His smile was small, sincere.
I couldn’t help my next question. “Do you actually think I’m beautiful?”
“Obviously.”
“This is the best and strangest conversation ever.”
He breathed out a bitter laugh and turned away. Alex clasped his hands behind his neck and shook his head. “This isn’t going to work.”
I watched his back for a moment and felt the words he’d just spoken as if I were trying them on. They felt wrong. It was like trying on a pair of jeans that won’t button, even though your brain keeps telling you they fit and were a smart purchase.
Even as my brain said, Damn it, he’s right, everything else said, No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!
As usual, I allowed my brain veto power.
“Okay,” I said.
He turned just his head and peered at me over his shoulder. “Okay?”
“Well, we gave it a shot, and maybe we’re just too weird for each other.” My voice was strained as the sentiment felt lodged in my throat like a pointy, inadequately chewed tortilla chip. Even my brain hoped that he would contradict me.
His eyes moved over my body, his expression blank. After a long moment of open inspection, his eyes met mine and held my gaze. Then he bodily sighed, maybe even groaned—I couldn’t be certain—and walked away from me to the far end of the room.
“Yes. That’s right. This was never going to happen. Any delusions to the contrary were just that, delusions.”
I didn’t know if he were talking to me or to himself. Truly, it didn’t matter. The effect it had on my heart was the same.
I firmed my bottom lip, nodded once, and said, “Okay then,” and marched to my discarded coat. Careful not to expose my backside, I retrieved it from the floor and tugged it on.
For some strange reason my ears were ringing, and I felt like crying. I would not cry, not in his apartment anyway. I might cry later, at home, while watching Steel Magnolias and dressed like a homeless person. Sometimes I applied mascara before crying just to heighten the experience.
Alex watched me. I knew this because I felt his eyes follow my movements, and his gaze felt like a corporeal, physical touch. The sound in my ears became shriller as I reached for the door; my hand closed over the knob, I turned it, and paused.
Something needed to be said. This…whatever it was between us, deserved more than okay then as a eulogy.
I faced him, my hand still on the knob. Just as I suspected, his eyes were trained on me, though they—and everything else about him—were shrouded in an impenetrable force field of enigmatic defensiveness.
“I just wanted to say….” I huffed because I didn’t know what I wanted to say. But it was too late. I had to say something, so I just started talking. “I just wanted to say that you are not unbalanced. I know unbalanced, and you are not it. You are strange, you do strange things, you say strange things—but I think it’s because no one ever taught you that those things are strange. Like when you told me I was beautiful, the first time, at the show. And definitely the thing you did before that with my hand and your…your….” I made a deliberate decision not to say the word boner. “Well, you know. But I liked it. I liked all of it.”
He gave me nothing back, just stared at me—or through me—as if I’d already left.
“I like you, a lot.” I said. I owned it, and felt a little lighter for having admitted it to him.
I turned to the door and slipped through it, and shut it slowly and reverently behind me. A soft click sounded as it closed, and it felt like the end of something.
I was on the seventh stair when I heard the first crash. I stopped, stiffened, glanced over my shoulder at the closed door. Another crash sounded from within his apartment, followed by another, then another. Soon they were indecipherable from each other, and a shiver raced down my spine.
I descended the rest of the stairs to the soundtrack of Alex destroying his apartment and wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe he was unbalanced.
But then I heard his voice in my head ask me, You can’t think of any other possibility?
CHAPTER 10
Tuesday’s Horoscope: You are tempted to ignore a difficult situation—don’t. Facing a predicament head on takes courage, but it can bring the resolution you desire.
“DR. FIELDING.”
I turned toward the sound of my name. A woman was standing at the edge of my table—half-inspecting, half-glaring at me. I’d expected a colleague based on the matter-of-fact frankness of her tone, but I didn’t know this woman.
For some reason, though, she looked familiar.
My gaze drifted over the busy hospital cafeteria and back down to the stack of grant proposal requests I’d been reading, then back to the stranger.
Just…great. I was in no mood to talk—not to anyone.
Since Saturday’s strangeness with Alex, I’d been avoiding nonessential human interaction. I’d even been ignoring incoming calls—especially from my harem of platonic male friends.
I tried watching Steel Magnolias, hoped a good sob-fest would dispel some of the unpleasant tension that had gathered in my stomach and sat like a fat, longhaired cat on my chest.
It didn’t work. I couldn’t cry. Instead, I found myself annoyed with all the movie’s characters, specifically their inability to rationally and sensibly deal with drama.
I crossed my toes inside my sensible shoes. Maybe I’d dropped something in my mad dash for the vacant corner table and she was merely returning it to me.
“Yes?” I said to the stranger, attempting to appear busy and unfriendly—because I was busy and unfriendly.
