The Mysterious Stranger (The Confidence Game Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  He was her first kiss, at fifteen, dry-lipped—him, and eyes screwed closed—her. Not because she’d wanted to kiss him but because he dared her to. You wanted to kiss him.

  Over the years, he’d dared her to do increasingly outrageous things from shave off her hair to shoplifting. He’d taught her to drive before it was legal for either of them, she’d taught him to play guitar, blow smoke rings and palm cards.

  There’d never been a second kiss. There was hair pulling and elbow jabbing and agreeing vehemently that their parents were the worst. She did his math homework. He did her Spanish. It was Zeke who put her back together after her first great heartbreak. It was Zeke who taught her self-defense moves and made sure she knew how to use them.

  She picked his prom date. The next year, he picked her prom dress. That might’ve been a disaster except he went out with her pick, Sienna Diaz, all summer and had stayed in touch with her all these years since, and she still had the fairy-tale dress—her first fabulous halter.

  He was the first boy to make her feel beautiful.

  It was Zeke who stood aside, took second place, when she fell in love with Cal.

  It didn’t change their friendship. There was still adventure-having and bruise-making pinches, random experiments and daredevil exploits.

  There was still love.

  And it wasn’t like it was a surprise to acknowledge that. The shock was knowing there was almost a second kiss under stars and showers of sugar crystals. And knowing how much she’d needed it this time, eyes wide open, body surging, lips wet from wanting.

  She couldn’t close her eyes and not see that moment, her body held snug against Zeke’s, her feet almost off the ground, their faces close, their breathing stalled. His lips had parted and she’d wrapped her arms around his neck, her heart strumming madly in her chest.

  But he’d backed off. Tripping on poker wins and sugar but not lost to where they were and everything they had to achieve here. She had to find a way not to be lost too. She had to find that signal jammer, and as an insurance against Zeke not making it to the drop site, get hold of a phone.

  Her opportunity came with a crash.

  A fumble-fingered food carrier, assigned to deliver Orrin’s evening meal, dropped a hot plate of schnitzel and cut his hand on the shards. No one stopped her from stepping forward, from handing him a towel and making up a second plate of food for the delivery basket.

  “I’ll take this for you,” she said, and didn’t wait for permission. She was out the door carrying the meal, a thermos of coffee and a serving of lemon cake before anyone could stop her.

  There was a key tied on a string attached to the handle of the basket. It opened a door revealing a set of stairs with another door at the top. Before she’d stomped to the top of the stairs, that door opened and there was Orrin.

  She held up the basket. “I brought your dinner.”

  He frowned. He wore blue jeans and a chambray shirt, not buttoned all the way up. “Where’s Brady?”

  “Had a little accident. I volunteered.”

  He beckoned her. “I see.”

  She clomped up the remaining stairs. Orrin had a five o’clock shadow and was barefoot. And neither of those things looked bad on him. Why couldn’t he at least have ugly feet? “It’s chicken schnitzel and roast vegetables with gravy tonight. It smells great.” Level with him, she could see almost nothing of the room behind him: a bookcase, the night sky through a window.

  He put his hand on the handle of the basket. “Thank you for helping out, Rosie.”

  She didn’t let go. “You live here.”

  He raised a brow. “This is indeed the doorway to my lair.”

  She laughed. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  He gave the basket a little shake. “I see the word lair hasn’t frightened you off.”

  “Do you want me to be frightened of you?”

  He let go and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m hungry. I want you to leave the basket and return to the kitchen.”

  On Orrin, hungry could have many meanings. It was another word for powerful. “And I want three wishes.”

  He leant against the doorjamb, showing his amusement. “I did say lair, not genie’s bottle.”

  Now she could see a living room, a big padded leather sofa and a couple of easy chairs. Much better furniture than everyone else had. “This whole place is your genie bottle. Your thing is making wishes come true, what’s a couple more? You’ve already assumed the position.”

  “Assumed the—” he glanced down at his arms. “Rosie Woods, you’re making fun of me.” And he liked it. It showed in his expression.

  She held the basket and his eye contact. “Hear me out and I’ll hand over your dinner.”

  He tipped his chin in agreement. “I know the first. You want a real job.”

  “I do. And I want my phone and laptop.” She wanted her e-reader but the other two were more potentially valuable.

  “You don’t need your tech. It’s mostly dead out here.”

  “I do need it. I keep a diary and there are books and music on my laptop. I want my camera. I don’t need to be connected to anything to use those things.”

  “None of those old ways of spending time matter here. No one else finds the need of those devices. You were aware there was a digital detox.” He shook his head; his words, his posture were meant to make her feel chastised. “I’m disappointed you have not settled in.”

  She looked away to play her part. “I’m finding it difficult. If I had a job where I could contribute, where I could be useful, it would be easier.”

  “You worked in a gallery. Sold random things to people with more money than good sense. Did you think that was being useful?”

  She thought that was remarkably mean of him. “Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you. I chose you to come here. Answer my question.”

  “You separated Zack and me. You’re keeping my tech. You won’t give me a proper job. You want to fuck me. I’m not stupid. Most men do, but they get there by being nice to me, not making me feel bad.”

