Chased by a Stranger (Craved Series #3) (8 page)

It was like she never existed. 

Or at least, I couldn't find her online with the little
information I had: her first name, her profession, the city she lived in.

And that really pissed me off because that should have been
enough in this day and age. What’s more, it wasn’t fair. It didn’t accurately reflect
how well I knew her. 

I knew her happy place was Provence and how her cheeks blushed
when she came. I knew that her feet were ticklish and that she had a small
constellation of freckles on her inner thigh that looked like the little
dipper. 

But the internet wasn't giving up the information I needed. It
was happy to give me the phone numbers for over eight hundred Audrey's in the
Seattle area, but that wasn't much good to me considering I was looking for one
in particular. 

I thought about hiring a private detective. I figured if I
waited until business hours on the West Coast, I could have one on the case
before nightfall. But I was in a hurry.

The more time that passed before I had a chance to explain
everything, the greater the chances were that she’d fill her head with reasons
we weren't right for each other. And even if that was the case, I wanted us to
find that out organically, not because her creative mind had no choice but to
jump to conclusions.

And finally it hit me. Matteo. 

I didn't know his last name either, but at least he was closer
to home. At first I thought it was a long shot. The only thing I knew about him
was that he'd spent more than one night with Megan and that he was Italian.

Fortunately, he was easy enough to track down. 

Or rather, he was easy for Jin to track down once I asked for
his help. 

I was in my fifth hotel on the main strip asking around for a
guy I didn't know when he called me back.

"Mazzochetti," he said. 

"What?"

"That's his last name. He frequents the clubs on the south
side of town, especially my friend Li's place, the Lucky Star."

"Good work, Jin. I was starting to lose hope."

"He has lunch at the Italian place across the street from
there a lot, too, I guess. I can't remember the name, but it's the only one in
the area."

"That's fantastic." I turned on my heels and walked
out of the hotel.

“It’s also the only one in this province that gets its basil
directly from Italy according to Li.”

I slipped my aviators on when I reached the sunny sidewalk. "Are
you sure you haven't done this kind of detective work before?"

"Never," he said. "This is my first time."

"Well, I'm really impressed. I'd have shit to go on if it
weren't for you."

"Jack."

"Yeah?"

"You must be careful when you go meet this guy. Maybe it’s
better if I come with you."

"That's okay," I said. "You've done more than
enough to help. I can take it from here."

"I’m serious."

"What are you talking about?"

"It sounds like he’s a wild card. Two of the club owners I
called said some weird things to me. I think he might be a drug user or
something."

I bit the inside of my lip. "I don't think that's going to
be an issue here, Jin. I certainly have no intention of mentioning anything
like that to him, but thanks for the warning."

"Try to catch him at lunch just to be safe."

I appreciated Jin worrying about me, but he had an inflated fear
of drugs. Sure, the penalties in Thailand were extremely strict for such offenses,
but most of the people he knew that did drugs were either dangerous or had let
their substance abuse take over their lives. 

The concept of recreational drug use was a foreign one to him. And
while I couldn't be sure, my guess was that Matteo merely dabbled like lots of
people I knew back home. 

After all, what kind of junky eats Italian food in heat like
this?

"Thanks for your concern" I said. "I'll try and
catch him at lunch. And thanks again for all your help. I think you have a real
shot at your own Hollywood detective show."

"Maybe," he said. "But only if I can be the star.
I don't want to be another minority side kick."

"I don't think you can be that picky, Jin. You don't even
have an agent yet."

"Who needs an agent when you've got my looks?"

I laughed. "You're right. I don't know what I was
thinking."

"Let me know how it goes with the Italian."

I shook my head and smiled at his choice of words. It was like
he was already getting into character. 

I hung up the phone with a new sense of optimism. Surely I could
find a guy named Matteo in the only Italian restaurant in town. 

And when I pulled up on my rented moped outside the restaurant,
I almost pinched myself. The building was designed to look like it dropped
straight out of Tuscany, and there was a handsome Italian around my age eating
spaghetti and meatballs inside beside a laptop. 

Unfortunately, finding him was the easy part. 

