A date with danger, p.16
A Date with Danger, page 16
Damon glances around again as though some might materialize.
“We sell soap.” She points at an array of detergents on the shelf behind her. “What kind would you like?”
“The cheap one.” Damon walks up to the counter.
The girl sets a generic box in front of him and says, “That’ll be $9.99.”
“Ten bucks?” Damon gasps. He holds up the box. “This’ll barely wash a pair of socks!”
The girl shrugs in a way that clearly says, “Not my problem,” and after a moment Damon pulls out his wallet, cursing under his breath. I stifle a giggle.
Once he’s paid for the soap, the girl asks, “You got quarters?”
He grits his teeth. “I forgot them. Can I get some change?”
“Sure.” She pops open the cash drawer. “Exchange fee is two dollars.”
“Two—” Damon bites off his response and hands her a five-dollar bill. She pours the coins into his hand, and with a sharp, “Thank you,” he slouches to the closest machine.
“This machine costs $3.50 a load?” he says incredulously. “I’m fifty cents short. Do you have any change?”
I dump out my wallet and search the crevices of my purse but find only twenty-nine cents. “We have to get more change, I guess.”
His expression turns dark, but he nods curtly and strolls back to the counter. “Hello again.”
Dreads holds up a finger, tapping her sneakers on the counter as she reads an article in her magazine. At last she finishes, sets it aside, looks up, and says, “Hey.”
“Hi.” Damon smiles, leaning against the counter in a calculated way.
He’s flirting with her, I realize. He’s trying to use his charm. Normally this kind of thing would irk me, but in this situation I find it highly amusing.
“I underestimated the price,” he says, dropping his voice to an intimate decibel and giving her a mysterious little smile. “Could I get some more change?”
She smiles back. “Sure.”
“Great.” He lightly touches the back of her hand. “Thanks so much.”
Her smile widens. “Exchange fee is two dollars.”
Damon stares. “I’m only fifty cents short!”
“Bummer.” She nods. “Two dollars.”
He rips his wallet out of his pocket, muttering a little more loudly this time, and slaps a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“Oh, I can’t change that, sir,” the girl says. “It’s too big for my till.”
“I only have twenties left. What do you expect me to do?”
“Well, if you were to purchase say, some candy and spend about five dollars, then it would be a more reasonable amount for me to give change for.”
“Five dollars in candy?” he repeats.
She motions to the selection of candy bars in front of the register. “The Mike and Ikes are quite nice.”
“Fine.” He grabs a random handful of bars and tosses them on the counter.
“One more, I think,” Dreads instructs, and he practically hurls a Twix in her face. She gives him change, including a dollar’s worth of quarters.
This time he fully snaps, “Thank you,” before turning away from the counter.
He stalks back to his machine, tosses in the shirt, selects a setting, pours in about half the meager box of detergent, and shoves quarters into the slot. The machine churns to life, and only then, when his shirt is soaked, does the girl clear her throat.
When we look over she’s pointing at another sign: No shoes, no shirt, no service.
“You have got to be kidding!” Damon explodes.
Dreads motions to the display to the right of the counter. “We do have Larry’s Laundromat T-shirts for sale.”
Five minutes later I’m sitting on a dryer next to Damon, who’s slumped, his expression murderous, in a tiny pink T-shirt with little dresses and bikinis on a clothesline across the front. They were out of men’s shirts. Of course, Dreads didn’t reveal that until he’d already paid the thirty dollars.
I’m sniggering silently, my hands pressed over my mouth.
“Stop laughing,” he snaps without looking over.
“I’m not,” I choke out.
“I can feel it—you’re shaking the whole dryer.”
“At least they had women’s sizes and not just the kiddie left.”
“What’s the difference?” He pulls on the hem, which still remains stubbornly above his navel. “What kind of woman could actually wear this?”
“The kind who only eats celery. There are lots of them.”
“This place is a serious racket.” He glances toward the counter. “That girl should be in high-stakes sales. She’d make a killing.”
“Seems like she does fine for herself here.” As he continues to pout, I turn toward him, tucking my feet under me. “Come on, now. It’s not so bad. At least we have a lot of candy to keep us going.”
“True.” He places the pile of bars between us, and I select a Kit Kat.
“And be glad I’m not one of those crazy social networking girls. They’d have plastered your picture all over Twitter by now.”
“Yes, thank you for your mercy.” He rolls his eyes. After a moment he picks up a Snickers and tears into it. “Is this what it’s like being a girl?”
“Eating chocolate and feeling sorry for yourself?” I nod. “Pretty much.”
He glances around, chewing. “It’s been years since I was in a Laundromat.”
“Really? I’m in one every week. Living the dream!”
“You know, sometimes I think I missed out. I tore through college so fast. Got done in three years and then went on to the academy. I never did the regular school thing.”
“Bad apartments, walking eight blocks with a full laundry basket, living off peanut butter and crackers. It’s an experience.”
