“I don’t think so.”
I handed him my empty glass, and he stepped aside so I could grab the box full of clothes.
“Why not? Couldn’t you do with the help?”
I dropped the box by the closet. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you ventured south?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was dressed completely wrong for that pub and stood out. I hardly think sweats and a hoodie are going to scream money.”
I took in the regal features of his face: the soft, full lips, the Roman nose, and those hazel eyes that gleamed with innocence and naiveté.
“Your clothes are just part of it, GQ. I told you that before. It’s also your face and hair and the way you talk.”
“The way I talk?”
“Yeah. All proper and shit.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “That’s why you call me GQ? Because I look ‘proper’?”
“I call you GQ because you're hot as hell and would look good in any clothes you put on your body. But I’m guessing a suit is your preferred choice, and you wear it well.”
Ryan swallowed, but I could see determination flickering in his eyes. “Well, I’m not wearing a suit now, and I’m not doing anything tonight. Let me help. I’ll be with you the whole time. I hardly think anything is going to happen.”
He was right, and I would like to bring my bike back tonight, because that way I was all done. Ryan could drive home in front of me, and I could follow behind. That way I could keep an eye on him.
“Okay.”
A wide smile split his lips. “Really?”
“Yeah. This way I’ll be out of there for good and not have to worry about storing the bike anywhere until I can get back to it.”
“See? It all works out.”
“I guess.”
If he was put off by my less-than-enthusiastic response, I couldn’t tell. He headed down the hall to his room and a few minutes later reappeared in a red hoodie.
He grabbed his keys and held up a spare set. “These are yours.” I reached out to take them, and Ryan beamed at me. “Let’s go get the rest of your things, roomie.”
Chapter 12
Ryan
“THIS PLACE IS huge.”
I didn’t know what I’d expected Jameson’s place to look like, but it was nothing like this. We’d driven across town to where Jude and I had ventured that fateful Friday night and, after several turns, ended up out front of an old building that looked like a warehouse.
On the way up to his apartment, Jameson had explained that the place had been purchased by investors wanting to demolish and rebuild bigger and better. In other words, it was part of the gentrification happening in Chicago right now. It was sad, really, because the wide-open space in this loft was fantastic.
“Yeah, that’s about the only thing it has going for it.” He shut the door and then crossed the empty floor, and I followed behind.
There was a floor lamp in the corner with two boxes by it, but that was it—everything else had been cleared out. An open kitchen on the opposite side of the room had empty countertops, but when Jameson opened one of the overhead cabinets, I saw the plates inside.
“So you lived here alone?”
I looked around, trying to see anything that might give me some insight as to who Jameson was, but there was literally nothing. So I made my way over to a window where there was a bench seat attached.
“Yeah, for a few months.”
I peered outside to see the tracks of the L, and then looked over to Jameson wrapping newspaper around plates. “How do you sleep with the L so close?”
“You get used to it.”
“Is it loud?”
“In about three minutes, you’ll find out.”
I turned back to the window and looked out into the dark. The handful of streetlights had flicked on now, but the road Jameson’s building backed onto seemed much darker than any near my apartment building.
A distant rumbling began to vibrate through the building, a low roar that got progressively louder until the window started to rattle, and then loud as thunder the train cars sped by.
I stood there staring at the flashing lights of the train as it barreled by. As it disappeared into the night and the quiet again fell, I spun around to face Jameson.
“Damn. That’s crazy.” I walked back over to him. “It’s like it’s plowing through your house.”
“Yeah. It’s great.” Jameson shoved away from the counter, his curt response sharp as a knife, and went to brush by me.
“Jameson?” I automatically reached for his arm, and when he froze, I released him, realizing what I’d done. “Is everything okay?”
He didn’t turn. “It’s fine. I’m going to drag the mattress out.”
I was about to tell him I’d finish the plates he’d started, but I didn’t get the chance as he walked off toward one of the shut doors.
I let out a sigh. Was I ever going to make progress with this guy? From the moment I’d met him, it was like I took two steps forward and then three steps back. The problem was that I didn’t know what I was stepping in. He was a complete and utter mystery to me. But at least now I’d have time to try to figure him out.
I began wrapping the plates and bowls, then spotted a small box Jameson had lined with bubble wrap and began to pack the plates inside. Next, I moved onto the few glasses he had. When I checked all the other cabinets, I was shocked to see they were empty.
Jameson had two plates, two bowls, and two glasses—that was it. I wasn’t sure why, but something about that made me sad. He seemed to live such a solitary existence, but from what I could tell, that was the way he liked it.
Once I’d emptied the cabinets and taped up the box, I looked to the bedroom Jameson had disappeared inside and wondered if I should offer to help. He’d seemed pretty intent on being alone, so for the moment I decided to check the other rooms.
The first one was the shut door next to his, the bathroom. It was completely empty—not even a shower curtain in sight—so I shut the door and moved on to the only other room in the place.
An office? I wasn’t sure, but when I pushed it open and saw a fully furnished bedroom, my feet came to a complete standstill. I took in an unmade bed, a dresser with a TV on it, and clothes tossed across the duvet with a pair of boots at the end of it, and tried to make sense of what I was seeing, since Jameson had just told me he lived alone.
I slowly walked into the room, and the farther I got, the uneasier I felt. The air seemed stale in here, the room not lived in despite the scene before me. I reached the edge of the bed and spotted a blue CFD shirt tossed over a chair in the corner, and my mind began to spin.
Jameson had said he was getting the mattress from his room, right? So if he was in there, then whose room was this? I walked around the bed and reached out to pick up the shirt.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Shit. I whirled around as though I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. But the furious expression on Jameson’s face made it seem more like I’d been caught stealing from his bank account.