Not much. A name would be more practical.
The look on Owen’s face would have made Miles laugh, if he’d been in a laughing mood. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t get her number.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you were dragging me out of there. I don’t know her name or her number.”
“You danced with her, you kissed her, you beat some guy up over her, she was ‘with’ you”—Owen inserted air quotes—“and you never asked her what her name was?” With his loony yellow hair and outraged expression, Owen looked like Doc Brown from Back to the Future.
“It didn’t come up.”
“How does that not come up?”
Miles stayed silent, and Owen narrowed his eyes. “Oh. You didn’t tell her your name because of the investigation.”
Miles sighed and used his shoulder to fend off a drunk T rider who had almost fallen in his lap. “I might not have felt particularly inclined to share that piece of information, no.”
“Well, now you’re screwed. How are you going to find her?”
“I’m not. She lives in Boston. I live in Cleveland. I’m not going to see her again.” Except in my dirty fantasies. Because he was already having intense flashbacks, to the way she’d looked on the dance floor, to the swift show of her smile as they’d talked, to the feel of her mouth and the exact curve of her ass under his palms.
“What about tomorrow night?”
Miles’s flight back was on the third. If he kept his ticket. It was tempting not to return to Cleveland at all. Maybe if he stayed away, all that had happened there would recede slowly in importance until it didn’t hurt anymore.
Miles shook his head. “It’s too complicated.”
“What’s complicated? I saw you kissing her. It didn’t look complicated at all.”
No, it hadn’t been complicated. It had been the simplest thing in the world, totally primal. A straight hit of sex to the brain, a hard-on so hard it still hurt. A craving he’d have to shut down as soon as he could get on top of it.
“I’m not exactly God’s gift to women right now. Being suspected of a felony isn’t, you know, chick catnip.”
“Chick catnip,” snickered Owen. “Man, you could sell that shit for, like, a million dollars.” He sobered up. “You’d just tell her you didn’t do it, man.”
If only that worked. A month ago, Miles would have believed it, too, but he was on the other side of one of those life lines you crossed where you never saw the world the same way again.
“If Deena didn’t believe that, why should some woman who’s never met me before in her life?”
“Because she’s not a shallow bitch?”
Owen had met Deena only a couple of times, but they’d never hit it off. Deena was too serious for Owen’s tastes, not inclined to laugh at herself or find humor in, say, the idea of chick catnip.
“Deena’s not a shallow bitch.” As hurt as Miles was, as much trouble as he was having understanding her actions, he hadn’t reached the stage of hating her—at least not yet. She had been a big part of his life for many years, and during those years she’d been sweet, affectionate, and loyal.
Although it did raise the question: If you never tested someone’s devotion, how could you possibly know how they’d behave when the chips were down? Could you call someone loyal if their loyalty was just the everyday kind of showing up?
“I don’t understand why you feel the need to defend her. What kind of despicable human being deserts her fiancé when he’s under suspicion for a crime?”
“One who believes he committed it, I guess.”
Owen looked as if he would have spat if they hadn’t been in the subway. “Or one who was already looking for a way out.”
Miles stared at an ad overhead. Are you between the ages of 18 and 38? Do you suffer from anxiety?
Yes, thought Miles. No. And then, Maybe. Just a little. Since my world got pulled out from under me like a cheap rug.
“People aren’t all like Deena,” Owen said. “You must have some friends who’ve been supportive of you.”
Miles had told exactly three people what had happened: his lawyer, Deena, and Owen. None of them had asked him if he was innocent or guilty. His lawyer had explained that, as a matter of policy, Miles was innocent in his eyes, and he didn’t want to know anything more than that. Owen—well, Owen was Owen. He had a sealed juvie record and a lifelong battle with shoplifting impulses, and if he hadn’t asked whether Miles was guilty, it was probably because he didn’t give a fuck if he was. But Deena?