by Brinda Berry
Still, there’s something undeniably appealing about her. She’s missing the hard-edged look of the girls my age who layer on makeup and dress like every minute is a runway opportunity.
It has to be the fact that she’s wearing my clothes. She looks like the little sister you want to protect.
Dylan seems to be the only one on the deck with brain cells not stunted by the sight of Veronica. “You must be an answer to my prayers,” he says to her.
She takes a step back inside. “Me?”
“I’m Dylan.” He holds out a hand. “I think you’re the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”
“Veronica, Dylan. Dylan, my friend Veronica. We ran into each other this morning.”
“He means I ran into his car.” She gives Dylan a nod, appearing not at all impressed with his flirting.
Dylan laughs and points at me. “I like her.”
“She’s serious.” I turn my back on them to tend the steaks. Dylan has a predatory gleam in his eyes that grates on my nerves.
“You don’t have to hit my car to get my attention.” Dylan’s voice is light and teasing.
“Veronica isn’t looking for a date,” I say without turning around.
“Can I use your hair dryer?” she asks.
“You can use anything you need.” I sit in the teak chair beside the grill as she closes the door and disappears.
“Girl cleans up nice.” Jordy leans back in his lounge chair and places both hands behind his neck. “I think she’s off-limits to us,” he says to Dylan.
Dylan grins. “So what’s up with her showering? Or did you two…”
Jordy gives a snort. “Not hardly. She looked like she’d been on a three-day-drunk when she—”
“Hey now.” I shoot him a burning look. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.” Jordy places his hand over his mouth, and a suspicious looking grin peeks out from one corner.
“You got something you want to say? Say it.” I fold my arms over my chest.
“So who is she?” Dylan loosens his tie with one hand and drops into the nearest chair.
This is the question I can’t answer. If I admit I picked up this strange girl off the street and plan on giving her a bed for the night, they’ll both commit me. So, I stretch the truth. “Veronica’s a sweetheart. A friend. She can’t stay at her place tonight, and I offered her the sofa. It’s not a big deal. I’d appreciate it if you guys would make her feel welcome.”
Jordy shoots me an odd look. “Sorry. Hey, didn’t mean to be a dick earlier.”
“Yeah, well. She was a little messy earlier.”
The French doors open and Veronica steps through. “Hi.” She hugs her body by wrapping her arms across her middle. The gesture draws attention to purple bruises lining her forearms and my stomach gives an unfriendly churn.
“What can I do to help?” Veronica only makes eye contact with me and I wonder if she’s unnerved by the fact she’s alone with three strangers. Three strangers who have no reason to treat her well.
“Not a thing,” Jordy answers. Getting out of his seat, he adjusts his ball cap and nods to me. “Almost ready?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Jordy heads to the door and I look to Dylan. “Can you give me and Veronica a minute to talk?”
“Sure,” he says. Dylan grabs the tie he’s removed and follows Jordy into the house. Veronica lingers at the threshold.
“I’d like to talk about you being here,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I don’t bring strange girls home.”
“So why me?”
I study her face—the way her widened eyes express her confusion. “I also want you to know you’re safe here. I don’t know what you’re running from, but well … I wanted you to know you don’t have to be afraid of anything.”
“Who says I’m afraid of something?”
“Who did that to you?” I point the grill tongs at her arms.
“Nobody. I fell.” She stands military straight, her head up.
We stare at each other in challenging silence. I wait for her to admit the lie. Veronica dares me to contradict her.
“I also wanted to let you know Jordy thinks we knew each other before today.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because I implied it. Unless you want to answer questions, it’s best to pretend we’re old friends.”
“If we’re friends, you won’t care if I sleep in your bed.”
4
Veronica
“Sleep in my bed?” Collin’s eyes widen comically. He pulls his head back sharply like he’s been slapped. The grill tongs drop onto the wood deck. It ka-klunks until it rests several inches from my feet.
I stoop to retrieve it. “Yeah. So I can lock the bedroom door. I didn’t mean sleep with you. And when you offered your couch, you didn’t mention there’d be a house full of guys.” Although my brother’s friends know better than to hit on me, these guys don’t.
“Dylan and Jordy wouldn’t mess with you. But go ahead and take my room for the night.”
“I know how guys are. What’s his name has been drinkin’ and your other roommate already hit on me.”
He eyes me speculatively. Walking slowly across the deck, he pauses with a slight frown tipping the corners of his mouth downward. “You must be hanging out with some real scum then. Nothing would happen here.”
“Easy to promise it now.” I say this nonchalantly, but I’m serious. “My brother always says that men think about sex twenty-five hours a day.”
“I’d say I’ve given you plenty of reasons to believe my word is good. I’m sorry somebody hurt you. But no one will lay a hand on you here.” He studies my arms. “The person who did that to you? You should go to the police. File a report.”
I want to tell him where he can stick his charity. Giving me a place to stay doesn’t mean he can pretend to understand what it feels like to be assaulted by someone you once trusted. “You know what? Forget it. The couch is fine.”
