Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (7 page)

“So, your name is . . .”

“My friends call me Evan. The other—Rhys—I
use for work. Keeps my life separate so I can breathe.”

“You’re so jaded. ‘Wait until we’ve finished
eating to tell people.’” My mock was laughable.

“I had to.” He leaned across the table and
spoke low. “She might have ratted me out, otherwise. You have boys.
You’ve no idea how some girls can get.”

I theatrically bit my fingernails and
waited.

He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“You’re an actor?”

“That is what they tell me.”

“You could have told me, you know. But I
probably wouldn’t have believed you. You don’t look famous.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really? What does a
‘famous’ person ‘look’ like?”

I shrugged. “My ideas are probably
stereotypical. What kind of movies do you make?”

“Hopefully, the good kind.”

“Do you like them?”

“Eh, they pay well enough.”

He didn’t want to talk about it, but I
persisted. “How many have you been in?”

“A few.” I waited. “Mostly what they call
‘teen horror.’ They call me The King. King of what, I’d like to
know.” His tone implied contempt for the label. I must have looked
confused because he explained. “They’re more psychological
thrillers, targeted at a teen audience. Propaganda, really. Nothing
too deep or engrossing. PG-13 stuff. It’s a series of films which,
thankfully, ended last year. More recently, I’m working against
being typecast.”

I nodded, deciding to drop the shop talk
because he seemed irritated. But I had to know one minor detail.
“Is everyone so weird around you?”

He laughed. “It’s women, girls mostly. It’s
ridiculous. Have you ever tried to talk with someone who does
nothing but mindlessly scream at you?”

“One-sided conversation?”

He laughed, opening his mouth wide and
showing off a set of flawless, perfectly white teeth. “Exactly.
It’s bizarre.” His strong brow furrowed, looking genuinely
perplexed. “When they actually speak, it’s loud, almost always
invasive. It’s this creepy . . . veneration, a falsehood deemed
divine. They don’t know me, yet try to kiss me or propose marriage,
and almost always grab at me. And from time to time their
boyfriends want to kick my ass.” He paused when I gasped. “It’s
always awkward when met outside of the realm of an organized event.
I expect it, then.”

His gaze shifted to the left. “You see those
girls over there?” He gingerly raised one finger set in the general
direction. “Don’t look.”

“How am I supposed to see?”

He indicated with a slight tilting of his
head. “Be casual about it.” I turned again and he scoffed, “Oh,
that really needs work.”

Decidedly ignoring the superior criticism, I
caught a glimpse of the intended group—there was at least five. All
around thirteen, maybe fifteen—and turned back. “I’m no good at
stealth?”

His corresponding smile was short-lived. “If
any of them recognize me, we have to leave. Experience with that
age group tells me one or two may be fine for about five minutes.
Any more than that and things get quite hairy, very quickly, and I
don’t have security with me. Even if they’re civil, they text like
mad and before you know it, the place is crawling with maniacal
pubescents.”

“Maniacal?”

“Frothing at the mouth.”

“The distance from abashed to boastful is
very short, indeed.”

He raised one eyebrow.

The server interrupted with our food and
asked Evan to sign a paper menu. He complied, thanking her again in
a way that politely closed the possibility of further interruption.
She scurried off to her work station but did not look away.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a
split-second and Evan was almost finished with his burger. As soon
as the first bite of salad was in my mouth, he asked a
question.

“Where’s your husband?” I noticed his gaze
was fixed on my naked finger.

I felt the oppressive weight of the past
year come over me and struggled to chew. “He died.”

“
How?” The question bounced
out.

“Car accident—one year ago, today.”

“I assumed you were divorced. I should have
guessed. It’s obvious.”

I acknowledged with a nod before I really
heard. “Wait, what’s obvious?”

“The dearth,” he smiled gently. “It’s in
your eyes and on your shoulders.” He gestured to my slumping
posture. “I know how heavy it can be. My mother died when I was
sixteen—cancer.” He looked down at his plate.

