by Stasia Black
“But only if we go to the store I pick out. Agreed?” Her forefinger comes out at me in a way far too reminiscent of Stella’s school-marm act and I quickly nod.
I try but don’t quite succeed to keep my grin in check while she ties the laces of her ratty black Converse and we head down the elevator.
She keeps glancing over at me and then shaking her head. “You aren’t awesome at gracious victory when you get your way, are you?”
“Who, me?” I adopt my most innocent expression. Which come to think of it, I probably can’t pull off very well because shit, I don’t have much experience with innocence. Lost mine a long time ago if I ever had any.
The elevator pings at the garage floor and I hold out a hand to gallantly gesture for Scarlet to lead the way. She tilts her head sideways and rolls her eyes at me but steps off the elevator.
“So where are we heading? Where has Scarlet…” I look over at her. “What’s your last name?”
She looks down briefly. “Brown. Scarlet Brown.”
“Where has Scarlet Brown always longed to go shopping? Are you a secret fashion aficionado? Want to go shop at Betsey Johnson’s original downtown store? Gucci? Or should we just hit Union Square and browse for a while?”
Yeah. I can’t believe the shit coming out of my mouth either. A few girlfriends back, I was with a chick who was way into all this crap. She dragged me around Union Square and talked my ear off about fashion designers. She even tried to get me to take her to New York Fashion Week when I was headed to the East Coast for business. That was when I cut ties. I can handle the occasional nuisance, but start demanding things of me left and right? That’s a definite sign that the clock has run down on a particular fling.
Yet the idea of walking around a bunch of shops and watching Scarlet try on clothes… The image of silks and satins and, fuck, even denim against her creamy skin…well damn, that sounds like time well spent. I’m still imagining all kinds of fabrics—and, all right, maybe picturing Scarlet undressing in the changing room—when her loud scoff breaks into my reverie.
“Oh God, are you thinking we’re going to have some sort of Pretty Woman moment here?”
When I glance over, I see both her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. Something about the look on my face must further amuse her because she breaks into actual laughter. “You were, weren’t you? Mr. Big Shot breaks out his black Amex while all the fancy shop assistants drool over him?” She laughs even harder, bending over at the waist.
Then she walks past me to my Bentley where it’s parked near the elevator, patting me on the chest like one might a small dog. “Oh, you’re funny, Mr. Benson. So funny.”
“Kennedy,” I mumble, feeling the back of my neck heat while I fumble to click the button to unlock the car doors. “Call me Kennedy.”
Christ, am I blushing? This is fucking ridiculous. Her tinkling laugh echoes throughout the garage as she gets in the car and I take a second before I pull open the door. I run a hand down my face. Why am I letting this little nothing-slip-of-a-woman get under my skin like this? Every other second I’m up then I’m down. I’m used to always being in firm control of every situation I find myself in.
All right. I got this. Shit mostly back together, I get in the car.
“So where are we heading, oh fashion guru?” I give Scarlet a winning smile. Can’t let her see that she’s shaken my game. Fake it till you make it has been far more than a catch phrase for me—for too many years it was my life’s motto.
“Goodwill.”
She says it with a perfectly straight face.
“The thrift store,” she clarifies when I don’t respond. “You know, Goodwill.”
I choke a little when I realize she’s serious. As in, actually serious.
“Come on,” I say with a short laugh. “You can go anywhere you want. The sky’s the limit.”
“Well, if you really mean anywhere,” she shrugs. “This is where I want to go.”
I start shaking my head again but she cuts me off before I can even open my mouth.
“Are you saying Goodwill isn’t good enough?” Her eyes narrow. “That there’s something wrong with people who shop at secondhand stores? Because let me tell you, mister, not only is it a great way to reuse resources, but they give jobs to the mentally ill and economically downtrodden. As well as having some killer duds. I’ve shopped there my whole life and I love it.”