“Whatever—whoever—you’re running from … needs to be stopped. You’ve got to turn him in.”
“I can’t.” I hug myself, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. “It’s complicated.”
“Then tell me and I’ll help you figure it out.”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
I open the French doors for him so he can carry in the platter of steaks. I don’t want his pity. His pity makes me feel weak and stupid. Ashamed.
Collin carries the platter inside, but I don’t follow. I need a few minutes to get my head together after everything that’s happened. Instead, I sit at the edge of the wood platform with my feet hanging off the end. I lean my head against the wood railing. The evening sky is tinged in pink swirl, an aftereffect of the rain-soaked day.
He returns a moment later. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I think I’ll sit out here, if it’s okay.”
“You’ll miss dinner.”
“Not hungry.” I’m so tired.
“Me either.” Collin sits beside me, stretching out his long legs to hang off the edge beside mine. “Your bruises are none of my business. I thought I could make them my business because I’m giving you a place to stay for the night. That’s unfair. I won’t ask again.”
I only nod.
“Good.”
We’re silent then. Fireflies dance in a grove of trees in the distance. Male voices drift from inside the house.
“Can we start all over?” he asks.
“How do you mean?”
“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Collin Cordova. Web designer, music podcaster, expert driver.”
I roll my eyes. “Veronica Marshall.”
His large hand closes over mine in a friendly shake. “That’s it?”
“Um-hmm.”
“What do you do, Miss Veronica, when you’re not running into cars and ditches?”
I suppress the smile tickling the corner of my mouth.
He persists. “Stuntwoman?”
I shake my head and continue to study my bare feet as I swing them back and forth.
“Snake charmer? Bluegrass musician? Pastry chef?”
I hold up my hand. “Stop. You’re killing me. Do you know real people who are any of those?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
I giggle, a reaction so foreign I question whether it actually left my mouth.
“I work at the Gimme Gas.”
“And this Gimme Gas… This is … what?”
“A gas station. What else?”
“Ah. The owner was obviously name challenged.”
The previous giggle now rolls silently in my belly, gaining momentum. “Obviously.”
“How old are you?”
The shift in topic settles nervously in my gut. Back to the questions. “Nineteen. You had my driver’s license earlier when you snooped in my change purse. Didn’t you look?”
“No. I guess I didn’t. I only ask to make sure I’m not harboring a runaway.”
I’m silent again. I’m nineteen but my recent problems make me feel much older. Actually, I’ve been older since I was thirteen and my parents went to prison.
Somewhere inside the house, music begins to play. The low beat thumps along my skin, and I close my eyes, more enjoying the state of doing nothing than feeling the pulse. The smell of a gardenia bush, the cool night air, and the music combine into a heady aphrodisiac.
I allow my head to loll back and I inhale. “You don’t have to stay out here with me. I’ll come in soon. Do what you normally do in the evenings.”
“You play pool?” he asks.
I peer sideways at him. “Yes.”
My answer takes me back to memories of playing pool at Gimme Gas. One pool table and endless hours to fill during my summers as a kid before I worked there.
Collin hops up and holds out his hand. “Come inside.”
I get to my feet without his help and brush off my backside. “I didn’t see a pool table.”
“It’s in the basement.”
Collin leads the way and I follow him back inside, down the hall, and to an interior door. The minute he opens it, music and male laughter billow out. There’s only a couple of steps to a lower level that doesn’t look at all like a basement to me.
The room is bigger than my entire trailer back home.
“Wow.” I take in the plush rugs thrown over a stained concrete floor, the recessed lighting in a low ceiling, the oil paintings resembling a tragic accident with a paint bucket.
“It’s about time.” Dylan lifts his gaze as he leans over, pool stick in hand. The pool table sits in the center of the room with a classic beer-themed light hanging over it. “I’m tired of winning every game.”
Jordy stands to one side of the table with a cocky grin. “Shut up and take the shot, pretty boy.”
Dylan smirks. “Left pocket,” he says, lining up the shot. He slides the stick forward to hit the cue ball low. The white ball rolls and taps the eight ball into the pocket then rolls back, not following its target into the pocket.
“Lucky bastard.” Jordy takes a deep drink from his beer.
“All skill. Plus you’re like the worst pool player in the history of mankind,” Dylan says.
“Quit whining. Play one of them if I’m so bad.” Jordy turns from Dylan and lifts his bottle to me. “Want one?”
I shake my head and take in the rest of the room—a bar alongside one wall, a black futon on the other, a foosball table in a corner. Foosball. What are these guys twelve? Their low, cajoling voices continue to trash talk as I stroll around the room in amazement.
The futon is the most interesting thing in the room. I glance from it to the door at the top of the stairs and over to the bathroom. A person could live down here. It’s like a small apartment.
Collin stands waiting at the pool table with a stick in hand. He rubs the chalk on the tip, whisking it over one side of the end and then the other. He’s a real player who knows the correct way to chalk a tip.
He meets my stare. “Know how to play?”
“Yeah. I’ve played.” I hesitate for a moment and then walk to the wall where a mounted rack holds sticks.
