Where It Hurts by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

name, though.
    “What are you smiling at?” she asked, the look on her face unsure.
    It was a pretty face, but it was her eyes that I took most notice of. They were light blue and had that cracked-ice-crystal quality to them.They also had a paradoxical warmth about them so that they almost seemed to glow.
    “I was smiling at you, I guess. You have beautiful—”
    “Eyes,” she finished my sentence. “Thank you.”
    “I take it I’m not the first person to tell you that.”
    She shook her head, smiling shyly, hinting at the straight white teeth behind her pink lips. “Not even the first tonight. But I’m glad you think so.”
    I thought she might’ve been blushing a little, but it was hard to tell in the harsh parking lot light.
    “I’m okay, by the way,” I said. “Just hurt my leg a little, is all.”
    “What?”
    “That’s how this started, remember? You asked me—”
    She laughed a kind of goofy laugh. “Right. Right. I saw you were limping in the club earlier and then when I saw you leaning against the wall, I was just wondering.”
    “That’s a helluva a laugh you’ve got there.”
    “I know. My ex says it’s one of the reasons he asked for a divorce. He couldn’t take it anymore.”
    “I like it. I might even like your name if I knew it.”
    Now she definitely was blushing. “Casey. People call me Casey.”
    “But that’s not your name?”
    “Not nearly,” she said, ducking her head and wrapping her arms around the shoulders of her red leather jacket. “God, it’s cold out here.”
    “It is, but you’re not changing subjects that easy.”
    We both laughed at that. But she scrunched her lips closed and shook her head no at me like a little girl.
    “So, you’re not gonna tell me your name, huh?”
    “Not tonight,” she said.
    I offered her my right hand. “Well, I’m Gus Murphy.”
    Her hand fit comfortably in mine. It was warm and soft, but not too soft. It was a hand that worked for a living.
    Casey looked me directly in the eyes. “I know who you are.”
    “Do you?”
    “People talk.”
    She was lovely. Her hair was coal black and parted on the left. It was long, too, and fell over her shoulders as it pleased. She had an angular jawline and a willful chin. And when she wasn’t being shy, her smile was bright and alive. Her lips weren’t overly pouty or thick, but they had great curves to them.
    “What do you know about me, Casey whose name isn’t Casey?”
    “You were a cop and . . .”
    There it was, that look. She knew about John. I wasn’t in the mood for the usual awkwardness nor was I in the mood to be unkind. Being here with her had changed my frame of mind.
    “It’s okay,” I said, touching her cheek. Somehow I knew it would be okay for me to do that. “It’s not good to pretend.”
    When she didn’t apologize, I swear I almost kissed her. I found the thought of kissing her suddenly a pleasant idea, but I kept it as just that, a pleasant thought.
    “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, Gus, but I could never work up the nerve before tonight. It never seemed like you would want to talk. This isn’t coming out right. It’s not that I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me. What I’m saying is that you always seemed like you were closed.”
    “I
was
closed,” I said, realizing my hand was still pressed to her cheek. I took it away, but not quickly. “What did you want to talk about?”
    “The truth?”
    “It’s usually a good place to start.”
    “Dinner,” she said.
    I was confused. “What about dinner?”
    She laughed that goofy laugh again and I was even more confused.
    “What?”
    “I’ve wanted you to ask me that question for months.”
    “
What about dinner?
” I repeated it in my head and aloud, trying to understand. Then, “Oh, now I understand.”
    “You’re smiling, Gus.”
    “Am I? I don’t smile much anymore.”
    “You should. It suits you. You’re very handsome when you smile.”
    “Thanks.”
    She turned