"I don't understand," he said. "Megan gave her
email to me so I could get in touch, not so I could give it to you."

"I only need it so I can apologize to Audrey for missing
dinner on their last night-"

"Ahhhh," he said twirling spaghetti against his spoon.
"You're that Jack." 

"Yeah."

He shook his head. "You stood up a beautiful woman. Your
behavior should not be rewarded."

I locked my eyes on his. "Matteo, please. I'm only trying
to do the right thing. I need her to know it was an emergency and that our time
together meant something to me."

He squinted at me. 

"What are you going to say to Megan?"

I wanted to punch him in his big stupid nose, but he had
something I desperately needed, and I was confident that wouldn't help
negotiations.

"I'm going to say hello and ask for Audrey's email address
or something. I don't know." I hadn't really thought that far ahead.

"Then Megan will think I'm a jerk for not getting in
touch."

"Your relationship with Megan is none of my business. I'm
not going to get involved."

"How can I trust anything you say? You're the kind of guy
that doesn't come to dinner when he's invited and then interrupts people's
lunches uninvited and starts making demands."

"Don't you think Megan would want me to get in touch so I
could apologize to her friend?" I asked. "She would probably think it
was cool of you to help me out."

"Her friend was very sad," he said. "I can't
remember the last time I saw a woman looking so sad."

I felt a twist in my guts. 

"In fact, just thinking about it now is kind of spoiling my
appetite."

I pursed my lips. I was desperate now. The longer it took me to
convince him, the less confidence I had that he was going to hand over the
number.

"I'm really sorry, Matteo," I said. "I know I
have no right to bother you with something that isn't your problem, but please
don't stand between me and this woman. You don't want to be that guy."

He swallowed his bite and licked his lips.

"Please.”

He wiped his mouth on his napkin and kept his eyes on me.

"Do the right thing and help me out."

"What's in it for me?" he asked. 

I shrugged. "Good karma." I didn't think he was going
to go all Mafia on me, but if it was money he wanted, my pockets were as deep
as my feelings for Audrey. Not that I was that keen to be seen giving a large
sum of cash to someone with rumored drug connections.

"Tell me, Jack, are you a real doctor?" he asked,
looking over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

"Yes," I said, relieved that he had some idea who I
was and that I hadn't been reduced to some nameless nobody in Megan and
Audrey's eyes, at least as far as he was concerned. "I'm a real
doctor."

"Could you have a look at something for me?"

"Yes, of course. I’ll do anything I can to help," I
said, hoping he would follow suit. 

Which he did, handing over Megan's email address quite happily
and without a fuss. 

Just as soon as I diagnosed his infected ingrown toenail. 

I emptied the last of the groceries into my fridge and folded up
my reusable bags so they would fit in my slim hall closet. 

After a week and a half in Seattle, things were officially back
to normal- or rather- back to their usual state of abnormality…

Apart from the fact that I was still treating a coral wound and constantly
walking into my room so I could open my jewelry box and stare at a necklace
that was given to me by a man I would never see again. 

Not that I would ever wear it. I liked the little white shell
with the swirl in the center, but it reminded me of him too much and I couldn't
imagine a time when it wouldn't.

Sometimes I wondered what he was doing, whether he was scuba
diving or getting a massage or snacking on a banana pancake. 

But the more I thought about it, the sillier it seemed to hope
we might meet again. After all, it would be foolish of him to leave Thailand.
The days he spent there were enviable in every way.

I sighed and twirled the delicate chain around my finger,
remembering how much I enjoyed wearing it in his company and the rush I felt receiving
jewelry from a man for the first time in my life. 

Even though he only bought it in the street, it didn't matter.
The point was that he thought of me when I wasn't there, and more specifically,
he thought of a way to make me smile. 

It was more than I'd come to expect from the men I dated, and I
think that's why it caught me so off guard. Of course, thinking about his
generosity only sent my mind straight to the gutter. 

In fact, every time I closed my eyes, I saw his tanned torso and
the way his mirrored aviators framed his face. Everything I touched was either
smooth like the firm muscles in his arms or rough like his hair, the hair I
grabbed in my fist as he put his head between my legs, the hair I held as I
watched my cheeks change color in the hotel room mirror.