What followed was silent understanding. We
were reluctant members of a survivors club. Eventually, the
understanding built into another conversation. I talked about my
love of nursing, and my boys when he asked. Evan wondered why I
drove a car older than he was.

“The eighty-six is a classic,” I teased, and
then gave the truth. “It was Sol’s first car and I can’t bring
myself to get rid of it. Maybe Noah will get it one day.”

Evan kept track of everyone—the nervous
behavior became progressively evident as we ate. When I took a swig
of water, his head snapped from one side to the other before
turning to me.

“Are you finished?”

I set my fork down. “Do you want to
leave?”

He smiled in a soft, strange way. “We’re
toast, dear.”

He tapped the table with a pointed finger—my
silent instruction to search. I turned my eyes towards the same
group he referred to earlier. Instead of them talking casually
amongst themselves like before, their faces were all keyed up. Some
were whispering, while others held their phones in our direction.
Two of the young girls were very clearly making plans and dialing.
Calling their friends, just like he’d said they would. A third
looked to be texting. A few started to approach, then others filed
in behind. The group had tripled in size, with more coming into
view from around a corner—all frantically looking around until
their eyes landed on him. My stomach plunged, seeing the voracious
airs of hunger. He was toast.

As I snatched my purse from the table, Evan
tossed some wadded bills onto the plates. We dashed away in the
opposite direction.

“Come on,” I pulled him up alongside me. The
museum had a strictly enforced safety policy of no running in the
corridors. But right then, with no security in sight, I started to
jog.

“Put this on.” I yanked off my black
baseball cap and handed it to him. He smirked, adjusted the Velcro
backing, and set it on his head. As we rounded another corner, he
took off his sweatshirt. I glanced back in time to see two girls
had made their way around the last corner. We had a good lead on
them, but my hair color stood out.

“This way,” I flung the heavy blue door open
to inspect the area. It appeared to be empty, so I took a few more
steps to look under the stalls to be sure. My calls echoed in the
empty space. No feet and no answer. I turned around to speak with
Evan, to explain the next part of my plan, and discovered I was
alone. Flying back to the restroom door, I pulled it open to find
him standing in the hall, looking dejected.

“Get in here!” I grabbed his hooded
sweatshirt and hauled him into the ladies’ bathroom.

He turned his worried eyes on me and
relaxed. Then, noticed where I was leading.

“You realize they’re all girls, right?”

“No one’s in here, I checked. Get into the
stall over there and put your legs up, those are obvious guy feet.”
Huge, black sneakers. I pointed to the first stall. Statistically,
it was supposed to be the one used the least often. He wasn’t
moving fast enough so I shoved him in, smushing myself in
behind.

“Up, up,” I instructed.

He set his feet on the toilet seat and
grunted a little, adjusting to the small space. There was no tank
to sit on so he had to squat, setting his hands on the walls for
balance. I closed and locked the door behind us.

“I thought you didn’t believe me.”

Even facing the door, I knew there was a
gloating grin on his face. When I turned, it was obvious he wasn’t
expecting it. His eyes floated up to meet mine a second too late. I
pulled the back of my sweatshirt down.

“I didn’t, but when I saw their
faces—they’ll eat you alive and bury me in the desert.”

“Why the ladies’ lavatory?”

The question was simple enough to answer,
but the context of delivery made me want to burst with laughter. It
was tough, but I suppressed it. We were expecting visitors any
second. “The men’s room will be the first place they check.”

“Why not make a mad dash to the parking
lot?”

“If they’re not already out there, they will
be.”

“What makes you the expert?”

“I used to stalk the New Kids on the Block.”
I smiled sheepishly, totally dating myself.

“Did they ever hide in the men’s room?”

“I would have found them if they did.”

He relaxed a little, though still clearly on
edge—in more ways than one. I almost choked on my chuckle.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“What is it with you and smoking in confined
spaces?” I teased, turning back towards the door.

“I’ll share . . .” he offered, as if to
tempt me.

