8. Diem
8
Diem
W hen we arrived at the office, Tallus didn’t show signs that he planned to join me upstairs. We lingered next to the Jeep in the parking structure across the street from the building, and I shifted my weight, unsure what to say or do. I didn’t have the courage to invite him in. Not with all it might entail. I was too sober and unprepared. Was that what he was waiting for? An invitation?
A cold sweat blistered my skin. I hoped Tallus would assume it was a result of the humid August evening.
Fuck . How had I ended up in this predicament again? Tallus fit better into my life when he stayed on the periphery. When I could pick or choose our encounters. When I didn’t have to overanalyze my every thought and filter my words. When I didn’t have to figure out how to exist in his presence without my flaws glowing in the dark.
I didn’t know where to put my six-and-a-half-foot frame. It was easier playing Russian roulette at his door, drunk enough to cushion my anxiety but sober enough to stay on my feet. Always prepared to be turned away because he’d tired of my nonsense.
When it happened. I wouldn’t blame him.
And it would happen.
On the drive back from seeing Mackie, Tallus had mentioned he was hungry three times. Was it an excuse to escape or a hint that I should have stopped somewhere for food? The former seemed more plausible. The latter confused me. I wasn’t fucking good at this, and the unknown was pissing me off.
“I guess I’m going to take off,” Tallus said when the tension got too high, and we hadn’t spoken in several minutes.
Good. He was leaving. At least I knew what the fuck was happening.
Before he disappeared into the night, I sputtered, “I’ll contact Kelly in the morning. It might take him a day or two to get what I need, but in the meantime, we should… If you want… We could… go talk to Dr. Hilty.”
“Really?”
“I said we could keep going.”
“You did, but you also said it was probably unnecessary.”
It was, and I had said those words, but dismissing Tallus, not knowing if or when I’d see him again outside drunken hookups was unsettling. Kelly would find the truth in the autopsy report, and it would all be over.
But in the meantime, I would play Tallus’s game.
“If we’re looking for a character reference on Madame Rowena, he’d be a good person to ask. It could help. Unless the good old doc isn’t in contact with her anymore. Hell, maybe he’s the one who made the referral to Amber.”
Tallus’s face brightened, hazel eyes glimmering in the low parking lot lights. “I never thought of that. Do you think?”
“It’s possible.” I doubted it.
Tallus, no longer aiming to flee, crossed his arms and leaned against the Jeep. Everything he did was sexy and managed to make me feel more and more uncomfortable in my own skin.
“So you’ll call Kelly in the morning?”
“Yeah… first thing. I don’t have his cell, so I have to wait until he’s at his desk.”
“Perfect.” He slowly scanned every inch of me and wet his lips. “So, any other plans?”
“What?” I jerked my attention from his mouth and frowned.
“For tonight. Do you have any other plans?”
“Oh.” Why? I wanted to ask. Instead, I sputtered, “Um… I… There’s this… I was thinking that… I’m going to…” All I seemed able to produce were inarticulate sounds and nonsense sentence fragments, so I shut my mouth.
Tallus smirked. “So close. Sometimes, I can turn you into a regular Chatty Cathy. Other times, it’s like your gears seize, grind, and fail.”
“I know.”
“A for effort, Guns. One of these days, I’ll figure out the magic formula, and we’ll share our life stories.”
“Not likely. I have another job. It came through this afternoon, so I have to work on that.”
“What kind of job?”
“Research. A lawyer hired me to gather information for his client. He’s working to put together a case… I can’t… It’s confidential.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Not really. More desk work. I prefer being in the field.”
“So that’s it? That’s all you’re doing tonight? Working?”
Again, I wasn’t sure of the right answer. “Yes?”
“Too bad. Ever give yourself time off?”
I shifted my weight, aware of the sweat gathering under my shirt and beading my forehead. “Yes.”
“But not tonight? Because you’re working?”
I didn’t understand the circular questioning. “Yes?” Was that not the right answer?
