A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,28
exhalation followed. Then, simply: “I think so.”
Rufus fiddled with his hair in order to keep his hands busy. He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was intending to say was forgotten and he blurted out, “Holy shit.” Rufus grabbed Sam’s shoulder, jerked back like he’d stuck his hand on a stovetop burner, then shifted on his stool in order to use Sam as a shield.
Sam stiffened, his whole body locking up, and Rufus remembered: I don’t like being touched. When Sam spoke, his voice was a harsh whisper. “What? What’s going on?”
“Behind you—don’t look. He’s sitting at a table near the back.”
Sam didn’t quite close his eyes, but they narrowed, and he said, “Yankees cap on backward? Dark T-shirt? About your age?”
“Yes, that’s—what the hell?” Rufus met Sam’s narrowed gaze. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”
Sam just pointed at a mirror.
Cheeks flushed pink, Rufus leaned a little to the right and peered around Sam’s shoulder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Who is he? Why is this such a big deal?” Then Sam’s voice changed, suddenly hard with a note Rufus couldn’t quite place. “Ex-boyfriend?”
Rufus made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat and straightened. “He’s who I saw. When I found Jake.”
Sam glanced down, repeating the words, the tone of his voice making lights go on in Rufus’s head: the phone pinging from Tompkins Square Park, and now this guy was here, waiting.
“This is the guy who killed Jake?” Sam asked. “This is the guy who tried to kill you?”
Rufus jerked his head once in a nod.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The worst part was that Sam couldn’t turn around; Rufus had told him not to. Everything else in Bar went on as usual: the clink of glasses, the miasma of hops and industrial nacho cheese, pickled jalapenos sharp over everything else. One part of Sam itched to get a second look at this asshole. But another part of Sam was distracted by how close Rufus was, by the faint smell of his soap, by the way a clump of hair over his ear stuck straight out in a fiery mess. Part of him was distracted by the way it had felt for Rufus to touch his shoulder. Overwhelming, that was the only word for it. The heat of his hand, the rasp of the inside-out cotton tee, the pressure.
“What’s he doing now?” Sam asked.
Rufus took another quick glance. “Looks like he’s texting.”
Reaching past Rufus, Sam snagged the black beanie. Then he tugged it down on Rufus’s head, tucking the red mess up under the wool, hiding a grin at Rufus’s expression. He liked the way Rufus’s hair felt; it was silky soft, softer than just about any guy’s hair that Sam had felt, and he liked how it looked against his fingers.
But all he said was “You’re kind of a sore thumb, you know.”
Rufus slid his sunglasses on. “Beanie isn’t so stupid now, is it?”
“I’d never tell a hipster that his beanie looked dumb. It’d be like pushing a toddler off a trike.”
“I’m going to kick your ass later.” Rufus took another look toward Yankee. “He’s putting the phone away.”
“He’s going to move soon.”
“Yeah. Shit. Like right now—he’s getting up.”
“When he gets to the door, tell me. I’ll go. You count to thirty and follow. If he looks back, I’d rather have him see me; he knows you.”
Rufus had nodded automatically, then shook his head and looked at Sam. “What? No way. You’re not going alone. Not even for thirty seconds.”
Sam rolled his shoulders, ready to move when Rufus gave the word. He kept his gaze fixed on the redhead as he said, to get a rise, “I want a weekend, just a solid weekend. By the end of it, you’ll know how to sit, stay, speak when spoken to.”
Rufus raised a finger and jabbed the air in front of Sam. “Forget kicking your ass—I’m tossing you into oncoming traffic.” Rufus quickly shifted in order to free his knees from between Sam’s legs. “He’s moving.”
Sam launched toward the door. He thought he was pretty fast, but Rufus kept up, and they plunged out onto the street together. Night had come down, mantling the city, only it wasn’t night, Sam realized. Night wasn’t night in Manhattan. Instead of Arkansas nights, Dakota nights, clean air and the dark and the stars, Manhattan night was just a shittier, grimier day, the light smudged like charcoal between the buildings. Yankee guy was already jogging across the street toward Tompkins Square Park. A