Kiss Me Goodnight

by Michele Zurlo

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up clutching my extra pillow to my chest. Dylan had left sometime around midnight. Before that, I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, and I was pretty sure he’d drifted off as well. He awakened me and told me to lock the door behind him and go to bed.

  My job as a sales representative meant I worked mostly in the afternoon. So I slept in, showered, and was dressed by eleven. Not bad. I had some paperwork to take care of before a meeting with a potential vendor. I wanted to have my homework done before I got there. It always impresses clients when I know a ton about their business without them having to tell me.

  I checked in with the office, confirmed my schedule, and had lunch. My buzzer rang right about the time I finished off my bowl of mac and cheese. Like last night, I wasn’t expecting anybody. Unlike last night, I now had an idea about who would come to my apartment unannounced.

  This time I checked the mirror before I went downstairs to let in my gentleman caller. I opened the door, and a saucy greeting died on my lips.

  The man at my door was not Dylan. He was about the same height, but he had a slimmer build (though Dylan was pretty thin), light brown hair that curled at the ends, and hazel eyes. Dressed in a suit, he stood out in this area. Neighbors walking their dogs took a second look at him, then at me, probably speculating as to what kind of trouble I was in.

  I spent a moment trying to place him, and then I remembered the goatee. “Mr. Pritchett?”

  I hadn’t thought of him since the beginning of summer. A leftover bit of guilt pinged off the lower section of my spinal cord and radiated down my legs.

  “Hi, Lacey. Can we talk?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to have another conversation with Boss Junior. The past four months had gone pretty well where my worst compulsion was concerned. Now he was like a drug dealer who came to my door because I’d stopped coming to see him. Please don’t offer me any free samples.

  I offered a polite smile. “I have another job.”

  With that, I tried to close the door, but he put his hand out and halted the momentum. He was stronger than he looked. I wondered what was going on behind his expensive suit.

  He came closer, and I caught the spicy edge of his scent. With his face less than a foot from mine, I suddenly became aware of him as a man: a handsome, commanding presence that made my girly bits tingle. Four months ago, I’d dismissed him outright. Even though I had a serious crush on Dylan, today I couldn’t seem to look away from Junior’s penetrating hazel gaze. Hopefully he hadn’t come over to murder me.

  “I’m not here to offer you a job. The company has been dismantled and sold. My father passed away this morning, and I came to ask you about some of the things you said the last time we met.”

  My face flamed, and sympathy surged through me. “I didn’t mean it. I was upset, and that was a cruel thing to say. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry I maligned you and your father. None of it was true.”

  His lips set in a hard line. He hovered over me like a dark cloud with a lightning bolt poised and pointed in my direction. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have in a hallway. Is there somewhere private we can meet to discuss this?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I lied to you, and now I’ve apologized. I recognize that might be too little, too late, but it’s the best I can offer.” I didn’t want to invite him inside. What if he wanted revenge and I end up a Lacey ghost in a pool of blood?

  He stepped back, probably realizing how threatening he appeared. He let go of the door and ran his hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled and adding a heaping dose of charm to his demeanor. “I’m not looking for an apology. My father did mess around on his wives. My mom was his third. They divorced when I was five, and we moved to Connecticut. I have two older half-sisters and a half-brother, and I heard rumors about a younger half-brother, but they turned out not to be true. Believe me when I say your accusations didn’t upset me. They just surprised me. That’s all.”

  He wasn’t the only one suffering from shock. As I said before, I hadn’t pictured the late Mr. Pritchett as a womanizer. He hadn’t seemed like one of those creepy old leeches. He’d been nice to me, a bit fatherly. I’d liked him.

  I’m not sure what about Thomas’s speech got to me, but I let him in. I cleared a corner of my dining table and offered him a seat. “Can I get you something to drink? I have orange juice, water, or I could make coffee.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I brought you something.” From his inside jacket pocket, he extracted a long, slim plastic bag.

