Page 20 of Truth Be Told
I smile.
“So,” comes a deep voice from behind me, “do I need to worry about you shanking me?”
I turn at the sound. Cohen is holding two mugs in his hands, their contents steaming.
He approaches me and then stops, taking a quick look past me, glancing at the picture and then back to me. He offers me the mug with that same knowing half-grin on his face. “Sorry,” he says, changing the unspoken subject. “I know you don’t like that word.”
I smile. He’s not really sorry. “I never said I don’t like it. I said it was strange.” The smell of hot cocoa fills my nose. It’s hot and fresh, sprinkled with fluffy white marshmallows and topped with a drizzle of chocolate. It’s obviously homemade. I inhale the rich chocolate scent and wrap my fingers around the cup.
He takes a sip then stuffs one of his hands in his pocket. “From classy to strange in such a short amount of time.”
I take a drink, too, and then roll my eyes. “And no, you don’t have to work about me shanking you. I really only worry about carrying my knife on me when I’m working.” I pause to second guess what I’m saying, then smile. “That’s not say you shouldn’t watch yourself.”
He raises his drink a bit. “Fair enough.”
I bring his attention back to the picture. “Is this you?”
“Yep.”
“And those are your parents?”
He nods, coming closer. “And that’s my sister, Olivia.”
I lean in again, taking more of her in now that I know who she is. “Are you guys close?”
“My sister and I are pretty close. My mom died shortly after this picture was taken, and my dad passed a few years ago.” He brings the drink back to his mouth and walks away.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s alright. I’ve moved on as well as I could. And you didn’t know.” He looks out at the snow. “We’d better get you out of here soon if you’re going to have a chance at making it home.”
I step next to him. I anxiously watch the snow fall over the rim of my cup. “Oh shit,” I say while it continues to pour down. “It looks worse.”
Snow has built up in the driveway. It’s at least five or six inches now and already covering the bottoms of my car doors. I clutch the cup tighter. I donotwant to drive home in this. Beyond that, I actually don’t know if I can. Call me a wimp if you want to, but I’ve had too many close calls in the snow and ice tonotbe freaked about it.
That’s what I have to tell him. I look up at Cohen. “I don’t know if I can.”
He appears confused. He looks back out the windows, then back to me once more. “It is a lot of snow. You want to stay here?”
I don’t know what I want. How can I stay here? I have nothing but what I brought with me in my purse, which is only a few of the barest essentials. I don’t even have anything to wear to bed. Imighthave a toothbrush, which, along with that razor, is one of the essentials of dancing. Still, I think as I watch that evil white fluff fully engulf my car, there’s no way I can do this. Dothat. All that’s going on out there? Nope. I can’t do it.
“I don’t know,” I answer, my mouth growing dry. “Can I?”
“Well, I guess if you need to. Of course you can.”
I’m learning a lot about Cohen. For instance, that he can be hard to read. A lot of times he’s honest and playful, almost flirty with me; but other times, when it comes to important things, like our financial arrangement or me staying the night at his place, he keeps himself tucked away, and I can’t tell whether he’s pleased or displeased or completely indifferent. Maybe it’s the businessman in him.
Sensing my hesitation, he repeats, “Of course you can stay here.” He sets his mug down on a nearby side table. He silently offers to take mine, and I hand it over. “Come with me. I’ll get you set up.”
“Thanks,” I say as I follow closely. “You probably think I’m strange, but I’ve just had bad experiences in the snow.”
He gives me a cocky grin over his shoulder. “We’re both strange, then.”
Cohen gives me a mini tour of his home. It’s miniature because there’s no way he could have shown me to every room without it taking about an hour. I count thirteen rooms, each just as elaborately decorated and immaculate as the last, before he stops at a closed door.
He pushes on the brass doorknob and holds the door open for me. “Here we go,” he says.
I walk past him and then stop, my head scanning the beautiful setup. In this room sits a king-sized bed that’s graced by a tall, pillared bedframe. That bed faces a tall, white marble fireplace, and on top of that mantle is a huge flat-screen TV. The floor is dark hardwood, and there’s an oversized rug positioned underneath the bed.
