Chapter Two
After three classes and a lab today, I decide to swing by the dining hall and grab an early dinner to go. Putting my crackers and fruit in my bag, I munch on my sub sandwich on my way across campus. I should probably sit down and have an actual dinner like a civilized person, but I'm not out here trying to impress anyone.
Just as I think that, a small bit of tomato drops off the sandwich onto the front of my shirt. I roll my eyes, feeling like the universe can hear inside of my head. Flicking off the bit of food, I wipe the spot, hoping it'll dry and not look gross.
By the time that I make it to my target, the sandwich is gone. Stuffing the paper into the trash can outside of the cafe, I walk inside. Morton isn't behind the counter, but I recognize the girl that is. She's nice, too, only without Morton's memory. Giving her my order, I go find a seat in the corner.
While the place was packed this morning, there are very few people here now. Not surprising honestly. It's a known fact that if you want a good night's sleep that you're not supposed to drink caffeine after three in the afternoon. My fellow patrons are my age, and I'd hazard a guess that they're as busy as I am and need the pick me up. I'll worry about sleep later in life.
Pulling my headphones on and leaving one ear off, I start my music and open my laptop to check my email first thing. Unfortunately, there's no news of the internship yet. I try not to feel bummed since it's hardly nighttime yet, and they probably haven't had a chance to finish going through all of the applications. Closing that window, I open my video-editing app and begin uploading the one I finished recording this morning.
I'm so completely engrossed that my brain is on autopilot when the barista calls my name and I stand to get my drink. There's a guy at the counter who turns just as I make it there, and we bump elbows.
"Sorry," we both say at the same time.
It takes a moment for my head to catch up, but the scent is like a furnace blast right to the gut. Sweet cinnamon-crumb cake. The guy from this morning. I'm obviously not the only one needing that afternoon ‘pick me up.’ His surprised expression drops as I move around him to get my drink.
My hands are shaking as I get back to my table, and I don't know why. At least I'm not as flushed as I was this morning. That only lasts as long as it takes for me to sit and a person to walk over to the chair across from me. I lift my eyes to find the mouthwatering stranger standing there.
He throws up a hand in greeting, "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you'd mind if I sat here with you for a few minutes.
My tongue seems to be glued to the top of my mouth, so I simply nod.
Pulling out the chair, he takes a seat and a drink out of his cup. "Are you Darci from the Brewing Murder Podcast?"
"I am," I tell him, pushing down my anxiety of being recognized.
He nods with a small smile. "I thought so. If your face hadn't done it for me, your voice would've. I've been listening and watching your stuff for a couple months now. I love the way you're very precise and to the point. Plus, you've got good story-telling vibes."
I like the almost scratchy tone of his deep voice and the way it gives me goosebumps across my skin. Between that and the way that he smells sitting right across from me, I'm proud of myself for being able to find my own voice.
"Thanks," I reply. "I do the best that I can to make sure that the victims are remembered. If I'm going to tell their story, I'm going to get it right."
He smiles again, bringing his cup to his lips, and I can't help but watch the movement. Especially as he sucks on his bottom lip, cleaning the foam off of it. I shift in my seat, realizing that I'm perfuming a bit. The exact opposite thing that I want to be doing not just in a public place, but also, over a stranger proclaiming to be a fan. I count backwards from ten in my mind to clear it and bring myself back down.
"I'm curious about where you get your information," he admits.
I don't get the vibe that he's trying to milk me for information for nefarious reasons, so I'm honest when I drop my arms to the table and lean on them as I tell him, "It's all public information. Google is a girl's best friend. When the world decided to start keeping digitized documentations, mostly journalistic articles and newspapers, it was a game changer for anyone doing research on anything."
He nods slowly. "That's fair. What about the one you covered last week on the local girl from here?"
I shrug. "Same thing. Every bit of what I shared came from the media. I simply gave it more attention."
"So, you don't have any information from an inside source or more than what you shared on your video?" he asks.
Raising up, I bring my back to rest against the seat as my eyes narrow a bit. "I don't know where you're going with this, but all of my information , as you call it, came from reputable sources. None of it was fabricated, and if you're asking, no, I don't have an inside link to the killer."
Ignoring the snark in my tone, he reaches down underneath the table. I have a half second to worry that he might be getting ready to pull a weapon, but it's quickly squashed when he brings his hand back up. Holding it out palm up, he flashes me a gold police badge before it disappears as fast as it came.
"I don't blame you for being nervous about all of my questions, Ms. Darci," he says. "I promise, they're coming from a good place. Have you ever worked on an active investigation?"
As soon as my head starts shaking slowly, he dips his chin in understanding. "Would you want to? Like I said before, I like your style of precision and research into cases. I think that we could help each other, if you're willing."
I know my jaw has gone slack, but that doesn't stop him. "You help me gather information on the girls that have been going missing and being found murdered, and I can guarantee you that you'll be the first to have the scoop when we catch the killer."
