I edged sideways through the crowd while Patch followed behind, tipping back a can of soda he’d bought on our way in. He’d offered to buy me one, but in my current state, I wasn’t sure I could hold it down.
There was no trace of Vee or Elliot at table tennis.
“Maybe they’re at the pinball machines,” Patch suggested. He was definitely making fun of me.
I felt myself go a little red in the face. Where was Vee?
Patch held out his soda. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”
I looked from the can to Patch. Just because my blood warmed at the thought of putting my mouth where his had been didn’t mean I had to tell him.
I dug through my purse and pulled out my cell. The screen on my phone was black and refused to turn on. I didn’t understand how the battery could be dead when I’d charged it right before I left. I pushed the on button again and again, but nothing happened.
Patch said, “My offer’s still on the table.”
I thought I’d be safer hitching a ride from a stranger. I was still shaken over what had happened on the Archangel, and no matter how many times I tried to flush it out, the image of falling repeated through my head. I was falling … and then the ride was over. Just like that. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever been through. Almost as terrifying, I was the only one who’d seemed to notice. Not even Patch, who’d been right beside me.
I smacked my palm to my forehead. “Her car. She’s probably waiting for me in the parking lot.”
Thirty minutes later I’d canvassed the entire lot. The Neon was gone. I couldn’t believe Vee had left without me. Maybe there’d been an emergency. I had no way of knowing, since I couldn’t check the messages on my cell. I tried to hold my emotions in check, but if she had left me, I had an ample amount of anger simmering under the surface, ready to spill out.
“Out of options yet?” asked Patch.
I bit my lip, pondering my other options. I had no other options. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I was ready to take Patch up on his offer. On an ordinary day he exuded danger. Tonight there was a potent mix of danger, threat, and mystery all thrown together.
Finally I blew out a sigh and prayed I wasn’t about to make a mistake.
“You’ll take me straight home,” I said. It sounded more like a question than an order.
“If that’s what you want.”
I was about to ask Patch if he’d noticed anything strange on the Archangel, when I stopped myself. I was too scared to ask. What if I hadn’t fallen? What if I’d imagined the whole thing? What if I was seeing things that weren’t really happening? First the guy in the ski mask. Now this. I was pretty sure Patch’s mindspeaking was real, but everything else? Not so sure.
Patch walked a few parking spaces over. A shiny black motorcycle rested on its kickstand. He swung on and tipped his head at the seat behind him. “Hop on.”
“Wow. Nice bike,” I said. Which was a lie. It looked like a glossy black death trap. I had never been on a motorcycle in my life, ever. I wasn’t sure I wanted to change that tonight.
“I like the feel of the wind on my face,” I continued, hoping my bravado masked my terror of moving at speeds upward of sixtyfive miles an hour with nothing standing between me and the road.
There was one helmet—black with a tinted visor—and he held it out for me.
Taking it, I swung my leg over the bike and realized how insecure I felt with nothing but a narrow strip of seat beneath me. I slid the helmet over my curls and strapped it under my chin.
“Is it hard to drive?” I asked. What I really meant was, Is it safe?
“No,” Patch said, answering both my spoken and unspoken questions. He laughed softly. “You’re tense.
Relax.”
When he pulled out of the parking space, the explosion of movement startled me; I’d been holding on to his shirt with just enough of the fabric between my fingers to keep my balance. Now I wrapped my arms around him in a backward bear hug.
Patch accelerated onto the highway, and my thighs squeezed around him. I hoped I was the only one who noticed.
When we reached my house, Patch eased the bike up the fogdrenched driveway, killed the engine, and swung off. I removed my helmet, balancing it carefully on the seat in front of me, and opened my mouth to say something along the lines of Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you on Monday.
The words dissolved as Patch crossed the driveway and headed up the porch steps.
I couldn’t begin to speculate what he was doing. Walking me to the door? Highly improbable. Then …
what?
I climbed the porch after him and found him at the door. I watched, divided between confusion and escalating concern, as he drew a set of familiar keys from his pocket and inserted my house key into the bolt.
I lowered my handbag down my shoulder and unzipped the compartment where I stored my keys. They weren’t inside.
“Give me back my keys,” I said, disconcerted at not knowing how my keys had come into his possession.
“You dropped them in the arcade when you were hunting for your cell,” he said.
“I don’t care where I dropped them. Give them back.”
Patch held up his hands, claiming innocence, and backed away from the door. He leaned one shoulder against the bricks and watched me step up to the lock. I attempted to turn the key. It wouldn’t budge.
“You jammed it,” I said, rattling the key. I dropped back a step. “Go ahead. Try it. It’s stuck.”
