As the Wicked Watch(19)

My cynicism started to fade. Thomas stood behind me and lifted his hands palms upward just below the bar.

“This time, as you squat, take a step forward.”

I did as he instructed, and he flashed me an approving smile.

Was he flirting?

I didn’t have the extra money for a trainer, but I returned the flirt, because I did have extra room for something new in my personal life. And, just like that, we started seeing other, but I wouldn’t call it “dating.” Thomas was clear he had no desire to meet my friends or accompany me to events.

“But I’d like to see you afterward,” he said.

He didn’t fool me. Seeing me afterward was his way of keeping tabs on me. He didn’t want me coming home with anyone else. I decided I could deal with it for now. Our “relationship” was convenient. Thomas worked early mornings at the club, which fit my schedule perfectly. I got the personal training after all without spending a dime. One of the things I like most about him is that he’s a night owl, like me. Most people’s heart rate dropped after nine o’clock, the quasi fitness guru told me. Around one a.m., “yours is just getting started. That makes you a unicorn,” he said.

Thomas is a unicorn, too, and for that I’m grateful. However, he could have told me about his on-again, off-again girlfriend before we had sex. He didn’t exactly tell me; I asked him after his cell phone was buzzing nonstop at two-thirty in the morning. My reaction surprised him. I used his admission to set boundaries.

“It’s not like we’re a ‘thing,’” I told him with air quotes. “That’s your business. We’re adults, and I never thought we were exclusive. In fact, I don’t want to be. I never wanted to be. I assumed we were on the same page,” I said with a wink and a nod.

The truth is, I have neither the time nor the energy to maintain a relationship. I don’t want to feel obligated to check in with somebody every day or talk about what’s for dinner.

But we can creep.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want the time that we do spend together to be quality time.”

That was easy, because quality time to Thomas was effortless fun, like a night stroll across the boulders along Lake Michigan’s shoreline. And, of course, there was always the obvious. We started getting together once or twice a week, usually after eleven o’clock at night, because that’s what you do when you creep. I’m a little surprised at myself. Not for creeping, but for dating a man five years younger than me. We have great chemistry, and I like that he doesn’t try to replicate something he’d seen in a porno flick when he was sixteen. I must admit, his sculpted body makes our lovemaking, which has been phe-nomenal, feel surreal, like something out of a dream. I can see why his ex or current girl, or whatever she is, doesn’t want to let go.

Thomas texted me right back.

THINKING ABOUT YOU. Want me to come over?

Yeah.



It was that easy. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t been home since this morning. My bed hadn’t been made and I’d left all my makeup on the counter in the bathroom getting dressed for work. I quickened my steps. I needed time to straighten up and put something sexy on. Inside the lobby, I got distracted by Bass, the security guard on the graveyard shift.

“Joooor-dan!” he called out to me.

“Baaaass!” I said.

Harold “Bass” Brantley got his nickname for the instrument he plays, mostly with his church choir and occasionally on Chicago’s jazz scene when he’s lucky enough to get a gig on his day off. Bass and I have been tight ever since he rescued me from the stairwell during a blackout in the middle of a dangerous ice storm. Chicagoans are used to snow, but ice is a different story. Neighborhoods west of downtown were affected overnight, but I assumed the power would be restored by the time I went to work in the morning. The elevator was still out, so I took the stairs but freaked out in the pitch-black stairwell. I’ve always been terrified of the dark. Bass, about to end his shift, heard me in distress and came up with a flashlight and walked me down.

We’ve gotten to know each other through long talks at the security desk. Bass, who’s twenty-six, is six-six and slender, with perfect posture. It’s damned near a superhero stance. Whenever I see him, I’m reminded to stand up straight and pull my shoulders back.

“How are you doing, pretty lady?”

Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know, honestly. Did you hear about Masey James?”

“Naw, what happened?” he asked. “Don’t tell me . . . she’s dead?”

“Yeah, they found her body yesterday. Confirmed her ID this morning,” I said.

“Ah, man, that’s horrible!” said the young father, diverting his eyes toward the floor. Bass has a five-year-old daughter with his girlfriend, Sabrina, whom he’s nuts about but not ready to marry, which has been the topic of many of our conversations.

“How’s Sabrina?” I asked.

“Don’t start,” he said.

“Hey, by the way, are you ever going to marry that girl?” Bass released a full-throated laugh that reverberated across the marble walls and floor. It was our inside joke. I’ve asked him periodically and challenge myself to state it slightly different each time.

“You better get out here!” he said. “Where’s your other half?”