Page 14

I feel the blush all over again and hate it. I am not going home so he can sit in that bar and own the story of me.

I stop under a drugstore awning, turn, and start back toward Keller’s. If he wants to play, he can play with someone who knows how to watch a door and make their moves in the shadows.

The all-night diner across the street is half full and ugly in the best way. Neon. Sticky menus. A cook who has seen worse than me at midnight.

I take a window booth.

“Hot chocolate,” I tell the server. “Whipped cream. Extra.”

He does not care. Perfect.

I sit sideways so I can see the club entrance without looking like I am staking it out.

Coat on. Phone face down. The good-boy posture I use when I need people to leave me alone.

The first sip is too hot. I drink it anyway. I tell myself I will give it thirty minutes. If he does not come out, I go home and call this what it is: a stupid impulse from a boy who cannot leave a live wire alone.

Thankfully, I do not need thirty minutes. The doors of Keller’s open and there he is.

Dmitri. Dark coat. Unhurried. Like the night belongs to him because someone already told it to.

His colleague is with him. Tall. Alert. Eyes that miss less than they pretend to.

I watch as they stop on the sidewalk. Shake hands. Say something I cannot interpret. They split. Opposite directions…

Jackpot.

Dmitri turns right, away from the brighter stretch of bars, toward the quieter blocks where the money lives and the tourists do not.

I throw cash on the table, more than the drink is worth, and I am out of the booth before the waitress can ask if I want the rest boxed.

The street is busy enough. Late shifts. Drunk laughter. A couple fighting about a cab.

I slide into that current and keep Dmitri a good distance ahead.

Close enough to keep him. Far enough that if he glances back I am just another boy in a coat.

Dmitri does not glance back. That is the first thing that feels wrong…

Men like him check. They check reflections. They check crossings. They check the mouth of every alley because that is how they stay alive.

Dmitri walks like the city has already been searched for him. Steady pace. Hands in his coat. No phone. No pause at the lights except the exact second the signal changes.

I match him for three blocks.

Four blocks, heading toward a fifth.

My pulse is up now, not from the walk. From the shape of it. It’s too clean. Too even.

Where the hell is he going?

This is not the route of a man heading home. This is not a detour for a car. This is a line drawn on a map by someone who wants to be followed…

Fuck.

The thought lands and I almost laugh at myself. Of course. I am good at this and I am still an idiot.

I break off at the next corner.