Nocturnal by Nathan Field

to go.”
    I blocked her path to the door. “Lucy, wait . I want to help.”
    “Then leave me alone. Don’t you get it? This is exactly why I can’t be with you.”
    “You don’t mean that.”
    “Yes I do ,” she insisted. “Please Johnny, I don’t need another bully in my life. Now get out of my way or I swear, I’ll scream this fucking hotel down.”
    The look in her eye told me she was serious. I backed into the corner of the room, watching in silence as she pulled on her sweater and hurried out the door.
    I waited until her footsteps faded down the hall. Then I went to the bathroom and studied my reflection, checking that the smirk I could feel on my lips wasn’t visible. Because even though I was fuming about Sterling’s abuse, and I felt awful for Lucy, a part of me – a small, selfish part of me – was pleased.

9. “Your face is putting me off my food”             
     
    I wasn’t a big fan of Chinatown. There were too many bright lights, the air reeked of twice-used cooking oil, and the streets were jam-packed seven nights a week. I could never get comfortable with the jumbled pace: the slow-moving tourists who stopped to inspect Chairman Mao lighters and bins of exotic herbs every few steps, thrown in with the bustling young couriers and local businessman who always seemed to be barreling straight towards me. It put me on edge, even more so than usual.
    I cursed Bruno for picking a restaurant on Grant Avenue, right in the middle of the tourist stretch. Pushing through the meandering crowd, I completely missed the Red Drum on the first pass. Unlike most of the restaurants in Chinatown – where multi-colored signs, set menu specials and attractive young hostesses lured people in – the Red Drum was refreshingly discreet. The only clue to its location was an engraved copper plaque tacked to a wooden door .
    Inside the tiny entrance lobby, I took a minute to remove my shades and steady my breath. I felt foolish getting wound up over a blind date, but after eight years of relative solitude, the prospect of making small talk for two hours was almost as frightening as having a murderer on my tail. 
    I climbed the stairs to the restaurant level. The Red Drum emerged as a spacious, crimson-hued dining room with a quiet, almost stately ambience: white tablecloths, black-lacquered furniture, formally dressed waiting staff and, mercifully, subdued lighting. Even the crowd was relatively restrained for a Chinatown restaurant – there wasn’t an office work party or excitable tour group in sight. I relaxed a touch, withdrawing my earlier slur against Bruno. He’d obviously chosen the Red Drum with my long list of phobias in mind.
    I was having my coat removed by a slick-haired maître d’ when Bruno’s booming voice called me through. “Hey Sam, over here.”
    They were seated at a round table by the front window: Bruno, Chloe and my dinner date, Maxine.
    Maxine looked a few years younger than the rest of us, maybe late-twenties, but her style was all confident sophistication. Dark haired, dark eyed, and attractive in a proud, Vassar-educated way. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, and she was wearing a plain white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal the beginning of a deep cleavage. Despite letting her hair down, and the teasing hint of flesh, she looked as if she’d come straight from the office.
    I was taken aback. When Bruno had mentioned Chloe’s friend, I’d imagined someone similarly kooky. But where Chloe was a bottle-blond pet therapist who collected Peggy Lee memorabilia, Maxine looked like a paid-up member of the establishment – a career woman with a platinum card, a global stock portfolio, and a jet-setting lifestyle.
    Why the hell would anyone think we’d be a good match?
    “Sam, this is my friend Maxine,” Chloe beamed, oblivious to my discomfort. I liked Chloe, her heart was in the right place, but she was also one of the pushiest women I’d ever met. “And Maxine,