Tallus, still smirking, shoved away from the Jeep. “Well, have fun with your new job, Guns. I’m taking off. It’s after eight, and I need food. After watching Mackie stuff his face, I think I’ll hit a grocery store and buy a four-dollar frozen pizza to take home. If you finish your research at a reasonable time and find yourself in the area, you know, sitting outside my building for no reason at all on a Monday night after dark, feel free to join me. Just remember, I work in the morning, so try to keep it before midnight.”
My neck warmed at the blatant implication that he knew all about my stalking. Of course he fucking knew, but couldn’t we pretend he didn’t? Or at least not draw attention to it?
“Take care, Guns.” He brushed my arm as he passed, fingers lingering on my bicep, before heading for the Jetta. I felt the burning impression of his touch long after he let go and drove away.
Dammit. I should have invited him in or offered to buy him dinner, but I wasn’t that man. I could never be that man. The situation with Tallus was getting out of hand. Hell, it had gone off the rails months ago when I’d deleted Spark from my phone and started making regular house calls to Tallus’s in the middle of the fucking night. Drunk and needy house calls because I craved him to the point of insanity.
I needed to get a life.
Tallus was a wet dream. He was the foundation from where all my fantasies were built. He was perfection personified. But he was not in my league. Why on earth he continuously let me into his apartment, I had no idea. I was not worthy of Tallus Domingo’s attention.
Anything more than random hookups would be a disaster. I was a disaster. Besides, our rendezvous clearly didn’t satisfy him the same. It was not surprising since I was an embarrassment in the bedroom. Tallus still went dancing at Gasoline, he still flirted and fucked around with other men, and he still had Memphis over at least twice a week. Friends, my ass. It was why I couldn’t convince myself it was platonic.
I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. On a bone-deep level. It ignited my carefully controlled rage. It boiled my blood. It made me spend longer hours at the gym, punching the bag, pushing the weights, straining and sweating until I was numb and too exhausted to care.
Alone in the parking garage with the residual summer heat baking the concrete until it wafted caustic scents of urine and garbage into the air, I contemplated getting into the Jeep and driving to Tallus’s to take him up on his offer. But without liquid courage, I knew I would sit outside his apartment in frustration, unable to go inside.
My out-of-control drinking was a whole other can of worms. Dr. Peterson, my therapist, had used the words alcohol dependent a few months back, and I hadn’t liked it. In fact, I’d told him he was fucking wrong and left the appointment in a fury and landed at a bar.
Peterson wasn’t wrong, but the truth hurt. It was more proof that I was turning into my father, which was my biggest fear.
So no, I couldn’t go to Tallus’s, not without hitting the liquor store first, and I’d been working hard to cut back.
I crossed the street and went up to my office slash homestead, itching for a drink and craving a cigarette for the first time in weeks. Great. Just what I fucking needed.
Snagging the iPad from my desk, I headed to the other room, greeting Baby on my way to the fridge. No beer. No hard liquor. No food worth eating.
I slammed the door and collapsed on the loveseat.
Tallus and his frozen pizza filled my thoughts, and I debated taking a trip across town, but instead picked up the phone to order takeout because I was a useless, no-good fucking coward.
Tallus was a tease. Tallus liked to flirt and play games. But it was an act. He seemed entertained by how easy it was to make me uncomfortable, tongue-tied, and stupid, but we both knew I wasn’t dating material. I couldn’t give him affection and attention. I couldn’t share a bed or conversation. Fuck me, I couldn’t even kiss the guy. Intimacy was beyond my limits, and it frustrated Tallus to no end. He might not complain about it anymore, but I knew. I could see the disappointment in his eyes every time I failed.
So yeah, Tallus might tolerate me—although I wasn’t sure why—but he didn’t want more. Not really. I was adequate for occasional random hookups, a sufficient if unsatisfactory appetizer, but he didn’t want a full course serving of Diem Krause every day of his life. No one did. There were delicacies out there far better than me.
And with less baggage.
