“Sophie’s not in the mood today, Steve.”
“Maybe Sophie would like a massage?” Steve laced his pudgy grey fingers together and stretched his arms over his head, releasing a symphony of pops and cracks and a fresh wave of bleu-cheese odor. “Steve is very good with his hands.”
“Pass,” I said, pausing at the elevator and working the up button. “Besides, what would Sasha say?”
Steve shrugged, his shoulders brushing the bottom of his long, pointed earlobes. “Sasha knows that she cannot hold Steve down.” He pushed out his chest. “Steve is just too much troll for one woman.”
I glanced down at him, his wiry hair just brushing the top of my thigh. “I’ll say,” I murmured. “Really, Steve,” I said as the elevator door slid open with aching slowness, “I appreciate the offer, but maybe some other time.”
Steve shrugged his troll shoulders, and dug his hands into his pants pockets. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, Steve won’t be around forever.”
If only.
The elevator doors opened on the police station vestibule and I was halfway out the front doors when I heard someone calling my name. I whirled and Alex caught the back of my shirt.
“Hello to you, too.”
Alex smoothed the part of my shirt he had gripped, the gentle touch of his fingers sending shock waves down my spine, making my knees go wonky. I shrugged out of his grip, afraid of dissolving into a pool of quivering Jell-O right there in the police station. “What do you want?”
“Do you like baseball?”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you want? To know if I like baseball?”
Alex narrowed his eyes. “Geez, Lawson, can you give a guy a break?” He pulled two orange and black Giants tickets from his shirt pocket. I saw the fat baseball logo and felt my grin go all the way to my ears. I snatched the tickets.
“These are behind home plate!”
Alex looked blank. “And that’s good?”
I gaped. “What do you mean, is that good?”
Alex just shrugged.
“You don’t like baseball?”
He lowered his voice. “Let’s just say it was not the pastime it is now when I was around.”
My mouth formed a small O. “Well, then you have to go with me.”
Alex crossed his arms and grinned. “Is that so? You’re inviting me to a game?”
I waggled the tickets. “Behind home plate. You can’t miss it.”
He pulled the tickets from my fingers. “And you must have missed that these are still my tickets.”
I felt myself flush head to toe. “Oh, right. So, you wanted to know if I like baseball, right?”
Alex nodded, his eyes playful, smile wide.
“Yeah.” I kicked at an invisible speck of dirt on the linoleum. “I could take it or leave it.”
“So you don’t mind if I give the tickets to ...” Alex scanned the offices, tickets in hand, and I pummeled him.
“I’ll drive. And buy you popcorn. And beer,” I said eagerly.
“Throw in one of those giant foam fingers and you’re on.”
“Done!”
Chapter Six
I squinted in the midday sun and followed the crowd of businesspeople down the block toward Loco Legs sandwich shop, skipping a little, working to contain my giddiness. A Giants game—and a date. A date! There may be romantic touching. And kissing. Kissing Alex ...
I felt a low heat start in my belly and spread downward. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking into maniacal giggles and focused on a list of predate activities—shave, pluck, tweeze... . It was somewhere between tweeze and spritz when I glanced across the street while waiting for the light to change and caught the eye of a man standing on the opposite corner. His eyes were small, lime Jell-O green—like mine. He raked a pale, freckled hand across what remained of his red hair—a frazzled mess of unruly curls.
Like mine.
He looked at me from across the street, and I saw him blink, saw his lips tighten, felt the thunderbolt of realization that must have gone through him roil through me.
“Lucas Szabo.” The name settled on my dry lips and I was focused, rushing out into the intersection toward him. I felt someone clawing at my shoulder, felt someone try and grab the back of my jacket.
“Stop, lady!” I heard.
“What’s she doing?” someone yelled. “There’s a car coming!”
“Idiot,” someone groaned.
The admonishments seemed miles away.
I stumbled into the street, my eyes never leaving Lucas Szabo’s, until the raging howl of a Muni bus hurtling toward me gave me pause. I was rooted to the cement, the scream of the bus’s horn all around me. I felt the warm puff of smog as the driver yanked the bus to the side and the bus narrowly missed me.
Suddenly everything was really loud. The city came back to life and I was standing in the middle of a San Francisco intersection. Cars whirled by me, honking, drivers glaring at me from their tinted windows. Pedestrians shook their heads at me, chalked my suicidal jaunt into the intersection up to drug use, to being one of those “city crazies.”