  “That’s not the answer to my question.” He gave her a smug smile and that looked good on him too. “I’m not most men.” He wasn’t denying it. Game definitely on.

  “Why are you waiting? You have all the power here.”

  “I want you to have my child. A new person from us to populate the new world.” He lowered his voice. “You’ll be a beautiful mother.” Predatory pretending kindliness. Her stomach recoiled. “I won’t take you by force. I have no need to do that.”

  Oh, how very generous. Fuck you, Orrin Epcot. How to play this? Resist. Make him chase, but not too much. “I won’t learn to love you, if that’s what you think will happen.”

  “Romantic love has nothing to do with being lovers.”

  “I’d have to love a man to have his child.” It was a convenient point to argue but as she said it she knew she believed it. Sex was better when she loved the person she got sweaty with, and parenthood was such a big deal, she couldn’t imagine doing it without someone she loved, who loved her unfailingly back.

  “You know that’s an idea that belongs in the old world. We’re making a new world with new rules.”

  Let’s see if he was turned on by defiance. “I can sleep with anyone I choose, right? That’s in the rules.”

  He nodded but his jaw tightened. He didn’t like that.

  “Good to know.” She put the basket down but as she straightened up, he took hold of her arm.

  “What makes you happy, Rosie?”

  That reaction. The shift in his detachment. The firm hold he had of her. The fact that he responded to her challenge. “Lots of things. My brother. My tech.” It told her he didn’t like the idea of losing her to another man first. An Achilles’ heel.

  “What else?

  “My books and music. Red nail polish and—”

  He let go of her arm. “Superficial things. You had a life without meaning. Y
ou will change and grow here.”

  Rosie Woods had a life without meaning. Rory Archer made her own meaning, had always known what she’d wanted and who she’d wanted to build a future with, but right now she was Rosie Woods and she felt the weight of Orrin’s words because lately she’d been as lost as Rosie Woods in the business of her life.

  “Not everything has to be about the end of the world,” she said.

  He laughed. “Not everything. I want us to be about the beginning of a better one.”

  “You mean Abundance.” She tossed her head, making her ponytail swing. “Or are you trying to seduce me?”

  He let his eyes roam over her body. “Is it working?”

  Orrin did like to play tic-tac-toe. She slapped her hands on her hips and he blinked. “What do you think?”

  “I think you might grow to love me, if you gave yourself a chance. I really think you just want your dead tech.”

  She laughed and saw her chance as he did too, snatching up the basket and stepping up close to him. “Why can’t I have my music, my books, the camera in my phone. Who does that hurt?”

  “It hurts you, Rosie. Reminders of the world you came from before you’re ready to contribute here.”

  “You have music.” She’d seen the record player, the records stacked on the bookshelf. “Invite me in and play me a song.”

  “You’re welcome to share my music when you become my lover.”

  He smelled different, no goat’s milk soap, something more earthy. She liked it. “That’s not fair.” The fact that he was attractive, that he smelled good, that he had better furniture, the pick of the women, the right to demand that, and all the power. The fact he was a con artist like her but acted as if he had everyone’s best interest at heart and she didn’t yet know how to catch him out.

  “Knowing only a few people will survive, and most will die painfully, slowly, violently. That only one percent of people have all the money and that we’ve squandered our resources and wreaked havoc on our environment. All of these things are unfair.” He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Not lending you my music is merely petulant on my part.”

  He was enjoying this a little too much. Time to bring this little flirtation to a head.

  “I bet you listen to crap anyway and your schnitzel is getting cold.”

  He shifted sideways, extended his arm like a game show host. “Choose a record.”

  Rory Archer would’ve said, “No thanks. I’ll pass. I hope you choke on your gravy.” Rosie Woods was about to say something similar when she glimpsed a steady green light that might be a signal jammer.

  “Bet you say that to all the women you want to fuck.”

  “None are as persuasive as you.”

  She grunted a response to cover a genuine laugh and slipped past, being quick and careful not to touch him. He caught hold of the basket before she cleared the doorway. “You’re perfectly safe from me tonight.”

  Tonight. But not other nights. She was walking into the beast’s lair. She was anything but safe.

  She let go of the basket, leaving him holding it and skipping into room, making a show of looking around, before heading to the record player. At the sound of the door locking she said. “If I don’t go back soon, Macy will send someone looking for me.” That didn’t hey presto the door unlocked but it would put Orrin on notice, not that it was likely to mean much. He was the law here. “Only got time for one song.”

  She heard him taking covered dishes out of the basket and setting them on the dining table as she flicked though a stack of records. He was behind her, no doubt watching her. Next to the record player, sharing the same power outlet, was the signal jammer. He couldn’t see her joy at that discovery and her fist pump was internal because she wasn’t safe yet. If he discovered it turned off, he’d guess it was her. She had to make it look accidental.

  “This is quaint.” She fiddled with the record player, lifting the clear plastic lid and closing it again, running her hands behind it as if looking for an on button and yanking the power cord of the cell jammer out of the outlet. “Never seen one of these. How do I get it to work? Why don’t you have you have your music on CDs at least?”

  “Choose your song, Rosie.”

