Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

PRESENT DAY

SYDNEY

Date number three is just as amazing as date number one and date number two.

This time, Tom and I get poke bowls. I've never been that into poke, but Tom was going on and on about it during our last date, and he told me he knew a great place, which turned out to be not far from my apartment building. So we got our poke bowls, and as always, he grabbed the check before I could even try to pay.

And now we are walking back to my apartment.

And I have shaved my legs.

"So guess what?" I say. "I was passing by a liquor store, and I bought a bottle of tequila."

"Tequila." Tom nods in approval. "I haven't had tequila in years. Brings back memories of college."

"I even bought limes to go with it," I say. "You have to, right?"

"I'm fairly sure it's illegal to drink tequila without a lime."

"That's true," I say. "My ex is a cop, and I think he's arrested people for that."

Tom stiffens at my mention of Jake. I curse under my breath. I shouldn't have talked about an old boyfriend in front of a potential new boyfriend. Or maybe Tom is my actual boyfriend now rather than a potential boyfriend. Either way, I'm sure he doesn't want to hear about Jake.

"So," he says, "you have an ex who's a cop?"

"Uh, yeah. But it was a while ago."

"Are you still in touch?"

"Not at all." At least, not until very recently. But he doesn't need to know that part. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring up an ex. That was dumb."

"No worries. Everybody has a past, right?"

Tom mentioned before that he had been at the tail end of a relationship when we first met, but he has scrupulously avoided talking about it again. Aside from that one statement, he acts like I am the first girl he's ever dated. It's nice, actually. The last thing you want is a guy who is hung up on his ex.

And yet, I'm curious. I'm curious about the kind of girls he dated before me. He is objectively a very good catch, and I have to believe he has dated some beautiful women. But what I want to know even more than that is why those relationships ended.

I suppose if we're together long enough, I'll find out.

It always comes out.

When we're about three blocks from my apartment building, Tom stops short. When I try to keep walking, he gives me a curious look. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"To my apartment," I say.

He frowns. He looks up at the building we're standing in front of. It hits me now that this is where he rescued me from Real Kevin. "I thought you lived here."

"Oh, no." I shake my head. "I was pretending to live here so that guy wouldn't show up at my front door."

"Oh." He laughs. "Smart thinking. Okay then, lead the way." He licks his lips and gives me a meaningful look. "I can't wait for that tequila."

Me either.

As we walk the remaining three blocks, he laces his fingers through mine, which I find oddly sweet. But when we reach my block, he suddenly yanks his hand away from mine. And then, when we come to a halt in front of my building, all the color drains from his face.

"You live here ?" he gasps.

"It's not as fancy as it looks," I say teasingly.

I start up the steps to my front door, but Tom hasn't budged. I don't know what is going on with him. He's holding on to the banister, and he looks like he's about to be sick.

"Tom?" I say. "Are you okay?"

He rubs his gut. "I, uh…I'm not sure. I don't feel so hot. Maybe it was the poke."

I would tell him to go home, but he doesn't even look like he can make it there. Also, I've cleaned my apartment top to bottom, and made my legs as smooth as a baby's bottom. After all that, it would be so disappointing if he didn't come upstairs. So I grab him by the hand and give him a tug. "Just come up for a minute, okay?"

Tom reluctantly lets me pull him up the stairs and into my building, although he looks like he's being led to the electric chair. While we're in the elevator, his eyes are darting all over the place. "How long have you lived here?" he asks me.

"About two years."

He mouths the words "two years" as he runs a hand through his black hair. "And…do you know a lot of people in the building?"

Okay, that's a strange question to ask. "Not really."

"Not really?"

"It's New York. Everyone keeps to themselves, right?"

"Right," he mumbles, but he doesn't look entirely satisfied by my answer.

"I did have one close friend in the building," I finally admit, "but she actually…she was murdered a few months ago."

He gawks at me. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

"The building is safe though," I quickly add. "You don't have to worry about me. They think this guy she was dating was the one who killed her, but nobody can find him. He was apparently using a burner phone to contact her the whole time, if you can believe that."

"Jesus," he says. "That's… Wow. They've no idea who he was, huh?"

"If they did, he'd be in jail, wouldn't he?"

