by G. G. Andrew
Kim had never been a Yalie, but she’d been here before. Though she’d done a semester and a half of college nearby at the University of New Haven, it hadn’t really stuck, and she’d started working by the time she was twenty. But she knew Yale boys—at least these Yale boys, who lived the kind of life afterhours that would never be featured in the alumni magazine.
She knocked hard on the wooden door to be heard above the slow jazz and laughter inside. Half a minute later, a young, brown-haired guy popped open the door. He wore a crisp white shirt, untucked, with a cigar sticking out of the front pocket.
The smell of beer and expensive cigarettes pricked her nose. These were the type of Yale boys to intern at their uncle’s billion-dollar insurance company during the day and devote their nights to pool, sex, cards, and turning a blind eye to any and all liquor laws.
The doorboy leered at her, starting at her ankles and working up, slowly, like he didn’t give a damn whether she was in a hurry. She even had time to roll her eyes unobserved before he reached her face.
Despite the look of approval on his face once he reached the end of his tour, his voice was haughty, his chin jutted out. “Yeah?”
“I’m here with Hutch.”
“Hutch…” He took the cigar out of his pocket and tapped it against his bottom lip, like he was trying to place the name, when they both knew he fucking knew who Hutch was. These Yale boys could be weirdly loyal. When they found a pot dealer who fit into their after-hours lifestyle—who could provide for their tastes and discuss Nietzsche with them, yet never approach them in the daylight as they walked the hallowed halls between classes or introduced the speaker in the economics lecture series—they put a ring on it.
She exhaled, tired of the bullshit. “You know who he is.” But to sweeten her sharp words, she took a step forward and leaned her hip against the doorframe. She’d worn her best jeans and off-the-shoulder shimmery top for just this purpose, though she regretted wasting them on some boy whose voice was probably still cracking when she’d racked up her fourth misdemeanor.
The Yale boy’s head tilted. “Yes,” he admitted. “But are you with Hutch?” His eyes travelled down to the curve of her hip. He was nibbling on the end of his cigar.
“Yes. I’m with Hutch.” It was better to lie in these circumstances, to not give cigar boy any naughty ideas. He might not have cared if she were with anyone else, would’ve still come on to her as strong as the pricey cologne he’d shellacked on. But they both knew a discreet dealer was hard to find.
Hutch was her ticket in and her insurance policy.
Finally, he nodded. Then his whole demeanor changed. “Well, enter, my lady!” He opened the door wide and swept his arm to encompass the room, like she’d been granted entrance to a palace ball.
Trying not to roll her eyes again, Kim stepped across the threshold.
The door shut behind her.
The room was large, encompassing the entire basement, lit cozily by vintage lamps. Antique-looking furniture was cast about, mustard-yellow armchairs and rose settees accommodating amorous couples and laughing students drinking from half-empty Scotch glasses. It was a room of furniture cast-offs from the rich, and some of them must’ve thought the decorating charmingly common, but all together the pieces probably cost more than her parents’ mortgage.
It was two-thirds full of people and an atmosphere of hazy cigarette smoke. A trio of pool tables squatted on the far side of the room, the smack and rumble of pool balls punctuating the air.
Kim searched the crowd for familiar faces—and people who seemed like they recognized her, whose eyes sharpened and followed her as she walked along the periphery of the room.
It seems as though once you fall in with your old crowd, you pick up old patterns, Dr. Park had said. Sure enough, as she passed by vaguely recognizable faces, those old stirrings started in her belly and worked their way up her chest and down her arms to her fingertips, filling her with a warm languor and buzz, like she’d drunk half a glass of Scotch herself. How easy it’d been to nick a bejeweled hairpiece or shot glass here. Things left on tables under green lamps, small objects easy to slide out of their owners’ back pockets. She hadn’t needed to get drunk on anything else.
She’d cancelled her appointment with Dr. Park that afternoon. She said she was sick on his voicemail, and maybe she was. She’d spent the day in an armchair in the corner of the city library, near the kids’ section, playing on her phone. She didn’t feel safe anywhere. Not at her parents’, not anymore, and certainly not at her apartment. Not even in her fucking car, with that knife waiting under the passenger seat.
If she could do this—if she could find this person, and ask what they wanted, and give it back—then she could get back on her feet and start over again. She would be safe. Dr. Park wouldn’t understand that. Neither would Scott. Boyd might’ve got it, but she’d lost any friendship she’d had with him when he’d pseudo-fired her that morning. Sometimes the quickest route from point A to B wasn’t always legal or defendable. She just wanted it all to go away.
She was in the middle of the room, brushing past two men swaying close to jazz music. Someone tried to push a cold glass into her hand with a “Hey, sweetheart,” but she kept walking. Just another Yalie, and not one that looked particularly dangerous or interesting either. They weren’t all assholes, but they definitely skewed that way, especially as the night wore on. Eyes met hers, then darted away just as quickly. Alcohol flowed here, but trust was in short supply. Nobody should’ve been there, and occasionally the smoke cleared enough that the guilt shone through with perfect clarity.
As she almost reached the pool tables, a strong hand grabbed her elbow and hot breath warmed her ear as a deep voice said, “Hey.”