“You’ve done it the fun way.”
“I don’t know about that. Most people my age graduated about three years ago.”
“What’s taken you so long?”
I shrug and fold the empty wrapper into sections. “I didn’t want to rush it. I love learning, corny as that is. And I took off a couple of semesters here and there to work or just hang around. I don’t know. I’ve sort of liked just doing it.”
“You’re the free spirit type?”
“Not really. I definitely have to have some kind of destination. I just haven’t minded taking a while to get there.”
“And what is the destination?”
“Grad school, maybe. I could just become a perpetual student. At least that would be picking something. Oh my gosh!” I seize a small white packet. “You got Fun Dip!”
“Is that a good thing?”
I stare at him, aghast. “You’ve never had Fun Dip?”
“No.”
“Oh! I mourn for your childhood.” I tear off the top of the packet and break the white dipping stick in half, presenting him with the bigger part. “Here.”
He stares at it like I’m offering him a vial of small pox. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You dunk it in the sugar stuff and lick it off.” When he hesitates, I add, “It’s delicious!”
After a moment he dips the stick into the blue powder and slowly licks it clean, looking utterly uncomfortable.
“Well?” I ask.
He’s nodding slowly. “It’s all right.”
I roll my eyes. “You can never just compliment anything, can you?”
When I go to dip my stick, he pulls the powder away. “Whoa, whoa. We share the same sugar?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
He stares at me like I’ve asked to share his vaccination needle. “Our saliva will get all mixed up.”
I snort. “So what? I’m sure you’ve swapped saliva with plenty of women in your time.”
He doesn’t deny it but hedges, “This is different.”
“Yeah, it’s probably more sanitary, and you won’t have to debate about calling me tomorrow.” I point at the packet. “Come on.”
After a long minute, he relinquishes the powder.
“Now, was that so difficult?” I ask. “Sheesh. You’re a special agent, and you’re scared of a little saliva?”
“I’m serious about personal hygiene.”
“We get so weird about that as adults. Kids share suckers and ice cream cones and never think twice about it.”
Damon nods, deadpan. “And that’s how herpes started.”
I laugh and dribble blue drool. “You’re a bit of a pessimist, aren’t you?”
“I just like to keep to myself.”
“You mean you keep yourself safe. From germs, emotions . . .” I trail off, scooping more sugar, but I stop when I notice Damon’s expression—half surprise, half annoyance. “Sorry. Just making an observation.”
He makes a noncommittal noise and hesitantly dips into the powder again. He looks like he really thinks he might contract the plague while he eats.
“You’re very buttoned-up, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Says the girl who eats the same thing every day for lunch.”
“Well, I’m boring, right? We established that pretty early on.”
He’s cleaning blue powder off his fingers. “You’ve really got to get over that.”
“One doesn’t forget spot-on insults from strangers very fast.”
“All I meant was you live a quiet life. It’s admirable, really.”
“Sure, because you value order. But quiet and buttoned-up can be different. I may be a quiet person, but I have a loud personality.”
Damon cocks his head. “Sometimes I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I mean—do you ever do anything besides work in your suits and go to the post office in your suits and run on the treadmill in your suits . . . ?”
“It’s work attire.”
“Yeah, but are you ever not working?”
“Of course. I have hobbies. I go on dates.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “I can just imagine the kind of women you date.”
He leans forward and folds his hands. “Do tell.”
“The kind of girl who wears blouses every day. You know, not like a shirt but a blouse, with buttons and a collar and everything. A very serious scholar, perhaps, with her hair in a bun. Maybe she plays the flute and has an interest in ancient Mayan artifacts, and for fun she likes to go to the museum and then to a tofu bar.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that kind of girl.”
“No, absolutely not. In some ways I’d like to be more like that girl. But she’s just so wrong for you.”
“Because?”
“Because people who are too much alike cancel each other out. You can’t have two people saying, ‘Hey, let’s go to the museum today’ because then where’s the challenge? How do you ever grow with that person?”
“Maybe being alike means you can grow faster in the same direction.”
I’m shaking my head. “There’s a reason opposites attract. Opposites push each other. They balance.”
“So who do I need?”
“I don’t know.” I’m chomping on my candy stick now. “Someone more relaxed and whimsical—silly even. Someone to make you chill and to bring a little lightness into your heavy work.”
“Someone like you?” He’s looking at me in that unreadable way, and I feel my cheeks color.
“No.” I laugh, hastily reaching for a Twix. “No, I’m way too much fun for you. You need someone slightly more buttoned.”
“Then opposites don’t attract?”
I look up, and he’s still watching me evenly. Is he trying to say—? “You tell me,” I challenge, feeling my stomach clench. I brush my hair back and give him full view of my face. “How does the average slacker look to you?”
“I don’t know about the average slacker,” he says, “but you are beautiful.”
I draw back, surprised, and try to open the candy bar with fumbling fingers.