By the time we get to my apartment, I'm beginning to wonder if this is a mistake. Tom seems really antsy, and I don't understand why. I would think he was freaked out about what I told him about Bonnie's murder, but he was already panicked before I said a word. What does he have against my building? Did he hear a rumor that it's haunted by an evil spirit? Is there an odor I'm not aware of?

Not that I love this building so much. Ever since one of my closest friends was killed here, it's like there's a dark presence. And I still think about her all the time. I might have moved on enough to start dating again, but I'm not going to forget Bonnie. Never.

I hope Jake finds the monster who killed her. I won't be able to completely relax until he has.

When we get into my apartment, I head straight to the kitchen to grab the bottle of tequila. I feel like this is the kind of thing that alcohol might fix. Tom follows me into the kitchen, his brow deeply furrowed.

"Sydney," he says.

I grab one of the limes from the refrigerator. I take a knife and start cutting it into slices. "I'll have our drinks ready in two minutes."

"I…I think I'm going to pass." He rests a hand on the kitchen counter, his fingers obsessively drumming against the marble. "I just remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow morning."

"A meeting with the dead bodies?"

He shoots me a look. "No, it's a staff meeting."

He is so full of it. A staff meeting? Really? How come an hour ago there was no staff meeting? Anyway, I've never met a guy who wasn't willing to trade sleep for sex. No, he wants out of here.

Except why? Why is he so freaked out all of a sudden? What did I do wrong?

Either way, I have a feeling that when Tom leaves this apartment I'll never see him again.

I'm so aggravated that the knife slips. The blade nicks my left index finger, which is holding the lime in place, and because I'm me, there is instantly a pool of blood below my finger.

"Shit!" I cry. Great—this night is just getting better and better.

"Jesus," Tom gasps. "You really cut yourself badly."

It occurs to me now that on three of the four occasions that I have encountered Tom, I have been bleeding significantly. If he weren't eager to leave before, this should definitely do the trick.

Good job, Syd.

But when I look up at him, some of the color has returned to his cheeks. He doesn't look at all disturbed that I am once again bleeding profusely. But I suppose he is a doctor. He even knew what von Willebrand factor was before I told him.

"Where is your first aid kit?" he asks me.

"It's on the top shelf in the bathroom."

Tom dashes off to my bathroom, and a few seconds later he returns with the kit. Meanwhile, I'm using paper towels to try to staunch the flow of blood. It is surprisingly ineffective. This is the kind of cut that would bleed a lot even in a normal person, so in someone like me it's a slightly terrifying amount of blood. It's cheap-horror-movie amounts of blood.

"Wow." Tom gazes down into my first aid kit. "You are really well stocked."

"Um, thanks."

"This is a premium kit." He sifts through the contents with growing excitement. "Tweezers, scissors, a cold compress. You've even got a tourniquet in here!"

"Do you think I need a tourniquet ?"

"No." He grins at me, his shoulders finally relaxed again. "I'm just saying, this is really a primo kit. Now let me get this cleaned up for you."

My personal experience is that most people are at least a little squeamish when it comes to the amount of blood I manage to squirt out. I once cut my finger in front of Gretchen and she ran out of the room clutching her hand to her mouth. But Tom isn't squeamish. At all . He uses some gauze to hold pressure on my wound, and when it seems slightly under control, he constructs what is actually a very effective bandage on my left index finger. Usually I need to change my first bandage about five minutes after putting it on, but this one might make it till the next morning.

"Thank you," I say as I admire his handiwork. "It's useful dating a doctor."

Too bad we will never see each other again. That meeting excuse was such bullshit.

But weirdly, Tom seems to have forgotten all about his meeting, and helping me with the cut on my finger seems to have calmed him down. He stands next to me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a smile playing on his lips. "Happy to be of service."

I look up into his brown eyes, and once again they are filled with desire, after I thought it had vanished on the street outside my building. He holds my gaze, and then he drops his lips onto mine.

After a kiss that practically melts my bones, Tom murmurs in my ear, "You want to take this to the bedroom?"

"What about your meeting?"

"Sleep is overrated."

"What about our tequilas?"

"All I want," he whispers in my ear, "is you."

Okay then.