She turned around and there was Hutch, his eyebrows raised, an obvious Yeah, I knew you’d come that he wasn’t wasting his breath on.
“Is he—” she started, but Hutch pulled her close until their noses almost grazed.
“Let’s step outside for a smoke,” he said.
She nodded, and he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her to an exit in the back. Maybe he was touching her out of old habit, and maybe he thought it best to pretend too, which didn’t make her feel better about any of this.
“I don’t smoke,” she murmured under the shouts and clink of glasses as a brunette in skin-tight jeans and a hat fitted low on her forehead sunk a ball to win one of the pool games. “Plus, I don’t think there’s exactly a no-smoking policy here.”
She tugged her shirt from where it was in danger of falling too low on her shoulder as Hutch grunted in response.
They reached a door and Hutch shoved his free shoulder against it to open it. It said Do Not Exit in a sign overhead.
Outside, the air had grown cooler, and Kim gulped a fresh breath of air. She scanned the alley where they’d exited, eyes peeled for strange onlookers. No one else was there.
She swiveled to face him. “So what do you know?”
Hutch wore his usual jeans and boots, but he’d put on a clean, black Oxford shirt, his version of dressing up. “I know what you stole. What they’re looking for.”
“What?”
“A flash drive. Looks like an animal.”
“What?” Kim gave a short laugh. Maybe all the smoke inside had gotten to her head and she was misunderstanding. “Like it’s got ears and a tail?”
“No, like the pattern.”
“Oh.” Then her eyes widened as she remembered. “Oh.”
That flash drive.
It’d been last summer, in her early days of treatment, when she was still slipping. When she was still hooking up with Hutch from time to time, without her family knowing. It’d been here, too. A man’s back pocket, sticking out a little. Brown and black spots on tan, like a leopard. Just the thing that sick part of her brain loved to pilfer: small, adorable, simple to take. It was in one of her boxes back at the apartment, and she’d never even used it. Apparently it’d been one of he
r stupider decisions in a life where she’d already made a bevy of mistakes.
“This guy—I don’t know him—he lost it,” Hutch continued. “So his friend’s been asking around, and someone said you stole things and maybe someone else saw you take it.”
“Hmm.” The blood rushed to her face in anger as the pieces fell into place. “A flash drive? Some asshole left a knife on my car and trashed my apartment because I stole his English paper?”
“I guess.” Hutch studied her. “Someone left a knife on your car?”
“Yes. God.” She stared up at the dark sky and laughed harshly. There was too much light pollution to see many of the stars, but the brighter constellations shone through the inky blue. Big Dipper, Little Dipper. All the ones that looked like giant fly swatters in the sky. “Ok, well. What now? How do I get it to this person?”
“Well, the note said put it in your mailbox, right?” Hutch’s lighter clicked and flared as he lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you just do that?”
She looked back as he took a drag and blew a cloud of smoke into the alleyway between them. “Okay.”
“Well, that’s settled.” Hutch watched her as he took another puff. The change in his gaze was so subtle she nearly missed it. He was simply maintaining eye contact as they conversed, but in the dark silence they lapsed into, his eyes flicked to her bare shoulder, then her chest heaving underneath her silver top. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette and snuffed it out with his boot.
“You need a place to stay tonight?” He stepped closer to her.
“Why?” Kim asked, though she knew the question behind the question. This was the other reason she avoided these parties. Hutch. Hutch, Hutch, Hutch. Their affair definitely hadn’t been a love connection, and since those first months they’d gotten together, hadn’t even been about passion as much as scratching mutual itches. At least he knew about her issues, so she didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t exactly make her want to be a better person, though.
“Because,” he said, running a warm finger up her arm, probably hoping to go treasure-hunting where her blouse draped, “we can catch up.”
Her eyes narrowed. She knew Hutch didn’t consider this tit for tat, like she owed him a scrap of her body for the intel he provided. Still, she didn’t want to be his scratching post tonight.
She lifted her hand to flick his finger off—but someone beat her to the punch.
A man’s hand reached between them, knocked Hutch’s hand down, and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Fuck!” Hutch shouted as the man stepped between them and Kim gasped and stumbled back.
A black uniform, a flash of a silver New Haven badge—and then Kim took in the back of the man’s dark blond hair, broad shoulders, and well-defined body she recognized from all the time she’d spent gawking at it.
“Scott!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”
Chapter Seventeen
Scott
Scott pushed the asshole all the way across the alley until his back hit the opposite building wall.
Kim shouted behind him, but he ignored her.
“Keep your hands off her,” Scott growled.
He’d done surveillance on the house for the past seven minutes, holding himself back from busting in with his gun drawn. Before she’d entered the building, from his location he’d heard snippets of what she said to whoever had let her in—she clearly said she was “with Hutch.”
With Hutch?
Who the hell was Hutch?
While covering the periphery after she’d entered, he’d been relieved to finally see her step out a side door with this douchebag, who apparently was eager to lose a hand. He’d heard snatches of their conversation beforehand, but then it’d been blocked out by the roar in his ears once he’d seen the guy touch her.
