Forbidden Fruit

“Shan—”



“G’night. Thanks for the ride.”



I don’t think he expects me to close the door in his face. When I turn, I spot Maria in the hall, just stepping out of the bathroom. “Did I hear voices?”



I squelch the urge to reply, I dunno, but if so, you should check your medication. “Yeah, I bummed a lift from a friend.”



“The hot cop? Are you guys a thing?” She skims me up and down, not meant to be insulting, but I suspect she can’t picture Jesse and me together.



Dammit. Neither can he.



“Nope. He’s just overprotective. Apparently the public transportation system is fraught with many and myriad dangers.”



“You should go for it,” she advises.



“I’m trying,” I mumble.



“I’d offer to lend you some sexy undies, but I don’t think they would fit.”



That’s not a slam. Maria’s butt is bigger than mine, plus who wants to borrow sexy panties? Pass.



“Thanks. I appreciate the thought, though.”



Maria heads to her room after that. We don’t talk extensively, but she’s a decent roomie, here enough that I don’t feel totally alone, but she’s not always in my business, either.



First I wash the Pretzel Pirate smell off, then I make a salad. Along with some tuna and buttered noodles, this is dinner. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ve gotten good at putting healthy meals together from fairly little. Maria goes to bed while I’m still eating, so I turn on the TV for company.



I’m almost ready to turn in when my phone vibrates with a text from Jesse. You drive me crazy. Why won’t you let me protect you?



I reply, That’s not your job. You’re my friend, not my lover or my bodyguard.



There’s a pause between messages. I picture him on the couch, like I am, frowning at his phone. If we WERE together, would you fight me this much?



Elation surges through me. He might not realize it, but that reveals how much his thinking has changed in a relatively short time. Even if it’s a hypothetical question born of aggravation, it also means he’s wondering what we’d be like as a couple. So obviously, I flirt with him.



That depends, I answer. How much do you like it?



A whole lot…and not at all.



Look, J, I’m never gonna sit on a pedestal and wait. I’m not that kind of princess. I’ll insist you take me with you to storm the castle and I’ll carry my own sword.



You won’t let me slay your dragons? I imagine him saying it in a soft, teasing tone.



Without hesitation, I type, there’s only one circumstance where I would.



What’s that? He responds so fast; there’s no way he’s doing anything but talking to me. That makes me ridiculously happy. His dinner might be cooling on the table beside him, the TV playing unnoticed.



If you want me to say yes to you, you have to say yes to me.



Blackmail’s illegal. But damned if you don’t make it tempting.



That’s the idea. Night, cowboy.



Six



All through the week, Jesse sends me texts and emails.



Those messages are the high point of my day, no matter what he says. Sometimes he writes about how work’s going, though nothing specific about his cases. Other times, he talks about his partner, and then rarely, his family. I wonder if he realizes how much he’s sharing, how much he’s opening up. I keep teasing him, and soon he’s flirting back. It’s easier to get him to respond this way, possibly because he’s not looking at me and thinking how young I am.



Wednesday, Maria and I have a Chris Pine movie marathon by connecting my laptop to the TV; she has a Netflix account—or rather, she knows a cousin’s password. So we’re all set. As we’re watching Mr. Pine use psychic powers, I try not to think about the weirdo who was watching me. I haven’t sensed anything out of place since then, but that doesn’t mean I’m clear. It’s hard to feel safe when somebody could be staring up at you from your dishwater.



A text comes in from Jesse as the last movie ends. What’re you doing?



Admiring Chris Pine’s hotness.



He’s older than I am!



Like I care. Or as if age would stop me. What’s your point?



Mentally, I hear him sighing. Never mind. I wish you were here. Texts and emails are fine, but I want to talk.



About what?



I just miss you, that’s all.



This feels like a huge admission. So I stand up and say to Maria, who’s been watching me text, “I’m gonna call it a night.”



“Sure. It was fun. We should do it again.”



“Chris Evans next time?” I suggest.



“Deal.”



Once I’m in my room with the door shut behind me, I dial Jesse’s number. I’m not a phone talker, you understand, but I’ll make an exception to capitalize on this emotional confession. It rings twice before he answers. I’m already snuggled down on my futon. Low-level arousal percolates through me as I picture him doing the same. In my head, he’s in bed and shirtless, listening to my voice.



Mmm, yeah.



“Here I am,” I say.



“Shan…” His voice is rich, the drawl pronounced, and he imbues my name with a kind of longing I’ve never heard before. “You can’t make me feel this way.”



“Are you sure it’s me and not you?” I ask.



“That’s the problem. I’m never sure.”



“You would be with me.”



Silently, I replay his words in my head. Is he picking up how I feel, from all the way across town? I don’t know much about empathy, but that’s an enormous range.



