A Date with Danger Page 9

  Is that supposed to be a compliment? “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  His little laugh is probably meant to be humble but comes across like, I know.

  This is why I sometimes wish there was a two-minute escape hatch from dates. Tommy is an attractive guy with a sly smile and big biceps, and I’m sure any number of girls would be interested. Unfortunately, I can already tell this is going absolutely nowhere. It took less than two minutes to know he should move on to the next girl and save us both the time.

  Then again, how many times have I hoped a guy would give me a chance, and I can tell he checks out five minutes after meeting me? I owe everyone the courtesy of seeing if my first impression is wrong.

  Besides, over Tommy’s shoulder, Damon turns a page of his textbook, and I’m brought back to reality. This date isn’t for me anyway.

  “So, Tommy, you’re studying engineering?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a massive bite of steak and potatoes. “I love working with cars: the speed, the agility.” He reaches forward and strokes the back of my hand. “The feel of the smooth metal. It’s like working with a living thing.”

  Oh, this guy again.

  It’s twenty minutes into lunch, and I’ve barely touched my food. My hands have been otherwise occupied—warding Tommy’s away from me. The guy must have twelve hands. He’s like Doc Oc from Spiderman if Doc Oc’s ambition was not to destroy the world but rather to publically grope a girl he barely knows. I can’t figure how he’s still managed to put away his pile of food while surreptitiously slipping his hand up my thigh, down the side of my neck, and once a swipe at my rib cage. Far too close for comfort.

  I’m familiar with the type, the one who claims to be pious on Sundays but is Grope-y McGrabby every other day of the week. This is the kind of guy that makes it impossible to gauge if any guy, LDS or not, actually does believe in chastity and all the stuff he claims in his profile. Under normal circumstances I’d have bolted the second I realized he’s really only after one thing, but I’m a stinking spy now, and when you’re undercover you have to keep sitting there defending your honor until the stinking FBI gets the information they need.

  I have to be subtle about my rejection so he doesn’t get mad and walk away. But there are only so many ways I can coyly deflect his advances. I keep smiling in a manner I hope is mysterious and laughing girlishly to keep him at the table. It must be working because he’s still sitting here. So now he thinks I’m a giant flirt who’s just playing hard to get, which is only going to make him try harder.

  Worst of all I can see Damon still bent over his counterfeit textbook, pretending to read but shaking with laughter each time it’s a near miss.

  And I’ve yet to find out anything about Tommy’s relationship with Natalie. “So . . .” I shift back and flip my hair over my shoulder the way I’ve seen girls do in movies, trying to look coquettish but also moving farther out of his reach. “I’ve only been in this online dating game for a little bit, but there sure are some odd ducks out there.” My voice is husky. Why am I talking like some leggy girl from a film noir? This must be how I attempt to flirt. All I need is a wide-brimmed hat and one of those long cigarette things. Not that I smoke.

  “Oh, there are some real dogs,” Tommy agrees. “Not like you.”

  He reaches for me, and I bat his hand away and then wag my finger at him with a smile. He laughs, but inwardly I’m cringing. I just did the finger wag in real life. Something is seriously wrong here.

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “What sort of encounters have you had?”

  “Well, there was this one girl.” He chuckles. “She was up for just about anything. Ten minutes into the date and we’re making out on the side of the Taco Bell.”

  Classy. Why do guys think we’ll find their skanky history fascinating? Do they think it’ll make us realize what a catch we’re with? Sometimes I feel like men talk to me and have honestly forgotten I’m not some dude from the gym.

  “That is wild,” I say and manage a laugh. Oh, gosh, I’m so not built for flirting. “Anything else? Any bad experiences?”

  Tommy thinks a moment, fiddling with his paper napkin, and then snorts. “There was this one girl, hot enough but super high and mighty, real holier than thou. The minute we finished dinner, she said I was making her uncomfortable and left.” His mouth twists. “What kind of crap is that? I pay for dinner, and then she thinks she can just run out on me?”

  You’re definitely not going to like what’s coming. “Maybe she, uh, wasn’t ‘up for anything’ like that other girl.”

  “Babe, I’m not asking for everything.” He grins. “You don’t have to buy the car to take it for a little test drive.”

  I give a noncommittal laugh. Partly because I don’t know what to say and partly because I might puke a little if I open my mouth. After a sip of lemonade, it passes. “I knew a girl like that,” I say. “A roommate of mine once. She would go on all these dates with these guys and let them take her to nice places and then just run out the minute she got dinner.”

  Tommy nods, jaw taut. “I swear it’s like sometimes I just feel like a free meal to these chicks. It’s like, I’m a person. You know?”

  That’s probably what they’re thinking too. “Yeah. My old roommate was named Gr-Gl-Grfn-Gwen. Maybe it was the same girl.”

  “Naw.” He takes a swig of his soda. “The chick who walked out on me was Natalie something.”

  Reflexively my gaze darts to Damon. He’s frozen mid-page-turn, listening.

  “Did you do anything to . . . get back at that girl?”

  He wipes his mouth. “Like what?”

  “I dunno.” I reach for a lie, making it up as I go. “I had this guy friend who went out with my old roommate G . . . ina.”

