“‘Question two. Would you like to be famous and what for?’” Jack held a hand up to stop her responding. “You’ll be famous for your Jesus dinner party and for solving the mystery of why he chooses to communicate through bread.”
She took another fry. Might as well go the whole hog, they were on him, and he could slaughter the whole ten questions in this first batch by himself if he wanted.
“‘Question three. Before making a phone call, do you rehearse what you’re going to say?’” Amusing how he could make his made-for-radio voice positively creak with disdain. He put his cell on the bar top. “I would rather let Madden strip me naked and flog me raw in the middle of the office than bother with this tripe.”
Holy hamburger. Way to make a girl’s mouth dry. Under Jack’s burlap underwear he’d have muscle, she could tell from the width of his shoulders, how his body narrowed to a slim waist, from the strong wrists and shift of muscle in his forearm where his sleeves were cuffed back. He had that ropy vein thing she liked. Jack twisting under a lash—would he cry out or be all stoic and heroic? Yeah, he’d be all hard jaw, straining neck muscles and edgy breathing.
“Christ, Honeywell, you like the idea of blood being spilled.”
“Um.” Sprung. Baggy burlap undies. Whatever she’d let show on her face was replaced by a swipe of paper napkin. What was the question? “I do rehearse important calls, especially because it’s so easy to hang up on me. I try to get it all out in the first few seconds. Bet that doesn’t happen to you. Bet you just say, ‘Haley—’” she did her best imitation of his clipped way of speaking “—and whoever you called starts blabbing.”
The fact that he tried not to smile and failed was the best. “Some people won’t take my call at all. Particularly anyone I’ve helped bankrupt, send to jail, or generally fucked with.”
“Does that mean you do rehearse?”
“It means I have to be sneaky about how I get to people.”
One last try at getting some of the Haley journalism magic to rub off on her. “Would you teach me the tricks?”
“Stick with the knitting, Honeywell. You don’t want to go annoying the kind of people I annoy. They play rough.”
Which was only slightly less insulting than what he’d said yesterday. “Meaning you don’t think I can write hard news like you. That’s so sexist.”
“It’s not sexist. I can name a dozen great reporters who happen to be women. It’s about experience and not getting death threats.”
He might’ve had a point there, a slim point, like a fine darning needle. “Is that why you do the fight club thing?”
“I’m more likely to need a lawyer than to throw a punch if someone decides to come after me.” She remembered hearing he was the Courier’s most sued reporter. “It’s getting late and—”
“You have aliens to investigate.”
“I do.”
“One more for the heck of it.” They both knew this wasn’t going anywhere. Despite not knowing how to take Jack Hayley since his dreadful underwear made him less terrifying, and the idea of him naked and gritting his teeth made her indigestion twist into an altogether more pleasant sensation, she didn’t give him time to walk away. She opened her email. He wasn’t someone she could trust—he’d ditch her, embarrass her, make her feel young and stupid without trying, but he’d stopped calling her Clickbait and she could stealth learn from him.
“‘Question four. When did you last sing to yourself or someone else and what was the song?’”
“That’s not a real question.” He leaned across and lifted her phone out of her hand.
“Hey!” she groused. He adjusted his glasses and read the question and handed the cell back. It was the real question. “I guess you don’t sing.”
“Nope.”
“Not even in the shower?”
“Nope.”
“Singing in the shower is too frivolous for the human headline. The great defender of the city does not hum.”
“I think you like the idea of me belting out show tunes, like I’m a terrible gay cliché. Don’t write clichés, Honeywell.”
The only reasonable response was a salute, which he didn’t catch because he’d looked away. Probably just as well, it wouldn’t be smart to get too comfortable with sassing him. “I sing. Badly. To myself. I don’t have anyone else to sing to.”
His head snapped around. “Did you add that last bit so I’d feel sorry for little single you?”
Crappity crap. “Oh hell no. I was just—wait, yes, I’m single, this is a love experiment. It’s supposed to be done by two single people. And you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’m doing fine.” Which was absolutely true, most of the time.
“And you assumed I was single, like you surmised I was gay.”
She frowned. She’d bought into the office gossip, which suggested he was gay and a player. Rookie mistake. But he seemed so undateable. The oddest combination of unapproachable and compelling. This wasn’t going to work, since all they could do was snipe at each other.
“Yeah, this is stupid.” Jack was never supposed to be part of the story anyway. She’d have to give up the idea of landing him like he was a whale. “I’m going to talk to Shona.”
“I like how you’re thinking.”
“You’ll just have the thing where Phil will bury your alien proof story and you won’t win a Pulitzer to shove up your son-of-a-bitch father’s ass.” It wasn’t like that was a death threat, so he’d cope.
She wasn’t ready for his reaction. Jack slammed his hand on the bar top and laughed. Hard enough to make the bartender look across at them with an amused expression. Derelie waved her off. It was late and they didn’t need anything, and as soon as Jack stopped cackling, he’d be out the door and off into the night, and she’d never see him again except across the top of cubicles and computer screens. She’d say Jack, he’d say Honeywell—if he didn’t revert to calling her Clickbait again—and that was that.
