Sex Says Page 2

  I looked around the diner and realized he had a point.

  “Give me a break,” I muttered. “I’m going on twenty-four hours without sleep, and I’m on a deadline.”

  He chuckled softly.

  I snatched the check out of his hands.

  “I’m paying for their breakfast this morning,” I whispered. “Oh, and box up that coconut cream pie twirling around in the dessert display case, too. That sad chick is probably going to need it tonight.”

  He quirked a brow. “That table just gave you column material, didn’t they?”

  “Give me a little credit,” I retorted. “I’m a nice girl who likes to do nice things.”

  Okay, so maybe it was a little bit of both. I was a nice girl, but I was also a girl on a deadline. And in an evil sort of way, a little glad sad sack by the window was frowning into her blueberry muffin.

  Okay. Okay. It’s true.

  Sometimes, deadlines really did hold the power to suck your soul straight out of your body. But at least I’m trying to counter that by sending sad face home with the best coconut cream pie in San Francisco.

  I mean, I get a little credit for that, right?

  Once I paid their bill and finished my toast, Operation Stay Employed commenced.

  A different kind of motivation filtered through my veins at the visualization of Louie and me on the cold streets.

  That’s right, column. Get ready to be my bitch.

  I’m really good at being chased by the police.

  At least, I used to be.

  On top of buildings, through alleys, up and down the steep hills of San Francisco—even in a boat out in the Bay once. San Francisco was a playground, and I was the most athletic kid on it. That is, if athletic meant criminal and playground meant place to perpetrate my crimes.

  I’d had a pretty good track record of finding myself in that particular pickle about once a week from ages eighteen to twenty-nine. Thankfully, during that time, I’d managed an equally winning record of getting away. It’s amazing how many people will let you talk, run, or sashay your way out of something if you act like you know what you’re talking about.

  But for the last two years, my family had been trying to get me to reform—something my sweet mother called growing up and my traditional father called about damn time. I guess they were tired of close calls and endless worry, and most likely, expected me to have something to offer when it came time to cough up money for their nursing home.

  As far as I was concerned, I was already grown up.

  I just didn’t live my life the way the majority of people, including my family, saw fit. I didn’t wear a suit or carry a briefcase, and most days, I didn’t set an alarm clock in the morning. My rules were my own, and that’s the way I liked it.

  But my sister was married to the law now, a cop named Cameron Russell, and my parents weren’t the spring chickens they once were. So, for their sakes, I’d toned down some of my wilder moves and channeled that energy into other avenues.

  But I had to admit…I missed it.

  Breaking into a jog, I timed my steps to the passing trolley and caught the rail on the back just in time to swing myself out to the side and safely on board. Sadly, most people on board didn’t even pick their heads up from their phones.

  The passenger closest to me, however, did notice. A woman, probably in her early twenties, seemed surprised by my entrance but not outraged like someone who’d been born to a time with more traditional values.

  I’m not psychic and I don’t judge, but people give little clues about their details in the simplest of ways, and this young woman is no different.

  I locked on to her face, studying the flare of her eyes and the line of her mouth as a matter of first assessment, but she didn’t have the confidence to stare me down unabashedly. Instead, her eyes climbed up from the floor and back again as if on a circuit. I waited for the opportunity they would present when she finally allowed them to round the bend.

  Ah, there it is.

  “Excuse me,” I greeted with a smile. I gestured to the seat taken by her bag, directly to her left. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Oh,” she mumbled nervously as she glanced to it. “No, sorry,” she apologized—something I’d noticed women did a lot—and moved it to the floor between her feet.

  “No problem.” The simple words won me another smile.

  “So, where are you headed?” I asked, always eager to make conversation with the randoms I encountered during the day. They always had some story to tell, some experience to offer that I might want to seek out. And maybe most intriguing, they were almost always horrendously gullible.

  “Just to lunch.” She shrugged. “There’s this cool place on Polk Street, the Crepe House. But it’s all the way down by Washington. This is the fastest way to get there.” She looked to the ground and tucked some loose hair behind her ear before meeting my eyes again. “What brings you here?” she asked and then gave a little laugh. Self-conscious on one hand, flirty on the other, she was obviously still learning her way around her own wants—particularly how to go after them. “Besides agility.”

  “Ah, my entrance.” I lowered my voice and glanced around. “Can you keep a secret?”

  She looked a little surprised, but her eyes twinkled, and that was all the invitation I needed. I geared up for one of my absolute favorite pastimes now that outings of questionable legal station were off the table—lying.

  Sure, on the surface, it sounds bad. We’ve turned it into a dirty word. But by and large, people love to be entertained, and I endeavor to do it. That’s all.

  I was actually a law-abiding citizen now, with semi-responsible tendencies. I went to work, I paid my bills, and I respected other people’s health and safety. And, if I was being honest, my past history of criminal activity had mostly revolved around peaceful protests in college and trespassing into old, run-down buildings that’d provided one hell of an adrenaline rush if the roofs were used for free-jumping.

  But a guy’s got to get his kicks somewhere, and playing with the gullible nature of individuals interested me way more than any of the other avenues I’d explored.