Her eyes light up and she leans in over the center console. “Plus, it’s like going treasure hunting each time. You can find all these amazing expensive brands but get them super cheap. Like Banana Republic shirts for four dollars. People waste so much money on clothes.” Her hands flick in disgust. “It’s crazy.”
Then she shakes her head, laughing to herself. She puts her hand to her mouth, eyeing me up and down. “Sorry. No offense.”
“None taken.” I grin. “It’s a point of pride with me that I spend more on shirts than regular people make in a month.”
Scarlet’s mouth drops open. Like in a perfect O.
I crack up and reach over, putting a forefinger underneath her chin and closing her mouth with a click of her teeth. I pull away quickly because even the briefest contact with her skin sends a jolt down my forearm.
“I was just joking.” I clear my throat and start the car. I glance sideways at her before pulling out of the spot. “Most the time, it’s just half a month’s salary.” I give her a wink and then press the pedal to the floor as I speed out of the parking garage.
She lets out a little yip of surprise at the sudden acceleration and her hands go to steady herself by holding on to her car door. “Crap,” she squeals. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d like to come out of this car ride with all of my organs intact.”
I laugh out loud at that, speeding through a light right before it turns red. Christ, when was the last time I laughed like this? I literally can’t remember. It might have been years. It’s a fucking high.
“You like a strong cup of coffee in the morning.” I stroke the wheel of my car. “I like to let my baby here free so she can eat up some asphalt.”
“Oh my God, I bet you’re the kind of guy who names his car.” I feel her stare on me when I don’t say anything. “You totally did! Come on, let’s have it.”
There’s traffic as always, since it’s San Francisco, but it’s midmorning, so it’s fairly light. I keep my attention split between the road, the cars around me, and Scarlet. I glance over at her and smirk. “Who? You mean my sweet Queen Victoria here?”
Her head, which seems like it’s perpetually shaking in my presence, returns to bobbing back and forth. “Ha, that sounds about right. Hey, do you even know where you’re going? Don’t you need to get the address on your GPS or something?”
Another short silence from me. “I know where one is.”
“No way. The Kennedy Benson knows where a Goodwill is off the top of his head?” She laughs in disbelief.
I smirk at her. “I do have eyes. I’m not oblivious to my surroundings.”
And there was a time I shopped here. Not that she or anyone else will ever know it. Once the habit of learning how to spread a buck gets ingrained in you, you always notice thrift stores and grocery outlets.
Scarlet looks around us at my words. “Come to think of it, I’m shocked there’s a Goodwill in the nice part of San Francisco at all.” Then her face brightens. “I bet there will be some awesome picking in this neighborhood.”
“Treasure hunting, huh?”
“You have no idea.” She rubs her hands together and sounds as excited as a little kid about to go trick-or-treating.
Then her attention is diverted as she starts messing with the controls beside her seat. A look of consternation comes over her features.
“What?” I ask.
“How do you make this thing recline? Why would they replace the nice little lever with all the buttons when it just makes it so confusing? A lever is nice and easy. Logical. You want to lean back, you pul
l the thing and voila.”
“It’s the diagonal arrow button.” I stifle my amusement at her mini-rant.
A soft buzzing fills the otherwise quiet car and Scarlet’s seat starts to recline. “Ah, there we go.” She lifts her arms and crosses her hands behind her head. Then she props one of her Converse-clad feet up on my pristine dashboard.
A noise somewhere between a dismayed groan and a startled grunt escapes from my throat. Which only brings Scarlet’s amused gaze back to me.
“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re one of those people. What’s the point of a luxury car if you can’t even get comfortable in it?”
So now probably isn’t the right time to give her my Three Strict Rules for Riding in the Queen.
One, no food.
Two, no liquids except bottled water.
And number three and probably the most important, no feet on the dashboard. Ever. By anyone.
I’m a man who appreciates the finer things. This is Italian leather. We’re talking the highest end luxury stuff on the market.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, perking up again as we pull into the parking lot, “everything in Pacific Heights is fancy, even the Goodwill.”
