Perfect Strangers

44

Great minds think alike. “Doubtful. Would you be putting on art shows all over Paris if you were in the witness protection program?”

“Hmm. Good point. But honestly, even if he was, would you really want to give up that beautiful twelve-inch d**k?”

I say seriously, “I regret telling you anything about that.”

“Ha! As if! You painted such a vivid picture of his junk, I can see the damn thing like it’s been branded onto my brain!” She sobers. “But we should talk about outcomes.”

“Why does that sound ominous?”

“So, for instance, what if it turns out that he’s a member of the mob?”

“What do you mean, ‘what if?’ I run very far away is what if!”

She sounds doubtful. “Really? You’d walk away from a man who goes down on you before he even says hello just because he’s involved with the mob?”

“Just because? Who am I talking to right now? What’ve you done with my best friend?”

“So the mob is a hard no.”

“Of course it’s a hard no! Kelly!” I rap the receiver several times on the top of the desk. “I can’t be hearing you right!”

Her tone is casual. “I mean, nobody’s perfect. And a big d**k makes up for a lot.”

I make a face at the phone. “How much wine did you have with dinner?”

She ignores me. “What if he’s a spy?”

I sigh, looking at the ceiling and shaking my head. “Same answer as if he’s in the mob.”

“An escapee from a mental institution?”

“Okay, this conversation has reached terminal velocity of silliness. Time for you to go to bed.” But that one unsettles me, just a bit.

“Ugh, you’re ruining all my fun. Fine, I’m off to bed. Technically, I’m already in bed, but I’m off to sleep. Not that I’ll be able to sleep because of that story about your orgasmic little liaison in the Russian section of the bookstore, but whatever. I’ll have nice dreams.”

I told her everything that happened with James since we last spoke. It’s not as if I had a choice: she outright demanded the details as soon as she picked up the phone.

I don’t think she was joking when she said she’d be living vicariously through me. Mike seems to have slacked off in the s*x department of late.

Kelly and I say our goodbyes and hang up, then I return to the kitchen and get Edmond’s number from the note Estelle left on the fridge. I start dialing, but stop after taking a look at the clock.

It’s six in the morning.

Then I get the brilliant idea to look at the wall of mailboxes in the mail room on the first floor. The building’s ten stories tall, and, from what Estelle said, there are four apartments on each floor. So there should be only forty mailboxes.

Each marked with a name.

There could be more than one James who lives in the building, but I’ll just have to give Kelly those names, too. Determined, I head into the bedroom to get dressed, then take the elevator downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, I send Kelly an email composed of only two words.

James Blackwood.

Within minutes, she emails back.

Sounds like a movie star.

“Or an alias,” I mutter, staring at the screen.

I can’t shake the odd feeling that I’ve heard that name somewhere before.

16

I

try to write,

but my muse is in a snit and refuses to show up. So I spend a few hours cleaning the apartment, trying as best I can to keep busy and keep thoughts of James from invading my head.

I’m more successful at one than the other.

After the apartment is spotless, I occupy myself with a trip to the corner store. I come home with enough cheese to last several lifetimes and a poufy baguette so large it could double as a futon. I have to wrestle it through the front door.

Finally, I give up, go into the master bedroom, and flop onto the bed, where I spend hours spacing out and staring at the ceiling, occasionally thinking about my work in progress but mostly about James.

I must doze off, because when the house phone on the nightstand rings sometime later, I jerk upright in a panic. Disoriented, I look around.

The light has changed. The afternoon sun paints glowing golden streaks along the walls. For a moment I don’t recognize where I am, but the insistent ringing of the phone finally tugs me back into reality.

“Hello?”

“Babe, it’s me.”

Yawning, I rub a fist into my eye. I gave Kelly the house number on our last call, because it might be several days until I can get my cell fixed or buy a new one if the old one’s too far gone. “Hey.”

“You sound like you were sleeping.”

The somberness of her tone makes me pause for a beat. “And you sound like you have bad news.”

“I do.”

My stomach tightens. My pulse starts to pound. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and grip the phone tighter. “Oh God. James is in the mob, isn’t he?”

Kelly sighs, and it sounds sad. “No, babe. He’s not in the mob. Nothing like that.”

“He’s married.” If she says, yes, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.

“No.”

When she stays silent too long, I break. “Jesus, Kelly, what the hell is it? I’m dying over here!”

“Let me start with the good stuff. Your boyfriend’s got great credit. He pays his taxes on time. He’s clean as far as the law is concerned: no felonies, criminal history, outstanding warrants, blah, blah, blah.”

I’m breathless with impatience. “Yes? And?”