Burying Water (18 page)

TWENTY-THREE

Jesse

then

“Welles!” Miller’s booming voice pulls me from my brake job.

“Uh-oh . . . Teacher’s pet’s in trouble,” Zeke mumbles from beneath a hood.

I’d believe it, the way Miller is lumbering toward me. But for what, I have no idea. I’ve been here on time every day, even with the late nights over at Viktor’s. “Here.” He shoves a slip of paper at me. “You’re needed here before heading over to Mr. Petrova’s house.”

I frown at the address on the paper. “For what?”

“Do I look like your fucking secretary?” Miller snaps, turning around. “Boone. You’re busy with your thumb up your ass. Go finish up this car for him.”

Normally Boone would shoot a finger to Miller’s back, but right now he’s more interested in what I have in my hand, snatching it out of my grasp. “NoPo? What’s over there?”

“The hell if I know . . .” I mutter.

“All right, well . . .” He hands it back and then slaps my hand. “Call me later.”

I can safely say that I’ve never been to this part of Portland.

Checking the address one last time, I pull in next to a row of old model cars with bright pink numbers scrawled across their windshields. A couple of new Ford trucks line the opposite corner, but I’d say the sign on the white brick storefront that reads “Boris’s Used Cars” is aptly named.

I climb out of my Corolla and walk through the double doors into a clinical reception area with cheap industrial floor tile, chalky walls, and a cheesy poster of a blue Porsche racing down a road pinned to the wall with tacks. A gumball machine sits in the corner, and I’ll bet the colorful balls came with it when it was bought twenty years ago. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air. Not the kind that clings to someone who just came in from a smoke. The fresh kind, where someone said “fuck you” to the state laws and lit up. Like Viktor did, that night at The Cellar.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and trim beard sitting behind a desk lifts his bored gaze to meet me. “Yeah?” He loves his job, I can tell.

I hold up the scrap of paper between two fingers, as if that tells him something. “I was told to come here.”

“And
who
told you to come here?”

“Miller, from Rust’s Garage.”

The guy’s flat stare tells me that means nothing.

I try another name. “Viktor Petrova?”

Recognition flashes in his eyes. He picks up an old-school phone, hits a few buttons, and then holds the receiver, mumbling something in what I now easily identify as Russian. Hanging up, he slides off his chair and instructs, “This way.”

More than a little wary, I follow him through a side door and down a long, narrow hallway lit with weak incandescent bulbs. I saw the plain gray building that stretched out behind the small used car store. I just didn’t realize it was connected.

My escort shoulders open a door on the left, marked number six, and leads me into darkness. I hear him hit a switch. “The keys are inside. Come around front and I’ll finish up the paperwork.” Daylight streams in as a garage door on the opposite end slowly crawls up, illuminating the small storage space.

And the 1969 Plymouth Barracuda sitting within.

He moves to leave.

“Whoa.” I grab onto his forearm to stop him. “What do you mean?”

He looks down at my hand and then back at me, and I instinctually remove my grip of him. “I mean, drive your car out front and then come in to sign all the ownership papers.”

“And then I can leave?”

“Yeah?” He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot.

“What do I do with my car?”

He shrugs. “I’ll take a look at it. See if it’s worth a couple hundred. Otherwise, I don’t care what you do with it.” The door slams shut behind him.

And I’m left scratching the back of my head, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I climb down the steps and approach the car. Viktor actually kept his end of the deal. He bought me my dream car.

Well, she
will
be my dream car by the time I’m done with her. She’s navy blue and needing a fresh coat at that. The driver’s-side door squeaks as I open it, and the quarter panel has a dent in it. I wonder what shape the engine’s in. The interior’s all leather and looks almost as good as new. Someone has obviously cared for it.

The question is, who?

Did he legitimately buy this car? From what Alex has told me about the company Viktor co-owns, he probably has the connections to get hold of this car by legal means. Maybe it was repoed. Maybe someone was lawfully selling it. But, from what Boone told me, he also has the connections to get hold of this car without ever paying a dime.

I’ll assume the former.

Though deep down, I know it’s likely the latter.

I stick the key in the ignition and then, with a deep breath, I crank the engine. It chugs twice before it finally turns, the loud rumble reverberating off the metal walls. A little rough, but nothing that can’t be tuned.

I throw it into first gear and release the clutch.

The car leaps forward with even more power than I imagined.

And I let out a whoop.

Viktor is standing by the open garage when I roll through the gates, a large suitcase sitting in the back of the Hummer. He’s got a rare, genuine smile on his face, like he’s happy to see me behind the wheel of this thing.

And me? I’ve been running on a natural high since I signed the papers and drove off the lot. I cut the rumbling engine and climb out, reveling in the feel of that simple motion.

“So? Do you like it?” Viktor calls out.

“It’s . . .” I step back to admire it again. “Yeah. I like it.”

“I have been told the engine needs minimal work. Nothing you cannot handle.”

