Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(10)

‘Earth to Nicole.’ Steve is waving the last onion ring in front of my face, and I force myself to smile. ‘Where are you?’

I sigh. ‘It’s been a long day.’

Steve gets up from his seat. ‘I have to hit the head,’ he says, and walks away.

I count to six before I feel his hand on my shoulder. I twist around to see him looking down at me.

‘Why are you ignoring me?’ he asks playfully, his eyes twinkling. ‘It’s as if you don’t want me in your life.’

‘No one ever accused you of being stupid,’ I say, wishing there were more onion rings so I would have something to do with my hands. An overwhelming urge to light a cigarette consumes me, and another flashback assaults my brain: a thin glass containing a clear, chilled liquid surrounded by a dusting of smoke, fingers – my fingers – curled around the glass’s stem. It is gone as quickly as it came, and I blink as if someone has pointed a bright light in my eyes.

He is not to be dissuaded. He slips into Steve’s chair. ‘I’m hurt,’ he says, pretending to pout. ‘I thought you would be happy to see me.’ His eyes grow smoky and dark, and I feel his heat.

Steve is coming back, and I shake my head. Before I can introduce them, he is standing, shaking Steve’s hand. ‘Zeke Chapman.’

‘Steve McQueen.’

‘Really?’ He shoots me a glance. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘No, my name is Steve McQueen.’

He snorts. ‘Do they call you Bullitt? Have you ever lived in San Francisco?’ He is acting like a jerk.

Steve raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, OK, I understand now why you might not want to go out with this guy. He has no idea he’s helping my cause.

But he takes this as an invitation and pulls another chair up to our table, getting comfortable. He waves Abby over and orders another round.

‘I don’t have time,’ I start to say, and he holds his hand up.

‘Where does a pretty lady like you have to go on a Friday night? Just one more.’ He is coming on too strong, but I don’t want to cause a scene.

‘OK,’ I agree.

‘You’re hard to track down,’ he says then, ignoring Steve. ‘But I asked around, and folks said you’d be here tonight. You come here every Friday.’

‘You were asking about me?’ A bubble of panic rises in my throat. ‘Why?’

‘I wanted to talk to you.’

Steve clears his throat and moves his head in a way so I know he’s indicating he thinks we should leave. I am about to tell him that we have to go, but then he jumps down off his stool. He flashes a grin at Steve. ‘My turn,’ he says, and disappears toward the men’s room.

Steve waits until he’s safely out of earshot. ‘Wow, he’s pushy, isn’t he?’

‘Now do you understand why I don’t want to go out with him?’

‘He’s borderline stalker.’

‘It’s certainly looking that way.’ This is easy now. Steve’s protective instincts are taking over, and he will help me escape.

Steve is already on his feet. He has left a pile of bills for Abby on the table. ‘Let’s go,’ he says, and he waves at Abby as we leave. Steve lifts my bike into the back of the Explorer, and we jump in. We are down the hill before we know it. I don’t even look back to see if he has followed us.

‘Thanks, Steve,’ I say, putting my hand briefly over his, which is on the steering wheel. ‘I didn’t want to deal with him.’

‘No problem.’

We are silent the rest of the way to my house, which is dark. Only the light over the back door is on.

‘You’ll be OK?’ Steve asks. ‘Want me to come in?’

I don’t want Steve here when he comes. I shake my head, open the door. ‘I’ll be fine. He doesn’t know where I live.’ The white lie trips off my tongue, and I feel bad lying to Steve. The irony of that strikes me as funny, and I stifle a nervous chuckle.

‘Call me tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Maybe another game of Scrabble?’

‘Sure,’ I say, slamming the door shut and making my way around the front of the SUV to the house. I lift my hand in a wave as Steve drives away.

I put the key in the lock, step out of my shoes in the mudroom. I go into the kitchen and flip the light on above the stove. I take the bottle of cognac down from on top of the refrigerator and pour myself a short one, taking it into the living room, where I sit in the dark, waiting for him.





SIX


When I met him, I knew. I knew I would never fall for anyone else ever again. It was one of those take-no-prisoners types of feelings, the kind that wraps itself around you like a straitjacket and you can’t breathe for days, weeks, maybe even years, as long as he’s in the same room.

I am not sure I have the same feeling now, while I sit in my living room with a glass in my hand. Because it has been over an hour, and he has not shown up. He is playing games with me, just as I did when I took off with Steve. This is not unusual for us. It was cat and mouse for a long time, a power play to see who would crack first. Only that first time had it been completely equal between us.

I am not used to this anymore. I am out of practice. I have forgotten how to play the game. I panicked in the bar. I should’ve stayed, continued the banter, stayed in control. Instead, I ran. Just like I ran fifteen years ago.