With a sharp click, he turned the key. Hand poised on the handle, he arched his eyebrows as if to say May I?
I swallowed, burying a surge of mutual fascination and disquiet. “Go ahead. You’re not going to walk in on anyone. I’m home alone.”
“The whole night?”
Immediately, I realized it might not have been the smartest thing to say. “Dorothea will be coming soon.” That was a lie. Dorothea was long gone. It was close to midnight.
“Dorothea?”
“Our housekeeper. She’s old—but strong. Very strong.” I tried to squeeze past him. Unsuccessfully.
“Sounds frightening,” he said, retrieving the key from the lock. He held it out for me.
“She can clean a toilet inside and out in under a minute. More like terrifying.” Taking the key, I edged around him. I fully intended to shut the door between us, but as I turned about, Patch filled the doorway, his arms braced on either side of the frame.
“You’re not going to invite me in?” he asked.
I blinked. Invite him in? To my house? With no one else home?
Patch said, “It’s late.” His eyes followed mine closely, reflecting a wayward glint. “You must be hungry.”
“No. Yes. I mean, yes, but—”
Suddenly he was inside.
I took three steps back; he nudged the door closed with his foot. “You like Mexican?” he asked.
“I—” I’d like to know what you’re doing inside my house!
“Tacos?”
“Tacos?” I echoed.
This seemed to amuse him. “Tomatoes, lettuce, cheese.”
“I know what a taco is!”
Before I could stop him, he strode past me into the house. At the end of the hall, he steered left. To the kitchen.
He went to the sink and ran the tap while scrubbing soap halfway up his arms. Apparently having made himself at home, he went to the pantry first, then browsed the fridge, bringing out items here and there
—salsa, cheese, lettuce, a tomato. Then he dug through the drawers and found a knife.
I suspect I was halfway to panicking at the image of Patch holding a knife when something else caught my eye. I took two steps forward and squinted at my reflection in one of the skillets hanging from the pot rack. My hair! It looked like a giant tumbleweed had rolled on top of my head. I clapped a hand to my mouth.
Patch smiled. “You come by your red hair naturally?”
I stared at him. “I don’t have red hair.”
“I hate to break it to you, but it’s red. I could light it on fire and it wouldn’t turn any redder.”
“It’s brown.” So maybe I had the teeniest, tiniest, most infinitesimal amount of auburn in my hair. I was still a brunette. “It’s the lighting,” I said.
“Yeah, maybe it’s the lightbulbs.” His smile brought up both sides of his mouth, and a dimple surfaced.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, hurrying out of the kitchen.
I went upstairs and coaxed my hair into a ponytail. With that out of the way, I pulled my thoughts together. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of Patch roaming freely through my house— armed with a knife. And my mom would kill me if she found out I’d invited Patch inside when Dorothea wasn’t here.
“Can I take a rain check?” I asked upon finding him still hard at work in the kitchen two minutes later. I placed a hand on my stomach, signaling that it was bothering me. “Queasy,” I said. “I think it was the ride home.”
He paused in his chopping and looked up. “I’m almost finished.”
I noticed he’d exchanged knives for a bigger—and sharper— blade.
As if he had a window to my thoughts, he held up the knife, examining it. The blade gleamed in the light. My stomach clenched.
“Put the knife down,” I instructed quietly.
Patch looked from me to the knife and back again. After a minute he laid it down in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Nora.”
“That’s … reassuring,” I managed to say, but my throat was tight and dry.
He spun the knife, handle pointing toward me. “Come here. I’ll teach you how to make tacos.”
I didn’t move. There was a glint to his eye that made me think I should be frightened of him … and I was. But that fright was equal part allure. There was something extremely unsettling about being near him. In his presence, I didn’t trust myself.
“How about a … deal?” His face was bent down, shadowed, and he looked up at me through his lashes.
The effect was an impression of trustworthiness. “Help me make tacos, and I’ll answer a few of your questions.”
“My questions?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant. He was giving me a glimpse into his private world. A world where he could speak to my mind. Again he knew exactly what to say, at exactly the right moment.
Without a word, I moved beside him. He slid the cutting board in front of me.
“First,” he said, coming behind me and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of mine, “choose your tomato.” He dipped his head so his mouth was at my ear. His breath was warm, tickling my skin.
“Good. Now pick up the knife.”
“Does the chef always stand this close?” I asked, not sure if I liked or feared the flutter his closeness caused inside me.
“When he’s revealing culinary secrets, yes. Hold the knife like you mean it.”
“I am.”
“Good.” Stepping back, he gave me a thorough twiceover, seemingly scrutinizing any imperfections—