Said douchebag, who’d looked startled when Scott had first grabbed him, now calmed his face like a mask was sliding in place. “Good evening, Officer. What seems to be the problem?”
Scott narrowed his eyes, wanting to throttle this guy. Adrenaline raced through his veins and his body tensed, ready to spring into action. He didn’t know who he was, but he smelled like an expensive ash tray, he’d been touching Kim—in an alleyway, for Chrissake—and his whole demeanor screamed criminal to him. The way he’d settled into a calm cockiness while Scott still had him pinned against the brick, he knew this wasn’t this guy’s first time at the rodeo.
And he’d been touching her.
“Scott!” Kim was at his elbow now. “Let him go. Seriously.”
He shot a quick glare in her direction. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She met his glare and doubled it. “What the hell are you doing following me?”
“I wasn’t—” Scott swore. His hand slipped a little from where he held the guy’s smooth black shirt. “I saw you get out of a cab, and I tried to see where you were going.”
“Yeah, that’s following me.” She huffed.
“If you don’t want someone to track your movements, you should be better at not being followed. You turned around once and didn’t even see me.”
“What? Oh my God.” Her eyes shot heavenward. “I’m not having this conversation.”
He looked back at the guy to see his eyes darting between Kim and himself. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said to Kim. “What are you doing here?”
“Selling Tupperware.” She shook her head. “Unclench, Scott. He was helping me. He found out what the guy who’s after me wants.”
Reluctantly, he relaxed his hands and stepped away from the asshole. But his eyes pinned the guy to the wall. He didn’t like him.
As if to exemplify why, the guy smiled with amusement and glanced at Kim. “Guess I just got glock-blocked.”
“Shut up, Hutch,” Kim snapped.
Hutch. Scott didn’t like the hiss of familiarity in her voice.
“What do you know?” he asked Hutch.
“Just what I told her,” Hutch said languidly, his voice unconcerned and his breath peppered with nicotine. “You can ask her, but I’m afraid I’ve got to go.” He raised an eyebrow. “That is, if that’s okay, Officer.”
“It’s not okay.”
“I haven’t committed any crimes here, Officer—” his eyes drifted to his nametag—“Culpepper. Search me.” He held his arms wide, the thin fabric of his shirt hinting at a muscled torso. “I’m clean.”
Scott sneered. “You may be empty-handed, but you’re not clean.” Drug dealer, for sure. Ten to one.
“Get out of here, Hutch,” Kim said under her breath, and Scott didn’t contradict her. He wanted to pummel this Hutch, but he also wanted him out of his sight immediately, and the guy was right that he’d probably find nothing on him. He caught a whiff of illegality on the man, but he also sensed a sly intelligence, like this one knew how to slip through the iron grip of the law.
Hutch started moving backwards, his eyes making sure Scott was letting him walk away before looking Kim full in the face.
“You’re welcome,” Hutch said. He raised his eyebrows at her, and the two seconds of silent communication between them made Scott’s stomach burn almost as much as seeing his fingers on her arm had.
“Get the hell out of here,” Scott growled, and Hutch turned around and moved quickly away into the darkness.
A beat or two passed. “Who the hell was that?” Scott asked, not facing her.
Kim sighed. “My ex.”
“It didn’t look that way.”
“It is that way.”
“You sure about that?” He snagged her gaze.
“Yes.” Her voice was rife with anger, her brown eyes sparking under a streetlight.
“And what does he do for a living?” It wasn’t legal, that’s for sure. He’d look up the guy on his next shift, see what he’d been up to.
“He’s a small business owner,” she said.
He exhaled and put his hands on his hips, trying to calm his voice from irate lover to stern disciplinar
ian. He wasn’t either to her—especially not the lover part—but tell that to his body. The adrenaline was still pumping through his blood, and his instincts were warring between urges to tug her shirt up to show less of her skin and pressing her against the brick in a repeat of last night.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he settled on.
She crossed her arms. “And your shift ended a half hour ago.”
He didn’t deny it. “Let me give you a ride back to your parents’.”
“No,” she said—too quickly.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Take me to my apartment.”
He studied her, trying to figure her out. “Okay.” He turned and walked towards his car, making sure he heard the click of her shoes on the pavement behind him. She didn’t come beside him, even when he stepped on the sidewalk and there was plenty of room. He didn’t know how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was a slight—she seemed to be just barely holding back from telling him to get lost; even her footfalls sounded annoyed. On the other hand, he’d just caught her in a tête-à-tête with some sort of drug dealer in an alleyway. Whom she had apparently dated. And who sure as shit hadn’t acted like he thought the relationship was over.
What had he been thinking kissing her last night?
When they reached his car, he yanked open the passenger side door and turned to where she was a few steps behind.
She stopped when she saw his patrol car, studying it suspiciously. A guy stumbling out of the convenience store gawked at them, and a lone car drove past, where the driver looked a lot like Jimmy. Jesus, was Wednesday night the new Friday night?
“Kimberly,” he said, gesturing for her to get inside, feeling like a father dragging home a surly teen.
She looked at him square-on, then stepped into the car. “Only my mom calls me that,” she said as she brushed past him.
