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Softest Shadow

  Tiffany Allen

  Copyright 2016 Tiffany Allen

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is license for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Connect with the Author

  Chapter 1

  The crowd moves like a mass of slithering snakes. For some of the people, snake, is a perfect description for them. They move among the naïve mice, waiting to strike.

  I watch the market from my perch on the steps leading up to the bridge. The people scurry about as the cars zoom by above. For the most part, these people run legitimate businesses. The fruit and vegetable stands, the handmade wooden puzzles, the wind chimes made from old silverware and wine bottles; but among the real you can always find a fake.

  My eyes roam the crowd, looking for the snakes. There’s four of them today. One is selling jewelry, claiming they are real precious stones. Another is selling instruments that will break in a week or two. A third is selling an “organic” compound that is supposed to keep your hair soft and vibrant. The last is the smartest in my opinion. He’s selling “genuine” fossils. All the years I have watched people be swindled, it’s always the ones who offer a unique rare product to a vast range of people, who prosper. It’s just logical.

  Kids run straight to his stand in the hopes they’ll see a fossil of a dinosaur. Dinosaurs like they’ve seen in the movies and on TV. Parents follow closely behind and contemplate how having a fossil on the mantle will up their cool factor and reputations among their peers. Whereas windchimes are unique, people tend to like the idea and then go make their own. It’s a better conversation starter to say you actually made it but the fossils are different. Few would actually go out and dig for hours, days, weeks, in the hopes of finding one. It’s a lot easier to buy the polished pieces before them.

  I tire of watching the snakes and move to the mice. They bump into each other, cut each other off, all running around in a hurry to get what they want. The nice ones just end up getting shoved around by the more aggressive ones. One of the mice catches my attention.

  It’s a girl, early twenties, long brown hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She’s hanging back from a stall, patiently waiting for the others to finish. I watch as someone leaves the stall and she moves forward only to be cut off by another person. She goes back to patiently waiting, not a hint of irritation on her face. I continue watching her as she makes her way through the market. She walks with her bag tucked close to her so it doesn’t bump into anyone. Her eyes constantly move over the people around her. At first I think it’s out of fear but as another person walks right into her path she nimbly avoids them and continues scanning the crowd. Most people are oblivious to their surroundings but this girl seems to focus on hers out of consideration for her fellow people. She won’t make it very far in life like that. The world takes people like her, chews them up, and then spits them out. I’ve seen it happen countless times.

  The girl is on her way out of the market now. She didn’t even buy anything. I wonder why she came at all. She’s passing the last few stalls when one of them catches her eye. I see who it is and I pity her. It’s another snake. A fifth one that I missed. He’s signing up volunteers for local charities and shelters. They give their info over to him thinking he represents a mass volunteer collaborative that coordinates volunteers throughout the city. In reality he takes their information and depending on the person, either sells it or uses it for himself. You’d be surprised at what the little bit of info they give can get someone. A name, phone number, email address, all just steps to getting an address, and this particular snake is not someone who should have your address, especially a young pretty girl’s.

  I watch as she listens to his speech and feel an odd sense of relief when I see hesitation in her face, her gut telling her something is wrong. It doesn’t last long though. I watch as she shakes off her worries and picks up the pen and clipboard.

  I’m off the steps and behind her before the pen touches the paper.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say as I take the clipboard from her hands. I see about twenty names on it already. Lots of do-gooders today apparently. She jumps and spins around to face me, her awareness of her surroundings failing her. She looks up at me with startled grey eyes. I take the pen from her hand and reach around her to lay both the pen and the clipboard on the table.

  “What do you mean?” She asks, warily eyeing me and the stall owner. Her voice is soft but I sense strength behind it. It surprises me. I turn to the fake volunteer recruiter and stare at him with hardened eyes.

  “Leave,” I command him. He hurriedly starts packing up his stuff. I soften my eyes before turning back to the girl. “It’s a scam. He steals peoples’ information,” I inform her. I watch as she debates my words before angrily turning to the snake.

  “Is that true?” she demands, her eyes burn with purpose. I like it.

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” the snake lies. He continues to guiltily pack up his stuff. He reaches for the clipboard but she’s faster. She takes the list of names and information before letting the clipboard fall back to the table.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she says, her soft grey eyes burning with fire. Her ferocity amuses me, for someone so normally meek, she sure is something when riled up. She starts digging through her bag and pulls out a box of matches. Matches? Who is this girl? She doesn’t smoke. I would have smelled it on her if she did. She goes to the nearby water fountain and places the paper in the basin; she strikes a match and sets the paper on fire. I watch in awe as she carefully blocks the wind so the flaming pieces don’t blow around. When there is nothing but ash left, she holds the button and water spouts forth, completely destroying the ashes and any chances of the fire continuing.