  I stared at it, recognizing the swab stick and sterile container from several police dramas I’ve watched. I sat across from him and scooted some papers out of my way. “Thomas, I lied to you. I swear your father is not my father. I knew my father. He died when I was six.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe that. I think you’re afraid. I came to tell you not to be. If this test comes back positive, his estate owes you your fair share.”

  I felt like an ass. I’ve lied plenty in my time, and some of the consequences haven’t been pleasant, but this is the first time I’ve felt like I went too far. Lying to a judge might seem like big potatoes, but it wasn’t personal. This was personal for Thomas.

  The directions for obtaining the sample were easy to follow. I took the scraper out of the vial. “This is a waste of time and money.”

  “It’s my money, and it’s not taking too much time.” He took a padded envelope from another pocket. It had a laboratory address filled in, and the postage had been prepaid. “If it comes back negative, no harm done. If it comes back positive, you’ll be able to claim part of his estate.”

  I didn’t want to claim part of his estate. Shaking my head, I regarded him somberly. I’ve lied with ease for so many years, and now I’m telling the truth and having trouble convincing Thomas of that. Maybe if I come clean about my sordid past?

  “Thomas, I lie. I’ve told lies since I was a little girl. It’s a compulsion, something I can’t stop. I do it when I’m stressed or anxious.” I wrung my hands together and let that washing motion bring me a little comfort. “I took a job in payroll because it seemed like it would be unexciting and not stressful. And it was until you came and started firing people. I knew the moment Alec said you’d been looking for me that you were going to fire me. I needed that job.”

  He held up a hand. “I hadn’t planned to fire you that day. It was my intention to get into your records to figure out whether I should close completely or pare down costs and sell.”

  Either way, I would have eventually been out of a job.

  “When you got hysterical, I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. My father was dying, and I was stuck in a place far from home. I don’t have family, not really, and I don’t have friends here. I just wanted to finish and get back to Connecticut.”

  He’d managed his confusion nicely. I nodded. “So, you fired me and availed yourself of the files. Did you fire everybody?”

  He shook his head. “After you stormed out, word got around. Within a week, over half the staff was gone. I sold it.” Lifting his hand, he indicated the swab stick I held. “If you’re my sister, you’re entitled to your portion. And that wasn’t Dad’s only holding. He liquidated most of his assets years ago. I don’t know why he held on to the distribution center so long.”

  If he’d known he was coming to the end of his life, he’d probably wanted to simplify, but he hadn’t wanted to bow out of the game entirely. That did explain why such a wealthy man would show up at one lowly company once or twice each week. He’d wanted to remain connected to something.

  I put the DNA test kit down. “I’m not your sister.”

  “You said you’re a liar. How do I know you’re telling the truth?” His smile was encouraging and ironic. Did he find my confession funny? I revealed something to him that I’ve only relayed to a limited number of people. His lack of reaction
was anticlimactic. Jane had cried. Luma hadn’t talked to me for three days. Thomas seemed to note the fact and move on.

  I couldn’t afford to lie about this. “If you ask me if I’m telling the truth, I’ll give you an honest answer.”

  He stroked the beard part of his goatee. “A DNA test will give a definitive answer. Anything you say won’t matter.”

  I think the last time we met I’d been too overwrought and focused on my melodramatic lie to notice that Thomas was a truly frustrating man. For some reason, that insight made him even more attractive.

  Setting down the test kit with an authoritative finality, I rose from my seat and took the two steps required to put me next to his chair. “Thomas, I am not your sister. We are not related. If we were, I wouldn’t do this.”

  Splaying my fingers wide, I ran them across his cheeks and into his hair. It was short around the ears and longer on top, so my fingers didn’t disappear into anything thick or luxurious, but what I did encounter was soft.