Then she claps her hands together really quickly in front of her and does a fucking adorable little dance in her seat.
“Okay.” She looks over at me with a grin. “I’m going to totally girl out on you now because I am sort of excited about this. If you couldn’t tell.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. “I just haven’t gotten to go shopping in forever.”
Did I think I minded her feet on my dashboard? Screw the dashboard. I can get my car detailed any time. I just had to do an emergency session at the dealer to get the spray-paint taken care of. A few footprints are nothing. Not when Scarlet’s this happy.
I pull into a parking spot as I realize that I don’t want this to be the last time that Scarlet rides in my car. The more that I look at her, the more it seems she belongs in that seat beside me, looking so fucking delighted about a goddamned Goodwill trip.
But she’s not going to be in your car after this little shopping excursion. She said yes to the clothing. Nothing more.
No. That’s unacceptable. The answering thought is swift and unambiguous.
I frown to myself.
“Um. We’re here.” She waves a hand in front of my face. “You can stop staring at me now. Come on, let’s go.”
She beams at me and then opens the door, popping out of the car before I can say anything else. I hurry to follow her. I lock up and have to jog to catch up with her because she’s already at the door to the store. I swear I’m always chasing this girl.
I’m so intent on following her that I only give a cursory glance around the parking lot. Yeah it’s the Pacific Heights, but still. All San Francisco neighborhoods are packed so close, we’re only a mile away from the Tenderloin District, one of the most crime-ridden spots in the city. The problem with having an expensive car is that it invites people to fuck with you if you don’t stay places where they have valet parking. Such as the Bentley getting tagged outside the soup kitchen in the Mission District.
Scarlet seems to have no worries in the world, though, as she pushes through the doors. She appears immediately captivated by everything she sees. Her head swivels left then right, then left again. It’s a large store with several circular racks at the front, shoes off to the right, and then rows and rows of clothing, with what looks like furniture and other household items at the back.
Scarlet heads toward the closest circular rack and walks around it, her hand grazing the fabrics of different garments, eyes alive as she takes in everything. She doesn’t take anything off the rack or slow down to really examine anything. Instead she’s reveling in the different textures, rubbing silks between her fingers, sliding her thumb back and forth over a velvet dress, running the back of her hand down a faux fur coat.
Then she leaves the rack of clothing and heads over to where purses hang on the far wall. I think she’ll head for the large tote carriers or the backpacks hanging to the far right of the rack.
Scarlet, of course, defies expectations. She’s drawn instead toward the tiniest little clutch purses, the kind that women I’ve been with can only manage to stuff a credit card and lip gloss. Again, she seems fascinated by textures and textiles, caressing little pearl buttons, gaudy rhinestones and soft leather.
I move closer, wanting to study every line and curve of her face as she lifts and examines each little clutch that catches her interest.
She looks up and blushes when she notices my attention. “I know it’s silly. I shouldn’t be wasting time looking at these. They’re so impractical.” Her voice is wistful.
“Not at all,” I rush to say. “Every woman I know has one of those. Please, I’ll be offended if you don’t go home with one.”
She smirks at me with a lifted eyebrow. “I’ll bet you have known a lot of women.”
“I’ve— I, well—”
Her musical laugh cuts me off and she waves a hand. “Sorry, you walked into that one.” She picks up another tiny purse and runs her index finger along a black-beaded outline of the Eiffel Tower that’s been stitched into the maroon silk purse. “Fancy ladies in movies always carry these around. When I was a kid, my brother and I would pretend we were those people.” She smiles, but for the first time all day, I can sense a well of sadness behind it. “He always wanted to be James Bond and I of course would be his female counter super-spy.”
She fingers the clutch again. “I’d make little purses like this out of construction paper and they would always have that one item I needed—you know, the lipstick or perfume where you screwed off the bottom? And it would hide either a deadly poison I would sneak into somebody’s food or it was actually a disguised USB drive where I would copy all the secret information.” She gazes outward like she’s looking into the past, a nostalgic smile on her face.