  By this time the snake is slithering away, his day of conning wasted. The girl turns to me. “Thank you,” she says with a smile, the fire gone from her eyes.

  “Don’t mention it,” I grumble. I turn around and walk away. I’ve had enough do-gooding for the day. I get ten feet before I hear the sound of running feet.

  “Wait!” The girl calls, coming up next to me. I don’t acknowledge her or slow my pace.

  “Wait, let me thank you,” she says, she’s managing to keep by my side de
spite the crowd and my pace. I quicken my pace and she falls behind. I hear her “excuse me’s” as she tries to remain considerate of the crowd but also trying not to lose me. I wonder what would be the first to go; her concern for others or her desire to thank me. I look behind me and see her struggling through the crowd. I duck behind the concrete support block of the bridge and watch as she carefully but speedily makes her way through the crowd. She bursts through; slightly red faced as she searches the pathway for me. She jogs by my hiding spot and I speak, “Looking for me?”

  She jerks to a halt and turns around to face me. She’s slightly out of breath, cheeks tinged red. She stares at me with her hands on her hips, regaining her composure.

  “Why did you run off?” she asks, slight irritation in her grey eyes.

  “Maybe I like being chased,” I reply, giving her a wink. Her cheeks redden a bit more.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” she says, she doesn’t look me straight in the eyes.

  “Didn’t you already do that?” I study her as she shuffles her feet nervously.

  “I meant properly thank you,” she says quietly. Her cheeks aren’t red anymore, it’s a shame.

  “And how does one thank someone properly?”

  “Well, I’d like to offer to buy you lunch.” She’s still avoiding eye contact.

  “That sounds like more of a date than a thank you.” A tiny part of me sparks with victory as her cheeks redden again.

  “Will you accept my offer or not?”

  Even though she’s embarrassed, there’s something else in her voice, determination to see this conversation though, despite my teasing. Admirable.

  “Who am I to turn down a lady?” I give a small bow and motion for her to go first. “Lead the way.”

  She starts walking and I fall in beside her. We walk five blocks when I realize she has no idea where she’s going.

  “You have no idea where you’re going do you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I can hear the defensiveness in her voice but her cheeks are tinged pink again.

  “Just the fact that you are taking us into the industrial side of town where the closest you are going to get to food are the dumpsters.”

  “Oh,” she says, coming to a stop.

  “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”

  She looks at me guiltily.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  The way she moves among crowds, her innocence to the fake recruiter, her lack of knowledge of the city layout, yeah it was pretty obvious.

  “Only a little bit.” I turn in the opposite direction. “Come on, I know a place.”

  I lead her through downtown, past the boutiques and coffee shops to a little diner nestled between a bookstore and an art studio. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she looks longingly at the bookstore. I knew I had read her right. I hold the door open for her and she thanks me as she walks inside. I follow closely behind.

  The diner is a mix between modern and antique. The structure and layout is clean and white. The table and chairs are all hard angles and smooth surfaces. The light is old though. Antique lamps and chandeliers hang about the building; casting it in warm light and making the modern furniture seem cozy and inviting. Old paintings and mirrors decorate the walls. It’s a unique contrast that might not necessarily work but it’s charming.

  “This is so cute,” the girl says, a huge grin on her face. “I like the bookstore next door too.”

  I love being right.

  The waitress sits us at a table near the back under one of the chandeliers. She “accidently” brushes my hand when she sets my menu down. She makes doe eyes at me and when she walks away she swings her hips, trying to draw attention to her rear end.

  Market Girl watches her walk away and turns back towards me.

  “I think she’s flirting with you,” she says. There’s no jealousy in her voice.

  “She’s not my type,” I shrug and wink at her again. She doesn’t blush this time though. Damn.

  “Have you been here before?” she asks as she browses the menu.

  Only every week.

  “A few times.”

  “Do you recommend anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ooo-kay,” she says, drawing out the word.

  “I don’t eat when I come here.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me before returning to her menu. I wonder if she knows she bites her lip when she’s thinking.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” I say, head tilted to the side.

  “Neither have you,” she points out.