“May I join you?” She motioned to the seat across from mine and didn’t wait for my response before claiming it.
“Sure, why not.” I pulled my lunch closer to me, placed the grant notices on the chair to my right, and cleared a space for her at the table.
My eyes skimmed over her face as I tried to place her. She was pretty, a few years older than me, mid-thirties if I had to guess; she was fit; she was dressed in a plain, black, moderately priced pantsuit; and she was wearing little makeup and no visible jewelry.
As a normal, well-adjusted female, this was of course my initial assessment.
Secondarily, I noted that she wore her brown hair in a ponytail and that she appeared to be approximately my height.
“Dr. Fielding,” She didn’t look at me as she spoke; instead, her eyes scan
ned the cafeteria. I didn’t get the sense she was actually looking for someone; rather, it seemed to me that she just didn’t want to look at me. “I need to speak with you about a shared acquaintance.”
“I can’t discuss patients without a release.”
“It’s not a patient. It’s….” She paused, breathed in through her nose, her attention still affixed over my left shoulder. “It’s a friend of yours. Alexander Greene.”
“Alexander Greene?” Because there was no reason not to, I allowed my face to show the confusion I felt. “I don’t know anyone named Alexander Greene.”
Then, she looked at me. She did not look happy. “Yes, you do. You met him in line for a taping of Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me last Thursday. You sat next to him during the show. Afterward, the two of you went out for coffee at The Coffee Carafe at one hundred and seven Slate Street until approximately eleven twenty-six. He then walked you to your apartment at eleven hundred Lake Street.”
During her recitation, my eyebrows arched severely and my mouth had fell open—not super wide open (like I meant to scream or catch flies), but open enough to communicate that fact that I was stunned.
She continued, and I got the distinct impression that this task was unpleasant for her. “Then, on Saturday evening, you picked up food from his workplace at thirty forty-five Lake Street. You left the premises at eight thirty, but then returned at eleven seventeen. You were found in Mr. Greene’s apartment by Agent Dumas at eleven thirty-six. When Agent Dumas left, you remained in Alexander Greene’s apartment for another fifteen minutes before leaving unaccompanied.”
“Oh.” I nodded faintly, my eyebrows descended. “You mean Alex.” For some reason I found it difficult to say his name.
She slow blinked, just once. It was odd. “Yes. Alex.”
I didn’t particularly care for the way she said his name, almost territorial. As I was a chase-cutter, I asked the most obvious questions first, and in rapid-fire succession to encourage her honesty.
“You’re his girlfriend?”
“No.”
“But you like him.”
“No—that’s—no, it’s not relevant.”
“Does he know?”
“No—I mean, Dr. Fielding….”
“Why haven’t you told him?”
“Dr. Fielding, I am not his girlfriend. I am one of the federal agents assigned to him.”
“But you still like him.” I nodded, then I leaned toward her slightly and used my close confidant voice. “It’s okay, you can tell me. I think he’s cute too.”
She slow blinked again, just once. I now knew it was a tell for when she was angry. “What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Greene?”
“He is my waiter.”
She waited. I smiled. She frowned.
“Your waiter?”
“Yes.”
Her expression became incredulous. “Dr. Fielding, Mr. Greene is a convicted felon.”
“Mmm-hmm. I know.”
“Do you know the circumstances surrounding his conviction?”
“Oh, yes. Had something to do with a Romanian circus, right? Well, cirque-du-so what?”
Her lips pinched together. She was not amused. “Do you know what a bitcoin is, Dr. Fielding?”
“Yes. Of course. Everyone knows what a bitcoin is.” I had no idea what a bitcoin was.
“Has Mr. Greene talked about bitcoins with you, Dr. Fielding?”
“All the time.”
This made her flinch, gape, and stutter nonsense until she closed her mouth. I studied her as she studied me; I saw the precise moment when she realized I was bluffing.
“Are you at all concerned for your safety?”
“Not at all.” This was true. Alex had all but told me he didn’t want to see me again, our little non-tryst was now over. I was more concerned about my access to excellent butter chicken and finding the time to review my proposal drafts than I was about my safety.
But, as much as I wanted to feel nothing about our undefinable relationship’s early demise, I continued to feel a pang of inconvenient regret and longing.
I hated longing. I hated it almost as much as I hated pining. It sapped the mind of good judgment, filled the heart with achiness, and distracted the vagina from other potential conquests.
And I couldn’t even cry.
“Alexander Greene is a dangerous man, Dr. Fielding. If he’s discussed bitcoins or the blockchain with you, we could use your help. He’s a serious risk to national interests. Perhaps you don’t understand the importance of….”
“Right. What’s your name?” All her talking at me, not to mention my relentless and completely ridiculous Alex-pangs, was giving me a headache.