  He looked at me, curiosity morphing to shock. His hazel eyes smoldered with danger. “Lacey—”

  Before he could protest, I touched my lips to his. They were silky and firm, and his goatee tickled against my face. I’d never kissed a man with facial hair before, and I have to admit I wasn’t expecting much. Wow, was I pleasantly surprised.

  With a soft moan, I deepened my foray. Thomas took over, and tingles beat a path all the way to my toes. When I started this, I hadn’t thought it would be anything special.

  Our kiss ended slowly, and I could tell he was as reluctant to part ways as I was. Bits of clouds floated around my head, and something firm pressed against my bottom. I looked up and realized Thomas had switched our positions.

  He loomed over me, a handsome specter in an expensive suit, and his expression was grim. “Get the DNA test done, Lacey.”

  That jarred me back to reality. “Thomas, I swear—”

  “I know what you said, but I can’t get the image of you storming out of your office out of my memory. The next time I kiss you, I want there to be no doubts in my mind.”

  He picked up a pencil and wrote on a file folder. “This is my cell number. I’ll be expecting a call in two weeks.”

  With that, he left my apartment. I sat at the table for a long time, staring at the ten digits he’d scrawled on a folder that contained account information for The Majestic, my first client.

  What did he mean by “next time”? He was planning to see me again if the test proved I wasn’t his half-sister? Did getting the test done mean I wanted to see Thomas again? What about Dylan? What if he decided he was over Nadia and wanted me?

  What does it say about me that I’m willing to sit here like a doormat and wait?

  I can’t remember ever being this confused in my life. In this foggy state, I scraped the inside of my cheek and dropped the envelope into a mailbox on my way to work.

  What the heck? The least I could do was to put his mind at ease.

  Chapter Nine

  YOU’RE PROBABLY WONDERING what happened next between Dylan and me. I could put in some killer montage here, showing us hanging out at clubs and playing more softball and walking in the park and talking for hours. Those things definitely happened. At the end of it, I could show us kissing in the moonlight, then cut to us silhouetted in a bedroom. Dylan could lift my shirt over my head…I could fade to black or kiss and tell…

  I’d like to be able to say he’d experienced some closure, and that he’d at least kissed me again, but I can’t. Well, I could, but I’d be lying. I don’t mind lying (as you know), but telling that one would just make me sad. The fantasies, though…Ahh…I’m blushing.

  Over the next month, Dylan and I continued in the same manner that has marked the majority of our interactions. It was as if he’d never taken me to a stream at night, held my hand on the bank, and told me he liked me. I now had five original Kiss Me Goodnight songs on my iPod, but Dylan hadn’t tried to kiss me again, not even on the cheek.

  A large manila envelope with a return address from a lab in Ann Arbor lay buried beneath file folders on my table. I hadn’t opened it, and I hadn’t texted Thomas. Just thinking about him confused me. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to spend more time with the man who seemed to just accept the compulsive lying problem I was trying to overcome. Or maybe he hadn’t believed me at all. The men in my life definitely bewilder me. Perhaps if Dylan would stop straddling the fence and move forward with whatever is or isn’t going on between us, I’d be able to clarify what and who I want a little better.

  Even my dreams couldn’t make up their minds. Both men starred in my nighttime soap operas, sometimes taking turns and sometimes morphing into one another in the middle of the good parts. I also spent a lot of time with Simon and Jared. Davey has to be feeling neglected, but I can’t look at him without thinking about Dylan, and that tends to shove me off the Cliffs of Insanity. I haven’t lied in five months now, but the skin on my hands is perpetually red.

  Dylan gave me a gift bag with some cream and gloves to wear at night. He didn’t comment, but sometimes when he sees me heading to the bathroom, he blocks my path or shakes his head in warning. I think he’s getting to the point where he might take drastic measures to stop me. If I want him to think of me as date material, I seriously need to stop washing my hands so often. This triggers his therapist instincts instead of appealing to his baser ones. I want the base ones. I want to unleash the guy who shoved me against a wall after his first performance and almost kissed me.