  Keeping her back to him, she rifled through the stack of records. Lena Horn, Billie Holiday, Herb Albert, Elvis, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, U2, Elton John, Prince. These weren’t just any records. These were collectibles, worth thousands.

  But Rosie was a brat.

  “You don’t have anything from this decade?” she said, putting the records back on the shelf and making sure the stack was tidy and also obscured the light source on the jammer.

  He was chewing when she turned. He didn’t hurry to respond. Took his time swallowing. His scrutiny making her playact a squirm. “What? We don’t have to let everything from the outside world go, do we? Some of it’s damn good.”

  “We have to let the notion that we’re missing something go,” he said. “All we’re missing is corruption. Everything in front of us is fresh and new.”

  “But you kept these. Aren’t they corruption as well?”

  He sighed and put his silverware down. “I’m only a man. As much as I know looking back is profoundly bad for us, I sometimes have trouble letting go. I lived in the decay longer than you did. I know more of its pleasures and more of its pain.”

  Oh, he was good. Showing vulnerability. Pulling empathy strings and tempting her to comfort him. Nicely done but no dice.

  She leaned on the shelf. “You don’t have any Michael Jackson or Madonna or Rihanna. I can live without Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran, but no Pink, no Adele, no Beyoncé?”

  He didn’t react, other than to pick up his fork. He must want to paddle her for that slap in the face of his manipulation. He had those records because they were valuable, just like he’d kept everything valuable everyone living here had given up.

  “Any chance I could have just one piece of my tech back?”

  He broke a hunk of bread off a crunchy dinner roll. The sound of it tearing was menacing in the silence. She let it drift and his scrutiny of her intensified. He was undressing her. Touring her body, inch by inch, planning where to put his hands, how to hold and move her, wondering what her skin tasted like.

  When a lover did this it was thrilling, a burner lit under a well of desire. When a predator did it, it was like being loofahed with poison ivy. It scratched you so deeply inside you knew it would take a long time for the itch to protect yourself to wear off.

  Orrin doing it was a confusing stir of feelings. It made Rory want to call him out. Leap onto the table and kick him in the throat, stab his hand with his fork. And it made her tense to contain the rage that rose because her body reacted, her nipples tightening, her insides fluttering. She couldn’t have stopped her blush if she’d tried, it was the outward effect of her inner battle.

  At last, he got up from the table and unlocked the door using a key from his pocket. “You’re forbidden from taking another lover until I say you can.”

  “You can’t—”

  He spun about and took her chin in his hands. Her flinch was as impossible to control as her blush had been. His fingers bit into her jaw. He was a powerful man and if she struck out at him now she would lose every chance she had to get access to this room of secrets.

  “Go back to the kitchen, Rosie Woods, and find your peace. When you do, come to me and let me help you find your bliss and your purpose in life.”

  If was an effort not to bring her knee up hard. It was an effort not to run from the room. She had no guarantee the cell phone jammer would remain out of action, but as threats went Orrin’s could only get worse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ten minutes into their walk from the work site to the spruce forest, Zeke was ready to deck Chuck.

  Bad enough his hip ached, and he still wasn’t past his Starbucks cravings, and the deep need for a dozen donuts was constant
. Bad enough he was desperate to see Rory, to know not one dark hair on her head had been harmed. And goddamn thinking about almost kissing her gave him a hard-on that would’ve made sleep impossible even in his Grand Master.

  And now he had Chuck, the guy who’d pointed the barrel of a gun to his throat, as an unwanted escort.

  There was no decent Frappuccino, donut fix or trust for the city slicker, much as he was now considered one of the crew.

  On top of which, there was the Susan factor to deal with. His rejection of her had the highest Rotten Tomatoes score for quality content in this Netflix, YouTube desert. It got mentioned at least daily.

  “You play cards like a Vegas hustler, but you don’t want to dick our lovely Susan and you want to take a freaking tree to that strange bird, Cadence,” Chuck said.

  “She’s my sister’s cabinmate. She can’t help being shy.” And she was his tragic excuse for needing to get to the spruce forest drop zone.

  “Doesn’t explain why you want to bring her a dang tree. You got the right to fuck her without having to do this grand gesture stuff.”

  The grand gesture, and the hysterical laughter it’d caused, was the only way he’d been able to get permission to walk to the spruce forest in the last afternoon of their week on-site. They’d worked double shifts under floodlight with a bigger crew all this week, as if there was some deadline they had to beat. He didn’t dare ask and he hadn’t been able to walk out at night without raising suspicion.

  “It’s a joke because I stank up her cabin. I wanted to do something nice for her and Rosie.”

  “And you thought they’d like a tree. Maybe you’re not all the cards in the deck, hustler. You don’t want to go encouraging that level of desperate, especially when you have way better options.”

  “Cadence is smart and funny, if you took the time to get to know her.” Shit, wished he hadn’t said that. The further Chuck stayed from Cadence the better.

  Chuck gave an exaggerated shiver. “Someone will have to fuck a baby into her this year. It doesn’t have to be you.”

  He stopped walking. “Anyone ever told you you’re a misogynistic piece of garbage?”