  She nodded.

  “Well,” I whispered. “I got in a little trouble.” Her eyes rounded, and I nearly laughed. As if I’d have actually told her if I had been breaking the law—yeah, right. Accessories to your crime were always a liability. “Nothing dangerous.”

  She visibly relaxed.

  Just like the long arm of the law, she jumped at the chance to accept something I said as truth because I said it like I meant it.

  I must have been born with a different gene, one where skepticism and investigation were healthy staples of my everyday certainty. If you wanted me to believe you, it’d take more than a sweet smile and caring eyes to make me.

  “Just a simple misunderstanding,” I went on. She nodded like she understood, but the truth was, she couldn’t. She had no clue what I’d been involved in that morning—quite frankly, not much of anything. Or hadn’t—a jewelry store heist, perhaps—and instead, accepted what I said as truth because being truthful was the kind of thing she would do. She based her assessment of me on herself because that’s all any of us can do, really. It’s hard to truly know anything about anything you don’t know. Writers, creators, storytellers live by that very creed, and the rest of us, unwittingly as it is, live by it too. That’s what made doing this—toying with this very complexity of human nature—so much fun.

  “But I had to get out of there before they caught up.”

  “They?” she asked, reaching up to grip the charm of her necklace in the clench of her hand.

  “The police,” I stated matter-of-factly. Her throat bobbed with a forced swallow, and her gaze jerked forward to see if anyone else had heard me. I had to bite my lip in order to maintain my composure and the integrity of my story.

  “Trust me,” I cajoled, “I’d have let them catch me if it was a big deal.”

  It was, perhaps, the mo
st ridiculous statement I’d ever made, so ripe with bullshit I could hear the splat of it behind trotting hooves on the old street. But she ate it up, smiling as I smiled and leaning into our conversation rather than running away. I only hoped the next gentleman she encountered wouldn’t take advantage of her trusting spirit. Because, sure, in a way, I was taking advantage—but I did so without malicious intent.

  Rather, I loved seeing people’s most prominent personality traits on display and happened to have a natural talent for bringing them about. I’d leave her as I found her when the time came, with nothing more than an interesting tale of a chance encounter with a no-good stranger. We hadn’t exchanged names or vows, and when all was said and done, I doubted if she’d even remember the color of my eyes—even as memorable as I’d heard they were.

  “What…” she stuttered. “What did you do?”

  I glanced to the sign on the street as the trolley scooted past and recognized it instantly—almost home. At least, close enough to hoof it.

  With one last look into her wide, expectant eyes, I reached out for her hand and waited for her to slip it into mine. “Nice to meet you.”

  She startled at the abrupt end to our conversation but put her faith in me and hand in mine nonetheless. “Nice…uh…to meet you too.”

  With one last smile, I rose from my seat and descended to the bottom step at the back of the car, leaning out over the rapidly changing pavement and waiting for the right opening. Clear of obvious danger, I let go of the brass bar in my hands and jumped down just as the trolley slowed at the bottom of the hill. Several trolley riders, including my temporary companion, looked on with varying reactions, but I didn’t play into their interest with anything more than a smile and a flick of my hand.

  Anyone who’s lived in San Fran knows that your location can really be pinpointed in terms of fog, and I lived in the Fillmore District, right on the edge of the fogbelt. In other words, we get our share, but it burns off quickly and isn’t as bad as it is north and west. As far as entertainment, I’m within walking distance of just about everything, including some great food and a pretty nice art scene, down in the Mission District. But the true gem of my location is proximity to one of my favorite hangouts in the whole of San Francisco: Dolores Park. To me, someone as obsessed with human behavior as I am, Dolores Park is like an actual dream.

  But I was too tired for the park now, fresh off an extended night shift down at Pier 45 near Fisherman’s Wharf on a new gig, unloading fresh catch and delivering to several of the restaurants. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it was better than some of the others I’d had over the years, and I loved the stories I got to hear from some of the fishermen. These guys weren’t playing at some hobby, and they weren’t doing it out of convenience. They were born fisherman, you could smell it in their blood, and that kind of truthful existence called to me—kind of like that smell.

  An aroma I knew well drifted up from down the block and into my nostrils and changed my planned course from home to heaven.

  No, really, the name of the coffee shop was Hallowed Grounds, and in T-minus fourteen seconds, I was going to be in it.

  The street buzzed with young professionals as I weaved my way through them, fish stains tingeing the fabric of my shirt. Luckily, the darkness of its color camouflaged their obviousness, but I wasn’t sure I could say the same for the pungent smell.

  Nonetheless, I met their eyes and studied their thoughts as much as they would let me before they moved on, rushing through their lunch hour in hopes of not being the last one back to the office. Some of them seemed at peace, but others wore their misery higher than their hair. And for those, I mourned; the life they could have led, the things they could have accomplished, and the confidence they lacked. I wished for them that one day they would find the things they were missing and let go of the things they thought they had to be—and when released, wouldn’t miss at all.

  The bell over the door jingled as I walked in, and a man behind the counter I knew well, Tony, started fixing my cup of coffee without direction. I wasn’t a man of habit, not with much of anything, but when it came to coffee, it wasn’t hard to know what I liked.