  “I thought you said Gwen.”

  “Yeah, she . . . used a fake name on dates sometimes.”

  He snorts. ‘Typical.”

  “Yeah. So this guy friend of mine, after she ditched him, he keyed her car.”

  Tommy chuckles. “Harsh. But sounds like she deserved it.”

  My pulse quickens, and I have to swallow with effort. “Think so?”

  “Yeah. Chick shows a guy that kind of disrespect, she deserves what she gets.”

  My palms are sweating. I blot them as casually as I can on my jeans. “And did, uh . . . Natalie get what she deserved?”

  “Naw. Tramp wasn’t worth my time.”

  “So you didn’t like”—I force a shaky smile—“punish her?”

  “Naw.” He leans forward, catching my hands in his. “But I’d be happy to punish you, babe.”

  Yup, there’s the vomit. I give a strangled laugh. “Sounds fun. But”—I glance at my wrist with no watch and grimace—“unfortunately, I have to get to class.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. Class at two.”

  His hand is on my neck again. “You’ve got time.”

  “I have to print off a paper first.” I snag his hands and lace his fingers through mine. “Besides, we don’t want to rush it.”

  Tommy chuckles and kisses my fingers. Did he just lick me? “Delayed gratification. I like it. You busy later this week?”

  “I’m not sure. Why don’t you text me?”

  “I’ll do that.” He stands, shoulders his backpack, and says, “Pleasure to meet you, Jack.”

  “And you.”

  Tommy leans down, moving in toward my mouth, and I turn my head. He chuckles, kisses my cheek, and struts away.

  Once he’s out of sight, I give a full body shudder. After a moment Damon ambles over, books under his arm. “You all right?” he asks.

  “Sure. Once I get a chemical body peel.”

  “Yeah, he was a bit of a creep.”

  “He is king of creeps. The other creeps take seminars from him.” I push my tray away and not
ice Tommy has left his for me to deal with too. Nice. “Do you think he had anything to do with . . . ?”

  “Hard to say. He certainly seemed angry with her, but it could mostly be bravado.”

  “I almost wish he were involved, just to get him off the street.” A horrible thought hits me. “Am I going to have to see him again?”

  “Possibly. We’ll know more once the recordings are analyzed.”

  “Ah, yes. The great doctor. So glad I could gather intel like a good horsey.”

  He cocks his head. “You were really insulted by that, weren’t you?”

  “You’ve insulted me so many times in the last twenty-four hours that I don’t really know how to pick my favorite.”

  “Sorry. I don’t sugarcoat things. It can upset touchy people.”

  I blink at him. “I’m not sure, but that might’ve been another insult.” At the payment counter I retrieve a takeout box. At least I’m getting some pretty great leftovers from this gig.

  After depositing both trays on the cleaning racks, I continue out of the student center, back toward the language arts building with Damon drifting along in my wake. “Are you following me now?”

  “Just making sure you get to class.”

  “I thought you guys were supposed to keep a low profile.”

  He spreads his arms. “Have you seen what I’m wearing? I am grunge-tastic.”

  I give him a once-over and shrug. “Still look like a cop.”

  “Say it a little louder, please.”

  “Nobody cares.” The grounds are in full bloom, the grass lush, and the trees full of sweet wind. It’s a perfect, blustery spring day—the kind of day that poets write about. Sometimes I dream of that kind of life, quietly sitting on a terrace somewhere penning sonnets about spring breezes. Other times I think about moving to New York to become a journalist. Too many ambitions and no direction.

  “Nice day,” Damon observes, walking beside me now.

  “Mm-hmm.” I glance sidelong at him. “Do you get out a lot, or are you more of desk guy?”

  His mouth twitches. “Do you mean do they keep me chained to a cubicle and refuse me access to sunlight?”

  “Just making conversation,” I say, peeved.

  “I explained before—I coordinate task forces and act as a liaison between government and state agencies here in Utah.”

  “And what does that mean in human-speak?”

  “I get teams and field offices organized so we can protect people.”

  “How’d you get into that?”

  “After school and the police academy, I worked in private security for a while. Did pretty well. Then applied to the FBI.”

  My eyes narrow. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two. Don’t I look it?”

  “You’re only thirty-two and you’ve already done college, the police academy, private security, and now the FBI?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I hug my textbooks tighter, suddenly feeling stupid for holding literary anthologies. I’m studying Milton while this guy’s saving the world.

  “I’ve been called too driven,” he says as though he can read my mind. “Never took a second to breathe.”

  “Where did that drive come from?”

  He hesitates and flashes a guarded half smile. “Who’s to say?” He nods toward the language arts building on our left. “This your stop?”

  “Yep.” I hurry up the few cement steps then turn to look down at him. “What do I do now?”

  “Go to class, I’m assuming.”

  “I mean about the . . .” I trail off and widen my eyes meaningfully.

  He always looks like he’s about to laugh at me. “We’re trying to set up meeting times. We should hear back soon.”

  “In the meantime?”

  Damon shrugs. “Got papers to write, don’t you? We’ll be in touch.”

