He did things to me. I was drawn to him like a fan-girl to an obsession.

And any lingering hopes that I hadn’t just fallen face first into a tire fire of nonsensical passion, fascination, and infatuation with him completely disappeared.

CHAPTER 19

Saturday Horoscope: You’ll find yourself on a rollercoaster of emotions today. It’s important to remember that you’re not the only one on the ride.

I woke up Saturday with an unexpected text from Thomas cancelling our lunch. He never cancelled our lunch—ever.

Can’t make lunch was all he texted.

It threw me for a loop.

I was being thrown in all kinds of loops lately.

I’d used Friday to return calls I’d missed—now that my cell phone was frequently without a battery—and made plans with several of my male friends over the coming weeks.

But I was still spinning in circles from Alex’s label of my talent. I didn’t like the word manipulative or the implication of it as a label. For me, manipulative meant calculated egocentric intent.

He could have used the word persuasive instead; however, I recognized that it would have been less accurate. I did manipulate people. My manipulation of them was calculated. I hid my thoughts in order to gain their trust and push them in the direction I felt best. And I did it unapologetically.

Eventually¸ I accepted that he hadn’t meant the word as an insult. I decided, after a great deal of contemplation, that his honesty demonstrated how little he understood about the social implications of semantics. His honesty was brutal and meant to challenge me, but not meant to hurt or wound me. Using the theory of Occam’s razor, I decided that the best explanation was the simplest: He didn’t know any better. He’d never been taught.

After the dinner and movie on Thursday, Alex had walked me home, kissed me senseless on the sidewalk, then sent me upstairs alone. I hadn’t been expecting cosmic orgasmic fiddle playing, but I was hoping for something more than zing kisses exclusively on my lips.

I wondered if it were time to resurrect the compelling red dress.

I spent my Saturday knitting, cleaning, and researching journal articles for an abstract I was working on. I wasn’t meeting Alex until late, as he had to work the dinner shift. We’d made plans via passing notes to meet at a small bar in Lincoln Park around eleven. He’d heard that a band he liked was playing there, and told me it would be loud and crowded.

I assumed that what he meant by loud and crowded was that we could have a conversation without being overheard. We still hadn’t discussed Agent Bell’s visit and her extensive interrogation of me, and my curiosity levels of how Alex would react to this news were reaching critical.

I dressed in high-heel boots, leggings, and a short green wool dress with three-quarter sleeves. It was snug and cute and kept me warm. The color also matched my eyes.

Unfortunately, it was mostly hidden by my bulky jacket.

The concert venue was crowded, but not too crowded. It was a dive bar in the Lincoln Park area. The main portion of it was underground. I thought I’d arrived first, but as I entered Alex stepped forward—again out the shadows—and grabbed my arm. He breathed out a sigh that would have been audible if the bar hadn’t been loud and crowded.

We crossed to the bar, pressing our way through the crush. Once there he removed my jacket and signaled to the bartender. The man immediately came over. Alex passed him my jacket, which the man took after glancing at me briefly and giving me a wink.

“Hey Alex, good to see you. Who’s the thermos?” The bartender lifted his chin toward me. The man was about my age or a little older, and every inch of his visible skin was covered in tattoos.

Thermos? I hoped it was a compliment.

Alex frowned, then responded to the bartender. “This is my girlfriend.”

Despite the absurdity of it, I liked how possessive he sounded. At the same time, I was annoyed. Apparently, introducing me by my name either hadn’t occurred to him or came second to marking his territory.

The bartender snorted. “Yeah, kind of figured that out. But does she have a name?”

I stuck my hand over the bar to shake his. “No. That’s my name.” I winked at him. “And I’m assuming your name is Bartender?”

He glanced from it to me then wiped his own on a towel at his waist before accepting the handshake, a big smile on his face. “Yep. That’s me. Dr. Bartender.”

Alex grimaced good-naturedly, and; then, with an eye roll, corrected his faux pas. “Sandra, this is George. George, this is Sandra.”

