A glance at her watch told her she’d better hurry if she was going to catch the twelve fifteen. The cool air helped to clear her head, the crunch of fallen leaves under her feet forcing her to focus on the rich colors of her favorite season.
The bus screamed to a halt just as she hit the corner. Today it was mostly empty, she noted, making her way to the back of the bus, and she was grateful. As much as she enjoyed chatting with the regulars like Mr. Epperstein, she just wasn’t up to barium enema horror stories today. A sigh of relief escaped from deep within her chest when she settled in her seat, resting her forehead against the window. The tension of booting her best friend out and the harried pressure of the last two days eased just a little. Peace. Quiet. All good things. Important things. Rejuvenating your spirit things.
She could use some of that today.
What could the devil possibly plan for her demise when he found out Clyde wasn’t Clyve? There was no winning her over to the dark side. She’d cut him off at the pass once, she’d fucking do it again. And again and for as many times as she had breath left in her lungs.
Delaney sucked in another cleansing gust of air through her nose and caught the faint scent of a now familiar aftershave.
“You forgot your scarf.”
For the love of all things shiny. “You know, if I wasn’t so tired, I’d give you the look.”
“Roxette. As in, ‘you’ve got the look.’ From the album Look Sharp. Nineteen eighty-eight or eighty-nine.”
She lifted her head, glancing to her left at Clyde in all his bathrobed fantasticness, sitting in the parallel seat as though riding the bus in a woman’s bathrobe was an everyday occurrence. “Well, I don’t think anyone could deny you’ve definitely got ‘the look,’ ” she muttered under her breath, slumping down in the seat.
Clyde ran his burly hands over his jaw, slumping with her as though he could hide his brick shithouse-robed pinkness. There was no hiding his bulk. “Again. Awkward.”
She snorted. “I’ll say. So what happened and how did you end up glued to my ass again? What is it about you and the ‘stay-put’ theory that I keep missing the mark on?”
Clyde’s expression was sharp. “If I had the answer to that, don’t you suppose I’d stop doing it? This defies every law of physics I’ve ever studied. But then, so does Hell.”
“And you’ve defied it in a pink bathrobe. Score.”
“On public transportation, no less.”
She pulled her purse tighter to her chest to fight a chuckle, then sobered. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t funny. Him popping up in her shower unannounced—not funny. Him seeing her naked in her shower—not laughing. “Okay, how about you explain what happens when you leap from place to place like you’re that guy from that show Quantum something.”
“Quantum Leap. Scott Bakula, 1989. And he leaped from body to body. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just following you around like we’re Siamese twins.” His snort held disgust.
“Just tell me what happens and save the inane trivia.”
“The moment you leave, it’s almost like we’re tied by a rope or something—tethered is the best way to explain it. You leave, and without so much as a blink of my eye, I’m right there with you. I don’t feel anything. I don’t have any warning—it just happens. Hey, didn’t you mention something about a binding last night?”
She had, and that was the only thing she could think of that would make him keep popping up the way he did. “It’s called a binding spell and I imagine explaining that to you is about as easy as you explaining trigonometry to me. If that’s what this is, the simple answer is this: you’re attached to me and before this thing with you is over, we’re sure to have plenty of embarrassing encounters. Much like this one. You need clothes and shoes—fast.”
The bus ground to a halt, the screech of its brakes reminding her she was just one stop away from Kellen’s.
She slid farther down in the seat. If they could just make it through one more stop without causing a scene . . .
“Hey, duuude, nice pink swag.”
Or not.
Delaney peered over the top of the seat to see a group of six or so kids plunk themselves into the seats.
Clyde ignored the group of kids, who’d decided to sit two seats away from him, leaning back in the seat and crossing his ankle over his knee while tucking the bathrobe’s ends between his legs. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them dead-on. They nudged each other, laughing with a mocking cackle only snotty teenaged kids were capable of. The tight knit caps they wore in various colors covered their shoulder-length, stringy hair; their hoodies were oversized and bulky; their jeans clung to just above the tops of their butts. They mumbled something about an ass, but she didn’t quite catch what they were referring to.
Clyde’s jaw set hard, the grind of his teeth reaching her ears.
Ever nonconfrontational, she offered advice to Clyde. “Ignore them,” she whispered. “They’re just smart-ass kids.”