SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (6 page)

He's also the most consistent part of my world and I can't wait to see him. Good lord, I'm fucked up. I avoid him for another week, hacking deeper into the National Gallery, finding odd strings of code everywhere. Each path I follow circles around or leads to something more confusing. The set-up is either genius or completely nuts. I can't wait to find out which.

It doesn't take long before I can't be alone any more. My computer can only offer me so much companionship, and though the circuitry is fascinating, the binary code doesn't offer me any connection at all. I go to Joe's to prove that I can. I won't let Jake or Mr.-
you're-my-bitch
control where I go no matter how bastardly they may be. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants to see Dade again. He's actually nice in his way. He doesn't scare me, but maybe he should. Who knows. I shouldn't be relying on my judgment for anything right now.
 

Maybe tonight Dade will want me, I think randomly in the back of my mind. Maybe he needs to see exactly how hot I can be before he makes his move. The entire drive to the bar I consider who Dade is, what his real name may be, and why he seems so keen on spending time with me without trying to get in my pants. I don't understand him at all. Part of me still hates him, but most of me is looking forward to talking with him again. He's one of the few people in any part of my life who will have a conversation with me at all at this point. I gave up on my friends a long time ago, and most of the people at work are far too engrossed in their computer-time to make any human contact at all. I simply don't fit in anywhere.
 

I find myself driving to Joe's again, pushing down the disgust with myself once again. I'm also pushing down the hope that Dade will be there waiting for me like always. I swear that man drives me crazy. He shows such interest, yet he won't take me up on any of my not-so-subtle offers. At this point I don't even care if he's a homicidal stalker. Who would miss me anyway?

Still, if I had met him under any other circumstance, he would be someone I could find interest in. He's handsome, has been a classic-gentleman in spite of his darkness, and would fit perfectly into the white-collar world I'm avoiding…which is why it's so strange he's still around. He seems the type to want to go home with Relationship Barbie rather than the woman I've been the entire time he's been around. There's no logic here.
 

But as I walk in to the dingy atmosphere of Joe's yet again, hoping to find someone new to distract me tonight, Dade is sitting there with a full beer and an intense concern meant only for me. I shake my head and sit three stools down. He closes the gap the moment my ass hits the vinyl.

"Hey, Shelby."

"You don't make any sense," I tell him again.
 

He shakes his head, and when I look at him, I see a hard edge to his mood. That can't be good. "Are you ok?" I ask.

His eyes shoot to mine, surprise registering behind the mysterious brown. "Now here I thought you were only out looking for a quick lay," he says. "Turns out you have a human side after all."

Of course I do! I can't acknowledge my caring, vulnerable side right now because I can't deal with the pain. There, I've admitted my weakness to myself, but I'm certainly not ready to share with him.

"Fuck you, Dade."

"Classy, Shel," he mutters flatly. Jesus, I think I hurt his feelings.
 

Just because I don't give a shit about myself right now doesn't mean I've completely lost my concern for others. As annoying and confusing as Dade can be, I don't want to see any kind of negativity around him. Not until tonight did I realize how much brightness he brings to these dark evenings. He's the only positive in my world, and my mind is blown to admit yet another aspect of my fucked up mind I've been pushing down.

I look at him, I mean really look. His eyes are tired with dark circles. His five-o'clock shadow is pushing past five, and the hair at the base of his head is mussed like he's been rubbing his hand over the spot many times. His stress is written all over him.
 

"Seriously, though," I say, genuinely concerned now in spite of my irritation with him. "Forget the witty banter. Are you ok?"

He looks over at me. He searches my face appraisingly. "Not really."

I ask for another shot and lead Dade to a booth along the wall. "What's going on?"

"Work stuff," he says in an obvious brush off as I order and down two shots.

"What do you do?" I ask yet again as I can't believe I don't know yet. I've been sitting next to him a few times a week for the past few months and I know nothing about him, with the exception that he's either celibate or gay. I'm finally ready to have
this
conversation.
 

"Typical white collar stuff," he brushes off.

"Are you avoiding my questions?" I smile softly, hoping he'll see my sincerity. He obviously doesn't want to let me in on any secrets.
 

His shoulders drop a degree of tension as he smirks. "Yes, I'm avoiding your questions."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to know what I do for a living."

Half-smiling at his blunt admission, I have no idea where to take this conversation next. Professional stalker? Private investigator? He's appraising me again, for what I have no idea.
 

"Well, there you have it," I say, with my face in a frozen state of confusion. "Can you at least tell me what
kind
of thing is stressing you?"

"Hmm," he says, weighing his answer. "I'm dealing with a particularly difficult client."

"What can you do about it?"

"I have no idea. Hence the stress."

"I see," I nod, more intrigued by him now than I was before. I wonder what sort of client he has and how he could be difficult. Dade must not have a choice in his clients, or he could drop the problematic ones. My brain is spinning with too much alcohol to figure anything out.

"Enough about that," he says, dropping the rest of his tension. "Tell me about you, Shelby. What stresses
you
out?"

He's more evasive than I am. "Nothing," I shake my head. "Nothing at all."

He shakes his head. "Liar."

"Absolutely. And quit stalking me."