I buried myself in research for the rest of the night, trying to eject Tallus from my mind, but at quarter past eleven, I found myself parked outside his apartment, staring longingly at the sheer curtains covering a particular window on the seventh floor. A light was on. Tallus was awake and wandering about. He would notice me at some point, but I didn’t care.
I wouldn’t go inside. Not tonight. Not sober. No matter how inappropriate my actions, no matter what this stalking behavior said about me—that I was a fucking pathetic loser—It didn’t matter.
I just… needed to be near him.
***
Tallus announced himself with a dramatic rap on the door at ten to five the following evening. “Knockity-knock,” he singsonged before letting himself in.
When I’d texted midafternoon to inform him Dr. Hilty’s office hours ended at six thirty, he’d roped Kitty into closing the records department that evening so we could surprise the certified hypnotist slash psychologist before he went home for the night.
I glanced up from my laptop as Tallus sashayed into the room wearing soft gray cotton trousers, a short-sleeved buttoned shirt in a smoky blue, and a tie in a slightly darker shade. No wild patterns. No bold colors. And no come-fuck-me glasses—my favorite accessory. To say I was disappointed was an understatement.
The outfit was toned down for Tallus. Usually, his clothes were loud and showy, bright and expressive. They complimented his outgoing personality. Today, it was all wrong.
Tallus caught me checking him out and struck a pose. I immediately dashed my attention to the computer, even though it was far too late to act normal.
“Aww. It’s okay, Guns. Look your fill. I don’t mind. Your attention warms my tender heart.”
From my periphery, I watched Tallus perform a spin, jutting his too-perfect ass when his back was turned, then completing the pirouette with his hands on his hips. Admittedly, it didn’t matter what he wore. He looked amazing. Good enough to eat, although I mourned the missing glasses.
“This, my fashion-challenged nonfriend, is what I call my serious wardrobe .” He made a serious face as though it was required to get the point across. “It directly contrasts my outgoing personality and gives people the illusion I’m a hard-working, intellectual stiff of a businessman. Am I right? Do I pass?”
I didn’t understand the question and blinked confusedly.
“I’ll explain. If the people who see me like this operate in the same social circles as stiff businessmen, they will feel more comfortable around me, and conversation will flow freely because they will think we are the same intellectual snobs, even when we aren’t.
“Now if, let’s say, I wore that snazzy number I wore to the bar two weeks ago—you remember the one? Shiny, with a low-cut neckline? Come on, Guns, I saw you watching me as I waited in line to pay my cover charge at Gas.” His gaze turned introspective. “I think Memphis said it was pink and purple. I can’t tell. I put a lot of trust in that man to coordinate me. He better not steer me wrong.”
“I remember.” The growl in my tone was a direct result of him bringing up Memphis.
“Was it pink and purple?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He grinned and winked. “I knew you saw me. My own personal spy. Anyhow, say I wore that outfit in the same circle of snobby, intellectual businessmen. It could easily cause problems. My bar clothes suggest an outgoing personality. They lower my IQ despite being flirty, fun, and suggestive. With them, I exude confidence and charisma but not brains. Different clothes equal different assumed character traits. Are you following?”
“No.”
Tallus sighed. “It’s not complicated. The bar clothes suggest loosened morals and sexual promiscuity. They scream playful, assertive, and adventurous. Don’t you agree?”
Fuck if I wasn’t getting hard remembering that goddamn outfit, but I had no idea where Tallus was going with this or what point he was trying to make, so I nodded and shook noncommittally.
“What I’m trying to explain, my dear, sweet nonlover slash personal stalker, is that clothing tells you a lot about a person. Therefore, you can use them to your advantage. You can give someone a false impression of who you are simply by changing your outfit.
“Here’s an example. If I wore ill-fitting torn jeans and a ratty no-name-brand T-shirt, someone might make assumptions about the state of my bank account. If I wore Nike sweatpants, trainers, a matching hoodie, and found myself a Fitbit, I could pass as a runner—which I’m not, by the way. Don’t ever make that mistake. Exercise and I don’t get along. Yuck.”
