Red Blooded Murder. Laura Caldwell

and I used to spend so much time. The downside of my place was the three flights of stairs.

      By the time I reached my condo and let myself in, I was exhausted—from the lack of sleep last night, from Jane’s confessions and the creepy break-in, from the weight of having to keep things from Sam.

      The small living room had pine floors and a turn-of-the-century marble fireplace with a swirling bronze grate. I slumped into my yellow chair and tried to let the whirlwind of the last few days drain away.

      My phone dinged, telling me I had a new text. I picked it up, expecting something from Sam, something about how he was missing me already.

      But it was a number I didn’t recognize, one with a 773 area code.

      It’s Theo, the text read. I’ve stopped myself 300 times from texting you today. I give.

      I smiled. I’ve thought about you a few times today too, I wrote. It was the truth. I was aware, distantly, of how quickly I had swung from Theo to Sam and back again.

      What are you doing? he wrote.

      Just got home. Weird night.

      Meet me out? There’s a great band playing in Bucktown.

      I looked at my watch. It’s almost midnight.

       So?

      Can’t, I wrote. Have to get up early tomorrow.

      Then let me come over, he wrote.

      I laughed, then typed, Nothing like cutting to the chase.

      You’ve taken over my head. Let me see you.

      I thought of Jane saying, I get different things from different people … When I’m with them, I get to see myself in a different way than I do every other day.

      Now I knew what she meant. Being with Theo, with someone younger and edgy and tattooed, was, quite simply, different than being with Sam, a blond, rugby-playing financial guy. And it was captivating to get a chance to see myself differently, to see myself through someone else’s eyes.

      I ignored the memory of Q saying, This thing is going to be a train wreck. Instead, I sat forward on my yellow chair now, holding my phone, and I let that captivation sing through my body.

      I lifted the phone. I texted, I’ll open the front door.

      15

      He walked into my apartment, and the atmosphere shifted. He wore a green Seagram’s T-shirt. The gold-and-black serpent on his left arm seemed to slither out of his sleeve. His hair looked newly washed. Oddly, he looked a little nervous, which surprised me. He was a wunderkind from what Jane had told me. And he was hot enough to get anyone he wanted, male or female.

      “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. It sounded so awkward. I didn’t know how to date anymore.

      He held up a brown paper bag. “I brought refreshments.”

      He walked into my kitchen. I trailed behind. He reached into my cabinet and took out two highball glasses, as if he’d been there fifty times. “I’m glad I got to see you,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m leaving on Monday for Isla Natividad.”

      “Where’s that?”

      “Mexico. Little island. You can only get there by boat or plane. My partner and I go once a year for a few days to surf.”

      “You’re a surfer?” For some reason, this made me want to have sex with him.

      “Oh, yeah.” He crossed the kitchen to my freezer. “And this island is amazing. No cell service, no hotels. Just the sand and the surf.”

      “Sounds a little remote for me.”

      He laughed, pulling ice cubes from the freezer and dropping them into the glasses. “It’s a little remote for most people.” Out of the brown bag, Theo took out three oranges, round and vibrantly stained in a crimson color. He pointed at them. “Blood oranges. No seeds. They make excellent screwdrivers.”

      I said nothing. I couldn’t. He seemed to take over my kitchen with his tall frame—so different from Sam’s solid, shorter body. What was I doing asking him to come here after I’d just seen Sam? It was something I wouldn’t have considered before. I felt different from any other Izzy McNeil I had been in my life.

      Theo selected a knife from the butcher block and quickly sectioned the oranges. With the practiced movement of a bartender, he held a hand over each slice as he squeezed and juiced them into the glasses. He took a bottle of Belvedere Vodka from the bag and poured some into each glass. The kitchen was silent. I stood behind him, staring at his ass, at the red ribbons trailing from his other arm. He must have felt my eyes on him, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he liked it. He picked up one of the oranges again, squeezed more juice into the glass.

      He turned around, a crimson orange in his hand. His eyes flicked over my body, and I felt as if those eyes were licking me. He walked toward me, took my hand and turned my arm over. He raised the orange and squeezed a few drops of juice on the white flesh of my wrist. Then he lifted my wrist slowly to his mouth and sucked lightly on my skin.

      “Good to see you,” he said. “Sorry about your weird day.”

      I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

      He turned and picked up one of the glasses, handing it to me. “Try it.” It seemed as though he was talking about more than the drink.

      I took a sip. The vodka bit; the blood orange soothed it over. “Delicious.” I didn’t take my eyes from him. “How was your day?”

      “You still want to make small talk?”

      My heart tripped around, my body temp went higher. What was this kid doing in my kitchen at midnight sipping blood orange juice and vodka?

      “Isn’t that what civilized people do?” I asked. “Make small talk?”

      He put his glass on the counter. He took my glass from me and placed it next to his. “What I’m going to do to you is not civilized. Not even a little bit.”

      16

      The Fig Leaf was a little jewel of a store. From the front window, you could see silk slips hanging from pink, padded hangers. Delicate panties in dazzling colors overflowed from open wood chests, like piles of jewels. Nightgowns and bustiers were stacked on white cushioned benches. From the ceiling hung billowing ivory fabric, giving the place the look of a sumptuous little harem.

      I was about to push open the front door when it opened for me. “You’re late,” Josie said. She looked down on me at the street level, her body blocking me from entering the store.

      Josie was on the tall side. She seemed to tower above me in a white blouse and a long black skirt that hugged her curvy body. Her severe bobbed hair was deep brown with a cherry-cola red tint, and it was sleek, as if it had just been washed and blow-dried professionally.

      “I apologize.” I decided not to offer any excuses. I had none, except that it had been hard, near impossible, to boot Theo out of my bed.

      She jutted one leg out and crossed her arms. Through thin silver glasses that looked like lines of ice around her eyes, she gave me a formidable stare. “Look, Lexi, let’s get something really clear, okay?”

      I shivered a little and nodded. It was still cold in the mornings in Chicago, but optimistically, I’d shoved my wool coat to the back of my closet. My ivory-colored spring coat with the tulip sleeves was doing little to keep away the chill.

      “I know your parents are friends with Marie,” Josie continued, mentioning the owner, “and I love Marie for opening this store and for hiring me, but I run it, got that?”

      “Sure.”

      “I run this store,