Even the blue patches of sky that broke through the clouds made
me think of his eyes and how they crinkled around the edges when he
smiled. 

And then there was my foot, which was a constant reminder of how
he took care of me, carried me, and seduced me. Even when it healed I would
have a scar there, a scar that would always ruin the way my feet looked in high
heels, a scar people would inevitably ask me about.

Maybe I would just say someone dropped a glass or a piece of
furniture on it. Even though the coral injury was a better story, it would lead
to questions. And while polite company would never even think to ask anything
inappropriate, their questions would only lead to the unanswered ones I
had. 

For example, I would never stop wondering what happened to Jack
that night, and though the desire to know would wane over time- much like the
pain in my foot- there would always be traces of it woven into my memories.

I lowered the shell back in my jewelry box, letting the chain
pool around it before I closed the lid. If only I knew how long it would be until
someone else made me feel that delicious twist in my guts. 

Of course, not all was lost. At least he gave me good advice
about finding work.

The day after I got home, I uploaded my profile and experience
to a freelance outsourcing site. And within two days, I’d secured two jobs with
potential long term clients and bid on three others.

The only downside was that I would have to work for less pay
than I was used to until I built up my reputation, but it was better than
nothing. Plus, once I secured some positive feedback from my initial clients, I
might actually be able to pay my bills.

Best case scenario, something might come out of it besides
temporary income. Maybe I could even start working for myself full time. Then I
could travel more and control my schedule. At the very least, I wouldn’t have
to take the first full time position that came along.

I slid into my desk chair and checked my account to see if I'd
heard back from any of the jobs I’d bid on yet. I was hoping for two of them
especially because they were for some people that just needed logos designed
and that was the kind of stuff that came most easily to me. 

Not that I'd ever tell the client that. Graphic design was one
of those industries where people assumed you must’ve worked harder if it took
longer. My first boss taught me that, and I'd confirmed it through personal
experience. 

If people thought you could just whip stuff out, they felt
cheated paying you fairly for it, even though the skills that made it easy for
you to work fast took years to acquire. As a result, there was a careful
balance I needed to strike between being prompt and taking my time to ensure the
client and I both had a good experience. 

But before I even knew what I was doing, I was typing his name
into Google. I clicked “Images” and his face popped up in a hundred different
locations, each picture taken from a different angle. 

I swear to god it was like they were all his good side. In each
one, he looked tanner and healthier than anyone I'd ever seen, his blue eyes
only out sparkled by his smile. There were even pictures of him with Oprah and
all the other major talk show hosts, making it clear he’d been a bigger media
darling than I realized.

I flipped back to see if he had a Wikipedia page, and he did,
though it didn't give very much away. In fact, the only new thing I learned was
that he was thirty three which was a few years older than I thought he was. But
I couldn’t help but feel like it was also sort of a delicious age because
surely by then you were responsible and had a grip on your life. 

Or at least I hoped that was the case because that meant I still
had plenty of time to sort my shit out. 

Unfortunately, his profile page ended as abruptly as our last
encounter. 

I clicked back to the first page of his Google results and
froze. What was I doing? What was I looking for? Did I want to contact him? Or
did I just want to make myself feel like crap? 

Cause I had enough reasons to feel bad without going looking for
them. 

So what was I really after? Closure? 

I mean, what the hell was I going to do? Send a note to his
publisher? Find him on Facebook? I already knew that at least that last option
was null because he didn't have an account... Unless he was one of the Jack
Quinn's with the generic blue face icon, but I was hardly going to go scouring
the internet, harassing every Jack Quinn I could find. 

Besides, what would I even say?

I'm sorry about how things ended even though it was all your
fault?! 

Then again, maybe that was the problem. Maybe I didn't really
believe that the way things ended between us was his fault. 

In reality, I was the one that hadn't let him in the morning we
were leaving, the one that wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain.

Because I was hurt.

So I decided to be stubborn instead of risk being vulnerable. 

But wasn't his showing up- even if he was with another woman-
proof that he wanted things to end differently? 

Perhaps I was right to jump to conclusions. 

But maybe I'd drawn the wrong one.