Chapter 6 Pros Play Hurt #2
“Because I’m not a machine,” he answered ruefully. “I couldn’t separate myself from the cases. I took everything home with me. And so, my mental health was suffering. I was fucking depressed. Getting too involved has brutal consequences,” he said. “I know I seem tough. But I’m mush.”
Her eyes scanned the athletic expanse of his frame, his strong hands, his broad back. “You? Come on, now.”
“I’m a sensitive soul! If I spend too much brain space dealing with violent boyfriends, evil foster parents, and sadistic stalkers, I get this intense need to burn the world down. I just wanted to embrace a chill, easier life.” He offered up a lazy smile. “Barbecue and Prozac help immeasurably.”
She gasped a little and matched his expression. “You too? Wes, it takes a hundred and twenty-five milligrams of Zoloft for me to walk out the front door.”
Wes lifted his iced coffee. “Here’s to Big Pharma.”
Sasha lifted hers, too. “And niche history podcasts.”
“Yeah? Which ones?”
“I’ll text you a list, but my true emotional support pod is Mobituaries. Each ep is about an interesting forgotten dead person. So mood-stabilizing.”
“Here’s to podcasts about notable corpses,” he declared. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
They picked up their coffees and clinked them together.
Then, they sat in silence for a few beats, sinking into the urban chorus of honking cars; middle school boys rough-housing; a smooth-ass older gentleman playing the maracas at the foot of the library steps.
It was one of those weirdly cool early summer days, when the sun’s beating down, but there’s also a crisp breeze.
Sasha shivered a bit, covering her arms with her hands.
Without hesitation, Wes reached into his knapsack for a hoodie, and handed it to her.
“Really?” she asked.
“Take it. I’m not gonna let you sit here freezing.”
With a grateful smile, she slipped on his sweatshirt. It was huge, so she folded up the sleeves.
“Thank you, friend.” Her words floated in the air as they sat there, quiet. Just two old acquaintances lost in their thoughts. And protecting their secrets.
“So when was your last case?” asked Sasha, breaking the silence. “What was the final straw?”
He let out a ragged exhale, like a person grown weary of carrying something heavy. And then, he faced her. “You.”
Of all the reasons Wes could’ve given, Sasha could never have predicted that she drove him out of the business. “Me? My case was your last?”
Wes focused again on the congested sidewalk traffic in front of the library. “The last and final.”
“What made you quit, though?”
“Too much to explain.”
“But I have all the time in the world. What happened? Was it because of . . . you know . . .” She trailed off. They both knew how the sentence would’ve ended anyway.
“No, no, no. You didn’t do anything.”
Yes I did, she thought. You know I did, and we’re both thinking about it right now.
“I just couldn’t be in business with my dad anymore,” he said.
“Long story short, never work with a parent.” He looked down at his cup.
“How come no one tells you that? That’d be a useful tip to get in your formative years.
I feel like I only got bullshit advice from teachers, coaches, et cetera.
I once had a professor, this famous Black female activist from the sixties.
She told me never to trust a white man with facial hair or a Black man without. ”
“False. Obama doesn’t have facial hair.”
“Neither do I! And I’m extraordinarily trustworthy.”
Realization hit Sasha, and yesterday’s ambush grew even more vivid than before. She groaned, dropping her face in her hands. “Now I get it. Of course you were thrown off, seeing me out of nowhere. Your last case. It must’ve been triggering.”
He shook his iced coffee. “Nah, you’re good. Truly. I was just unprepared to be pulled back into my old life.”
“You were in Natural Born Griller mode.”
Wes tilted his head, his expression slowly brightening. Then he bit down on a chuckle.
“What’s funny?” asked Sasha, confused.
“Hard R? Really?”
She yelped and burst out laughing.
“Natural Born Grill-ah,” he pronounced exaggeratedly. “Say it.”
“Grillahhh.”
“Close enough, Hilary Banks,” he said amiably, his shoulder against hers. Beaming, she knocked his back.
“So, Wes Dane,” she started, relieved that the tension had dissipated. “Thanks for asking me to meet you. And for meeting me here. I love the library, it’s like a set from an old black-and-white movie. So dramatic. I live right over there. See that high-rise?”
“You moved, huh? I remember you were in a brownstone. Second floor.”
“I felt safer with a doorman. For obvious reasons,” she responded. “So why’d you want to meet with me? If you’re no longer a detective and completely uninterested in my case.”
“’Cause I’m a nosy fuck.”
“Seat F piqued your interest, huh?”
“Definitely piqued yours,” he muttered, taking a gulp of iced coffee. “Look, I’m not committing to anything. I just want to ask you some questions.”
“Ask away.”
“What exactly do you know about him?”
“Welll . . . not much more than I told you. He’s about six feet tall, I think.
Rugged features. Scar at his temple, green eyes.
Half Italian, half German, but doesn’t know his German mother.
He grew up in the heel of Italy, in a beach town called Gallipoli.
He lives in SoHo about half the year. The rest of the time, he’s traveling for work.
No social media. And he works as a luxury hotel inspector. ”
“Luxury hotel inspector. I know a few of those guys. That’s an extremely high-paying job. If I’m not mistaken, they’re usually anonymous.”
“Which further complicates things.”
“It’s challenging to find a person when you don’t know his name and he uses an alias,” he conceded. “But not impossible. Not for me, at least.”
“Cocky,” she said, half-jokingly.
