I make the faces blur again and take my seat on the bench that overlooks a long, shiny, brown box. The top is rounded and cut into two sections. Both are mercifully closed, locking her inside. The box pretends to protect her.
People are speaking, but I hear nothing until the song begins. The song about her being gone when she should be here. About not getting to say goodbye.
I want to run, but I’m stuck in this room with pain radiating through it. I’m a statue standing at the exit, waiting for every blurry face to make its way past me. I empty myself completely. Pretend to listen to their words until there is nothing but darkness.
Chapter 9
“Caspian, we’re here,” I hear Booker say patiently.
When I open my eyes, I can see we are parked in front of a body shop and am surprised that I slept. Remembering my dream, I touch my face instinctively and am grateful when my hands come away dry. I’d be shocked if I cried; I’ve always been rational about death. It’s part of life, and all roads must end. But somehow my hold on rationality is slipping. The mere mention of Before had dropped me into the rabbit hole, and that is a trip I cannot afford to take.
I can feel Booker next to me, and I know I’ve changed things. He feels ... cautious? I hate him for it. I hate myself for it. I pull open the mirror and see that my hair has dried halfway. Since it’s already on its way toward the Veronica mane, I pull it into a topknot, making it smooth and messy at the same time. I’ll walk a different line today.
“Ready?” I ask with enthusiasm that I hope he can’t sense is forced.
“I am,” Booker responds, opening his door.
I drank half of the water in my tumbler on the drive and am about to burst, so I head straight for the restroom and tell Booker I’ll join them in a moment. I normally have a strict policy of not using a body shop bathroom, having seen plenty of sketchy ones over the course of my career. It’s one of those situations where the vast majority are not bad, but that one bad experience can taint all future ones. Plus, I’ve heard some messed up stories about footage from bathroom cameras turning up on the dark web. It’s enough to make any woman skeptical, whether or not she has the dark imagination that I do.
Today, however, I have no choice but to break my rule. Thankfully, this shop looks clean, so I do my business after a quick scan of the stalls and the overhead vents.
When I head back out to the customer service desk, the girl behind the counter points the way toward the shop. I step out the lobby door and see that Booker has waited for me, so we walk to the back together. This shop is very large, and there are about 30 bays in this area, all full. I’m impressed by the volume, organization, and cleanliness. The shop has parts carts for every job, a porter is actively sweeping the floor, and everything seems to not only have a place, but actually be in it. It’s truly a rarity in this business.
“There are two other shops to visit after this,” Booker tells me while we walk.
“That’s fine, I’d rather not go into the office today,” I tell him. I get that familiar all-eyes-on-me feeling as we walk through the shop, and although I can hear that work has paused, I keep my eyes forward. I hate this feeling, and I hope that Booker doesn’t notice the attention I’m getting. I try to choose clothing that doesn’t cling and isn’t too tight when I’m going into the shops, but even wide-legged pants can’t completely conceal the full upside-down heart that is my butt.
“I’m sure we’ll be back to Tucson by three,” Booker says, “so I’ll just drop you back off at your house to work from home for the rest of the day.”
We spot a man who appears to be the owner, and Booker introduces us. The man gives us a tour of his facility. We see the paint booths, the measuring room, the prep bays, frame racks, lifts, basically everything a normal body shop has. Though this isn’t something that Booker and I really need to see, a body shop is a major investment, and this man is proud of what he’s built. So, we listen and appreciate how nicely his shop is maintained and tell him what a great job he’s done. It isn’t empty flattery; this really is a great shop.
When he’s finished going over the shop’s equipment and the various expenses tied to each thing, we head back to his office to discuss the work that we’re doing and what the contract entails. A network of independent shops have gotten together to try running the Direct Repair Program a different way in this area, and we’ve signed on to see how we can create a contract that would be beneficial to the shops and appeal to smaller insurance companies who do not have the ability to keep their own field staff for auto damage claims. It’s actually a brilliant plan that I wish I had thought of myself.
Matt, the body shop owner, listens to our pitch, and an hour after we arrive, we have a signed contract. When we are back in the BMW and headed to the second shop, I turn to Booker and ask, “I thought our contracts were already established. Why are we adding new shops now, and how are we able to?”
“When KSC decided they needed to add you to the team, they had to get approval to increase the cost of the project. The network who initially approached us realized that it’s growing a little bigger than they anticipated and have asked us to add a few more shops in a couple of markets to help balance the cost,” Booker tells me.
“What other markets?”
“We also have to go to Vegas in two weeks,” Booker says without looking at me.
“Who will go? And why are we only going to a couple of shops today?”
He considers before answering. “We were able to add a few shops last week just over the phone, and we executed those contracts digitally. Like I mentioned on the phone, these shops were on the fence. Since they didn’t flat out say no, Mr. Keisler decided that they just needed a visit in person to close it. I thought I was going alone, but he had John call me this morning to tell me I had to take you with me.”
The words had to take you with me stick in my ears like a Q-tip I’ve used too aggressively.
“And who is he sending to Vegas?” I can hear the irritation in my voice. I didn’t know we were expanding, and the fact that I was added to this trip as an afterthought is gnawing at me.
