I trace my tongue along the crease of his lips and he sucks in a sharp breath before he pulls away. Taking the canvas bag away from me, he nods toward his house.
“Come to my house. I’ll help you get that cleaned up.”
I glance at the cut on my shoulder then smile at him. “My hero.”
He smiles as he leads me back to his house. Once we’re inside, he drops my bag onto the kitchen table, then he disappears into the bathroom to get some more first aid supplies that I forgot to purchase at the convenience store. I seize the opportunity to slip the passport I stole back into his desk. I slide the desk drawer closed and when I turn around, Nick is standing behind me holding a bottle of peroxide and some cotton balls.
My heart pounds as he glares at me in silence. I’m about to open my mouth to explain why I was looking in his drawers, but he beats me to it.
“Would you like to go on an American date with me tomorrow?”
His gorgeous lips curl into a smile and I can’t help but smile back. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Seven
“Where are you taking me?”
“Shh. It’s a secret.”
“A secret? I really, really despise secrets,” I reply as Nick and I hold hands in the back seat of a taxi.
He squeezes my hand and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “You’ll like this one.”
We’ve been driving north for about ten minutes and I’m getting more nervous by the second. It appears as if he’s taking me to Santa Cruz de la Palma — the place where I just murdered two men yesterday. No doubt the police will be patrolling the city. And what if someone on the bus remembers me changing out of a black hoodie. I don’t remember anyone looking at me, but you never know. These days, you have to expect that not only is someone watching you, but that they’re also taking video to post on YouTube.
“How about we just go back to my house and I’ll cook you something?”
He laughs. “I promise this is a good secret.”
I grit my teeth at these words. Is there such a thing as a good secret?
It seems the answer to this question is obvious. Yes, of course there are good secrets. The kind that protect people or the kind that result in delayed pleasure. But the kind of secrets meant to protect people are probably the worst of all. You can’t protect someone you care about by lying to them.
So it stands to reason that the only good secrets are the ones that are meant to delay or prolong pleasure. If that’s the kind of secret Nick has in mind, I can get on board with that.
As we drive through the streets of Santa Cruz de la Palma, I turn my face away from the cab window, hoping not to be recognized. Nick smiles, probably thinking I can’t stop myself from admiring him. Don’t get me wrong. Nick is gorgeous. But every time I look at him, I still get that twisting pain in the pit of my stomach. That natural emotion that arises from being so strung out on one human being, anything that reminds you of them just stirs up withdrawal symptoms.
Daimon really did a number on me. He manipulated me by making me feel both beautiful and powerful. By fucking me like he hated me and loved me all at once. You can’t fight millions of years of evolution. My female hormones kicked in and tried to convince me to bond with him. Procreate with him. Fall in love with him.
But that’s all it was. Stupid hormones. Everything Daimon and I shared teetered on a foundation of deception. I’m lucky it all came crumbling down sooner rather than later. Now I can move on and find out the truth about my past without Daimon’s lies poisoning me and leading me astray.
The cab pulls up to a corner restaurant called simply American Bar. I almost laugh at the obvious ploy to attract American tourists, but I’m still a bit on edge from being back in this city and my thoughts of Daimon. Nick pays the cab driver, then we hop out and head for the entrance.
Perhaps for my benefit, Nick speaks to the hostess in English. And I’m not surprised to find she speaks quite well. She barely gives my white face and hair a second glance, then she grabs a couple of menus and leads us to a booth near the window. Nick grabs her hand to stop her before she leaves. He flashes her a warm smile and says something to her in Spanish. I can’t believe I’m actually jealous.
She blushes slightly and nods before he lets go of her hand so she can leave. But she doesn’t go back to her station near the entrance. Instead, she heads through the swinging door into the kitchen area.
“What did you say to her?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
He grins broadly as he reaches across the table and grabs my hand using the same hand he just used to grab the hostess. “It’s a surprise. You’ll see.”
He brings my hand to his lips and I can feel those female hormones kicking in again, clouding my brain and curling my lips into a bashful smile. I quickly let go of his hand and pick up my menu. Each item on the menu is written in English, with the Spanish translation featured in small letters underneath. It’s usually the other way around at the restaurants frequented by tourists.
I already feel better about this American date. I highly doubt the cheeseburgers at American Bar will be as good as the ones in L.A. But at least Nick’s intentions seem honorable. He just wants to give me a small piece of home.
Nick insists I order for both of us because I know more about American food than he does. I get us each a cheeseburger and fries, two Cokes, and an appetizer of buffalo wings with good ol’ American ranch dressing. I don’t usually eat this kind of junk. In my apartment in L.A., I never really cooked or ate a lot of fast food. I couldn’t afford it. I usually ate protein-packed hot cereal nuked in the microwave or homemade turkey sandwiches with no mayo. Sometimes I’d get two-for-one sushi at the Japanese place next door to our building.
Here on the island, the fruits and vegetables and the fresh fish are extremely cheap, so that’s what I’ve been surviving on. I haven’t had a cheeseburger or Coke in months. But I guess it’s okay to indulge every once in a while.
“So, tell me, Alyssa. What was your life like in the States? Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
I stare at Nick for a moment as I’m overcome with suspicion. That nagging sense that the sunglasses company is just a cover.
“None. And you?”
“None,” he replies quickly. “But back to you. What was your life like? The life of a photographer-artist must be quite exciting.”
I can feel my top lip trembling under the weight of the lies I’m about to tell. “It’s not that exciting. I do most of my work at night, so I’ve learned to survive on very little sleep. I’d usually gather my equipment and leave my apartment an hour or two before midnight. Then I’d walk the streets waiting for the perfect moment, when the perfect picture would find me.”
“That sounds pretty exciting to me. And also pretty scary. You were never bothered? A young girl like you, walking the streets of Los Angeles at night?”
Why is he suddenly so interested in my life in L.A.? I know it’s standard procedure on a date, especially an American date, to ask personal questions. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other. I understand that. But why does he want to know if I was ever bothered by anyone? That doesn’t seem like a normal date question. What if I had been attacked, or even raped? Is that appropriate conversation for two people who are just getting to know each other?
“No. I’ve never been attacked.”
“I saw a scar on your…” —he pats his side— “when we made love. Is that from surgery?”
He’s asking a lot of questions and I wish I’d found something out at Gringo’s house yesterday. Then I’d know whether or not I’m being paranoid. Maybe he’s just concerned or genuinely curious.
“It was a work accident. The station was robbed and I got stabbed. Just a hazard of working in L.A.”