I bit the inside of my cheek at how seriously he delivered the last line like he was afraid I might suggest he join me on the treadmill next time I hit the gym.
“The point is, clothing is a costume we use in our everyday life to manipulate the people around us into believing we are someone we aren’t. Did you know that?”
“No?” It came out like a question because I wasn’t sure why we were discussing clothes.
Tallus, wearing the sultry, mischievous smirk that turned my insides to liquid, sauntered toward me. I slapped the laptop closed before he saw the solitaire game on the screen.
He braced his hands on the desk and bent, putting himself at eye level. “I’m telling you this for a reason, partner .” He shushed me with a finger against my lips when I opened my mouth to correct him. “Pay attention. This information could be beneficial in your line of work. In our line of work. Some famous dude once said—and I’m paraphrasing because god help me, I think it was Shakespeare, and his work made my eyes cross in school, so I never memorized it—Life is a stage, and we are the actors or some shit. We play many parts throughout our lives. The various clothes we wear are but costumes, helping us to remake ourselves daily. The audience—society—will form impressions and opinions before we even open our mouths. I’m losing you, aren’t I?”
“Um… a little.”
“Look at me, Guns. Really look at me. I’m twenty-six years old. Most, if not all, of the older generation have trouble taking the younger generation seriously. We’re brain-dead kids. We don’t conform to the world they know. We’re delinquents. Rebels. Not worth associating with. William Hilty is a seventy-one-year-old educated man. A doctor. If I’m going to look the part of a detective—”
“You’re not a detective.”
Tallus jammed his finger against my lips.
“Shush. If I’m going to look the part of a detective, I need to soften my edge with a more delicate color palette. Blues and grays. Less vibrance. And no”—he tapped the end of my nose—“sexy eyewear.”
“But I like your glasses.”
“I know, sweetie. We’ve established that. So,” he stood upright, “keeping all that in mind, do I fit the role of a detective?”
Swallowing a lump, I openly scanned him again, lingering longer on where the shirt sleeves hugged his slightly tanned arms, on how the knot of his tie sat snuggly below his Adam’s apple, cradled in the dip at the bottom of his throat. More than once, I’d dreamed about lavishing my tongue over that hollow. I stared at the leather belt circling his slim waist, knowing what was underneath. A taut abdomen. A smooth chest. Miles of pale skin.
Not once did I notice Tallus’s clothing.
“You’re perfect,” I rasped. “It’s…” I cleared the gravel from my throat. “I mean, they’re perfect… The clothes.”
“Oh, Guns.” Tallus sauntered around the desk, spinning the chair so he could stand between my legs, and cradled my face in his hands, tilting my head so I’d stare up at him. I froze, unable and unwilling to pull away. The contact was paralyzing. I could smell the lingering hints of his cologne and feel the heat of his skin. “You’re hopeless around me.”
“I know,” I croaked.
“When are you going to get over yourself and ask me out?”
“I… We’re going to be late.”
He dragged his thumbs over the rough stubble along my jaw. The touch sent a shiver down my spine and stirred interest in my cock.
“Everything will happen in due time. Trust me.” Then he winked, kissed the tip of a finger, and pressed it against my lips before pulling away. “Now, do you own a suit? Office clothes of any kind?”
Dumbfounded by the action, my lips tingling, it took another second for me to catch up.
“A suit? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” My rugged jeans and unremarkable T-shirt were comfortable. Suits were not.
“Oh, sweet lord,” Tallus said to the ceiling. “Did you miss the whole speech about the costumes and playing detectives? I can start again, but we’re short on time. I’ll paraphrase, but you need to pay attention.”
“No… I heard the… Why am I involved in this? And a suit?”
“Yes, my dear, sweet, oblivious nonfriend, nonlover, and nonpartner. For you especially. We are transforming your personality into something more approachable and less threatening. Not everyone can handle your surliness like I can. Not everyone sees the beautiful man under the scorned exterior.”
Beautiful?
“Now, hop to it, handsome. We have a date with a hypnotist, and his office closes in less than an hour.”