“Now who’s being guarded?” he asks, his voice a little softer.
“You caught me off guard,” I admit, still struggling with the foil.
“Because I called you beautiful? Do you not hear that very often?”
“Not a lot, no.” What is this wrapper—childproof?
He takes the bar from me, his fingers lingering on mine, and I feel an electric current at his touch. Stupid attraction. He opens it easily and hands me one stick, keeping the other.
“Hoarding, are you?”
“Sharing,” he corrects. Damon takes a bite, his eyes never leaving mine.
I finally demand, “What?”
He chuckles. “You’re really not comfortable with people finding you attractive, are you?”
“I haven’t had much practice.”
“I doubt that. Guys are attracted to you; you just can’t see it.”
“How would you know they’re attracted to me?”
“I watch you interact with people. Believe me, there have been guys looking. Although I’ve noticed for such a fun person you sure can’t flirt.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say, affronted. “I can flirt. You’ve just never seen me turn it on.”
“I haven’t?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He clears the candy from between us and faces me. “Go.”
I blink. “What?”
“You said you can flirt. Go ahead. Show me your mad skills.”
“No!” I laugh, cheeks burning again. “I’m not doing that!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird when you put me on the spot. It has to happen naturally.”
He’s nodding. “Or maybe you’re just incapable.”
“Oh, fine!” I take several deep breaths and shake out my shoulders like an actor prepping for a big scene; then I look at him. He’s watching me with a smug look. Little punk.
I smile my most mysterious smile and toss my hair back the way I see girls do. “Damon,” I say, my voice husky. I touch his arm, running my fingers up to his shoulder. For good measure I toss my hair again and a chunk sticks to my lip gloss. I try to subtly spit it off and end up sputtering everywhere. When finally I pull it free, I have to scrape gloss off the strands with my fingernails. Eventually I smile at him again, refocused. “Damon,” I repeat and try to play idly with his hair. “You’re so . . .”
His eyebrows are up, expectant.
I cock my head, trailing my fingers in his sideburns. “You’re so very . . .”
He squints as though he can see how blank my brain is.
I drop my hand and scoot back, scowling. “Fine. I can’t flirt.”
“Keep going.” He chuckles. “I’m waiting to hear what ‘You’re so very’ leads up to.”
“I don’t know! That’s the problem. I don’t know what you’re supposed to say. Or do. I fail at hair flipping.”
“Hair flipping is kind of overrated anyway. More often than not you get hit in the eye.”
“No wonder I’m still single,” I grumble, reaching for more candy. “I’m the only woman who was born with a faulty flirter.”
“Not the only one. There are a lot of unfortunate souls like you.”
“You make me sound like a mutant.”
He shrugs. “It’s just odd to me. Flirting seems so natural.”
“To you maybe. You don’t even have to try. It’s like—” I roll the sleeves of my sweater up to my elbows and badly imitate him: “I’m Damon. I’m brooding and boyish, and I have a beautiful jawline.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Beautiful jawline?”
“You know—that’s what you think of yourself.”
“Actually I’ve never given much thought to my jawline, let alone called it beautiful.” He smiles that ridiculous crooked smile. “You must be the one who likes my jaw.”
“I’ve never even noticed your jaw.”
“You must have since you commented on it.”
“Fine. You have a lovely jaw. Happy?”
“Just surprised that you’ve been ogling me.”
“Puh-lease,” I scoff. “I have not ogled you.”
“My beautiful jawline would say otherwise.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I stuff a Nut Roll in my mouth. “I can’t flirt. I’ll die alone. End of story.”
“You could be taught.”
“What?” A peanut falls out of my mouth. “To flirt?”
“Sure.”
“What’re we—gentlemen in a forties movie?”
“It’s not that hard,” he presses. “It’s about being intent.”
“Intent?”
“Your focus on the other person. If a guy keeps serious eye contact with you,” he pauses, just watching me for several long moments, “he’s interested in you.”
My gut tightens. “I see.”
“If he’s watching you, focused as he speaks to you, and if he looks for some reason to touch you . . .” He reaches out and skims my knee with his fingertips. “That’s flirting.”
I try to swallow, making some kind of gurgling noise in my throat.
His eyes haven’t moved from mine. “You try it.”
“Me?” I laugh.
“You. Pretend we’ve just met.” He doesn’t move back at all but holds out his hand in the small space between us. “Hi, there. I’m Damon.”
I glance down at his hand then remember the eye contact thing and look up again. I take his hand in both of mine, saying, “Hi, Damon. Jack.”
He keeps my hand and my gaze. “Interesting name, Jack.”
“Well, you know what they say.” I laugh lightly, dropping our hands to the dryer but still holding on.
He seems to have moved closer. “What do they say?”
I can barely breathe, but I force myself to keep my gaze steady. “You know? A rose by any other name.”
He leans in, his face in my hair, and inhales. “Would smell as sweet,” he murmurs.
