Crux (5 page)

6

Three used car lots and two private sellers later, I still do not own a car. Clouds darken in an already overcast November sky and threaten rain. I sink back into Grey’s tan leather passenger seat and rub my temples.

“You’re tired,” Grey says matter-of-factly. “Car glut?”

I manage a weak smile. “Yeah, a little I guess, but I’m having fun hunting.”

“So, which way are you leaning?”

“I dunno. Engines, colors and numbers are clogging my brain. The Roush and Shelby Cobra are out of my price range. I just wanted to drive them for the sheer, sweet, torturous experience. Man, it’s painful and brilliant wanting something so bad when you know you can’t have it.”

“I can relate,” he mumbles.

“You can?”

“Well, yeah. You think I get everything I want?”

Guess not.
“Sooo, about the Charger?” I say. “Awesome front end, but the tail screams family sedan.”

“Are you insane?” He leans forward. His arm slides over the top of his steering wheel.

“What?”

“At no time can a Charger look like a sedan. I’ve gotta stick up for my engineering brothers.”

“Does too, which leaves me with the Camaro or the Bullet so far. All mucho sexy machines, I might add. You could just sell me your car, and then I’d be done.”

He stares at me like I asked him to pawn his firstborn child or something.

“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “Forget I asked. Nice wheels, though.”

“So, where’d you learn about cars, Birdie? The list of girls I know who can explain the difference between a Magnaflow and a Flowmaster exhaust system are exactly … one.”

“Oh, you know,” I shrug and play with the cuff of my sleeve. “I’ve been around.”
And around and around …

“No. I don’t know, but I’m trying to find out. You don’t make it easy on a guy, do you?” He turns toward the window where a young man kicks the tire of a black Jetta. “Would you like to get some takeout?” He faces me again. “I’ve got the perfect place, Chow Baby. We could get stir-fry and head back to your place.”

I swallow hard. “Uh, wow. See, I’m not really settled in yet, and …”

• • •

Thirty minutes later, Grey is loaded down with bags of Asian food, and he’s following me up the stairs to my apartment.
How did he talk me into this?

We pass Johnny wearing a lime green shirt, stonewashed jeans, and black Harley boots. He nods dramatically. “Giggledepeck.”

I don’t know why Johnny spews indecipherable words. He mumbles them like he’s nervous, or has some sort of tic, but I’m embarrassed for him, and for me. Like his weirdness reflects on me somehow.

“Ms. Rebecca Orin … did you find your dog today?”

Great, now Grey’s heard my full name.
Does that matter? I don’t know, but it isn’t what I wanted. “Not yet, Johnny, I’m still hunting for the right one.”

He nods to Grey before vanishing out the front door of our building.

“What’s with—”

“The psychedelic sister? He’s my landlord.”

Inside, Grey sets the bags down and explores my tiny world. He moves to the kitchen and opens and closes cabinet doors.

Make yourself at home why don’t you?

“Still in boxes, huh?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know I had to be Ty Pennington to put this stuff together.”

I open my wallet and push twenty dollars across the counter at him.

“What’s that for?”

“Gas.”

“I don’t want your money, Birdie. Friends help each other. Besides, I like hanging out with you.” He leaves the money sitting there. “You don’t have any dishes.” He slides the last drawer out and turns to me with a frown. “Not a cup, fork or dish. Paper plates?”

“Nope, sorry. Bottled water’s in the fridge if you want one.” I try to sound casual, downplay the fact Grey just admitted he likes being with me. My palms get clammy, and I run them down the sides of my jeans. No one’s ever said stuff to me the way he does. Grey opens the fridge and leans inside. “Hey. There’s nothing but bologna and cheese in here.”

“Yeah, um … I guess I don’t think about forks as much on a diet of sandwiches.”

Rather than wait for more commentary on my empty kitchen, I lift a throw from the couch arm and spread it on the floor.

Grey brings two waters from the kitchen and plops down next to me, handing me a set of chopsticks. “The beauty of stir fry.”

I take the sticks, clicking them between my fingers a couple of times as I try to figure out the best way to use them.

“No, like this.” Grey positions the sticks between my thumb and forefinger.

I hold my breath as his hand slides over mine.
He’s touching me.

“Perfect technique,” he says, as I manipulate the sticks. “You’re golden.”

I want another lesson.