A dull thump caught my attention.

“Shh . . .” I pressed my ear against the
door.

Evan was frozen, perched on the ring of the
toilet seat with his arms stretched between the partitions of the
stall. If it weren’t for the breathing, he could have passed for a
wax figure. Then I noticed the beads of sweat forming around his
temples.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered.

He was so self-conscious with the waitress.
Every word of praise rolled right off. I don’t think he was
listening to most of what she said. He was looking at his
surroundings, trying to prevent further disruption. He had to have
known this was a possibility—well, probably not this specific
situation—when he decided to bring me the phone, but he brought it
to me anyway.

My stomach twisted in knots at the approach
drumming of feet. It sounded like thunder, getting louder as the
distance between us and the pursuing storm decreased. The main door
creaked and the muffled racket became clear and loud. A group of
young girls stopped in front of the mirror. Judging by the topics
of discussion, it was the same troupe that spotted us in the food
court.

I stepped back, supposing my feet should be
nearest the spot they’d usually set when a person was doing their
business.

Evan was as white as a sheet. I mouthed a
reassurance, but he just looked past me at the crack in the door,
then moved to hide his head behind mine.

Multiple conversations were going on; all
centered on Evan, or Rhys, rather. One girl gushed over two others
that were brave enough to search the men’s room. I looked back to
Evan. He covered his mouth, hiding a smile. Another exchange was a
focused strategy session.

The other girls arrived, fresh from their
search of the men’s room with nothing to report. One remarked that
she was texting her friends in the parking lot. A second teen
commented that the girl from the café must have been wrong. Another
chimed in, insisting she was sure she saw Rhys Matthews with her
own eyes. He was her favorite actor, she had seen all his movies
and every interview he had ever done, and she would know him
anywhere because she was his biggest fan.

They decided to coordinate efforts using
their phones and divided into smaller groups to search different
exits and areas of the parking lot, but time was of the essence.
They all agreed to text if one of them spotted the black SUV he was
known to travel in, and search for his driver as well.

As they were about to take flight, one girl
entered the stall next to us. The partition shook when she slammed
the door, complaining she forgot to bring tampons. Others laughed
as she begged someone to search their pockets for change to get one
from the wall dispenser.

My eyes shrank in a hidden glare. I reached
into my bag and took out two, holding them under the separating
wall between us and the menstruating minor.

“Here you go,” I whispered, waving my hand
to grab her attention.

“Oh, thanks!” A pleased voice responded.

“You’re welcome.”

The sounds around us dissolved into a
concentrated silence. I could tell from the look of reproach on
Evan’s face, my presence was not as soothing as it should have
been. We were supposed to be hiding; instead, I was going to give
him away with my feminine hygiene products.

Sweat ran down his temples as I imagined the
worst. If one of the tiny sleuths were to slide her head under the
partition and spot him, he would be caught inside the ladies’ room,
sharing a stall with a woman, surrounded by a bunch of underage
girls. How could I have thought the bathroom was a good hiding
place?

“I still say it wasn’t him.” A voice broke
the dreadful hush.

Several girls rebuffed the remark,
simultaneously arguing that they would know him anywhere because of
. . . and then they started naming specific body parts. The first
few, I completely agreed with. He had a gorgeous face, killer hair
and smile, and a sexy walk. But the list went on, becoming
ridiculously long and pornographic. They described, with cringing
detail, certain acts—illegal acts because of their age—they were
eager to engage in, should they get the opportunity. Some of the
expressions they used, I’d never even heard of. I didn’t have the
courage to look back and gauge his reaction. I was pretty sure he’d
rather I didn’t. So, I stayed still and prayed they’d just
leave.

Others urged the girl in the stall to hurry
with the threat of being left behind. Some left, undeterred.
Finally, there was a flush and the vague shadow of two feet
sprinted from the adjoining stall. Water turned on. A second later,
the pattering of feet carried into the distance, along with the
sound of their voices.