Chapter 8
Electra
Cillian’s appearance throws me. He looks nothing like the man in the tux I met last night, or the easygoing teacher in sweatpants from this morning. How many faces can one person wear?
And yes, part of the effect stems from the absence of his glasses. But it’s also the scars marking the exposed span of his skin. I count five across his chest alone: one carved by a blade, the others left by bullets.
I trail my gaze over the plum gym towel knotted around his waist, for no other reason than to spot more blemishes.
“I wasn’t expecting a conjugal visit in the workplace.” Cillian steps off the shower step.
One of my eyebrows hooks up in response to his randy comment. “If I’d wanted a quickie, there are several other destinations I would’ve gone to before coming to you.”
He rubs his pec, tightening the tiny pink bud of his nipple. “Ouch.”
“I brought you lunch.” I tap the paper bag before leaning back and crossing my legs, the neon washing them in red. “What’s with all the scars? Are you part of some dance gang?”
He grazes the waxy blemish at his hipbone. Though I observe it, my stare eventually ventures toward the dark trail arrowing beneath the rolled waistband of the towel. In my defense, it’s at eye level.
“I lived on the street for a while,” he finally says. “But this one—” He taps the knife scar. “This one I got in juvie.”
My neck cracks from how fast I look up. “Juvie? You—Cillian Lowry—went to jail?”
“Not something I’m proud of.”
Talk about misreading a person. Never in a million years would I have pegged this man as a capital offender. “What crime did you commit?”
“I stole insulin from a pharmacy.” He pads closer to me, leaving large, wet footprints behind. “And not just once. Repeat offenders don’t get to atone with community service.”
Instead of sitting, he just stands there, close enough that I can smell the soap he used and spot a tiny smear of foam in between his left ribs. “Were you running some underground med shop?”
“No.” He slices a hand through his locks, making his bicep bulge. I suspect he could inflict a lot of damage with those muscles. “I was trying to save my diabetic sister’s life.”
My pulse twangs. “You have a sibling?”
“Had. The second time I was caught, I was convicted and sent to jail. My detention lasted a week. I kept asking the cops to check on her. They told me they didn’t have time for social work. When I got out—” His Adam’s apple jostles. “When I got out, it was too late.”
Well, fuck.
A deep sigh spreads his ribs as he finally drops onto the bench beside me and manspreads. “Not much worse in this world than losing the person you love the most. Especially when you’re the reason for it.”
“How is her death even a little bit your fault?”
“Because, if I’d stopped at taking only the insulin, I would’ve made it out of there and back to her before the cops could show up. But I took the time to fill up my duffel bag with pens, paints, and notebooks, because art is my sister’s—” His mouth tightens. “Was her passion.”
Silence settles between us, as thick as the steam that’s only just dissipating.
Even though Cillian didn’t ask how I found him, I volunteer the information. “Diego told me where you worked.”
“I’m surprised Casey let you into the employee locker room.”
Casey must be the woman at the front desk.
To avoid getting into the magical nitty-gritty of it, I fish one of the paper-wrapped sandwich halves from the paper bag. “Here.”
Cillian’s eyebrows flex as he takes my offering. “You brought me food?”
“I had an ulterior motive.”
“We said dinner.” At my frown, he adds, “This doesn’t count as the meal you owe me. Right?”
“I didn’t even think of that…” I grab my half of the sandwich, unwrap it, then split it open to check whether the restaurant removed the pickles as I asked.
They didn’t.
As I pinch them out and dump them inside the takeout bag, I say, “I hear you live in your car.”
Cillian chews, jaw moving deliberately as though he were trying to delay answering. Finally, he says, “Not many people want to put you on the payroll when you’ve done jail time.”
“Except juvie records are sealed, aren’t they?”
His pupils seem to grow smaller, sharper, as though I’ve caught him in a lie. “You want the truth?”
“No, tell me another lie. I’m such a die-hard fan of those.”
He lowers the sandwich, hovering it over his lap, and turns his head to look at me. “I don’t like the system. I don’t trust the system. Not after what they did to me. I live in my car in order to leave at a moment’s notice and take my salary under the table so it remains mine, and mine alone.”
I study his face, scanning for the telltale signs of deceit. This time, I spot none. “You’re a surprising person, Cillian Lowry.”
“Do you like surprises, Miss Serran?”
What he’s really asking isn’t lost on me. He wants to know if I like the face he’s just revealed.
“Positively loathe them.” I take another bite of my sandwich. After I swallow, I ask, “Where do you sleep? In the backseat?”
“If you give me a few minutes to get dressed, I’ll show you to my living quarters.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but I don’t tour parking lots with strangers.” I chomp off another bite of my lunch.
He rests his head back against the wall, the neon pinkening the tips of his ears and the prominence of his abs. “How much more do I have to share before I graduate from stranger to friend?”
“Friend? You’ll never get there. You might hit acquaintance, though.” I toss my bread stump into the paper bag, then dust my fingers and stand. I feel his eyes on me. “Are you wearing contacts?”
“No.”
“Do you need glasses?”
“If I want the edges of things to stay where they belong, yes.”
“So I look like a watercolor right now?”
“You look like the woman I want to drive off into the sunset with.”
My eyelids spasm. “Does that line ever work?”
“Not a line.” He smiles, a curve of lips that is not shy. Not Cillian Lowry. “A dream.”
“Best lay that one to rest.” I start toward the lockers, my skin feeling tight. “When I need you, I’ll call.”
And then I press out of the locker room doors, marching right past Carlos and his coach buddy who did as I compelled them to do. Right past the receptionist. It’s only once I reach the pavement that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I haul Malachi’s earlier words into focus. Lowry must have an angle, for no one could be attracted to an unfriendly bitch like me.
As I snap my sunglasses in place, a theory emerges and strengthens into a certainty—Cillian must be playing a long con, acting disinterested to better extort me down the road.
My theory grows claws.
By the following evening, I’m so riled up that, before dinner at Lisa’s, I stop by Logan’s across the street for happy hour. The crowd there is always lively and always eclectic—a mix of grad students, future suburbanites, and finance guys.
Most men wear button-downs and bespoke suits, the kind that suggest real closets—not a car trunk. And yeah, Cillian wore a tux at the gala, but that was probably a rental.
I fluff my hair to conceal my runes, roll up the sleeves of my black denim jacket, then beeline for the counter, determined to prove that I can flirt and land a man without displaying where I come from and who I’m related to.