“Sexy Sandra.” George winked at me.

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

George and Alex both laughed, though Alex placed his hands on my waist. I saw George’s brown eyes skim over what was visible of my body before returning to my face.

“What can I get you, gorgeous?”

I ordered a gin and tonic, and George disappeared to grab my drink.

I glanced around us, noting that the ceiling was so low that Alex could probably touch it if he raised his hand above him.

“So, what does thermos mean?” I lifted an eyebrow, inspecting Alex’s face for clues. “Tell me the truth. I can take it.”

He leaned close, and his hands slipped from my waist, over my bottom, and down to my thighs. He lifted the hem of my short green dress, and I felt his hot fingers on the backs of my legs through my leggings. “It means hot, but all bottled up.”

I scrunched my nose at this news then glanced around us. When I did so, I understood why I’d been pinned with this label. Skimpy dresses, half-bared bosoms in black bras, and titillating tights were everywhere.

“You should have told me not to dress like a thermos,” I responded after pursuing the crowd. “I could have dressed appropriately. I even have a shirt for the occasion.”

His lips quirked to the side. “What does it say?”

“It’s a black tank top, torn at the midriff, that says Ask me about my daddy issues.”

Alex guffawed, burying his head in my neck as his fingers gripped my legs and pulled me closer. “No way!” he said, catching his breath. “Tell me you do not have a T-shirt like that!”

“It’s not a T-shirt, actually. It’s a tank top.”

George returned with my drink, and Alex’s hands fell away, much to my infinite regret. He nodded once to George then handed me my beverage. He lifted his chin toward the stage to encourage me to enjoy the music.

So I did. We walked a little ways closer to the small, haphazard stage. His hands found their way to my hips, gripped me there, and cradled my bottom against his pelvis. We danced to the music, swaying our h*ps and rubbing against each other like grabby teenagers.

It was torture. I was getting worked up into a frenzy, and no relief was in sight.

Regardless, I was impressed with the band. They were quite good. At first, I thought they were a very talented cover group for Robot Mafia—Robot Mafia being a bit of a punk band/a lot of a rock-n-roll band that had recently become the focus of every teenage girl’s Tumblr account. I came to this initial conclusion because they looked the same, sounded the same, and their music was very similar.

However, on closer inspection after the second song, I realized they were the real Robot Mafia.

My mouth fell open, as I was wont to do when shocked, and spun on Alex. He grinned and shrugged.

I stood on my tiptoes to reach his ear. “Why are they playing at such a small place? I can’t believe more people aren’t here.”

He shouted back. “It’s a secret concert! They’re playing songs from their new album.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I can’t tell you all my secrets.”

I scoffed. “You don’t tell me any of your secrets.”

This earned me a wicked, crooked grin—and a flash of dimple—but he said nothing. I rolled my eyes and gave him a teasing smile, and turned my back to rock in his arms again.

He dipped his lips to my ear. “Tell me what happened, with Bell.” Then he placed a biting kiss where my neck met my shoulder.

I inhaled a steadying breath, tried to ignore his hand on my backside, and turned in his arms. “She, uh, showed up on the peds ICU floor—intensive care unit—and basically told me to come with her if I wanted to live.”

“She what?” His head snapped backward.

“Sorry.” I brought his ear back to my mouth, “Sorry, movie reference. It’s from The Terminator.”

“Okay.” He wrapped his arms completely around me. “What happened next?”

I settled against him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other against his chest, my mouth next to his ear. To the best of my ability, I attempted to recount word-for-word my encounter with Agent Bell. Some of it was lost in the sounds of the crowd and the music surrounding us.

But he heard and seemed to like the news that Quinn’s building security measures nullified their spying attempts. I may have confused some of the bitcoin conversation, and caught myself going off on a tangent about why Tom Cruise was always running in the movies he was in.

When I arrived at the part where Agent Bell mentioned the other woman—the one they’d tried using for information before—Alex stiffened and rested his head against my shoulder.