Page 8 of Played
"I'll walk with you," Julian offers immediately. "Make sure you get home safely."
The man smiles gratefully. "That's very kind."
"I'm Julian, by the way."
The elderly man smiles. "I'm Gord."
Realization hits me like a bucket of cold water—my keys are gone, sitting in my purse with some masked criminal. I'm stranded.
"What about you?" Julian asks, catching my expression.
"My keys were in my purse," I explain. "I can't get to my apartment walking."
"Why don't you walk with us?" Julian suggests. "My car's at my place. I could drive you home after."
I don't even hesitate. Logic says I should be cautious about accepting rides from men I just met in convenience stores, but something about Julian feels safe. Trustworthy.
"That would be amazing," I say, relief washing over me.
The police take our contact information before we leave, promising to call if they recover any of our belongings.
As we walk away, Julian falls into step beside me, and I feel oddly at peace despite the chaos of the evening. There’s just something soothing about him.
He’s a breath of fresh air.
CHAPTER FOUR
We walk along the quiet street, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The night air is warm and breezy—one of those perfect late September evenings when summer refuses to let go.
"So what do you do for work, Gord?" Julian asks.
"I'm retired now," Gord replies, his voice stronger than his frail frame suggests. "I was a mechanical engineer for forty years. Worked on everything from turbines to conveyor systems."
"That's impressive," I say.
"And you, young man?" Gord glances at Julian.
"I play piano," Julian replies. "Bar gigs, mostly. Weddings sometimes."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Really? How long have you been playing?"
"Since I was ten. My neighbor taught me."
"That's incredible." I picture those hands moving across keys instead of handing gummy bears to frightened little girls. Both images fit somehow.
"What about you?" Julian asks.
"I'm a bartender. At the pool hall on Cumberland."
Recognition flashes across his face. "I've been in there a few times."
I rack my brain, trying to place him among the blur of faces that pass through my shifts. Nothing. How did I miss someone who looks like that?
"When?" I press.
"Maybe three or four times? I usually just grab a beer and watch the games."
"I can't believe I don't remember you."