“How do you keep from drowning in other people’s emotions?” I ask, before I can think better of it.



“It doesn’t work like that. The distance is more of a gauge,” he mutters. From his tone, it’s clear he doesn’t care to elaborate.



And that makes me even more determined to get an answer. “Of what?”



“How much I care.”



“So you care…a Laredo-sized amount about me?”



“Shan,” he whispers. “I doubt you could go anywhere that I wouldn’t feel you.”



Oh. My. God.



He goes on, “I haven’t felt like this since high school. You’re burning me alive.”



“That’s not a bad thing.”



“Said the flame to the moth.”



He must be wondering how he’d explain me to his friends and family, his work colleagues. I won’t change for him. If he wants me, I come with Gothic splendor. He has to love me enough not to care what other people think or how they feel about us together. I don’t know if Jesse has that much of a lawless streak in him.



I sure hope so.



And it’s not like I’m jailbait. I’m just not the girl anybody would pick for him.



“You seem to think I’m bent on your destruction.”



“Sometimes it feels that way. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s a bad idea, I close my eyes and see your face.”



“I’m good with that.”



Then I disconnect the call because I’m ready to turn it into something filthy, and I don’t think Jesse’s ready for that. I suspect he’d feel guilty if we had phone sex, which would set us back. I text him a good night, and then I handle my own needs, all the while conscious that he’s probably feeling everything I do. I consider how he might respond, and that’s enough to make me arch and quiver. Afterward, I’m glowing when I get his texted reply to my emotional message.



God, that was good.



For obvious reasons, I start all over again.



On Friday, I’ve been working for about four hours when I straighten up too close to the drink machine and whack my head. There’s a line of customers, and a few of them act like they might slip behind the stand to help me. Mark would throw a fit and probably fire me; I can hear him ranting about liability. God, training with him sucked so much.



Through sparkling vision, I mumble, “I’m fine, just give me a few seconds.”



I stumble through their service, and they’re all humane enough not to whine. I probably give them the wrong food and beverages, but I’m barely conscious. Afterward, it’s like that impact shook something loose—or broke it more likely—but now I’ve got this picture sitting in the front of my head.



From the outside, it looks like an Oriental trading company, a shop where they sell rugs, fans, and cute imported things. I see myself walking into the store, through the front, and into a private room in back. Here, it’s clearly an arcane supply house with wards, runes, wands, herbs, athames, and other rare spell components. Since I’m pretty sure I can’t cast spells, I can’t fathom what I was doing there. I get flashes, too, of the woman who accompanied me, but there’s a blank spot where her face should be, one I just can’t fill—and pushing ends with me crouched on the floor, cradling my head. Bumping it was painful, and I’ve got a lump rising; this is more of an iron spike through my frontal lobe.



Felix comes jogging over. “Damn, you okay? I heard that bang from across the way, over the whir of the milkshake machine.”



“You’re hilarious.”



“You don’t look good. Come on, sit down for a minute.”



I let him help me up and lead me out to the nearest table. Unless my vision clears up, there’s no way I can finish my shift. Which is unfortunate because the manager’s on vacation for two weeks. He’s been running the place with little help for months, not too surprising, given the uniforms and the pay. My hours might get cut once he comes home, but I’ll worry about that later. Like when my brain isn’t trying to leak out my ears.



“Is there anyone you can call to cover your shift?” Felix asks.



“Maybe.” It’s past three, so Tim, the high school boy who works on the weekends, might be able to come in. But we’re not supposed to swap hours without Mark’s approval. But I don’t give two craps about policy at the moment.



After a few seconds, I hobble back to the stand, the ache in my head subsided to a low roar, and I dig for the personnel roster. Soon I’m on the phone, begging Tim to save me. “I’ll work all day tomorrow for you, promise.”



“Deal,” he says.



Four hours for eight is a bargain. Despite working at Pretzel Pirate, Tim is no fool. He gets a free Saturday out of this arrangement. As I disconnect, a coworker calls Felix back to continue flipping burgers, and I dig the Yellow Pages out from beneath the counter, then look up the shop. I recall the name from the signage, and to my surprise, I find the listing. Huh. I tap the page. So it’s a real place downtown…and I’m not crazy. I enter the address in my phone and then use an online service to figure out what buses to take from here. I note that on my phone, too. Hopefully, if I make all the right connections, I’ll get there before closing time.



I can’t shake the certainty that it’s important. Honestly, that’s why I’m so set on getting out of here. I could finish work with a sore skull, but since Tim agreed to fill in, I’m heading out as soon as he shows; maybe the place will jog my memory. It only takes fifteen minutes for Tim to saunter in. He moves slow, but he’s a good worker, and he’s not annoying like Mark.