And new brakes and shocks. I don’t even care. I have enough money saved up for the parts and a paint job. “It runs solid,” I finally offer. “Thank you, Viktor.” I still despise the guy but at the same time, how can I not thank him for this?

“You have earned it.” He gestures toward the garage where the Aston Martin’s engine hums. He must have started it. “I told you, I hold up my end of a deal. Always.”

He’s right. This is business, not personal. No need to feel guilty over accepting fair pay for work completed. Still, a part of me does, because I know he also hits his wife.

The other part is excited to finish up with the Aston Martin, pack my stuff up, and drive back to Sisters for the weekend to worry about nothing but working on my ’Cuda in the garage.
My
garage. My favorite place in the world. I haven’t been back in months.

With that in mind, I abandon my car and stroll into the garage to shut off the engine. “You shouldn’t have this running until I say so. I still have some last-minute things to do on it.”

Viktor chuckles. “That is what I like about you, Jesse. You are not afraid to tell me the truth.”

Well, that may be a bit of a stretch, considering I think you’re a douchebag. And I fucked your wife.

“You have two hours to finish up what you need to before a truck arrives to load it and take it in.” He closes the distance between us and extends his hand. “It has been a pleasure.”

I accept it; I don’t have any other choice. But the entire time I’m wondering if he hit her with this hand or the other.

Sliding his sunglasses down over his forehead to settle on the bridge of his nose, Viktor gives me a small salute and then heads to his truck, slamming the back shut on his way to the driver’s seat. The Hummer comes to life and he guns it down the driveway.

I check my watch. Two hours. He should have checked with me before he made arrangements with the body shop. I need at least three.

A bastard. Right to the end.

I toss a wave at the driver as the flatbed pulls away, the Aston Martin loaded on the back of it. The guy was happy enough to admire Viktor’s other sports cars for twenty minutes while I scrambled to finish.

Heaving a sigh of relief, my gaze settles on my new car again.
Damn
. . . I smile. It’ll take me three hours to get back to Sisters and I’m more than ready to go. On my way to put away the tools and clean up, I pull out my phone to text Alex. Her car’s in the driveway, but she never stuck her head out into the garage once. That, or I was too busy rushing to get the work done to notice.

When I’ve put everything away and she hasn’t responded, I decide to use the doorbell for the first time.

Three tries later and no answer, I start to get worried. The last time I saw her, last night, she was being pulled by the neck into the house, about to let that asshat have her body. That’s why I walk through the mudroom, past the bathroom—which is as far as I’ve ever gone inside this house—and continue to the door that leads into the main house. It’s unlocked.

“Alex!” I holler as I pull it open. The huge kitchen—probably the size of my apartment—sits in dim light on the other side.

And I wait for an answer.

When I don’t get one, I call again, “Alex!”

“Jesse?” comes a groggy answer.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” No wonder she didn’t come to the door. I must have woken her up.

“It’s okay.” Soft footfalls pad against the floor somewhere unseen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just . . .” Do I tell her what I want? I already basically laid myself out on the line last night, making her all kinds of promises about her life with me. A broke-ass twenty-four-year-old mechanic. “I just wanted to say that I’m done. I’m heading out.”

“Already?” She peers out from the far side of a cabinet across the kitchen. “Okay. Well . . . I guess I’ll talk to you sometime? Maybe see you at The Cellar?”

“Yeah . . . I guess.” So, this is it? I was kind of hoping that we’d both say “fuck it” and dive into each other in some epic made-for-film union. Is she feeling the same way?

A small smile touches her lips. “Is that your new car I saw you drive up in?”

So she
has
been watching. Which means she probably wasn’t sleeping. Just avoiding me. “Yeah. You wanna come see it?”

“Some other time, maybe.” She adjusts her posture.

And winces.

Alarm bells go off inside my head. “What’s wrong, Alex?”

“Nothing. So, this car, what kind is it again?” She tries to divert my attention. The problem is, now that I’m paying closer attention, I also notice that the left side of her mouth looks swollen again.

I march through the kitchen in my work boots until I’m standing a foot in front of her. “What the hell happened to you, Alex?”

“It’s okay, Jesse. Really,” she says, dipping her face away. Everything about her stance—arms folded over her stomach, shoulders curled in, huddling into a corner—suggests otherwise.

I slam my fist against the wall switch and the kitchen’s suddenly flooded with light. Reaching forward with both hands, I clutch her chin as gently as possible and turn her face back toward me.

To see that the left side of her mouth is indeed swollen again, and an angry red bruise colors her cheek.

“Did Viktor do this to you?”

She tries to turn her face away but I won’t let her. “He was drunk.”

“And?” I don’t mean to bark at her.

“And he can get a little rough during . . .” Her face flushes. “When he’s been drinking. I don’t think he actually meant to hurt me.” She hesitates. “He wanted me to remember the feel of him while he’s gone.”