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“Jani Myers.” Desmond tucks his hands into his pockets as he greets my friend, his words measured and careful. “And young Simon Myers.”
Simon glances up at Desmond, but he avoids eye contact with me. He’s an odd child. I’ve spent a long time trying to place just what it is about Simon that feelsdifferent, and I haven’t come up with a single thing. He’s taller than most boys his age and huskier, and there’s an edge to him hidden beneath his freckles and strawberry blond hair. His eyes have a wild look to them—a look I’ve recently seen on the man I served at the diner that fateful night.
“Say hi, Simon.” Jani nudges her son with her elbow. He ignores her, his eyes straying to the other kids rushing down the block. They are late for school. “I’d love to hang around and talk, but we are late.”
“Bell’s about to ring,” I remark, voicing the most ridiculous, awkward statement I’ll feel embarrassed over until I die.
“We still on for later, Charlotte?” Jani asks, then her head turns to Desmond, and she rushes on. “You should come. It’s wine about it Wednesday.”
“This sounds like a female thing.” Desmond side-eyes me. “You ladies enjoy your evening. I have a business meeting anyway,” he says neutrally with a warm voice.
“Well, you know where we’ll be.” Jani looks at our row of homes. “I have the red door.” She moves, and I step out of the way, knowing she will just step directly between us.
Tonight is at my place, not hers. She just asked him to her home, probably for a booty call, and she asked without shame, which irritates me.
Who cares, Charlotte? He isn’t yours.
I wait a beat until she’s gone before walking again. “What do you do, Mr. Black, aside from owning a diner?”
He hums under his breath, guiding me toward my home. “I’m an entrepreneur.” He’s evading me, giving me a broad explanation that tells me next to nothing. “Of sorts.”
I step onto my porch and unlock my door. It creaks open, and I step inside. Nerves flutter in my stomach at the idea of Desmond seeing my home. Even in his fancy coat, he looks out of place in my small house with my hand-me-down items and stained furnishings.
Tugging my coat and hat off, I hang them up and watch from the corner of my eye as Desmond does the same, using one of the spare hooks. He even takes off his shoes—black dress shoes that generally I’d wonder about the grip. Those things are notoriously slippery.
There is no way I can just stand around and converse with this man. He’s just too much of everything. His aura alone spills around him, lapping at the air for prey.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” I ask, my eyes straying to the kitchen, where I can busy myself with cooking instead of having to look at him.
“No,” he says, shutting my door and picking his cup up off the entryway table at the front door.
“Do you want an omelet?” I ask him, wringing my hands in front of me. “Fair warning, I’m not a skilled cook, but I do all right with an omelet. It isn’t one of Sal’s, but I do all right.” My words dry on my tongue when I realize what I just said. It’s a reminder of why Desmond is here.
“I’d love one.”
Blowing out a breath full of nerves, I walk to the kitchen, grab Milo’s cereal bowl, and place it in the sink. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as he watches me move around the kitchen.
Looking over my shoulder, I find him eyeing the new deadbolt. His fingers brush along the steel before he melts into my kitchen chair.
“I, ah…” Turning, I grab the carton of eggs and look away. He feels like a celebrity, and I don’t know how to act around him.
“Describe that evening to me, Charlotte.” He gently pushes me in a certain direction to make it easier for me to talk about the experience.
As I lay my utensils out and gather the ingredients for breakfast, I recall that evening. “I’d taken over for Harlow,” I say quietly as I begin to cut up my vegetables. “It was an easy job with guests who just tipped in the hundreds.” Suddenly, I’m reminded of the odd man with the feather tattoo. “It all seemed normal at the time.”
“Give me the details that weren’t caught on camera,” he demands, pressing me for answers.
“Um…” I focus intently on the blade of the knife and the pepper I’m cutting up. “Sal, he, ah…” Sharp pain shoots through my finger as I accidentally slice it. Blood starts to trickle across the cutting board, bringing back memories of that night. The memory of how Sal’s blood had splattered and pooled around him floods my mind. I clench my teeth together tightly, doing my best not to yell out in pain or frustration.
“Charlotte.” Desmond guides my finger to the sink and turns on the tap, letting my blood drip into Milo’s cereal bowl and turn the milk a rosy hue before washing it away. “Why don’t we make a deal? You tell me where you keep your first aid kit, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Mudroom.” I blink up at him, feeling the sting of my knife race up my arm. “Shelf above the dryer.”
“Lyric,” Desmond calls out, shutting the faucet off and grabbing a paper towel to wrap around my finger.
“Lyric?” I parrot as Desmond pushes me toward the chair he sat in. My ass thumps onto the chair as I blink at the strange man before me. “What’s a Lyric?” Does he mean lyrics to a song?
“No, he means me, songbird.” A man holding my first aid kit steps into my kitchen. He’s the man I served Monday night, the one with the dead eyes. Cold blue eyes roll over me from head to toe as feathers lick at his cheeks from that damn tattoo on the side of his face. Now that I’ve got a better look, his hair is even messier today, like an overgrown Mohawk instead of a mullet.
