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It’s surprisingly easy to sneak out of the house every morning when my father sleeps like the dead and snores loud enough to wake them.
“I can’t believe I’m still doing this,” I mutter, doing a silent dance around the kitchen to get my coffee and my lunch. Why am I even sneaking? Because what I’m doing this morning feels forbidden. It’s been days since I went to the diner with Jonah, and I’ve been dying to know what he does there. This isn’t work, just stalking. I don’t want my dad asking questions. He’ll see right through me. Luz would laugh in my face.
I used to sneak out at nineteen, when I had a fake ID and not a single worry. I’d sneak back in at around the same time as it is now. Five a.m. And I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry. I bury my chin in my wool coat as I walk the short blocks to the diner. Five a.m. is the witching hour. The time in between the partiers and the early morning workers. Dark and silent, even in the city that never sleeps. Three a.m. sees crying couples still heading home from the bars. Four a.m. is bar fights and club goers finally falling into bed.
Five a.m. on a Thursday is still creepy, though, especially for a woman alone. I walk with purpose, my hand wrapped around the pepper spray on my keychain. There’s the occasional drunk guy who hassles me on my early mornings, but it’s mostly quiet. Broadway between 95th and 107th is my turf. I make it to the diner at 5:16 a.m. The windows are bright against the dark morning, and slightly fogged. Paul is at the counter and I grimace, thinking of how tired he must be. My eyes are gritty and my head is fuzzy. Last night, I came home and finalized a few articles for the print run of the paper before uploading the files to the printer. The article about Jonah’s workout routine will run alongside photos of the mayor’s new dog.
As I approach the diner, I spy Jonah with his back to me, in a booth. I creep closer, until I can see his face, taking in the overcoat he hasn’t removed, the way his inky hair is pushed off his high forehead. My stomach does a stupid little flip at the smile he’s giving his breakfast companion. He gave me a real one the other night. And he’d looked like he wanted to kiss me. In between insults, you fool.
Who the hell is he having coffee with? His black sedan is double-parked across the street, ready to whisk him to the office. A woman? A date? Something ugly claws at my throat. If it’s a woman… I shake my head and press myself to the side of a lamppost.
It is a woman, but she has to be seventy, maybe older. Her hands shake slightly as she lifts the mug to her lips and a drop of coffee spills on the table. Jonah’s expression twists with sadness for a bare moment, and then he hastily wipes the droplet up before she can finish drinking. He’s smiling, really smiling at her, soft and gentle. She’s smiling back, and she must make a joke, because he tips his head back and laughs. Holy shit. I can’t tear my eyes from him. He’s so handsome, carefree in a way I’ve never seen him. Mr. Crown is gone, and in his place is just Jonah.
I want to make him laugh. My brain is a traitor. Luz would yell at me. Because if I’m the girl who likes bad boys, who tries to change men who can’t be changed, then Jonah is the baddest of them all and I’m a fool. I don’t want to change him. I just want him to smile. He leaves money on the table and kisses the woman on the cheek before he starts for the entrance. Shit. I need to go. I dart out from behind the lamppost, straight into the leering face of a man whose breath reeks of whiskey. He’s wearing a suit with no tie and the blank look of someone who’s spent the whole night drinking. I gag and step back swiftly.
He mutters something unintelligible, his hand reaching for me. I stumble back and he follows. My gaze darts. Subway. No. Too far. Diner. I feint to the left and move to the right, but his hand shoots out and grabs my arm. His grip is punishing. My pulse hammers in my throat. I push past the panic and take a lungful of air. No one pays attention to screams in New York, but maybe someone will this time.
I open my mouth and then I hear, “Get your hand off her or I’ll kill you,” in Jonah’s seething voice. The nickname Prince of Darkness has never been more apt as he steps from the shadows, looking like a demon in his black coat. The man whirls, and Jonah raises a brow.
“You won’t,” the man spits.
“Try me.” Jonah bares his teeth. “I have no morals and enough money to bribe the police.”
The man draws himself up like he might say something else, but something in Jonah’s face seems to stop him. He stalks off, ranting to himself, and I’m left shivering on the sidewalk while Jonah stares me down. His dark eyes are flat and angry.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re not going to like what comes next.”
He turns on his heel and heads for his waiting car. When I don’t follow, he turns in the middle of the street, forcing a cab to stop and lay on its horn. “Thompson. You’re getting in this damn car.”
“Yes, my lord,” I mutter, but I scurry across the street into the waiting car.
Jonah’s eyes are black with rage by the time I buckle my seatbelt. He drums his fingers on his thigh. Like every time I’ve been confined with him, he takes up all the air in the small space.
“Do you insist upon taking risks like that every morning, or is it a special treat just for me?”
“Are you mad?” My mouth pops open in surprise.
“Yes, I’m mad. It’s not safe at five a.m. Don’t you read the news?” He realizes what he’s saying and shakes his head. “Don’t answer that.”
“Are you done lecturing me? I’m not a child. I’m working.”
“Working?” he scoffs. “More like spying on me.”
Think, Cal. “I’m doing an article on the diner. I was getting some photos before the streets get too busy.” Paul already agreed to be interviewed for an article about the disappearing diners of New York, so it’s not a lie.
“You’re a bad liar.”
“And you’re very arrogant. It’s not always about you.” It’s totally about you.
“So you don’t want to know who I was having coffee with?” His eyes glitter. I practically shudder with the need to know, but I shake my head.
“You don’t want to know what we talked about?” He cocks his head.
I press my hand to my thigh to keep my leg from jiggling. “Nope.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re too curious for your own good.”