"So, you think it might be a serial killer?" I ask, lowering my voice on the last part.
His lips press together before he answers, "I can't answer that yet. Not until you sign an NDA. For investigation purposes."
"I'm not the press," I remind him. "Just a college student trying to earn some money while finishing school and—"
"And giving victims a voice again," he finishes for me.
The words strike closer to home than he can ever imagine, and they make me choke down a swallow.
He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out a small white rectangle, placing it on the table. He pushes it across to me with a single finger. "Think about it and let me know."
As he goes to stand, I break the omega/alpha rules, and with a cop nonetheless. I grab ahold of his wrist just as he's turning. Everywhere our skin touches, mine tingles like my entire hand fell asleep. His eyes flash down to where I haven't let him go and slowly travels back up to meet mine.
I pull my hand back and hide it under the table in my lap. "I don't need to think about it. I'll help you."
He swallows hard this time and nods. "Great."
Tearing off a tiny strip on his card, I write my number down and hand it over to him.
Taking it with another short nod, he leaves the cafe without saying anything else.
Way to go, brainiac. Out here spooking the good ones off being the weirdo that you are.
Picking up his card, I read, "Detective Saint Coffey."
Of course, his name is Coffey. As if his looks, scent, and profession weren't enough. His name just has to be one of my favorite things in the world, even if it is spelled differently. I may have just doomed us both for failure.
The next morning, I check my email to find that by some miracle, I got picked for the internship at the station. Jumping out of my chair, I give a quick whoop with my fist raised to the air before sliding back into it and reading the details. One of the things our applications had asked for was our class schedule, so it was no surprise to see that I was expected to be at the station only an hour after my last class.
All day long, my nerves are jittery, and I can't seem to focus on anything. Not because I'm nervous, but because I'm excited. It helps keep my mind off of the fact that Saint hasn't reached out, as well.
For the next two hours, I try my best to keep my mind on tasks at hand and not think of the way our scents mingled so well together while he sat with me last night. By the time I'm walking into the radio station, I'm practically bouncing on my toes.
The building is old, and the outside proves as much with its dark-brown-brick walls. The inside isn't much better either. The walls have wood paneling on the bottom half and navy, textured wallpaper on the top. There are a couple rooms that look like offices as I walk down the short hallway into an open space. Glancing up, I admire the way the tall ceiling makes a dome shape, opening up the room even more. Off to the right there's a room that has glass windows all the way around it, and I can hear music coming from inside. The only door that leads into it has a flashing red sign that says On Air.
A man's shaggy, brown-haired head pops up in one of the windows, and he gives me a quick wave before holding up a finger. The sign goes off a few minutes later, and he comes strolling out.
He offers out a hand, but quickly withdraws it, apologizing, "Sorry, you're my first omega that's been here in a while. I almost forgot my manners. I'm Dante, and you must be Darci."
"That's me," I tell him, returning the alpha's wide smile.
"Welcome to WPOQ, where college life rocks," he says, holding out his arms to the room.
"It's crazy to hear you say that on the radio every day, and to be hearing it in person right now," I admit in a little awe.
He gives a quick dip of his chin in understanding. "The fact that you listen to our station means that we're already off to a great start. Let me show you around."
For the next thirty minutes, he gives me a tour of the building, explaining some of the history about it previously being a library. Which makes total sense, considering the construction and layout. I follow along, enjoying the excitement that is growing in my belly. His tart, fresh-cut grass scent isn't horrible on the senses either. Kind of reminds me of rolling around on a mowed lawn the very first warm spring day after a long winter. It tickles my nose a bit, but isn't uncomfortable.
We're in the studio where he's showing me the list of tracks on the computer that we're allowed to play when sunlight cuts through the glass from the front door opening.
"Ah, that must be Lawrence," he states, getting up to walk us back out into the big, open room.
They exchange greetings before Dante introduces us formally for the first time, in which Lawrence informs him that we kind of somewhat know each other through our shared class. I've prepared myself for a number of things today. Getting a sensory overload from Lawrence isn't one of them. I've noticed before how tall he is, but it's nothing compared to standing in front of him right now and having to keep looking up to find his face. Or the long, blond hair that flows down to his shoulders. Nor the lopsided grin he's wearing. That's to not even mention that the guy is out here smelling like the best part of my day. A French vanilla latte. There's a hint of something else, too, but I'm not sure if it's part of his cologne or not.
Thankfully, I've lived my life without suppressants and blockers, so I count backwards from ten to keep myself from reacting to him the way my body rightfully wants to.
"That's good," Dante is saying. "I've got you on the weekend shift, obviously, Darci, but we aren't going to just throw you in there and abandon you. Lawrence will be with you so that he can show you the ropes of everything."
I'm nodding along and smiling in all the right places, all the while wondering how in the hell, I'm going to survive hours alone with a guy that is making my belly flip every time he looks at me. Professionalism, Darci Levine. That's how .