“You can call me Agent Bell.”
It was my turn to blink, but I didn’t employ a bizarre, single, slow blink. My lashes fluttered, and I realized abruptly how I knew her, and why I recognized her.
She was the woman.
She was the woman who Alex let into the restaurant last Tuesday just before ten o’clock, while I stood there at the corner in stunned surprise. She wasn’t another booty call, she was the federal agent assigned to him.
The realization made me feel sick and better at the same time. I’d misjudged him and his intentions from the beginning. All my decisions since Tuesday, based on everything he had done, were framed by my assumption that I was just one of many lady callers, and he was a gifted liar by hiding that fact. In fact, the only thing I’d been certain of was my desire to be his slamp.
The ah-ha moment, in the end, boiled down to: he never wanted me to be his slamp because he wasn’t a Wendell.
Shiterhozen!
My longing turned to pining, and I wanted to bite someone.
Then I remembered that she was a federal agent, and he was out on parole; he’d been convicted of a felony; he was younger than me; he was prone to temper tantrums wherein he smashed things; he had copious emotional baggage; he was strange; he wanted a long-term relationship with me, and I was in no way certain that I felt the same about him.
These were all very valid reasons for ending our association before it began.
“Dr. Fielding?”
I started at the sound of my name, momentarily confused by her presence.
“Agent Bell.” I took a sip of my Diet Coke because my throat felt dry, but I really wanted to throw it on her moderately priced pantsuit. “Why don’t you tell me what Alex did and why I should be so terrified of him? I’m sure unburdening yourself will make you feel much better.”
Another peculiar blink was her response to my request. Then, she stood. “Maybe next time.”
“Great. ’Til then.” I dismissed her without looking up; I reached for my pile of proposals and began thumbing through them.
Agent Bell placed a card—presumably, her card—face down on the table. “When you figure out that I’m trying to help you, please call the number on the card.”
I didn’t respond, nor did I pick up the card. I busied myself with reading the request for proposal headings until I was sure she’d left. Then, I reached for my sandwich and took a bite.
It wasn’t the same as biting a person, but the chewing helped.
***
INSTEAD OF SORTING through my thoughts Tuesday night alone in my apartment, I decided to sort through my thoughts Tuesday night surrounded by my knitting group.
After Marie buzzed me in, I climbed the single flight of stairs to her apartment, and was somewhat surprised when Dan opened the door. Although, given the altercation last week at Taj’s, I approved of Dan the security guard’s presence.
Dan worked for Janie’s husband, Quinn. Whenever Janie decided that one of us needed security, Dan was the man assigned as the lead. Some months ago—when Elizabeth and her now husband, then friend—were embroiled in a looney-toons stalker situation, Dan had been the one to guard Elizabeth.
Technically, Janie explained, Dan was in charge of personal security for Quinn’s company. However, the man a
pparently enjoyed spending time in the field. Part of me wondered if he just liked spending time around us.
“Hello, Dan.”
“Hey, Dr. Fielding.” When Dan smiled his mouth barely moved, but his brown eyes danced like strippers. He was wearing the usual—a black suit, white shirt, black tie. The man also had scary-looking neck tattoos that swirled above the collar of his dress shirt. He was about six feet, but no taller, though he had the shoulders of a linebacker.
“Are you going to let me in?”
His pole-dancing eyes surveyed me as he stepped to the side. “Sure.”
I brushed passed him and unzipped my coat. “Has that guy been back? Has he tried to bother Marie?”
I noted that his eyes turned sober. “No. No sign of LP.” I liked his accent—thick South Bostonian.
“LP?”
“That’s what the team calls him.”
“What does LP stand for?” I pulled my knitting satchel from my bag.
“Little Prick.”
I smirked. “Nice. I approve.”
He winked at me. “I knew you would.”
“Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
He shook his head and pulled his phone from his pants pocket and waved me forward. “Nah. I’m good. Go have fun with the girls.”
His attention was now squarely focused on his phone.
I turned toward the living room—which was basically the only room—and left him to his messages.
Dan was, in a word, adorable. He reminded me of a burly, tattooed teddy bear.
Like Alex, he was not my typical type. Regardless, I almost asked him out while he was guarding Elizabeth. Before I could make up my mind to do so, I’d witnessed him watching Kat with all the intensity of a cat studying a mouse it’s about to eat. She was completely oblivious, because the poor girl—in addition to being quiet and shy and introverted—also had self-worth issues.
I strolled down the short hall and wrestled with my desire to interfere, wondered if I could finagle a situation where they were thrown together—preferably naked. Maybe I could trap them in a restaurant freezer where they had to hold each other for warmth.
The idea had merit, and I was sure Ashley would help if asked.