“You got a screwdriver?” he asks, opening the box of beef and broccoli lo mein. He scoops a huge mouthful with his chopsticks and stuffs the food between his lips. He closes his eyes. “Fis is soo gud,” he says around the noodles.

Laughter bubbles out from me. The boy is so cute it hurts.

“Oh, ho, she laughs!” He’s grinning. “Not so serious after all.”

“Me? You’re pretty serious yourself, dude.” I can’t stop smiling. “
Anyway
… the three tools I own are on the floor behind that box.” I point to the far wall.

“How come a girl who knows so much about cars can’t put her own bed together?”

I press my lips together. My foster brothers let me
watch,
no touchy.

“Hmm. Playing damsel in distress, huh?”

“No way.”

He smiles. “You need more supplies—and a couple of pans—so I can cook for you.”

“You cook?”

“Why so skeptical? If girls can build aftermarket exhaust upgrades, guys can cook, right?”

“No. I mean, yeah sure, I’m just surprised.” I sigh, reaching for the fried rice until what he said hits me, about pans and cooking—
for me
. That would mean he’s coming back. As much as I want him to, I’d already decided to cut him loose after today. “Thanks for helping me shop for cars today, Grey, I’m grateful, but—”

“You’re not going to start telling me how we can’t be friends again, are you?”

“Yes.” I almost cringe at the abruptness of my answer. Taking a deep breath, I start again. “Aw, listen, it’s not that I don’t want to. You don’t understand. I’m not … reliable. I’m the type of person who is better off … my life is too …” How can I explain without revealing my past failures? The desire to know him better keeps swallowing my promises to myself. I’m only acting all needy and stupid because I’m lonesome.
Where’s that darn dog I meant to get?

“If you’re about to tell me your life is too ‘complicated’, I’m going to punch you in the arm.”

My mouth pops open, and the corner of his lifts halfway.

“Not really. Lighten up, Birdie.”

I rub the tips of my shoes together.

The toe of his sneaker comes over and bumps in the mix. “Okay, girl. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to learn to trust me because you and I are going to be friends.”

“We are?” I doubt his assertion is true.

“Yes. I’ve decided. I’m hooked on the mystery that is you.” He pauses as though waiting for my reaction. “I’ve been trying to get inside your head all day, and it’s like Fort Knox up there. Let me ask you three questions, and I won’t bug you anymore today. But I warn you, I can tell when people lie. Deal?”

And when the mystery is over, then what? You’ll get bored and bail?
“I don’t make deals.”

“You’re making this one.” Grey takes the box of fried rice from my hand and sets it on the floor. He scoots closer to where I’m propped against the couch until our thighs touch.

I stare at his navy, button-down oxford as he takes a lock of my hair and moves it off my forehead. I can feel his breath on my face, spicy from dinner. I’m so nervous my hands tremble, so I clasp them to stop the shaking.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No.” I can sense his eyes on me, but mine don’t leave his shirt buttons.

“Do you have anyone, Bird, any family?”

I don’t manage more than a whisper. “No.”

“Are you involved in something illegal, something that pays your bills, maybe?”

“No.”

“Two no answers.” He shakes his dark head. “The conversation’s getting too negative, we need a yes. Say yes, Birdie.”

My gaze flies up to meet his. What is he up to now? Does he pity me? That must be it. He wasn’t kidding about the puppy on the side of the road. Maybe he does want to save me but not to keep. Just another foster until he can find the right someone to take me off his hands. Well, I’d rather be alone than someone’s charity case.

“No,” I say again. “Thanks for your … uh, interest, but, no.”
There, that sounded good and final.

“Wrong answer.” His voice is smooth, hypnotic. The tenor is kind, patient and strong. “Say yes, Birdie.”

My eyes sting. I’m still looking at him, silently pleading, but it’s no use. I hear myself answer him. “Yes.”
Damn him
. It’s crazy how he talks me into things I don’t want to do.

The biggest grin I’ve seen on him appears. “The screwdriver?”

“Wha—”

He hops up. “Oh yeah. You told me … behind the box? Let’s get your stuff put together. Want to?” He asks like he’s giving me a choice.

I frown. “Grey?”

“Yeah?” He digs into one of the boxes with the end of my Phillips head..

“What did I just say yes to?”

