Read Online Hide Your Eyes by Alison Gaylin - Free Book Online Page B

stared at him as if he were watching Les Mis for the first time. ‘Sam, Peter. Peter, Sam . . .’

    ‘You look familiar,’ said Peter. ‘Have we met before?’

    I watched Tredwell put my lunch in front of the empty seat on the other side of Peter and said, ‘I don’t think so.’ My eyes darted back to his. Now they were filled with the faint black and gray pattern on my V-necked sweater.

    Yale was right. His face was beautiful. It looked as if someone had spent long, loving hours sculpting every smooth inch of it, and his skin was glowingly tan despite the time of year. He had the ripe, bloated mouth of a Cosmopolitan model. I imagined it covered by a black scarf.

    ‘You’re staring at me,’ Peter said - not unkindly, more like he was used to it. ‘Do I have something in my teeth?’ In his eyes, I could see where the pale skin of my neck met my black T-shirt collar.

    ‘I really hate those lenses.’

    ‘Sam!’ said Yale. ‘You have to forgive her, Peter. She saw someone else with contacts like that and . . .’

    ‘Shut up, Yale.’

    ‘You couldn’t,’ Peter said. ‘They’re one of a kind.’

    ‘Then maybe it was you I saw.’

    ‘Maybe it was,’ he said through pearlescent teeth. ‘Maybe that’s why you look so . . . fa-mil-iar.’

    ‘Maybe.’

    ‘Sam, why don’t you sit down?’ Yale said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

    I obliged, more out of hunger than anything else, and shoved a piece of toast in my mouth.

    Peter said, ‘I saw you throw salt over your shoulder before. I know a lot about old superstitions. You know what you were doing when you did that?’

    I dug into the lukewarm omelet. ‘Not really.’

    ‘You were trying to blind the devil!’ He started to laugh.

    ‘What’s so funny about that?’

    ‘Come on. A grown, educated woman in New York City throwing sa Cty

    Yale chuckled. ‘That is funny. Well, let me tell you, Sam is soooo superstitious. My God, it’s practically a psychosis. I mean, if you’re in a hurry to get somewhere, and the closest distance between two points happens to be under a ladder, then you can just forget about it. She will literally go blocks out of her way to avoid stepping under that ladder. I’ve seen it happen. She’s crazy .’

    Peter stopped laughing.

    I stared at Yale.

    ‘I don’t mean crazy. I mean . . . fun.’

    I shoved more omelet in my mouth. At least my headache was starting to go away. ‘So,’ I finally said to Peter. ‘You do anything else besides wait tables and pick up complete strangers at after-hours bars?’

    Peter turned his body toward me, and I felt my heart speed up. I avoided his eyes, watched his mouth. ‘I breathe,’ the mouth said. ‘I eat. I smoke. I fuck.’ Abruptly, he leaned in so close I could feel his warm, odorless breath on my skin. ‘I bet you don’t . . . smoke. I bet you haven’t smoked for years. ’

    ‘Oh, for God’s sake. How can you keep your vegetables down, Yale?’

    His face flushed. ‘What do you mean?’

    ‘Oh, nothing. I just thought you might be feeling as nauseous as I do.’ I pulled a handful of bills out of my ugly bag and tossed them onto the counter.

    Peter turned back to Yale. ‘You’ve got great friends.’

    ‘Whatever, good-bye.’ As I reached for my bag, I noticed a tattoo on the back of Peter’s neck. It was a dark red pentagram, just about the size of a quarter. The small shape was thickly drawn and amateurish - almost as if it had been put there with a branding iron - and it made me feel as if someone were squeezing all the air out of the room. ‘You better come too, Yale. We’re going to be late for work,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

    ‘Wait a minute, Sam!’ Yale said, but I kept walking until I reached the front door and stepped outside and onto the freezing gray sidewalk.

    When Yale left the restaurant a few minutes later, he already had a lit cigarette in his hand. ‘What the fuck is wrong with