He studied me for a moment and gave me the finger. Okay, so it wasn‘t a shrug. And giving and getting the finger is a way of life in Jersey. Still, getting the finger from a monkey isn‘t normal even by Jersey standards.
My apartment consists of a small entrance foyer with hooks on the wall for coats and hats and handbags. The kitchen and living room open off the foyer, a dining area is tucked into an extension of the living room, and at the other end is a short hallway leading to my bedroom and bathroom. My décor is mostly what ever was discarded by relatives. This is okay by me because Aunt Betty‘s chair, Grandma Mazur‘s dining room set, and my cousin Tootsie‘s coffee table are comfortable. They come to me infused with family history, and they give off a kind of gentle energy that my life is sometimes lacking. Not to mention, I can‘t afford anything else.
I hung my tote on one of the hooks in the foyer and stared down at a pair of scruffy men‘s boots that had been kicked off and left in the middle of the floor. I was pretty sure I recognized the boots, plus the battered leather backpack that had been dumped on Tootie‘s coffee table.
I walked into the living room and stared down at the backpack. I blew out a sigh and rolled my eyes. Why me? I thought. Isn‘t it enough that I have a monkey? Do I really need one more complication?
“Diesel?” I yelled.
I moved to the bedroom, and there he was, sprawled on my bed. Over six feet of gorgeous, hard-?muscled, slightly tanned male. His eyes were brown and assessing, his hair was sandy blond, thick, and unruly. His eyebrows were fierce. Hard to tell his age. Young enough to be lots of trouble. Old enough to know what he was doing. He was wearing new gray sweatsocks, tattered jeans, and a faded T-?shirt that advertised a dive shop in the Caicos.
He rolled onto his back and smiled up at me when I came into the room.
“Hey,” he said.
I pointed stiff-?armed to the door. “Out!”
“What, no kiss hello?”
“Get a grip.”
He patted the bed next to him.
“No way,” I said.
“Afraid?”
Of course I was afraid. He made the Big Bad Wolf look like chump change.
“How do you always manage to smell like Christmas?” I asked Diesel.
“I don‘t know. It‘s just one of those things.” The smile widened, showing perfect white teeth, and crinkle lines appeared around his eyes. “It‘s part of my appeal,” he said.
“You were in Martin Munch‘s house earlier today, weren‘t you?”
“Yeah. You came in the back door, and I went out the front. I would have hung around, but I was following someone.”
“And?”
“I lost him.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Are you sure you don‘t want to roll around on the bed with me?”
“Rain check,” I told him. “Really?”
“No.”
Here‘s the thing with Diesel. I‘d be crazy not to want to take him for a test drive, but I‘ve already got two men in my life, and that‘s actually one too many. Truth is, I‘m a good Catholic girl. The faith has always been elusive, but the guilt is intractable. I‘m not comfortable having simultaneous intimate relationships . . . even if it‘s only for a glorious ten minutes. And Diesel isn‘t a normal guy. At least, that‘s his story.
If Diesel is to be believed, there are people living among us with abilities beyond normal. They look just like anyone else, and most hold normal jobs and live relatively normal lives. They‘re called Unmentionables, and some are more unmentionable than others. From what I‘ve seen, Diesel is about as unmentionable as a guy could get. Diesel travels the world tracking Unmentionables who‘ve gone to the dark side, and then he pulls the power plug. I don‘t know how he accomplishes this. I‘m not even sure I believe any of it. All I know is, one minute he‘s here, and then he‘s gone. And when he leaves, the barometric pressure improves.
Diesel stood and stretched, and when he stretched, there was a tantalizing flash of skin exposed between shirt and low-?riding jeans. It was enough to make my eyes glaze over and my mouth go dry. I struggled to replace the image with thoughts of Morelli naked, but I was only partially successful.
“I‘m hungry,” Diesel said. “What time is it? Is it lunch -time?” He looked at his watch. “It‘s after noon in Greenland. Close enough.”
He ambled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where Carl was sitting on the counter, staring into Rex‘s aquarium.