Chapter 3: The Risk: Chapter 3

When you are courting a nice girl, an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder, a second seems like an hour. That’s relativity.

—Albert Einstein It’s after five when I start looking at my watch, wondering if I really am being stood up this time. I’m not sure what compelled me to call him, flirt with him, then agree to a date. Maybe it’s because I need to feel less like a cold monster and more like a woman.

I lived. Others died.

I lived, yet I feel dead.

Maybe I want to feel alive, considering my time may be limited. I should treasure every moment…when I’m not collecting on an overdue debt. It’s not exactly romantic to think of a guy while you’re slicing another one to pieces, but Logan was definitely on my mind during the three days I spent reaping the debt from Ben.

Not in the dark recesses of my mind that are reserved for revenge either. No. Logan was in the good parts that I thought no longer existed. He awakened a long-gone light as though not all the good inside me had been destroyed.

Just as I’m about to text him and find out if he’s okay, there’s suddenly a body sliding into the seat in front of me, and my eyes pop up to meet a set of soft blues. I could stare at those eyes all day. The rest of him measures up to those perfect eyes too.

He’s sin and pleasure wrapped in a package I’m tempted to peek at.

“So sorry,” he groans, motioning a waitress over. “There was a traffic jam. I actually had to abuse my power and hit the lights just to get through.”

My smile surprises me every time he makes me use it. “It’s fine. I was just worried,” I lie, well, sort of. I was worried about him, and I was worried I’d been stood up.

His grin is genuine and instant when he sees I’m not pissed, and the waitress shows up, ending the moment of two idiots grinning at each other.

I honestly can’t remember a time when my stomach was fluttering around. I was just a teenager when my life was shattered and the illusion of normality forever stayed out of my grasp.

This is the most human I’ve felt in so long. And it’s just a coffee drive-by on his way to work.

We both order, and the waitress walks away after giving him a quick once over and winking at me as though she approves. Not that I need her approval.

“So, what made you agree to meet me?” he asks, apparently skipping small talk. I guess that’s wise, since our time will be limited. Not to mention he interrogates for a living, so it’s only natural to start a date out that way with him.

I decide against telling him that he makes me feel like a woman instead of the monster I’ve had to become, since he’d sort of lock me up and throw away the key.

“What made you want to ask me out?” I ask him instead.

His grin spreads wider. “You’re deflecting, but I’ll bite. You’ve been in my head. Your turn,” he says, leaning up on the table with his elbows.

“You’ve been in my head too.”

“Ah, see, that’s cheating. You can’t just parrot my words to keep from disclosing too much. That’s a commonly used tool in a detached personality.”

“Stop profiling me,” I say with a teasing smile, but secretly hoping he really does stop.

What if he sees too much? What the hell am I thinking? This is the stupidest date I could possibly go on.

I finally meet a guy I want to see, perhaps even date, and it has to be the one guy who could see right through me?

He’s studying me too intensely, but I keep my smile in place, hoping it doesn’t seem strained.

“Occupational hazard. I can’t turn it off. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Great.

He continues to await my reaction, and I try to think of how to properly react. How do normal women react? Do they gush and goo over his badge and skills? Do they get offended by his admission of constant profiling, feeling like he won’t let them have that privacy? I have no idea.

“How much has that affected your dating life?” I ask, deciding not to react at all and keep my expressions masked.

He groans while shaking his head and leaning back. “More than I care to admit. Women prefer to tell me how they feel, as opposed to me pointing it out. I’ve tried to stop, but can’t. Consider it a weird personality quirk. I was hopeful with you; you seem to do the same thing.”

His eyes find mine, and he really does seem hopeful. He’s right. I do the same thing. But for completely different reasons.

He serves justice the best he can.

I serve revenge in the way it needs to be.

“What’s your dating life like?” he asks, probing once again.

Like a cobweb with a bunch of dead bugs in it… Again, not the most appropriate answer.

As the waitress comes and drops off our small order, I try to think of the best answer, waiting until she leaves to respond.

“A little dry at the moment.”

“Ouch,” he says, but he grins.

“Well, not at this exact moment,” I say, feeling that stupid, uncontrollable smile spread again.

“So tell me about you.” He gestures toward me with one hand while using his other to bring the coffee to his lips.

“Twenty-six. New to the area. Constantly moving. And I have an odd fixation with socks. You?”

He frowns, as though something doesn’t sit well with him.

“You move a lot?” he asks, not answering my question.

We do that to each other, I guess. Avoid answering questions to ask our own.

“Yeah. I’ve lived in almost thirty states. Growing up was sort of boring. We lived in one town. It was small, and everyone knew everything about everyone. After my parents died, it just got worse. Anyway, I’ve moved all over, trying to find what feels like home.”

“Any luck here?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug.

I barely know him, so telling him he’s the first thing that’s piqued my interest this much would definitely be coming on too strong.

“So your parents…” He lets the words trail off, seeming reluctant to fully ask what he wants to know.

“Car accident,” I partially lie, forcing a tight smile.

“Sorry,” he says, blowing out a breath.

“It was years ago. Now, about you?” I muse, desperately ready for a subject shift.

He flashes me a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Twenty-nine. I own a house on a quiet piece of land. It was my stepdad’s, but he left it to me before he died. My mother is living with her newest husband in Miami. So it’s just me.”

“What about your birth dad?” I realize too late that I shouldn’t be prying that deep, when I don’t want him prying too.

Neither of us gets the chance to pry.

His phone chirps, drawing his attention to it, and he sighs in a way that probably means our short and sweet talk is over.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, causing my lips to twitch.

It’s just a word, but I was starting to worry that he was a total choir boy.

His eyes pop back up to meet mine. “I hate to leave this early, but—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt, ignoring the small pang of disappointment.

He tosses down a twenty, which is more than enough to cover the possible ten dollar bill.

“I really am sorry,” he says, cursing under his breath as he stands.

I stand and make things awkward, because I don’t know if I should hug him, touch him at all, or wave like an idiot.

I wave like an idiot.

Sheesh.

He smirks, arching an eyebrow at me. “I’ll call you later?” he asks, his smirk turning into a smile.

I’m busy feeling like an ass, so I just nod. I really don’t trust my mouth to be any less stupid than this incredibly awkward wave that I’m still doing. It’s like my hand has lost touch with my brain, and the damn thing is still waving.

His phone rings this time, and he turns and walks away before answering. I drop back down to my seat, wondering how planning out a brutal murder is easier than dating.

The world is entirely too fucked up.