“The whole team will go. He’s booked us a conference area and invited the shops to come and sit with us for two days to discuss the contracts and close. The guys are really excited about it.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?” I ask stiffly.
He shifts in his seat as he pulls into the parking lot of our next shop. I can tell he doesn’t want to tell me.
“Out with it,” I demand, knowing I’m not going to like this.
“Well,” he stumbles, “KSC initially thought it would be best for the guys to handle it. But now they want the whole team there.” He’s not looking at me, and I’m not surprised.
“So why have I been added now?” I ask, genuinely curious what changed their mind. Maybe they saw the work that I do and thought I’d be beneficial in the negotiations.
“Keisler saw you with us in the fishbowl during our meeting on Friday and said having you with us couldn’t hurt,” he says. He looks ashamed. I’m not sure whether it’s because I was added at the last minute or because he knows as well as I do that I’m not being sent based on the strength of my skills.
Instead of responding, I step out of the car and walk into the office, Booker hot on my heels.
The receptionist tells us that the owner is in the rear lot and says we can head back.
Of all the times to be humiliated by the technicians pausing their work to stare, this one is the most embarrassing. I do not make eye contact with anyone, least of all Booker.
“Does that ever get old?” he asks quietly.
I don’t bother to pretend I don’t know what he means. “I’m probably the only woman they’ll see today aside from their wives when they go home tonight. It has far less to do with me than it does with the simple fact that I’m not a man.”
I see him move his head in a small nod, but he has the decency to drop it.
When
we find the owner, I do all of the talking. If KSC wants a closer, I’ll be the best goddamn closer they’ve ever seen, and it will have nothing to do with my looks. I make a mental note to wear a potato sack to Vegas.
Chapter 10
I conduct the majority of the last two meetings, with Booker only stepping in when the shop asks him questions specifically, or when I defer a question to him. Since both discussions wrap up relatively quickly, we’re on the road back to Tucson by noon.
On the drive back, Booker and I are quiet. Booker asks if I want to stop for lunch, but I honestly just want to go home. I tell him to go ahead and drive through somewhere if he’s hungry, but he doesn’t.
I’m lost in paperwork when he pulls off the road, so I don’t even notice the detour until I feel the vehicle come to a stop. When I look up, we’re at the ostrich place off of I-10. A rush of excitement overwhelms me, and suddenly I feel like a child in adult skin. The frustration I’d been feeling all morning disappears, and though a small part of me remains aware that I should object to this for some reason, I can’t bring myself to heed that advice. I need something to wash away this morning’s revelations. I need fucking ostriches.
Booker smiles at my reaction, telling me, “I figure we deserve a reward.”
When we get to the entrance, I see that it’s more than just an ostrich farm; the park holds an array of animals. We’re allowed to feed and pet most of them. Booker pays the entrance fee, and we are handed feed that is safe for all the animals on the property. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stand the heat and the sun, but so far, to my surprise, I’m not even sweating.
Maybe I need to drink more water.
“What would you like to see first?” Booker asks me.
This is Booker’s version of an olive branch, and I need to accept it so that we can develop a productive working relationship. I force myself to pull out Casual Caspian, the mask I wear at work lunches, outings, and parties. She goes with the flow. She carries on conversations with people about their lives and interests. She tells the occasional joke and laughs. The Casual mask is disarming and warm.
“I say we head straight for the main attraction. Maybe check out the monstrous eggs that no-doubt ruin the females?”
We make our way to the ostrich pen, and I’m enamored. I’ve always wondered how the world’s most awkward bird and I size up to one another. The ostriches are taller than I am, with long, slender necks coated with fuzzy, grayish-white feathers. Their bodies are elongated and plump—so plump that it seems damn near impossible that one of them can be held up by only two thin legs with giant knees. I think the only reason they don’t fall right over is because of how widely set their legs are and the giant feet attached to the end of them.
The only pretty feature this animal can rightfully claim is their great big eyes, so dark they look like pools of tar. The warm, soft kind that you can squish between your toes on hot summer days in the Midwest. Their eyes would normally be enough to lure me close enough to feed them, but their gigantic beaks freak me out.
Booker, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease with world’s fastest bird on land, so I give him the food I have for them and ask, “Have you ever seen one of these up close?”
“No, this is the first time. I used to love going to the zoo as a kid, but either they didn’t have ostriches where I lived, or I was too busy in the polar exhibits to notice them.”
“Where did you live?” I ask as we move toward the miniature donkeys. These I will feed, first, because they’re fucking adorable, and second, because I spent a good deal of time in stables when I was a teenager, so we’re simpatico.
“Chicago,” he says, glancing at my hand, which is being mauled by an aggressive little guy.
I reach for some hand sanitizer and wait for Booker to lead the way to the next exhibit.
“I never made it to Lincoln Park Zoo. It rained the day I planned to go, so I stayed in and watched Blue Planet. Did you live in Chicago your whole life?”
“Up until I moved here last July, yes.”
We’ve reached the rabbits. It’s still tough for me to watch those noses twitch without seeing the one I destroyed, so I pass by them without stopping and toss food to the goats in the next stall.