“My brother was only interested in pretending things were blowing up. And guns. He was very fond of pretending things were guns. Anything he could get his hands on. The remote control. My hair dryer. Dad’s electric shaver.” The smile on her face gets that sad, lost quality to it again.
“Where’s your brother now?” I ask.
She sets the purse back on the rack, face still clouded over. “Anyway, it was silly.”
She turns away, never addressing my question. Before I can say another word, she takes off toward the long racks of clothing that take up most of the store.
Okay. I can take a hint. The brother is a sore subject.
I follow behind her, intentionally trying not to look like I’m hurrying even though all I want to do is run after her and…hug her. A very foreign impulse for me. Kennedy Benson doesn’t do hugging. But it’s almost an overpowering urge. I want to hold her and say that whatever happened with her brother, it’ll be okay.
Which is obviously bullshit since I have no clue what went down. Is he alive? Dead? Or is it something as simple as they had a falling out and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?
When I catch up with Scarlet, she’s shoving hangers to the side as she forages through a section of dresses. One goes over her arm, a light gray summery looking thing with pink polka dots, then another, this time of a golden yellow with white flowers.
I smile at her and try to catch her eye, but her face is knitted in concentration as she shoves hanger after hanger to the side. She gives each garment half a second of observation, then moves on to the next one. Even when she adds an item to her arm, she never holds it up against herself to ooo and aaah like girls have done on the handful of occasions I’ve let myself be dragged figuratively kicking and screaming along on shopping trips before. No more fabric caresses or secret smiles either.
No. It’s like a switch flipped. Occasionally she checks a label or the Goodwill price tag that’s attached to the sleeve, but those and the quick cursory glances are all the consideration she gives a piece of clothing.
And I want to
know why, damn it.
When she moves on to shirts and begins sifting through them in the same way, I reach out and put my hand on hers as she shoves the hanger of another rejected shirt to the side. “Did I say something wrong?”
She freezes under my touch and glances up at me quickly, then away.
“Why would you think that?”
I feel my mouth tense into a straight line. “Because it feels like you’re not enjoying this anymore.”
Her eyes narrow and she starts to respond. Then she stops herself and looks to the floor. She drops her head briefly and her whole body sags for a moment, like she feels as beat down as she looked when I saw her on the ground across the parking lot.
I flash back to her limp in my arms as I carried her to my car. She was so light. Fragile.
Funny feelings start to warm my chest. They’re so foreign I don’t even know how to categorize them. It feels like…like I want to go fight someone. The whole world. Anything to bring the smile back to her face. To make things better for this beautiful blonde fairy girl. She deserves so much better than the shitty hand life has dealt her. It’s not fair.
“Scarlet—” I start, not even knowing what I should say but still wanting to say something—anything—to try to make it better.
But then she shakes her head and stands up straight again. Like she gave herself some internal pep talk maybe? She physically squares her shoulders and straightens her posture. Her head comes up and her chin goes out.
I’d give an obscene amount of money to know what just went on in her head. Was it something bracingly practical? Is she religious? Does she ascribe to inspirational sayings? She’s been homeless for who knows how long but all day she’s been smiling, and that brief moment I just saw was the only glimpse she’s given of just how much the obvious hardships in her life affect her, even after I saw her get beaten up by those thug bastards.
My childhood was shit and I take it as license for every lousy thing I’ve done as an adult. The corners I’ve cut. The compromises I continue to make. But Scarlet, she’s—
“You’re right.” When she looks back up at me, her eyes aren’t exactly flinty but she’s a little more closed off than she was earlier. It doesn’t stop her from sharing, though. “A while ago I swore…” She breaks off and her eyes go to the ground before she takes a breath in and looks up. Her eyes don’t quite make it back to mine, but she continues, “I swore that I was never going to take any single day for granted. No fear. No holds barred. I have to live every second I have to the fullest.”
