Page 39 of Skeletons in the Closet

“No idea. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“Sounds like trouble. You know, there are easier ways to get laid.”

“You’d know.”

“Gas this weekend?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” The crowd had shifted, and I wasn’t sure how keen I was for another night of prepubescent boys champing at the bit.

Memphis and I chatted for the next hour about everything and nothing. It was our way. We were pros at filling time. The day dragged on. When he had to let me go, I gave up tidying the crypts and got lost reading retired case files instead.

***

I landed in Diem’s Jeep shortly after five thirty. He was waiting in the staff parking lot behind the building, engine running. The minute I closed the door, he handed me a paper cup, grumping something incomprehensible under his breath that I assumed was English.

“What’s this?”

“Latte,” he said more clearly. “Did you know you can’t request just a simple fucking latte? They look at you like you’re stupid. There are apparently a hundred different kinds of lattes. I didn’t know, so I let the girl choose. It’s some kind of salted caramel bullshit oat milk thing with cinnamon, I think. She confused me. If you don’t like it, toss it out the window. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Wow.” I stared at Diem, who scowled at his hands as they abused the leather steering wheel, twisting it until it creaked under his palms. “You bought me a latte? D, that’s so sweet. Kitty’s right. You’re a big ol’ cuddle bear inside.”

“It’s just a fucking drink. A stupid fancy coffee. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure it does. It means you were thinking about me.”

“I’llthrow it out the window if you don’t shut up.”

The gesture seemed to make him extremely uncomfortable. I wondered how many times he’d almost backed out of getting it.

Cracking the lid, I asked, “How did you know I like lattes?”

“I’m not a moron. I listen when you talk. I watch.”

“Well, thank you. It was very sweet. And for the record, I love any form of latte. The sweeter, the better, and when paired with a peanut butter cookie,” I groaned, “it’s sinful.”

Diem’s neck took on color. The erotic groan? Probably. He gunned the engine and took us away from the police headquarters building without saying a thing. I wasn’t privy to where we were going but didn’t ask. Diem involving me in the case was already more than I expected.

When he turned into a coffeehouse three blocks down the road, parked, and jumped out, leaving the engine running, I quirked a brow.

“Where are you going?”

He slammed the door without answering.

“Okay then.” I sipped my latte and waited. Maybe he’d decided he needed a drink as well.

A few minutes later, he returned and threw a paper bag on my lap, grunting, “I didn’t know.”

Then we were off again.

I checked inside the bag and found a peanut butter cookie. Speechless, I stared from the dessert to Diem. I wasn’t implying he’d made a mistake, but… Christ. This guy was too much. Since it was clear Diem preferred I didn’t bring attention to the kind gesture, I ate the cookie and drank the latte in silence while keeping half an eye on the brooding man beside me.

Diem was an enigma. On the outside, he presented himself as intimidating, angry, and jaded. The unapproachable vibe he emitted was strong. On the inside, I saw a man unsure of everymove he made. Conscious of his mistakes. Of how he acted. Of how the world perceived him. A man who was often confused and standoffish. A guy who didn’t know how to be social and struggled to express himself on a good day.

I broke off another piece of cookie. “You’re an onion.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I dunked the piece in my drink and ate it.

---