“That’s about the time I arrived in Chicago. It’s really a lovely city if you choose the right spot.” People always want outsiders to appreciate their hometown. My hometown is small, and there isn’t much going on there. Still, it is part of me, and I wouldn’t like it if an outsider said anything bad about it.
“So, we just missed each other,” he says quietly, almost like he isn’t saying it out loud at all. Then, as if he’s read my mind, he asks, “Where did you grow up?”
“A little here, a little there,” I say. It isn’t a lie. I moved around a lot in the Before.
“Just an open book, aren’t you?”
I find it strange that Booker is poking and probing. Most people are perfectly content to talk about themselves and don’t even notice when I redirect the conversation back their way.
“You aren’t actually going to feed these stingrays, are you?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Yes, why not?”
I shrug and hand him my food, too. I don’t like slimy stuff.
“You have to at least touch one,” he says to me with a look of impatience. He leans down and holds the food flat on his palm, face up in the water, and a stingray slides over, the food disappearing. He looks at me, then sticks his hand back into the water, palm down and flat this time. I watch as he pets the top of a large gray stingray as it swims by. “See, they don’t bite. These don’t have barbs, so they can’t hurt you.”
I bend down to touch the water, and its temperature is refreshing in this heat. I hold my hand the way his was, just in time for a small golden stingray to slide under it. “It’s soft,” I say, hearing the surprise in my voice. The stingray feels so smooth and soft that I leave my hand in the water and pet a few more as they swim by. When it feels like we’ve been here for long enough, I grab my hand sanitizer and start to walk toward the entrance. I don’t make it far before Booker takes ahold of my hand and gently pulls me back.
“Don’t you want to see the gift shop?” he asks, his voice soft. He’s still got my hand, and my skin feels like it’s on fire. Even worse, I can feel the fire spreading, and my throat is dry, so I nod and slowly pull my hand back when we start to move in the direction of the gift shop.
The ostrich eggs are enormous, I believe the salesperson said 20 times the size of a chicken egg. It’s difficult to describe other than saying they’re almost as big as my head. The texture of the eggs is pretty much the opposite of the texture of the leather harvested from the birds—rather than being bumpy or pocked, the eggs feel like brail bumps that point inward, or maybe a little more like a soft and subtle stucco. I don’t buy one, deciding it would be a little creepy to just have this giant empty egg sitting in my house, the ghost of a bird. The shells are very interesting, though.
We’re pulling back onto the highway before I know it, and Booker merges into a lane behind a giant truck with a wrecking ball hanging off the back. The ball is secured by a cable and hooked to something I cannot see on the truck. This thing must have a good three-foot diameter, minimum, and weigh hundreds of pounds. It looks like one of those things in the Titan games that your friendly neighborhood beast-humans have to pull behind them to reach their last obstacle. I imagine the cable snapping, narrowly missing our vehicle. Or grazing the roof, causing Booker to swerve. Maybe it won’t miss at all, smashing through the windshield, flattening our faces.
“What do you think will happen if that cable breaks?” I ask Booker.
“We’d probably die,” he says after a moment to consider.
“Do you think it would be quick, like shutting off a light?” I ask, snapping my fingers. “Or do you think it’d be weeks of agony in the hospital with tubes and angry machines that hold us prisoner?”
“I’d
like to hope it’d be like hitting a train,” he says as he switches lanes and goes around the truck.
“Do you think about stuff like that often?” he asks me.
I weigh the question for a moment before answering. “Yes, I like to consider all outcomes of any given situation.”
“Do you think that’s normal?”
“Who’s to say? I had several concussions as a child, maybe they damaged my brain. Perhaps I’ll donate it to science and let the doctors decide if it’s normal once I’m dead.” I say it with a coy smile, then ask in my most velvety voice, “Are you an organ donor, Mr. Call?” The words I say are not sexual, but the way I say them is. I watch him squirm as I transition death into sex. I like the way his eyebrows twitch when he’s uncomfortable.
He swallows hard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, and once again a self-satisfied smile spreads across my face. I guess our conversation is over, and I can’t say that I’m disappointed. Booker has a way of getting me to reveal more than I intend, and in the end, I’m never quite sure who has the most to learn from what turns up.
Chapter 11
I don’t belong here. Everything feels wrong.
I’m running again. Still in the dark. Still filled with panic.
I ricochet off the darkness in front of me, then I’m falling. I can feel my heart and my stomach in my throat, choking me, making me wretch.
I have met the immovable object, and I am not the unstoppable force I thought I was.
I try to scream for help, but when I open my mouth, only air comes out. Then no air goes back in.
I claw at my neck as concrete fills my throat.
When I wake, my hands are sweaty and my throat is sore. I wonder whether I screamed in real life and hope that my neighbors didn’t hear. The watch on my wrist tells me that it’s 7 a.m., and my heart rate is 100. For the first time I can remember, I’ve overslept. I test out my voice and find that it’s hoarse. It hurts to talk, so I decide I’ll call the office today and ask if I can work from home.
The Broken One (The One Series Book 1) Page 5
