Page 18 of Wiley A.F.

“What do you mean?”

“You fucking tried to kill yourself. That’s what you are talking about, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s true. I did do that,” he admitted, leaning across the table, and switching our plates around before shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth and washed it down by taking a drink of his beer. “Grab you a beer from the fridge if you want. As I stated, I need answers, too.”

“Thank you,” I quietly said, slowly going back to the seat and sat across from him. My eyes roamed his face once again, and I pinched my skin just to see if I could feel it. I gritted my teeth but refused to make a sound.

“Fucking hurt, didn’t it?”

I shook my head in response. I was almost positive he could tell I was lying, but I wasn’t admitting it.

“Yeah, it did. I’ll say it so you don’t have to. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you a truth if you tell me one in return. We can do it all night and get it out of our systems, or we can continue to do so for as long as it takes for me to get the answers I need, but you have to eat.”

“It still could be poisoned, and this was your plan all along. I’ve seen enough real crime documentaries to know you could just be pulling the old switcheroo on me.”

“For fucks sake. The old switcheroo,” he mumbled to himself. He leaned over the table, twirled his fork until it was full of spaghetti noodles, and then popped it into his mouth. “Why would I go to all the trouble of bringing you here if I was going to kill you by poisoning you? Not my style. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. It’s that simple, and you’d do best to remember that.”

“Oh.” I slid back into my seat. It didn’t matter how much this man looked like Malcom, the longer we spoke, there was no denying he was at the very least telling the truth about not being him.

“Yeah, oh. Now, eat.”

I indulged him, filling my mouth with the meal he prepared for us. “Mmm,” I audibly moaned; it was even more delicious than it smelled.

“Fuck, being around you is going to drive me insane.” The apples of my cheeks burned and for a second, I forgot I was supposed to be afraid of him. This was by far the most peculiar situation I believe I had ever been in. “Why do you call him Malcom?”

“Because that’s his name?” I gawked at him while spinning my fork on the plate again.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Uh, I think I would know his name.”

“You know what he’s told you.”

“What do you mean exactly, mister?” I paused, waiting for him to tell me his name.

“No mister, ever. You can call me Wiley or if it makes you more comfortable you can call me Grey, but don’t ever fucking call me mister.”

My mouth gaped open, and my eyebrows knitted together on my forehead. “Well, shit. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

“I just don’t fucking like it, it’s disrespectful.”

“No, it’s the complete opposite.”

“Maybe in your opinion, but not mine. Next question.”

I shook my head. “It’s my turn.”

“Listen, me answering your questions is my way of trying to be as close to a gentleman as I can, but I’m not one in any way shape or form; I can assure you of that.”

“At this point, as long as your real, I’m winning today.”

His fork dropped from his grasp and clanked against his plate when he lifted his palms and cocked his head to the side, “Are you really insane?”

“Didn’t think I was until my dead fiancé started popping back up in my life.”

“Sorry about that, in my defense, I left, and you followed which brings me to my next question. Why are you here?”

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