  Today I have a meeting with the manager of The State Theater. They have frequent concerts and club nights, and they attract bigger names. This is the venue where I once saw AFI. Several years have passed, but my brain replays snippets of that night every now and again.

  Mr. Hanover hasn’t tried to land this contract because it’s well known that the manager, Brooke Dorsey, has used the same liquor distributor since she took over eight years ago. I don’t know what their deal is, but when I called to beg for a meeting, she agreed. Undertones of impatience and irritation had come through in her voice, but I didn’t take it personally. That just meant I need to find out how to win her over. At least she agreed to see me.

  The State Theater became part of the Live Nation franchise a few years ago, and also became The Fillmore. I use their new name with reluctance. Their Renaissance Revival architecture is being restored, and it’s gorgeous. It looks better every time I visit. But to me, this place will always be The State Theater. Perhaps it’s legal to rename historic landmarks, but I reject changes I don’t like. Likewise, Comerica Park will always be Tiger Stadium to me. (So what if it’s a completely different stadium in a different location?) I hope I don’t slip up and call The Fillmore by the wrong name during my meeting with Brooke.

  The lobby was empty. I’ve become used to seeing places like this with nobody around, as daily operations are normally quiet. If a band is scheduled to play, they generally don’t show up until early evening. Now that Kiss Me Goodnight has five months of performances under their belts, they no longer show up twelve hours early to set up and practice.

  I meandered toward the back of the lobby, admiring the progress they’ve made on the restorations. Filigree and ornate decorations lent weight to the history of this expansive space. I could close my eyes and hear an orchestra tuning and the rustle of ladies’ skirts as they rushed to find their seats.

  Without signs pointing the way and nobody to direct me, I wandered the place, looking for a hallway that might take me to the offices. The sound of voices eventually drew me to the third level, where conversation drifted out an open door.

  Please keep in mind that this transcript is highly paraphrased. There may have been some colorful language used, and I chose not to put it here. Call me a prude. Go ahead.

  Male Voice One: We don’t need an opener.

  Female Voice: People are expecting an opening band. We promoted it that way.

  Male Voice One: They cancelled.
Nothing we can do about it. Besides, it’s the headliner’s job to book an opener.

  Male Voice Two: There are plenty of local acts who would jump at this.

  Female Voice: Yeah, but the people coming tonight expect more than local talent. Walk the Moon has a national following. We can’t replace their opening act with some unknown alternative band.

  Male Voice Two: My cousin’s band—

  Male Voice One: Knows five songs.

  Male Voice Two: You gotta listen to this.

  As he finished speaking, a song started. I listened. The band was okay. They had a female lead who didn’t quite hit all the notes and a mix that was too guitar-heavy. The lead guitar overwhelmed the vocals. I wondered if that was a common mistake for newer bands.

  After the song stopped, they went back to arguing. I paused in the hallway, uncertain as to whether or not it would hurt my cause to interrupt their problem-solving session to ask for directions to the manager’s office. I took a deep breath and prepared to knock on the open door.

  When I looked inside, everybody’s backs were turned to me, and with my fist poised, I stalled. I could see the iPod dock on a table just inside. Though I hadn’t planned to see a concert this evening, I did enjoy the two songs I’d heard from Walk the Moon. They had a throwback sound that brought to mind the best of the eighties mixed with modern rock.

  Plus, fans of that band were the kind of people who would like Kiss Me Goodnight’s sound. I extracted my iPod from my pocket, amazed that they hadn’t heard me yet. They were talking about a few of the local acts. It looked like they were leaning in that direction.

  I pulled their device from the dock and put mine on in its place; Kiss Me Goodnight’s self-titled song cued up. I waited, but nobody looked in my direction. Taking a deep breath, I pressed play.

  Daisy’s drums and Levi’s keyboards started slow. Now the two men and the woman turned toward the speaker. I smiled as Dylan’s haunting vocals filled the silence.