She sighed. Jackson Haley was the most interesting person to happen to her since she moved to the city and took the job at the Courier eight months ago, even if he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her outside of how quickly he could dump her. Unlike Yogaboy, at least Jack knew she existed.
As predicted, he pocketed his cell and collected his precious envelope, signaled to the bartender and pushed off his stool. “See you ‘round, Honeywell.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just slipped his suit coat on and left. She sipped the last of her ice water and headed for the ladies’, peed, soaped her hands, tidied her hair and put her invisible aligner back in. She had a finger to her mouth, fiddling it into place, when she came back into the bar and found him standing there. He gave her the kind of look that made her freeze in place, teeth clamping on her finger.
“How did you get here?” he said.
She gave the aligner one last shove and took her finger away. It was a trick question. Donovan’s was around the corner from the office. “Walked, but Red Line from home.”
“Take a cab.”
“I—ah.” Despite a free dinner, a cab home would blow her budget for the week. Dental was expensive.
“I have an account, this is a work expense, like the meal.”
“You’re going to drop me home on your way?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about Jack knowing where she lived. Better if they dropped him off first.
“No. I’m going back to the office.”
“You’re going to pay for my cab ride home?”
He clucked his tongue in exasperation. “That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”
She grinned at him. “It’s kind of like you singing to me.”
He closed his eyes, poked his fingers under the rim of his glasses and rubbed at them. “It’s nothing like that.”
She didn’t w
ant to be his unlooked-for obligation. “I go home in the dark by myself all the time, and this is not a date.”
He’d half turned away before he said, “Suit yourself.”
She put her hand on his arm. A free ride home was a free ride home, and sadly this was the closest to a date she’d had since arriving in the city. “I’d love a cab ride home.”
They went outside and walked to the corner where cabs usually lurked. He didn’t look at her. The office was in the other direction, but he stood there, watching the flow of traffic, saying nothing, giving off chill factor number two-hundred and thirty-seven.
“You don’t have to wait with me.” He didn’t respond. “Jack, you don’t have to wait with me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’m perfectly capable of getting a cab by myself.” And really, she’d had enough of him for the night. Brushing elbows in the breakroom would be enough Haley in her life after this.
“Not if you want me to pay for it.”
“Oh.” That.
He took a soft pouch from his pocket. Lifted a homemade pre-rolled cigarette from it and put it in his mouth, but he didn’t light it. The smell of almonds, cinnamon and spicy honey hit her.
“What kind of tobacco is that?”
He said, “Clove,” with his lips still wrapped around the cigarette and no eye contact.
To think she’d thought she could drop the burlap and finagle a mentor, that he wasn’t so intimidating; wrong, so very wrong. He’d seemed different in the bar. Now he was as remote and surly as a dull stone pillar. He took a few steps away and lit that cigarette, kept the hand holding it and his face turned away, but the sweet sultry scent of it was strong.
The longer they waited, the more uncomfortable she felt. Did he not feel that too? What would it cost him to chat about something, anything? They’d really needed the near unmanning, the food and the experiment questions to connect at all.
He was scanning the traffic for a cab, and when he turned his head her way she said, “For what in your life do you feel the most grateful?” It was question number five.
His arm shot out and he stepped toward the curb. “For this damn cab pulling up.”
Well, hell. Way to make a girl feel like punishment.
He opened the cab door, spoke to the driver across the seat and handed her a voucher. She didn’t look at him, just took the slip of paper. He was a bastard, and for a little while she’d forgotten that. Stupid. Inside the Courier, anyone known as a bastard had a reputation for being tough and efficient, for knocking down doors, breaking hearts and taking numbers, and never writing with clichés. The word was a compliment.
There was a print newspaper definition for a non-standard width for a column of text known as a bastard measure. That was Jackson Haley. Non-standard, not a good fit with those around him, and she’d do well to remember that.
She got in the cab, reached for the door to close it and found he had a hold of it still. “What did you last sing to yourself, Honeywell?”
She yanked on the door. That morning she’d murdered Beck’s “Guess I’m Doing Fine” but there was no way she was telling him that.
Chapter Six
Honeywell’s cab pulled out and Jack changed his mind about going to the office, ditched his cigarette, and hailed the one behind it. He gave the driver directions to the church and called Barney.
“Haley,” Barney said over the customary din of a dozen or more men shouting and cheering.
“Can I get in the pit?”
“Now? No. Twenty-four hours’ notice and you know it.”
“I’m ten minutes away.”
“I don’t care if you’re on the fucking moon without a spaceship. Twenty-four hours.”