"Why?"

"Because you bore me," she says with a hint of humor and a micron of a smile.

We're both sizing each other up now, and I'm actually glad to have this conversation. I feel a tiny smile creeping onto my face. This is the best I've felt in quite a while.

"Ok," he starts like a challenge, leaning back and looking at me solidly. "If you won't tell me what stresses you, then will you share what makes you smile?"

"Hmmm," I respond, narrowing my eyes. "I guess so. Let's see..."

I pause for entirely too long. The realization I have to concentrate on this question brings me straight back down. My Dade-induced smile is gone, and he catches my mood swing.

"Hey," he says gently, trying to catch my eye, showing his own caring side.
 

I look up at him and try to smile again, but all I can manage is a sad smirk. "Computers," I offer as a sadly pathetic answer. "Computers make me smile."

I'm stuck in this place, in this moment, considering that my own personal stalker may also be the best friend I have right now. With a single tear welling up in each eye, I tell him
most
of why computers make me smile, as well as a few personal stories. He shares a few of his own. He points out I'm still not smiling. I shrug before he speaks again.

"Well maybe my real name will make you smile," he says with a renewed lightness.

"You're finally going to tell me your name?" I say with my eyebrows up. "Seriously?"

"Francis. My name is Francis Dade Roarke."

I fall into a cascade of giggles, not believing he made me smile again. I can't help myself. Francis?!
 

"I can see why you go by your middle name," I manage to say through my laughter. "Francis is a name for scrawny, awkward mathematicians, not hot, muscly men like yourself."

I rest my hand on his thick bicep as I speak, trying to make the point yet again that I can be his. As always, he offers no reaction to my advances.

We talk for hours, our conversation becoming increasingly lighter as the hours pass. By midnight, he even makes me gut-laugh. We compared bad-timing pimples from our teenage years, and without realizing it, we allow ourselves to have a relaxed, good evening, even in a place like Joe's.
 

I nearly shake my head when I realize I've sobered up and that most of my first dates don't go this well. Thinking about this as a date makes me wonder yet again why he's brushed off all my attempts at seducing him. Now I realize the issue may be his old-fashioned values. All his stories revolved around family in some way or another. Traditional-Dade would not be looking for a one-nighter, but then I wonder again why he tolerates a bar like Joe's when he should be at an Applebee's.
Oh, right, because he's stalking me
. Somehow, at this point, I'm not worried about why he's here, I'm simply glad he is.

Until I get home.

The emotional hangover is equally difficult with Dade, simply because I want to avoid this exact kind of connection. Finding smiles with Dade simply sets me up for disappointment, and much like my physical conquests, the higher they get me, the harder I fall…until I cave and I go out again.

A few more hook-ups taint my heart while my time with Dade builds me up. More nights of date-like drinks and conversation at a bar far too dingy to warrant such an evening has me enjoying my time with him too much. Sometimes I avoid him as much as I can, chasing the physical high I've come to crave. Other nights, I let myself relax with my own personal stalker. At times he feels like a boyfriend even though he's not. From the very beginning, and still, Dade makes no attempt to pick me up, ask me out, kiss me, take me home…nothing. He's content with conversation, which I appreciate to some extent. The contrast between him and the random men I fuck somehow adds balance to my world, and I feel ok.

Until I get home.
 

I hate the morning after no matter which side I play the night before. Slowly, I feel pieces of myself falling away. All that remains steady is my time with my computer, delving further into the mystery which is the National Gallery. I identify a section dedicated to alarm systems, along with more of that strange code within. A pinch of nerves hits my gut, wondering why alarms and foreign code would be mixed together. I close out my connection, wipe my program like I always do, and pretend like I saw nothing.
 

I remain stoked I got so deep in their system, but I saw more than I wanted to. The intrigue of the confusing programming inside that government-run facility no longer intrigues me.

Since
Francis
managed to lighten my mood, I've decided I'm done with so much. Between the mess in my social life and my illegal hobby, I'm ready to drop my new attitude and right my world again. I refuse to allow myself any more stupid one-night stands, and I think I should avoid Dade, too. Any further heartache may cause a catastrophic break, one I may not recover from. I begin searching for a new job, hoping that a new challenge and a more amicable set of people may be a healthier way to solve my issues.

Of course, five days by myself and I'm more lonely than ever. My job search hasn't been fruitful this early in the process, so I figure the time has come to face my pain instead of numb it with sex and alcohol. I don my favorite casual jeans and cute top along with my non-sexy riding boots and drive to Second Chance.
 

"Shelby!" Cam calls out the minute I walk through the door. She runs to hug me. "I missed you! Where have you been?"

A phone call would have answered that question
, I think bitterly.

"I've been working a lot," I lie, forcing my smile.

"That sucks," she shakes her head.

I follow her to the bar and sit on my old stool and say hi to Ledger. He brings my margarita before I even order it. He really is a good guy, I remember. I notice, too, that Dade isn't with me tonight for the first time since I started going out. Apparently I'm only worth his time in a seedy bar.
 

"So how is everyone?" I ask to be polite. I find myself not caring at all. I have no more connection with my friends here at this point than I do with anyone else in my life.