“Nothing big. Just Thanksgiving dinner with me and my family.”

• • •

Grey’s visit proved how much I need more provisions, and not even the drizzly weather is excuse enough to put that off any longer. I break down and call for a dreaded taxi, and around nine thirty at night, I make a run to the closest market. With a promise to double the driver’s fare if he’ll wait, I sprint through the rain into the store.

Fifteen minutes and two dozen items later, I’m standing in the check-out line. I feel so normal and domestic waiting to buy stuff instead of stealing it. It’s somehow good to wait there with the other, average, law-abiding citizens. While I wait, I scan the tabloids and cover of
People
magazine, smiling at the normal dad-type-looking guy in front of me. He grins back, holding his debit card in his hand.
Michael Hobbs.
Ok, Mr. Hobbs, two more customers in line ahead of us and we’re outta here.
The old lady in front wearing a yellow slicker seems to be having trouble with her checkbook. She’s old. It’s not like she enjoys being slow, but the cashier rolls her eyes, which pisses me off.

Behind me, I hear a man’s voice say, “Hey, pal, wait your turn!”

“Ouch! My foot,” a woman’s voice picks up the complaint, “Go to the back of the line, mister.”

“I’m sorry,” a deep voice says, “but we’re together. Aren’t we, Blondie?”

I start to turn until something hard pokes me in the back.

“Face forward, honey,” the man whispers into my hair.

His body moves within my peripheral vision. It’s one of the army jackets, the biggest of the three—the one with a head as shiny and bald as a cue ball.

One hand continues to hold something pointy against my back while he slips his other arm around my chest and hugs me tight like he’s my boyfriend.

My body snaps rigid and screams in protest.
Think, Birdie. You can handle this.
Can I? A dark haired boy in the next line begs his mother for candy. There are people everywhere. If it’s a knife, that’s better. No one’s at risk but me, but if he has a gun, and I fight, someone else could get hurt.

“You look different,” Cue Ball says against my ear so only I can hear. He sniffs deeply. “Amazing the difference a little soap makes.”

“Yeah? You should try some.” His arm tightens around my neck.

“Spending my money? No wonder we haven’t been able to find you. But we’ve been looking, oh yeah. I’ve missed you, baby. I think you’ve got something for daddy. Maybe a couple of things.”

His breath reeks of cigarettes, booze, and old cat pee. With only one person ahead of Mr. Hobbs, we’re all bunched pretty close together in the check-out lane. I try to relax and think back to Mr. Torke, my sixth foster parent. Former Marine, NASCAR fan, and survival whacko—what would he do?

An idea forms. It’s not much, but there’s no time.

“Officer Hobbs?” Improvising, I lurch forward. “Is that you? Oh, my goodness, I barely recognized you out of your uniform. And you’ve lost so much weight.” I wrap both hands around his arm and hang on.

Mr. Hobbs, with his debit card still in his hand, widens his eyes, and small wonder since he’s never seen me before. His face bunches as if he’s trying to place me.

The sharp point stabs deeper into my back as I continue. “You remember me, don’t you, from church?”

The thug behind me hisses in my hair. “Be careful, Blondie. Someone could get … dead.”

Mr. Hobbs tries to respond while checking out. He swipes his debit card and punches numbers on the keypad. I’m not making the process easy because I don’t let go of his arm. My feet slide on the linoleum as he backs up. “Uh, I think you’ve confused me with—”

“Well, I’m thrilled to meet up with a policeman tonight because my friend here needs to leave, and I was hoping you’d walk me to my taxi.” I bug out my eyes and jerk them over in the best I’m-in-trouble-please-help-me look I have as the cashier starts pushing my items past her scanner.

Mr. Hobbs shakes his dim little head and disengages himself from my hands. He hefts his grocery bags and gives a half wave goodbye. He doesn’t seem to understand, and I see my hope of escape dwindling.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, sir?” A store employee walks toward me and the overgrown ape attached to my back. “I’m Harry Stone, store manager. I’ve received a complaint. Would you and your girlfriend please come with me?”

Thank God for tattletales.

The cashier shakes the box of tampons I’m purchasing high in the air, as if to demonstrate she’s already started my tab.

Lovely.

Mr. Cue Ball removes the pointy object from my back, but his fingers bite into my flesh. “We’re not going anywhere, but you can go to hell!” he shouts.