Anyway, he wasn't into girls. He never had been, even when we were kids.
I watched his eyes swivel to the dark-haired man in the corner booth.
As soon as I got close enough, he let go with a not particularly stealthy whisper.
"Why didn't you call me? I told you to call me!"
"I didn't know."
"How long has he been here?"
"Well, if I knew that, I would have known when he got here, right?" I folded my arms. "I didn't. Know, I mean."
For an instant this stumped him. He squinted at me.
Cass said, "I don't know, Al." Her lips pursed. "You sure you don't want to talk to this one? Before Jon goes all kung fu on his ass...?"
It was my turn to stare at Cass. "What?"
She nodded towards Mr. Monochrome. "Him. Look at him."
I felt my jaw tighten a little. Jon gave Cass an incredulous look. Then both of us turned, following her gaze to the man with the coal-black hair.
I knew Cass was right, in a way. Mr. Mono had little in common with my usual breed of stalker. He didn't stare at me nervously, clutching flowers or bad poetry that rhymed. He didn't talk to himself. I'd never seen him wear crosses or pentagrams or so much as a Buddha tee shirt. He didn't look particularly unstable to me, either...or even like he wanted something from me. Most of the kooks I came across seemed to be looking for a savior. This guy seemed to have all kinds of purpose. He breathed purpose. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would think he was on the clock right then...although by looking at him, he appeared to be sitting alone in a dingy diner, staring at his own hands splayed on the scratched formica.
Still, he must want something from me. No way he could be all right, if he got his kicks following people around.
Unless someone hired him to follow me around.
The idea made me pause.
Of course, it didn't reassure me in the slightest. Still, it felt closer to the truth. In fact, the longer I thought about it, the more true it felt. He was a PI maybe. Or a cop. Had I done anything that would warrant a cop following me, though? Even with recent freakout and the GPS, I figured I was pretty much a nonentity in their eyes.
I found his ethnicity impossible to pinpoint. His mouth broke an angular face in a narrow line below a thick nose. He touched the formica tabletop with long-fingered hands, staring down at his own digits with almond-shaped eyes that had pale irises. I could gauge no emotion there, or even a precise color. His face remained endlessly flat, his body inconspicuous in its stillness.