Time crawled.
A glance at the clock said it was just after six. Eight, Kacey’s time.
She was probably on her date right about now.
A new emotion erupted in me to add to the already noxious mix churning in my gut: Pure, old-fashioned jealousy, straight up. No chaser.
The story goes on.Kacey’s story was going on in New Orleans. It wasn’t the same gravitas as the semicolon symbolism, but the idea stuck with me anyway. She was going on. I was stuck. Period.
“Zelda,” I called over the buzzing of Edgar’s gun and the pounding metal music.
She looked up, her hair falling like black silk around her shoulders. Her impossibly large eyes were the greenest I’d ever seen.
“Yessss?” she drawled when I just stared at her. “Something on your mind?”
“You want to grab a late dinner tonight? A new place opened at the Paris. We could give it a shot.”
Zelda blinked twice, her face expressionless. Then she shrugged. “I could eat.”
“Cool,” I said.Then it’s a date,I thought, but couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud. Guilt assailed me. The guilt of a guy cheating on his woman.
Kacey is not your woman. She never has been, and she probably never will be.
What was she doing right now? Was she having the time of her life? Was her date keeping his goddamn hands to himself or did she want him to touch her? Were they kissing? Or going to bed? Was she letting him take her dress off, letting him put his mouth on her…
Fuck me.
I leaned over and mucked around in a drawer, surreptitiously adjusted my crotch.
Now, that’s a date, Fletcher, a voice like Oscar’s cackled in my mind. Dinner with one girl. A hard-on for another.
We closed up shop at seven. Fortunately, Edgar and Vivian said goodnight and split, leaving Zelda and I to make plans without merciless teasing or speculation.
Zelda waited as I locked up, her small frame hunched into her black leather jacket.
“You like Italian?” I asked.
“My last name is Rossi,” she said. “What do you think?
“Martorano’s is the new place in the Paris. Supposed to be good.”
“Works for me.” Her large eyes widened when I opened the passenger door for her. “Thanks. And here I thought chivalry was dead.”
I got behind the wheel and immediately, it felt likea date—a girl in my truck, filling the small cab with her perfume and presence, on our way to a slightly more than casual restaurant.
This is good,I thought.I can do this.
Over dinner, I learned Zelda was a comic book junkie. She was trying to put together a graphic novel. “Eventually, I hope to pitch it to the big ones. Dark Horse or DC.”
“So tattooing is just your day job?”
“It’s the only way to make any consistent money drawing little pictures,” she said with a dry smile.
I nodded and as we talked, I tried to force myself to feel something,anything, for Zelda. She was beautiful. Smart. Sharp sense of humor and a crazy-talented artist to boot. I ran a play-by-play commentary of every observation and feeling. Examining and cross-examining impressions, looking for something more, convincing myself it was there, even though I knew damn well it wasn’t. This wasn’t a date. It was a distraction. Beyond a possible friendship, I didn’t feel one damn thing for her.
It’s not fair. Time to call it.
“Listen, Zelda,” I said, but then my phone buzzed a text. I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. “Sorry, I thought I shut this off.”