  Hurrying into the building, I turn a corner to cut down toward my classroom. Just as I’m about to step through the door, I glimpse a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. By the time I turn toward it, he’s gone. But I’m almost sure it was him.

  Did Tommy follow me?

  10

  They never should’ve outlawed being tortured on the rack. If it was still around, I’d insist Chaucer be placed on it.

  Why, oh, why did I ever decide to take medieval literature? Okay, I love the era, but Chaucer is impossible to understand. I’ve been poring over the same three paragraphs for more than an hour, trying to sift out a quote for my paper, and I still have no clue what he’s talking about. This cannot be English!

  My phone trills a musical tone, and I see Delia’s number on the caller ID before I pick up. “Hey there,” I answer, folding my legs under me on the couch. “How are things at the zoo?”

  “The animals are restless. Patrick!” she shouts at a child running somewhere in the background. “Leave her alone, already! Go find something else to do, please.” Now she’s back to me. “What are you up to?”

  “Sweating out a paper.”

  “How’s it coming? Shelby! Your sister’s trying to feed a cookie to your fish.”

  “It’s not,” I answer, ignoring the side commentary. I’m used to this form of communication—half to me, half to the crew, like any good captain. I can’t imagine how she keeps track of all them and what we’re talking about at the same time. “If Chaucer were alive, I’d kick him.”

  “If he were alive, his language would be seriously outdated. Matthew, food goes in your mouth, not your hair, sweetie.”

  “Calling to see if I’d expired from excessive studying?”

  “General check. You seemed a little down at Sunday dinner.”

  “Just finals,” I hedge. Family dinner always gives me a long, hard look at how I’m going nowhere.

  “Really?” she presses.

  I pluck a Red Vine from the turbo bin beside me on the cushion. “Yeah, really.”

  “Jack,” she’s taken on a serious tone, “you’re doing the thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The thing.”

  “I’m not doing a thing!”

  “Your voice is doing the thing. What’s wrong?”

  I can’t go into it for her safety as well as the missing girl’s. “Really, Lia. I’m just overworked. Stressed in all directions. Once the semester is over, I’ll be able to breathe a bit, and I’ll be right as rain.”

  “Really?”

  “Positively.” I take another bite of Red Vine and smile even though she can’t see me.

  “Okay,” she says. Clearly she’s not sold, but she’s backing off a pace. “After midterms we’ll have movie night.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “So what paper are you—Anna. Anna!” she scolds. “Spit out those rocks. Do not eat those rocks. I have to go,” she tells me.

  Even as she hangs up, my phone bleeps again. Bridget’s calling. No one wants me to finish this paper. Least of all Chaucer.

  “I am super popular today,” I answer.

  “Must be your magnetic personality.” I can hear voices in the background. “Guess where I am.”

  “The fourteenth century murdering Chaucer for me?”

  “Close. The mall.”

  I gasp loudly. “Traitor! You know you’re not allowed to go there without me.”

  “I had to pick up shoes for my mom. Guess who’s here? Terry Templeton.”

  “Terry Templeton? Who went to school with us?”

  “Yeah and get this—he asked me if we still hang out.”

  “Urch,” I say.

  “And if you’re still single.”

  “Ew! Please tell me you said I was dead.”

  “Relax. I sidestepped. Although I could’ve just told him you were seeing a dark, mysterious stranger. Is the recep
tion guy still stalking you?”

  I fidget. “Not stalking, no.”

  “So you haven’t seen him again?”

  “No-o,” I reply, making the word sound more like a question than I meant it to.

  There’s a beat. “You’re doing the thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The avoiding thing.”

  “Oh, my gosh—I’m doing the most thing-less thing ever.”

  “Then why is your voice like that?”

  I shove a Red Vine in my mouth. “Eating junk food. You caught me.”

  “That’s not your junk-food voice.”

  “I have a junk-food voice?”

  “You have voices for different kinds of junk food. It’s part of your guilt thing.”

  “Oh, really? Then tell me, Yoda, what am I eating right now?”

  After a beat she says, “Licorice.”

  Stunned, I stammer, “That’s incredible. How did you do that?”

  “I bought you that tub of Red Vines, remember?”

  “Less impressed.” Completely monotone I say, “Oh, look. The house is on fire. I have to go lest I burn to a crisp.”

  “This isn’t over.”

  “Loves.”

  I hang up, and instantly there’s a rap of knuckles on my front door. I look over from my seat on the couch. It’s laundry day, so I’m wearing mismatched pajamas and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. My hair is piled in a messy bun atop my head, and my makeup is smudged from an afternoon power nap.

  “Never going to finish,” I mutter, shuffling to the door. I open it with the chain still engaged and see Damon on the doorstep.

  “Why did you open the door?” he asks.

  My brow furrows. “Because you . . . knocked?”

  “You’re in danger, and you just open without even asking who’s there?”

  “I left the chain on.”

  “Do you know how easy it is to kick through one of these?”

  “C’mon,” I snort. “Can’t be that easy—”

  The door slams inward as the chain snaps, and I jump out of the way with a shriek. “Whoa!” I cry, shocked that he actually did it. “Overreact much?”

  “Just proving my point.”