Midnight Valentine

22

“Shoo!” I wave my arms around, hoping to dislodge them from poor Suzanne, but they just sit there and look at me like I’m stupid. They don’t, however, make any move to devour her, so I watch them warily for a moment, waiting to see what they’ll do.

They settle in around her, curling up their tails as they nestle on her chest, her stomach, and between her legs, and watch me back.

“Okay, beasties, I’m leaving you in charge of Mommy. We good?”

The big black one—I think that’s Stallone—yawns. I’m being dismissed.

I head into the kitchen in search of water for Suzanne and find an open bottle of wine on the counter, a third full, and an empty wineglass beside it with hot-pink lipstick prints that match the color Suzanne wore tonight.

Now I’m not so much feeling sorry for her as feeling furious that she drove over to pick me up after having that much wine. When she’s sober tomorrow, we’re going to have a nice long talk about how driving under the influence of even one glass of alcohol can be deadly.

If anyone knows how true that is, it’s me.

Grinding my teeth, I get a bottle of water from the fridge, then set it on the coffee table next to the sofa. I turn the lamp off on the side table, slip off Suzanne’s heels, and settle a blanket over the lower part of her legs, leave her handbag and keys on the dining room table, and lock the front door before pulling it shut behind me.

It takes about fifteen minutes of walking before I’ve calmed down enough that my hands no longer shake.

It’s a beautiful night, but it’s chilly. The moon is full, the air is thick with the scent of the ocean, and the stars are out in full force. They never blazed this brilliantly in smog-choked Phoenix. Wishing I’d brought a coat to dinner, I walk through Suzanne’s quiet neighborhood until I reach the main boulevard leading into town, then I head south toward home.

Seaside is one of those towns whose sidewalks curl up when the sun goes down, and tonight is no exception. The boulevard is deserted. The only thing keeping me company are the moths dancing silently around the streetlamps overhead. I walk, unhurried, absorbed in thought as I listen to the distant boom of the surf and the crickets’ serenade, the music of the night.

You’d love it here, Cass. You’d love it so much.

Out of nowhere, a classic black Mustang blasts past at top speed, engine rumbling like a wolf’s growl, the draft in its wake blowing my hair and skirt sideways. About fifty yards past me, the driver slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop in the middle of the street. Then it sits there, engine idling, brake lights glowing red in the darkness, steam billowing from the tailpipe like smoke from the nostrils of a dragon.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, knowing exactly who it is.

The car shifts gear and slowly begins to reverse.

When the Mustang has backed up far enough so it’s beside me in the street, it stops. The passenger door pops open and swings wide. Theo’s eyes glint in the dim interior—he’s leaning over the seat, looking out at me.

Waiting.

After a moment’s hesitation, I get in, pull the door shut, and pretend this is all no big deal by checking things out.

Like the outside, the inside of the car is pristine. I could eat right off the dashboard, and I’d be shocked if the ashtray has ever been used, even to hold coins. There’s not a speck of dust or a stray hair in sight. He must keep a vacuum in the trunk.

But even in such a sterile environment, his mark is unmistakable. A blues station plays softly on the radio—some siren with a whiskey-soaked voice croons about lost love—and the air is warm and smells like him, soap and leather and brooding masculinity, a hint of forest at night.

Maybe he’s a shape-shifter, a lone wolf who hunts in the woods when the moon is full.

I need to stop watching the Syfy channel.

I blurt, “I’m sorry I cursed at you this morning. That wasn’t nice.”

Theo exhales in a big gust, like he’s been holding his breath. Then he puts the car into Drive and we start moving, at a much slower pace than he was driving before. A small silver medallion swings from a chain on the rearview mirror, winking in the light. It’s a patron saint medal, but I can’t tell which one.

My curiosity about him intensifies.

Is he religious? Did he have a spiritual conversion after his accident? Or is he like me, a former believer who keeps the medal as a reminder of his lost delusion that somewhere out in the universe, someone actually listens to our prayers?

I glance over at him. In the shadows, his profile is all hard angles, from the s***h of his nose to the hard edge of his jaw. He appears tense and uncomfortable, and I wonder why he bothered to stop when he’s so clearly aggravated by my presence.

“I wish I knew why you don’t like me.”

Startled, he blinks. He looks over at me with an expression of anguish that’s so raw and vulnerable, I know what I’ve said has hurt him, and also that my assumption he doesn’t like me is true.

Those two things together don’t make any sense, but nothing about this man makes sense. Every interaction I’ve had with him so far has confused and frustrated me. He’s like a puzzle missing so many pieces, it can never be solved.

I continue with my confession, because the dark has a way of coercing them.