Collin places his stick on the table. “Want me to help you pick out a stick?”
“I can manage.” I tamp down the arrogance in my voice. He’d never make the same offer to a guy. Play it cool and don’t show off.
“Most girls need help.”
“You’re a little sexist, don’t ya think?”
He gives me a half-crooked smile. “I call it like I see it. In all the times I’ve played pool with a girl, I’ve always helped them pick out a stick and a ball to hit and the best angle to use.”
“Must play with some boring girls,” I say, mimicking his comment earlier about the guys I know.
Dylan strolls over to me and folds his arms across his chest. The tie is gone, the shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and shoes removed. His dark eyes examine my face. “You think you can beat him?”
“Maybe. I haven’t seen him play.” I grab a stick and roll it on the table to check that it’s straight.
“We should place bets,” Dylan says.
I roll my eyes. The warm wood of the stick feels good in my hand. Memories of playing pool with Grandpa Tom and Gunner flood my brain. Those days are long past. Grandpa Tom was good to me until the day he died. It couldn’t have been easy taking on two teenagers. If not for him, we’d have been wards of the state. It didn’t even matter that I wasn’t blood kin.
“Give it a rest. We aren’t betting on pool,” Collin says to Dylan. He drops the balls in the triangle and rolls it to tighten the set. He lifts his gaze to meet mine. Then he steps away, giving me the honor of the break.
“You afraid of a little wager?” I have nothing to bet. He knows this and I know this. Still, his mouth tips at one corner.
“No. But…” he stops and I know with an uncanny certainty what he almost said. His words were going to be, ‘You don’t have any money.’
I lean forward with my stick and visually line up the cue ball, ready to break the set. “I suggest we not bet money. Let’s up the stakes. Get more personal.”
“No. Not going to bet.” Collin’s voice seems casual on the surface.
I pause, cue stick in hand as I bend over to break. My gaze meets his in a challenge. “You win … I take your advice from earlier. I answer your questions. Whatever.”
His fingers tighten on the cue stick. It’s not what he expected.
I continue. “If I win…” I look around this big-boy playroom. “If I win, I’ll stay in this game room for a few days. Since my original travel plans fell through and all.”
The room is silent.
“What’s she talking about?” Jordy’s voice breaks through the stare down I’m having with Collin.
“I’m a decent pool player. You should know this.” Collin quirks one eyebrow. He’s not smiling and his warning is obvious. Decent has to be an understatement.
“Me, too.” I push the stick slowly forward, lining up my break shot once more. “You in or not?”
“In,” he answers with faint amusement. “No dog shots, right?”
“Works for me.” I return my focus to the break and slide the stick forward. With a pop, the balls roll, colors darting across the table. Three balls, two solids and one stripe, drop into pockets.
“Nice break.” Dylan pulls a bar stool from across the room and takes a seat near the game.
I nod. “Any other house rules you play by?”
Jordy’s eyes sparkle with competitive appetite. “The eight ball is neutral. Bank the eight to win.” He turns to Dylan. “Who would you place money on?”
Dylan looks at me when he answers. “The lady.”
“I’ll bet one hundred on Collin.” Jordy grins in my direction.
“I’m in,” Dylan says.
I ignore them and move to the opposite side of the table and call my next shot.
“Two ball in left corner.”
“You don’t have to call it.” Collin strolls over to my side of the table. He’s not close physically, but I feel his gaze on me.
“That’s how I play.” I bend and shoot. The blue ball rolls past a yellow one and drops into the called pocket.
“Nice,” Collin says.
“Seven in the right side.” I line up and bank the ball against the opposite side and it rolls toward me and drops.
Dylan whistles, one low admiring exhale. “I’ll be damned. We have a hustler on our hands.” Glee radiates from his handsome face.
“Three left,” Jordy says, as if he has to serve as commentator to the game.
I walk to the opposite end of the table. Collin’s gaze follows my every move. He’s smiling, a thin flash of white teeth, and a tremor of anxiety pools in my belly.
He shouldn’t look amused.
The phone, a landline, rings from the bar. I wait in case someone is going to answer it. No sense in distracting myself by listening to a conversation.
“Leave it. Machine will pick up.” Collin’s smooth words confirm this game isn’t for kicks in his mind either. He flicks a finger toward the table. “Go ahead.”
Three balls. I make a second pass around the table. If I play risky, I can set myself up to win. It’s how I do everything. Safe isn’t a protocol I practice.
It’s a gamble since I’ve not seen him play.
“One ball in the far right corner,” I say. Leaning forward, I stroke the cue ball with a light tap. It rolls down the table and chastely kisses the yellow one-ball.
I hold my breath as it inches to the pocket to shoulder my purple six-ball into a better spot. Then the world moves in slow motion as it travels to linger on the lip of the pocket.
My hands grow clammy. Clammy enough to require chalk. Toys, toys everywhere and no hand chalk in sight.
I don’t make eye contact with Collin before his shot. Head in the game.
Collin flashes me a knowing grin. A grin telling me he’s good. “Eleven ball to the left corner.”
