The Professional Alibi

Chapter 3: The Call of the Unknown

***

I walk into the House of Ugly with five minutes to spare.

After changing my clothes four times, I finally settled on a pair of shredded jeans paired with a white tank top under a flowy blue shirt, and chunky boots.

I glance around the dimly lit diner that smells of stale grease and week-old hamburgers. A black path from years of foot traffic, and zero steam cleaning covers the bright red carpet. There's a homeless man in the paint-chipped booth next to the front door on the right. His head droops onto the yellow Formica tabletop, and a pool of drool dribbles from his mouth.

A young couple nurses cups of coffee four booths down on the left. Some guy, sitting up front at the counter, looks like he hasn't left his stool all night, with wrinkled clothing and a five o'clock shadow. Otherwise, the diner is empty. No bobble heads in sight.

I check my phone to verify the time, then replay the short conversation with Apex in my mind.

No. I've got the time right. Where's my contact?

A woman in her mid-forties wearing jeans and a tight tank top pulled low enough to show her hot pink bra and way too much of her ample cleavage saunters over to me. She's got red-tinted hair with fading pink highlights pulled into a ponytail, grungy tennis shoes, and a name tag that says Cher. "Can I help you? Feel free to sit anywhere you want."

I glance around the room again. "Are there seats anywhere else besides here?"

"Sure, hon. We have a patio off to the side," she says, pointing to a door at the back of the diner. "It's kinda cold out there this time of morning though."

"Is there anyone else out there right now?"

"Yeah. Want me to bring you two something out there?"

"How about I wait for a cup of cocoa at the counter? I'll check out the patio in a minute."

Cher nods. "Gotcha. Be back in a jiffy."

I find a stool at the far end of the counter, away from the guy who looks like he's been here all night. I listen for the door behind me, in case my contact arrives. By the time Cher returns with my cocoa and I pay, Nobody else has arrived, so I head to the patio door.

I push through the glass door, covered in fingerprints and splatters of grease and who knows what else. The patio, if I'd even call it that, is more like a couple of rusty tables, surrounded by chain link fence in a grungy alleyway. I nearly gag on the pungent stench of rotting trash from the dumpster mixed with the ooey musk of the bin where old grease from fryers goes to die. No wonder nobody sits out here.

My clothing choice seems appropriate for a place like this. Anything nicer would've been a red flag for people watching me. Even now, I'm second-guessing the shirt. It feels almost formal in a place like this.

It doesn't take an idiot to know that the only other person on the patio is waiting for me. He's wearing a tight black T-shirt that stretches over compactly muscled shoulders, and long, powerful arms. A dusting of whiskers covers the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Black hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes giving him a sort of brooding antihero look. There's a tattoo peeking out from under one sleeve, and another tattoo covers the underside of his forearm.

Under the table, he's wearing faded jeans and a pair of combat boots. He doesn't look up when I walk out. He keeps his eyes zeroed in on the cup of coffee nestled between his hands. Tendrils of steam still rise from the liquid's dark surface. Next to his cup a Baymax bobblehead bounces to the beat of its own music.

Holy crap. That's my contact.

I slide into the seat across from him and place my cocoa on the table in front of me, warming my hands on the ceramic cup like he does.

His dark lashes lift, allowing his gaze to flit to mine, revealing a set of gray, assessing eyes that rove over my face, pausing at my lips, then travels down my body, and back again, as if cataloging everything about me.

I'm simultaneously exhilarated and horrified. I uncross and re-cross my legs, trying to minimize the warmth in my core. I like the feel of his attention on me. Who wouldn't want the attention of someone like him? Heck, I bet the nuns would be a tittering mess if he smiled their way. Still, I shrink away from the possibility that Apex will take one look at me and decide I'm not good enough.

Swallowing, I straighten and lift my chin, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny. They contacted me. Not the other way around.

"I was told to look for the bobblehead," I say, before lifting my cocoa to my lips and taking a sip.

The motion draws his attention to my mouth again before we lock gazes. His eyes dilate. Interesting.

When our gazes meet again, he nods. "I have a proposition for you."