* * *
TJ: When music was added to plays.
* * *
Jude: I will never understand you. And yes, I would love a distraction, but I have to work tonight.
* * *
Jude’s been working every night. I haven’t seen him since Sunday—our schedules this week are the opposite.
Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I should stop texting him. Maybe that’ll make me stop feeling things for him.
But before I set down the phone, he replies once more.
* * *
Jude: But do you want to go to the graffiti tunnels tomorrow evening? I’m not working Thursday night. I have some commercial auditions during the day and a voiceover thingy. But I could go around seven.
* * *
TJ: Yes. I want to go.
* * *
I’m grinning foolishly, and it’s because of an outing with my roomie. When I set down the phone, I startle at the sight of Alex staring at me over the top of my cubicle wall, drumming his fingers on the divider and shooting me a you’re busted look from behind his black glasses.
I take out my earbuds. “What’s up?”
“What are you all smiles about? Let me guess. You’re getting laid, you scored a scoop, or you scored discount tickets to that band you were telling me about?”
“Sadly, none of the above,” I say.
“Dude, you need to change all of that. Stat.”
“Don’t I know,” I sigh.
“So, then the answer is . . .?”
Man, reporters are persistent fuckers. “Just texting a friend.” That’s true enough.
Alex is not appeased. “A friend you’d like to yada yada with?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re a bold man, Alex.”
He tilts his head. “And you still didn’t answer me.”
I huff, then relent. Somewhat. “A guy. Okay?”
He waggles his brows. “So, you are enjoying London?”
“Yes,” I say. But that’s all I’ll admit.
“Cool. Want to go out with a bunch of us tomorrow night? There’s a pinball arcade that has awesome cocktails.”
I’m mildly tempted. “I love pinball. I am also fucking amazing at it, so I’d probably destroy all of you.”
“So, you’re in?”
I shake my head since even pinball can’t tear me away from my plans. “Can’t. I have a thing.”
“With your friend?”
“Yes,” I say.
“All right, Mister One-Word Answers. I can take a hint. This friend is the one you’re daydreaming about?”
I jerk my gaze back to Alex. “What?”
“I saw you staring out the window. I don’t think you were thinking about the London Stock Exchange. More like the London Sex Exchange,” he says.
“Dude, you should be an investigative reporter.”
“I’m pushy. I’m nosy. And I’m proud of it,” he says.
“You are.” It’s nice to have this easy banter with him—a colleague who’s becoming a friend. “Hey, since tomorrow night won’t work out, what about Sunday? I’m going to a club this weekend to check out some bands, and I’m trying to round up a group.”
“I’m in,” he says. “And now, I’m gonna pound out this story.”
As Alex walks away, I spin toward the window and catch the outline of my reflection. Is it obvious I’m thinking about a friend?
I peer close into the rain-streaked glass.
It’s painfully obvious.
That evening, I skip The Cat’s Meow. Instead, I hunker down in Coffee O’Clock, trying to send my hero to the creepy church to investigate a clue, but he’s delayed in the park.
By his love interest.
Our hero’s been longing for this person for ages. He can feel it in his bones. My fingers tingle as I type, and something feels so right. Righter than it ever has before. When I reread the scene, my heart races. Yup. My book was missing a romantic subplot.
Like that, I write more. I pour all my rainy daydreams into the story, and suddenly, this whodunit sparks in a whole new way.
Finally, I feel a little obsessed with this story, and I half want to tell someone. But William’s not here, and is he truly the one I want to share this realization with?
Later, when I return home, Jude’s not there.
That’s probably for the best. His absence saving me from sharing more than I should.
When I leave work on Thursday, I’m jittery. I haven’t seen Jude since Sunday night, but I’m meeting him this evening to go to The Vaults.
I could go straight to the tunnels, but they’re close to our flat, and I wouldn’t mind changing into something more casual, so I head home and take a quick shower to wash the day off me. But the showerhead is loose again, so when I get out, I wrap a towel around my waist and head for the kitchen to grab the toolkit.
The door swings open.
“I got the part!” Jude calls out.
With my hair wet, water droplets sliding down my chest, and tools in hand, I turn around. “Holy shit! That’s amazing. I knew it!”
With his back to me, he shuts the door, then spins around. Like a cartoon character, his eyes pop out on springs. “Oh, fuck me.” He holds up a hand. “I have to back away right now. If I don’t, I will literally climb you like a tree.”
Then, as fast as he comes in, he leaves. His footfalls on the stairs echo as I return to the bathroom and fix the showerhead.
With a smile I can’t wipe off, I head to my room and get dressed. When I’m in jeans and the baseball-print shirt, I text him at last.
* * *
TJ: The coast is clear.
* * *
Jude: I have not recovered. I am dead again from the sight of you in NOTHING BUT A FUCKING TOWEL AND A TOOLKIT. DO NOT EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN. (UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO HUMP YOUR RIGHT LEG, YOUR LEFT LEG, AND YOUR THIRD LEG.) IF I SEE YOU LIKE THAT, I WILL HAVE A HEART ATTACK BUT IT WILL BE A WONDERFUL DEATH.
* * *
TJ: Sorry, not sorry.
* * *
Jude: I am at Angie’s Vintage Duds. I had to go shopping to try to get the sight of you, wet, out of my head. And I mean my little head.
* * *
I laugh again, and I wish I weren’t so fucking amused and delighted by him. I wish I weren’t so attracted to him. I wish I weren’t so close to wildly infatuated with him.
But I am.
I am all of those things.
When I push open the door to Angie’s, Jude is chatting with Eggplant Helen.
“I could have sworn she was still with him,” he tells her. “Well, it just goes to show you can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”
She laughs. “You can’t, but it sure is fun to devour every little detail about the royal family.”