Love Hacked

“Really?”

My phone chose that moment to ring; I retrieved it, glanced at the screen. It was Devon, one of my first-date potentials turned platonic friend. He probably wanted to talk to me about picking out furniture for his new place; he’d been pressuring me to help him decorate. I made a mental note to call him back then returned the phone to my bag.

“Not important?” Alex’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in toward me and peered down at my bag.

“Um....” I twisted my lips to the side, not sure how to answer.

“So it was important, but you just….”

“Everyone is important. It’s just that the call wasn’t urgent.”

Alex slow nodded, peering at me as though I were something new. “I see.”

“Sorry.” I reached for the phone and set it to airplane mode. “I’ll turn it off. Now, where were we?”

“Clothes,” he said.

“Clothes?”

“More specifically, where’s the red dress?”

“At home.” I shrugged, “Probably making out with my flannel shirt.”

He laughed, and it was something magical. For a brief moment, I was ensnared by the sound. I’d heard him laugh before—with a hint of sinister last Friday and a note of nervousness on Tuesday—but this was something new.

My heart constricted. My stomach fluttered. I was enthralled, swept up and away. He had a remarkable laugh, and I loved it more than I loved the sound of his voice.

The laugh tapered slowly, but his large smile remained. “You’re pretty witty.”

“I think you meant to say, ‘You’re pretty and witty.’”

“No. I said what I meant.”

“I don’t think I can approve of that response.” I tried not to smile but failed, even though by all accounts I ought to have been offended.

That’s right, he was one of those guys—the kind that make you think in awkward run-on sentences: those guys who you talk to and you’re mentally undressing and you suspect he’s doing the same thing to you because you’re both smiling, and neither of you knows why, and you can’t seem to stop.

“You can’t approve of me calling you witty? Would you prefer to be a dullard?”

“A dullard? Where’d you pick that word up, the nineteenth century?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I read a lot.”

“What do you read?”

“Mostly books on global currency theory, algorithms for predicting tertiary structures, and James Joyce.”

I narrowed my eyes and wrinkled my nose at his ridiculousness. “You are allowed to tell me the truth once in a while. I won’t be offended.”

“Yes, but you might make me cry.”

I hit him on the shoulder and appealed to the heavens. “Why am I even here?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I’m pretty and witty?”

“That must be it.” I teased, and gave him a little shove. “Even though I’m only witty.”

Alex stepped closer to me and crowded my personal space, dipping his head so that mere inches separated our lips. “You’re not only witty.”

I cast him a suspicious glare though my heart quickened. “Let me guess: I also have a really great personality.”

“Actually, yes, you do.” He sounded maddeningly sincere.

“And you want to be friends.”

“Absolutely. That sounds great. We should give that a try.” He sounded delightfully sarcastic.

“No thanks. I have plenty of male friends.”

“No, you have plenty of mental patients.” His voice was laden with challenge, and I thought I discerned something like resentment flicker behind his eyes.

Someone cleared his throat behind us, breaking the moment. We both turned our heads to find a gap between our stagnant position and the couple in line before us.

Alex placed his hand on my back, but then stuffed it in his pocket instead and motioned for me to walk in front of him. “The line is moving. We should go.”

“Where are we going? What is this? Should I know anything first? Should I have anything prepared?”

“Wait, wait…don’t tell me,” he said.

I screwed my neck around to peer at him. “Don’t tell you what, Mr. Ninja? You’re the one who told me to come to Chase Bank and get in line.” He was smirking at the floor as though laughing at a private joke.

“Wait, wait…don’t tell me. That’s where we’re going.” He said.

“What are you talking about?”

He pressed his lips together to keep a smile from eating his face and pointed upward as we entered the building. My gaze followed, and I read a sign that was just now visible:

Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me, the NPR News Quiz

Chase Auditorium

Brought to you by WEBZ, Chicago

My mouth fell open with surprise, and this time he did put his hand on my back to usher me forward, likely so my standing dumbly in the center of the lobby wouldn’t interrupt the other ticketholders’ progress to the auditorium.

I allowed him to guide me for a few steps while I absorbed my shock. This was not at all what I was expecting. I listened to this radio show on National Public Radio many, many times. It was, in a word, hilarious. I even knew it was taped in front of a studio audience of about five hundred people at the Chase Auditorium in downtown Chicago.

That Alex listened to it, appreciated it, and had tickets to attend it seemed so beyond my understanding of reality that I was having difficulty putting two thoughts together.

This is what was happing in my brain: How… how… how… how… what?

Therefore, Alex navigated us to our seats, turned me toward him, unzipped my coat, and removed it from my shoulders—like I was a child—all while I attempted to make sense of the situation.

His subtle intake of breath when he saw my shirt for the first time roused me somewhat from my brain stutter. I blinked up at him. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time, like clouds had parted and revealed this person I didn’t actually know anything about.

But he wasn’t looking at my face.

Oh, no.

He was looking at my boobs.

Oh, yes.

I glanced down at myself, the tight fitting shirt, the chain and teasing heart locket nestled just above and between my shameless display of cle**age and back up at him.

Alex’s eyes met mine, his hands fisted in my coat, and it was my turn to hold my breath.

The only word I could think of to describe his glare was savage. He wasn’t trying to hide it either. The sentiment was focused, as though he were endeavoring to impart something of importance with just his eyes. The raw expression spoke volumes, and I was forced to take an unsteady swallow to clear my throat.

I wasn’t dense. I understood that he wanted me. From the looks of it, he wanted me right now, in this auditorium, on this chair, in front of this crowd. But I didn’t know what else—if anything—was going on behind that indigo stare.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t yet decipher his thoughts, not entirely.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I tried to diffuse the moment with humor.

“Wait, wait—don’t tell me,” I gave him a self-deprecating smile. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

He shook his head, but didn’t speak.

“Ah! Then—wait, wait…don’t tell me.” I lifted my index finger and pressed it thoughtfully to my chin. “You want to amend your earlier statement.”

He gave me a studied look then tossed my coat over the back of my seat, shrugged out of his windbreaker, sat down, and placed it on his lap. Staring straight ahead, he asked, “What statement is that?”

I sat down and then leaned toward him. “The one where you said I was only witty.”

“I never said that. If you remember, I said you weren’t only witty.”

“Wait, wait…don’t tell me, you also said I had a great personality.”

He laughed lightly, which sounded strained, but he kept his gaze studiously forward. “You’re going to make wait-wait-don’t-tell-me jokes all night, aren’t you?”

I leaned over the armrest, my shoulder brushing his, and rebutted, “Wait, wait…don’t tell me; you don’t think they’re funny?”

He straightened in his chair and stiffened; his hands gripped the armrests, and the muscle in his jaw ticked. He wasn’t smiling. “No. I think they’re funny.”

I lowered my voice to a seductive whisper, “Wait, wait—don’t tell me; you’re thinking about….”

Alex grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lap, under his coat. He pressed my palm between his legs and against what could have been a long, steel pipe. Either he carried one in his pocket or he was very happy to see me.

I sucked in a breath and stifled a squeak. He leveraged my position—I was basically leaning in front of him and over his lap—to whisper in my ear.

“Please be quiet. I need a minute here.”

On instinct, my fingers tensed. This caused him to hiss.

“Sorry.” I said, also on instinct.

“Sandra….” he said. Actually, he moaned-growled-panted it.

ZING.

We sat like that, in silence, for maybe a full minute while National Public Radio listeners found their seats and chatted around us. The thought of removing my hand didn’t occur to me once during this time. It wasn’t until Karl Casell’s voice came over the speaker that I gathered a steadying breath and whispered, “Alex…let go of my hand.”