“You caught me a couple of times,” I admitted, referring to some of those night visits between the two of us.
It could have been that we were still tipsy or that the sex talk was turning us on, but our stares alone could have ignited the place on fire.
“I’d say I caught you more than acouple of times,” he said. “But never with him. Which forces me to ask, why are you still with him?”
His question was received with the same shock as a bucket of iced water thrown over my head.
“None of your fucking business,” I said, teeth gritted. If a second ago we were this close to ripping each other’s clothes off in plain daylight in the middle of Hill Street, right now I was about to murder him with complete disregard for the number of witnesses present.
“Sorry. Sometimes the reporter gets the better part of me. You’re right. It’s none of my fucking business. Are we back at being friends?”
“Have we ever been friends?Justfriends, I mean.” I may have been a bit bothered by his use of the f-word.
“Weren’t wejust friendswhen we were at college?” he asked.
“I was pining for you for like two years, so definitely notjust friends.” Why I had decided that was the right moment to admit something I’d never before told him, I don’t know.
“My pining was longer and more anguished than that,” he said, and my heart skipped a beat. Who knew this conversation would turn into something so revealing?
We were staring at each other again with a unique intensity.
I saw what looked like a father and his two small children coming our way, carrying loaded trays, but the adult in the group changed his mind midway to the table next to us and chose to sit with the kids at the farthest corner from us in the restaurant’s tiny patio. The Motion Picture Association would have ranked the gazes between me and David NC-17 even if we were both fully clothed.
“Do you want to ask me anything else about the affair I never had or wanted to have with Gloria Kingsley?” I truly appreciated how definitive those words sounded.
“Nope, I’m good,” I said and, for the first time in a long time, I was perfectly content.
21
“Any chance you’d let me shower at your place?” I asked David as I finished parking my ticketed car at my usual spot at the Eastern Columbia’s parking area. I suspected that my water heater would still not be working.
“Do you want company?” he offered, and I let my eyes accept.
The day had started with my mother waking me up abruptly. I then had to read an extremely untalented piece of journalism, I had pissed off my dad, faced the cops, and was chased down by a lunatic. But it was finally shaping up to be a promising journey.
Perhaps we should have had that damn conversation before. We’d been all mellow vibes and heated stares since our lunch chat and on our way from the eatery.
I allowed myself to anticipateeverythingI wanted to do to David in the shower, and becoming extremely aware of the tingling sensation between my legs. But then I saw the car, and dread washed over my body.
“Aargh!” I cried out.
“Elena, ¿qué pasa?” David asked, concerned, looking around us.
“I’d bet my Critics Choice Association Super Awards nomination that’s Dashing Henry’s car,” I said, referring to the only accolade I’d received in my entire career as I signaled a car of the same distinct model and color as the one Marky/Troubelmakr had described as Dashing Henry’s. It was parked in the visitor’s area of our building’s garage.
“And you’re despising it because...?”
“Because now we’ll have to find a way to break into it and see if there’s anything that helps us in this investigation.” I sighed. “And that’s probably going to take us at least half the afternoon and distract us from our previous and much more appetizing endeavors.”
David’s jaw dropped. “You think we should break into it?” He had already forgotten about our shower arrangements and had journalistic thrill written all over his face. “Elena, I’m not saying we shouldn’t shower together. I’m just saying, the day is still young.” His reassuring words may have done something to appease me, but his grin stirred that something between my legs again.
“Is there anything else to do other than break into the car?” I said. “Apart from calling the cops, I mean.”
“Which we said we wouldn’t do,” David completed my thoughts. “But you know a car break-in is a crime, right?”
“Hmm. With a good lawyer, we could probably be charged with a misdemeanor and not a felony,” I said. And I knew that not because of my identity as a lawyer’s daughter but as a crime screenwriter.
“Still sounds awful to me,” he said.