  “Not very smart going someplace with a guy you just met and you don’t even know his name.” She stares at me a long time before going back to the menu. She knows I’m right.

  “Natalie,” she says without looking up.

  “Nice to meet you,” I smirk. She really is too trusting.

  The waitress comes back and speaks directly to me, “Anything I can get for ya?” She bats her eyelashes.

  “Ladies first,” I say, nodding towards Natalie. She turns reluctantly to take her order.

  “I’ll just have a vanilla milkshake please,” she orders politely. The waitress turns back to me.

  “I’m fine, just bring two straws," I say, giving Natalie another wink. No blush again. Dammit, what am I doing wrong?

  The waitress angrily flips her hair and sashays off.

  “Why did you say that?” Natalie asks, her tone disapproving.

  “Would you rather me let her flirt with me despite my lack of interest?”

  “I just meant there’s a nicer way.”

  “Nicer? You think I was mean?”

  She shrugs.

  “Did it not occur to you that as far as she knows, we are dating?”

  “No,” she answers quietly.

  “In fact it would be the safe assumption that we are, so for her to blatantly flirt with a presumed taken guy would be rude if not blatantly mean wouldn’t it?”

  “I see your point but what if she didn’t think we were dating?”

  “Trust me, she did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know people.”

  She doesn’t reply. Just sits there playing with the silverware. She is obviously someone who likes to give people the benefit of the doubt. That’s not uncommon but she’ll end up used that way.

  “Why do you carry matches with you?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “I like to be prepared,” she says quietly.

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything you say?” I smirk at her.

  “Not everything,” she says, cheeks blushing. Finally.

  The waitress brings the milkshake with two straws. Natalie thanks her and she leaves without giving me even a glance. Natalie doesn’t reach for the milkshake.

  “Not thirsty?”

  “No I am. I just think there’s a good chance she spit in it.”

  I laugh at that. Maybe she isn’t as naïve as I thought.

  “So tell me why you moved to Portland,” I say, taking the milkshake and drinking it myself. She gives me a look before answering.

  “I was offered a job here.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Graphic Design.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “I’m an open book,” I reply. I push the empty glass back to the middle of the table.

  “What’s your name?”

  Not being able to resist, I tease, “Handsome Stranger not good enough for you?”

  She shakes her head no but she has a slight smile on her face.

  “It’s Jack,” I say.

  “Nice to meet you, Jack. What do you do for a living?”

  "I’m in sales.”

  “What do you sell?”

>   “This and that. Depends on what people want.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you lived in the city long?”

  “The last four years. My turn. Why were you in the market this morning?”

  “My coworkers said it’d be a good way to experience the city.”

  “They lied.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one goes to the market to experience the city. They go there to make themselves feel less corporate.”

  “And get conned? How did you know that guy was a fake?”

  “I’ve seen him around.”

  “Why did you help me?”

  I hesitate before I answer. Because I was bored? Because I wanted a chance to intimidate someone? Because the angel on my shoulder was particularly loud this morning?

  “I wanted a free milkshake,” I smile at her, turning up my charm. It doesn’t seem to affect her though. “Tell me, what made you think you could trust me?”

  She bites her lip as she thinks about it.

  “Your eyes.”

  That was the last thing I expected her to say.

  “My eyes? She nods. “What about them?”

  “My grandma always says eyes are the windows to the soul. When I looked into yours, my gut told me I could trust you.”

  “I think you might need glasses.”

  “Maybe I do, I’ll have to wait and see.”

  Then she smiles at me. So blindly trusting, so naïve, so beautiful. I throw some money on the table and stand up.

  “Well, it’s been fun but I got to get going.” I start to walk away.

  “Wait! It was supposed to be my treat.” She holds out my money for me to take.

  “I never let a lady pay.” I wink at her before turning and walking out of the diner.

  ______________

  I watch from across the street as Natalie leaves the diner. She checks her phone before turning and entering the bookshop. Forty minutes later she emerges, a bag in each hand. I follow her as she makes her way back to her car. It’s not too far from where the market was this morning. Surprisingly, she makes it there with only one wrong turn. She’s a quick learner.

  ______________

  It’s almost 1 am and the street is deserted, the night quiet like a broken machine. I scan the neighborhood for light but all the houses are dark except for the one I sit watching. It’s a considerably large house for someone who lives by themselves. It’s in a nice neighborhood filled with families and old people. Many would kill to have this kind of real estate. Natalie’s job must pay well.