living room. She replied, “Sure. Of course, I’ll be happy to bring your phone back to you. What’s your address?”
The girl recited the address to her: “1000 Prytania Street.”
“Oh, okay, I know that street,” Sela said. Everyone in New Orleans knew Prytania Street. It was in the nicest part of the Garden District, where the streets reeked of old money and the high-class lifestyle.
Sela cleared her throat, “And what’s your name?”
“Chloe Applegate. Please hurry. I’m so cold.”
Sela leaned against the arm of her couch. “Sure thing. I get off work at five, and then I’ll be right over.”
Chloe answered, “Wait…”
“Bye.” Sela closed the phone and put it in her purse. She hoped the girl would not call back. It was hard speaking to her.
“I wonder if she’s mentally challenged?” Sela mused aloud. It was the only way to explain the girl’s odd behavior.
A breeze flooded the room as if in answer, rattling the magazines and papers on the floor. The air in Sela’s living room began to clear. Sela stepped back and watched the smoke lift. Her blue eyes lightened in amazement. What had caused the murkiness, and why was it suddenly disappearing?
Or had she imagined the whole thing?
She heard the television turn on in her bedroom.
Damn. He’s awake
.
Sela stood like a deer in the headlights at the entrance of the hallway, unsure of what to say to the boy in her bedroom. Her inexperience in one-night stands was showing. What did women do in these situations?
I need to read more
Cosmo, she thought.
She slowly walked to her bedroom. Dean was no longer in bed. He was sitting Indian-style near the television, fully clothed, his glasses on, his eyes glued to the screen. The toothy blonde reporter was on the TV, but the volume was so muted it could hardly be heard.
Sela found the courage to speak. “Hello.”
Dean didn’t turn around. Instead his gaze remained on the reporter. He said, “They found more of those Fishhook signs. And a girl. Drowned. In the Mississippi.” He finally looked up, using the remote control to flick off the TV just as the reporter was preparing to show a photo of the murdered girl. Dean said, “Told you I wasn’t the Fishhook guy.”
Sela shifted her feet shyly. “I guess you weren’t lying. Wonderful. I would have been mortified to find out that I had spent the night with a serial killer.”
Dean’s face flickered into an indecipherable expression as he stood up and walked toward her. “I gotta go,” he said.
Sela felt a twinge of disappointment. She tried to give a heartening smile. “Okay,” she said, nodding.
Dean lifted his arms up and took her face in his hands. His palms were smooth and warm. Sela nudged her nose into his skin. It smelled like her. She wondered how long her scent would stay with him. Hopefully long enough so that he would always remember her, so when he was fifty and fat and stranded on a street in Manhattan hunting for a taxi, he’d remember her and smile.
She waited for him to pull away. But instead of backing away with a predictable departing comment, he asked, “Can I call you?”
Taken off guard, she smiled. “No.”
Dean took his hands away and stepped back. A hurt expression stretched along the handsome contours of his face. “Why not?” he asked.
Sela’s smile widened. “You don’t have my phone number.”
“Oh.” A mischievous light sparkled in Dean’s eyes. “And I suppose you’re not going to give it to me? Last night was just a game to you?”
“Work, actually. You should probably leave before my nine-thirty arrives.” Sela worked at keeping a straight face.
Dean suddenly picked Sela off the ground and threw her on the bed. “You’ll just have to be late for him!” he exclaimed as he pinned her to the mattress and sprinkled kisses on her forehead.
“Why should I?” Sela joked. “It’s good money.”
Dean didn’t answer and instead worked at the ties around Sela’s robe. Sela
The girl recited the address to her: “1000 Prytania Street.”
“Oh, okay, I know that street,” Sela said. Everyone in New Orleans knew Prytania Street. It was in the nicest part of the Garden District, where the streets reeked of old money and the high-class lifestyle.
Sela cleared her throat, “And what’s your name?”
“Chloe Applegate. Please hurry. I’m so cold.”
Sela leaned against the arm of her couch. “Sure thing. I get off work at five, and then I’ll be right over.”
Chloe answered, “Wait…”
“Bye.” Sela closed the phone and put it in her purse. She hoped the girl would not call back. It was hard speaking to her.
“I wonder if she’s mentally challenged?” Sela mused aloud. It was the only way to explain the girl’s odd behavior.
A breeze flooded the room as if in answer, rattling the magazines and papers on the floor. The air in Sela’s living room began to clear. Sela stepped back and watched the smoke lift. Her blue eyes lightened in amazement. What had caused the murkiness, and why was it suddenly disappearing?
Or had she imagined the whole thing?
She heard the television turn on in her bedroom.
Damn. He’s awake
.
Sela stood like a deer in the headlights at the entrance of the hallway, unsure of what to say to the boy in her bedroom. Her inexperience in one-night stands was showing. What did women do in these situations?
I need to read more
Cosmo, she thought.
She slowly walked to her bedroom. Dean was no longer in bed. He was sitting Indian-style near the television, fully clothed, his glasses on, his eyes glued to the screen. The toothy blonde reporter was on the TV, but the volume was so muted it could hardly be heard.
Sela found the courage to speak. “Hello.”
Dean didn’t turn around. Instead his gaze remained on the reporter. He said, “They found more of those Fishhook signs. And a girl. Drowned. In the Mississippi.” He finally looked up, using the remote control to flick off the TV just as the reporter was preparing to show a photo of the murdered girl. Dean said, “Told you I wasn’t the Fishhook guy.”
Sela shifted her feet shyly. “I guess you weren’t lying. Wonderful. I would have been mortified to find out that I had spent the night with a serial killer.”
Dean’s face flickered into an indecipherable expression as he stood up and walked toward her. “I gotta go,” he said.
Sela felt a twinge of disappointment. She tried to give a heartening smile. “Okay,” she said, nodding.
Dean lifted his arms up and took her face in his hands. His palms were smooth and warm. Sela nudged her nose into his skin. It smelled like her. She wondered how long her scent would stay with him. Hopefully long enough so that he would always remember her, so when he was fifty and fat and stranded on a street in Manhattan hunting for a taxi, he’d remember her and smile.
She waited for him to pull away. But instead of backing away with a predictable departing comment, he asked, “Can I call you?”
Taken off guard, she smiled. “No.”
Dean took his hands away and stepped back. A hurt expression stretched along the handsome contours of his face. “Why not?” he asked.
Sela’s smile widened. “You don’t have my phone number.”
“Oh.” A mischievous light sparkled in Dean’s eyes. “And I suppose you’re not going to give it to me? Last night was just a game to you?”
“Work, actually. You should probably leave before my nine-thirty arrives.” Sela worked at keeping a straight face.
Dean suddenly picked Sela off the ground and threw her on the bed. “You’ll just have to be late for him!” he exclaimed as he pinned her to the mattress and sprinkled kisses on her forehead.
“Why should I?” Sela joked. “It’s good money.”
Dean didn’t answer and instead worked at the ties around Sela’s robe. Sela
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