Jack ground his teeth. He hated calling in favors, but he hated himself more tonight. Honeywell was fine with the whole experiment gone bust, but the look on her face when she worked out he wasn’t a nice guy under the bastard carved a hole in him he needed to fill or he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the contents of Henri Costa’s envelope. He didn’t understand why that mattered to him, but it did, and it was a distraction he needed rid of.
“Barney, I’m calling in a marker.”
“Fucker.” Barney disconnected, but he’d get a fight.
Inside the old garage that housed the Church of St. Longinus of the Cocked Fist, Jack pulled his gear from his locker and changed his suit for cutoff sweatpants and gym boots, and swapped his glasses out for contacts. The envelope made him hesitate. It was the only thing of irreplaceable value in his possession, but then it would be meaningless to anyone else.
He had a half hour wait for the bout Barney had arranged for him. Time to warm up, glove up. The current bout was bare knuckle. It’d been going for a while, both men bloody and unsteady on their feet—one of Barney’s refs would call it soon enough.
Jack stood above the fighting pit and watched the two men take out whatever anger the day had inspired on each other. Better than the wife, the kids, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time at work, themselves. He liked the madness of bare knuckles, but he couldn’t work with busted hands, needed them for the keyboard, so tape and gloves it was.
He also didn’t have any martial arts expertise to his name. He could box and he could brawl, but he couldn’t land a kick. His opponent, gloved and standing on the other side of the pit, could. This was going to be interesting.
“Best I could do, short notice,” Barney said. “Ryan knows this is a straight boxing match, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgets. If he lands a shin on you, he’ll be disqualified. You’ll win, but you won’t care ’cause you’ll be in the heart of hell. You still in?”
Jack nodded. He knew tonight’s doctor on call was McGill. If he ended up with broken ribs, he’d have decent care.
“Need to hear you say it, Haley,” said Barney.
That was why the Church of the Cocked Fist—illegal, ill-advised, badly kept secret—thrived. Father Francis Barney ran it in the deserted industrial garage like he’d once run a prep school, before he’d quit the priesthood in disgust over the Church’s cover-up of child abuse. Jack would always have a marker with Barney because the other man would never forget he’d written the story when no one else would.
“I’m in.”
“Why?”
“I’m on a big story. Need to settle my head.” In the pit, one of the fighters was down and not getting up. His name was Khan, a lawyer Jack often used on background. He’d be explaining a broken nose in the office tomorrow.
“You’re always on a big story.”
“This one is—”
“As important to you as all the others. Why did you need this tonight? You’re not going in that pit till I know.”
If he said something vague, Barney would cancel the fight. If he said he was worried about what was going on at the Courier, the newest round of cuts and layoffs, Barney would tell him to grow a pair. Half the men in this place had lost their jobs and worse.
Beneath him they were clearing the space set aside for the fights, a once-deep cement well where mechanics had walked around under hoisted vehicles they were fixing. “I’ve forgotten how to be with people.”
“What people?”
“People who aren’t men.”
“You want to get in the pit and have that Australian bastard who’s at least five pounds heavier than you beat you up over a woman?”
Over a woman with ethereal eyes, rusty curls she failed to tame, teeth she was trying to straighten and a way of handling him that made him laugh. Over a woman who’d tried hard to connect with him as a colleague and a human being despite the fact he was dismissive and he made her nervous. She’d come armed with a patented method of getting that connection to happen and he’d ridiculed her experiment questions. He’d barely
stopped short of calling the work she did frivolous, and that was going to bother him until he had something else more urgent to think about.
Women didn’t usually bother him past a certain point. He liked it that way. On the occasion he bothered them, the fact that it was one and done was in unmissable headline type. But for some reason with Honeywell he was annoyed with himself for being an unreliable source. He couldn’t even get colleague right with her, and that said something about his character he wanted to erase with his fists.
“A woman at work. She deserved better from me.”
“Reason enough.” Barney signaled to the head ref, another ex-priest, and slapped Jack across the back. “Go learn tolerance and kindness, my son.”
Tolerance and kindness. Two of those soft skills Jack mostly lived without. Odd to think he might find them while dodging fists and being on the lookout for feet meant to stay on the ground.
He took the ladder into the pit and touched gloves with Ryan, at least five pounds heavier and two inches taller than Jack’s six two. “Try not to break my jaw.”
“Glass jaw, eh? Got it. If I forget and kick you, I’m sorry, mate.”
“Don’t fucking forget.”
Ryan grinned. “I fucked up at work.” He was a broker, which meant he lost someone’s money; hopefully he could make it back.
“I fucked up at being human.”
“Right, let’s fucking get to it then, mate. What am I teaching you?”
“Tolerance and kindness,” he said repeating Barney’s lesson. Maybe if Ryan could teach him those attributes, he could fuck up less.
Ryan laughed and pointed his worn glove at his chest. “Patience and fortitude. Aim high.”
They separated. Ryan stalked him, let Jack bounce around and take his measure. That was a kindness, probably the last one he’d see for the next little while.
The Love Experiment Page 4