  “New job, Reed?” he called out with a smile, and I shrugged. He shook his head in amusement but not surprise as I took a seat at a table directly across from a woman sitting by herself. It was crowded and it was the only seat in the place, but that didn’t stop her from glancing up at me with surprise—and a little bit of disgust.

  I bit my lip but said nothing as she picked her paper back up in front of her face and continued to read. She was a different kind of woman from the one I’d met on the trolley, the blind trust of my previous acquaintance replaced by the blatant distrust of this one. She peeked over the paper once more as Tony dropped off my coffee, and her eyes narrowed at the way I sat there without preoccupation. I had no paper. I had no phone. I had nothing to distract me from my loneliness or the people around me, and I found, most of the time, people had a hard time relating to my approach.

  I smiled in an attempt to thaw the ice, but it only turned the features of her face more severe. Interesting.

  Almost as though she could hear my inner monologue, like my mental chattiness had tired her, she stood up, agitated, and smacked the paper to the table before gathering her bags and leaving the shop just as quickly as I’d come. I watched her go, the determined set of her shoulders and the intensity of her step, and then turned back to the table to slide the paper to my side.

  The San Francisco Times, folded and destroyed to leave only one column visible: Sex Says.

  Very interesting.

  The byline read Lola Sexton, and the article…well, that made my head spin.

  “Lola!” Joe, editor in chief of the San Francisco Times, greeted as I strode through his office doors. “Just the girl I was hoping to see this afternoon.”

  Good God, he was too cheery. I wanted to smack him, but Human Resources would have a serious issue with me assaulting my boss in his office. Stupid workplace rules.

  “Considering you demon dialed me at ten this morning until I answered, I’d say it was a certainty you’d see me.” I fought the urge to yawn and plopped my tired ass into the chair facing his desk. The old, overly worn leather seat squeaked and wobbled the second my body made contact, and I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of Joe’s office—stained, orange carpet, a scratched and dented mahogany desk that looked like something from a yard sale, and inspirational posters that said things like, Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude, with a soaring bald eagle to bring the motivational quote on home.

  For a guy who was considered the head honcho of a reputable paper, his office needed a serious makeover. The instant you stepped foot inside, you felt like you had been teleported back to the seventies, and Mike Brady, along with his wife, Carol, and six kids, would pop out from behind the rust-colored curtains.

  It was safe to say three hours of sleep made me grumpy and judgmental. But seriously, compared to the offices around it, his stuck out like a sore thumb.

  “Let me guess, you wrote this week’s column at the last minute again,” Joe said with a smirk and, thankfully, pulled my attention away from the Teamwork is the ability to work together toward a common vision poster. Something about the juxtaposition of these posters and Joe’s personality made me think there were actually pornographic posters displayed underneath them.

  “No need to guess, Joe,” I retorted and pointed toward my face. “Just take a look at these dark circles and bags under my eyes. They’re all the answers you need.”

  Joe leaned back in his seat, far too amused with my current state. He might’ve been my boss, but that didn’t mean I had to like him all of the time.

  “I’m trying really hard not to say mean things to you right now,” I muttered and put my head into my hands. “Just tell me what you think of my column. And please, for the love of God, tell me you actually liked it. Because, if you didn’t, I might throw my
self out the window. I honestly don’t think I can pull another all-nighter to make drastic changes.”

  He chuckled softly, and I looked up from my hands and narrowed my eyes. There was something sinister about the way he was laughing.

  “At least tell me you didn’t call me down here just to talk about my column. I mean, that can’t be the only reason I’m here…Right?”

  Joe’s soft chuckles turned to hearty guffaws, and my already thin eyes became slits.

  “Seriously, Joe?” I questioned. “Couldn’t this have been handled over the phone?”

  “You work from home.” He shrugged. “It’s good for your health to get out of your apartment and get some fresh air every once in a while.”

  I can’t believe I keep falling for this.

  “It’s also good for my health to get sleep,” I countered hotly. He remained irritatingly amused by my annoyance.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d pulled a stunt like this. He didn’t do it often, but somehow, he always managed to make sure it occurred after sleepless nights. In my sleep-deprived state, I honestly wondered if he made a deal with a witch to let him know just the right time to make me crazy.

  “Are you going to give me the rundown or prolong my misery?”

  He steepled his hands on his desk. “I’m quite enjoying your misery.”

  My smile was saccharine. “Aw, you’re the world’s best boss.”

  He chuckled again, and I had a vision of hurling his stapler at his forehead. Luckily, that vision was closely followed by another of my corpse rotting away in a jail cell, so I thought better of it.

  “Shall I end the misery so you can go home and catch up on sleep?”

  “Yes. Please,” I begged and felt zero shame in doing so. Mr. Sandman and I needed to reconnect and explore our love for sleep as soon as physically possible.

  “Well, I loved it,” he said, and I breathed out a sigh of relief. “I only made a few minor grammatical changes and rearranged a few sentences, but I’d like to read through the article with you to make sure you’re aware of the changes I’ve made.