“You want an uncocky detective? That’s like a surgeon with tremors.” He tapped his bottom lip, wheels already turning. “And you feel like he was telling the truth? Being forthcoming? Because I gotta be honest with you. It’s sounding like Netflix murder doc behavior.”
“Look, I’ve seen all the Tinder Swindlers and Dirty Johns. And I’m the biggest skeptic. I always assume people are lying to me. But I can’t imagine him lying.”
“Don’t underestimate how banal it is to lie. I could walk with a limp for the rest of the day. Or talk with a Jamaican accent. Introduce myself as Dane Wesley. Lying is so easy.” He cocked his chin at her. “You should know.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
“You lead with a lie.”
“I do not. I always tell the truth.”
“You’re wearing a fake wedding ring.”
With a shocked gasp, she covered her left hand with her right. “How’d you know? No man has ever clocked it.”
“No fake is safe around me. It’s my job to spot them.” He stopped, and corrected himself. “Well, it was my job.”
“I swear he’s not a liar. You’re not the only one who knows their way around a fake. I deal with actors for a living, remember?”
“Good point.” Wes finished his coffee. “You really feel like he’s your guy?”
“Maybe I’m delusional, but I keep imagining him on the other side of the world, looking for me, too.”
“What happens when I find him?”
When. Not if.
“Find him first. Please find him. And then I’ll figure it out.”
Wes’s brow was stormy, his expression intense. He seemed torn. “I don’t know, Sasha. I just don’t know.”
“Wes . . .”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
“What?” Sasha almost launched herself into his arms. Luckily, she caught herself before logging her fifth humiliation in the past week. “Why? What changed your mind?”
Wes leaned back on his elbows, again, and fixed his eyes on hers. “Because I’m a romantic. And I want you to have a happy ending.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. There’s so much random horror in the world. Some days I feel like we’re all living on borrowed time. There’s no way to know what’s coming. If you have a chance at love, take it. And it sounds like you have a chance.”
Sasha’s smile started slowly, haltingly. And then it grew to a full beam.
“Thank you. Just . . . thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned, holding up a hand. “I’m rusty.”
“And what about your mental health?”
“Pros play hurt,” he said with a shrug.
Sasha chewed on her bottom lip, wondering now if she should back out of this whole thing. “I don’t want you to play hurt. I don’t want you to hurt at all. If this isn’t good for your mental health, I understand. Truly.”
“Don’t worry about me. Okay? I’m in therapy and I journal! I’m in A-plus emotional health.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Sasha exhaled then, her pulse quickening. “This is kind of exciting, isn’t it? It’s like the part in every thriller when the thief agrees to one last heist. Like Robert De Niro in Heat.”
“You remember the end of Heat?”
“No.”
“He got shot to death,” he noted dryly. “But here’s the thing. Finding Seat F for you feels full circle. Last time I helped you, it was for a dark reason. This is a hopeful reason. A positive reason. If I’m truly dedicated to living a lighter life, this is it.”
“So what do you usually do first when you’re looking for a missing soulmate?”
“Well, ECID,” responded Wes instantly.
“Is ECID some special process thing?”
“No, it means ‘Every Case Is Different.’ ”
“Ha! You’d love my friend Destiny.”
“But if we’re gonna do this, I have some rules, okay?” He crushed the cup in one hand and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. It gave her whiplash, how quickly and seamlessly his energy shifted from sweetie to dominant. “First off, I’m the boss. Understand?”
His tone was so stern, it surprised her.
In several titillating ways. She blinked, and then swallowed.
For a moment, she felt off-balance. Helplessly attracted.
Which was concerning. No. No. She realized that, to move forward with Wes on the case, she’d have to ignore the flutter in her stomach.
Or at least make peace with it being a purely physical thing—a slight inconvenience that couldn’t be helped.
“Yes,” she answered, finally. “You’re the boss.”
At this, the corner of his mouth quirked. “Don’t do your own investigating. I need to control every aspect of this process, Sasha. My rules. What I say, goes.”
“Got it.” She saluted him.
“Secondly, once I find out where Seat F is, I’ll meet with him, alone.
Under no circumstances can I bring you to him.
That’s illegal. He has the right to remain private or unfound, if that’s what he wants.
Instead, you’ll write him a letter that I’ll deliver to him.
In the letter, you’ll include your contact information and leave the ball in his court. Understand?”
“Got it. Yes. I knew about the letter from that reality show, Long Lost Family,” she said enthusiastically. “Ever watched it?”
“No,” he said simply. When discussing investigative matters, Wes was no-nonsense. “And there’s one more thing. Let’s not talk about the past. At all. Life only moves in one direction.”
“I agree, fully. I’ve moved on. And I don’t want to reopen everything.”
Her words “reopen everything” hung between them. In the silence, Wes’s eyes found hers. His gaze was impossibly black, deep, and unmoving, staining her like spilled ink. She tore her eyes away before she drowned. She knew too well how easy it was to get lost in his gaze.
She pressed her fingernails into her palm, bringing herself back to Earth.
“One last thing,” he noted. “We need to keep our relationship strictly professional.”
She blinked several times. “Well, of course.”
“No, not like that. I mean, we really shouldn’t even be friends. I crossed too many lines last time. And it had consequences.”
She understood where Wes was coming from, hypothetically. But she didn’t know how they weren’t going to be friends. It was their dynamic. How do you unring a bell? How do you neutralize natural chemistry—even the platonic kind? But, desperate for his help, she agreed.
They shook on it. And, thus, the case began.