Burying Water

by K. A. Tucker

  “Hey . . . dog.” Reaching down, I snap my fingers twice to catch its attention. “What’s your name?” It swings its head toward my hand and I see its nostrils twitch a second before it leans in and places a wet-tongued kiss on my wrist. It really is a mangy thing, the fur along its back in matted tufts. “I’ll give you a brushing tomorrow, how about that?” Its tail wags twice, as if it knows what I’m saying.

  Ginny returns with two more dishes—one full of mashed potatoes and the other filled with brown beans—and the dog instantly forgets my existence, sliding forward on its haunches, facing Ginny. “It’s nothing special, but I’ve never been much of a cook,” she admits, her chair scraping along the wood boards as she takes her seat. Pushing the dishes forward, she ushers, “Well . . . go on, then!”

  “This is my first meal out of the hospital,” I murmur, loading up my plate. At one point, I was twenty-five pounds underweight for my five-foot-eight stature. That was mainly due to muscle loss. I’ve slowly regained some of that, but my charts still say I have more to go. “I saw the quilt on the bed, by the way. It’s beautiful. You’re very talented.”

  I get a grunt in response.

  I don’t let that dissuade me. “My psychologist said I should consider finding a hobby. Maybe you could teach me how to quilt.” A hobby would be a good start in embracing this new, “fresh” person I’ve become, she said.

  “I’ve never been much for teaching anyone anything,” Ginny grumbles, stabbing her chicken with her fork as she saws away at it with her butter knife.

  Another minute of silence passes. “I saw Felix out hunting in the field with his—I mean, her—kittens today. They’re cute.”

  “They’ll likely get eaten by coyotes.”

  That stalls my tongue. Ginny’s a real ray of sunshine.

  Taking a deep breath, I do what Meredith said to do and just ignore it. “Two went running into the Welleses’ garage. I can ask Jesse to fish them out and bring them over if you think—”

  “That damn boy isn’t to step so much as a pinky toe on my property, do you hear me?” she bursts out. There’s a flash of rage in her eyes. “He’s a bad egg.” She waves her fork at me. “You stay away from him.”

  “What did he—”

  “You gonna chatter my ears off all through dinner?”

  An uncomfortable silence hangs over us as we eat, the clang of our metal cutlery against the old porcelain plates ringing through the quiet evening. That and the dog chomping at pieces of chicken that Ginny tosses its way. It has yet to catch one, too blind to see the flying meat before it bounces off its nose.

  The temperature must have dropped 10 degrees by the time we finished dinner, leaving my hands pink and stiff from the cold. All I want to do is go back to my apartment above the garage and start a fire in that woodstove. My instincts drive me to stack our dirty dishes and bring them to the sink, which I start to do. But then I look at that door and the metal bars across the windows and I stall. I’m not sure what the right answer is here. Am I even supposed to notice Ginny’s eccentricities? Do I bring it up? Do I—

  “Just leave it be.”

  “I’d like to clean—”

  “I’m fine!” Patting the dog’s head, she tempers her tone. “Me and Felix have been on our own for years now. Haven’t we, boy?”

  I frown. “I thought Felix was your cat.”

  “What’s your point?” She swipes the plates from my hand to stack on top of hers. “I like the name. Ain’t nothing wrong with naming your pets by the same name if you like it.”

  “But . . .” I feel my frown deepen. “How do you distinguish them from each other?”

  “Because I know which Felix I’m calling when I call them. That’s how.”

  “It’s a good name,” I agree, slowly, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling. Because something tells me she wouldn’t find my amusement . . . amusing.

  Narrow eyes size me up. “You think I’m strange, don’t you?”

  I blush, afraid to say anything to offend her. She may banish me from her property yet. “I think . . . you’re very kind.”

  Her mouth twists up, like she doesn’t believe me. “Well, Felix is better than Jane Doe, I’ll tell you that much. Why on earth are you answering to that ridiculous name anyway? You can’t possibly like it.”

  I can’t argue with her on that. It’s the first time anyone has even asked what I think about the name. “I feel like I belong in a morgue,” I admit. “And I need to find something else if I want a new ID.” Sheriff Gabe already has the judge and paperwork lined up.

  “Well, then, give yourself a new name! It’s not hard. I don’t know why you haven’t done it already.”

  She doesn’t get it. I don’t just want a new name. “I want my name.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re getting it anytime soon, now does it? So maybe you need to let go of that idea.” She outright glares at me. “Count your blessings, girl. You get to be whoever you want to be, without the burden of your past.”

  “Count your blessings” sounds an awful lot like “You should be happy.” I don’t feel blessed or happy. Relieved, yes. Standing out on that balcony of my new home, overlooking kittens running in the meadow, I felt a degree of comfort that I had yet to experience. But none of this overshadows the fact that I don’t have a life.

  “But maybe I want to know who I was before I choose to start over,” I argue.

  “Do you, really?” She pushes her chair out and stands abruptly, an annoyed air swirling around her. “The girl you were had her face sliced up, her teeth knocked out, her body violated. Do you want to remember all that? Because I’m pretty sure that brain of yours has decided it doesn’t want anything to do with the girl you were anymore. And if your brain is telling you that, then maybe you ought to listen.” She starts loading her arms with dishes, muttering, “Just give yourself a damn name and that will be your name! Who’s going to argue with you?”

  Deep inside, I know she’s right.

  Louder, she demands, “Now go home and start a fire. Your shivering is making me cold.” She stalks away, her arms full, her hip holding the door open just long enough for Felix the dog to scamper in behind her.

  Great. First night and we’re already at odds. With a sigh, I tuck my hands beneath my arms and leave the porch, limping as quickly as my healing leg can carry me, her words weighing heavily on my spirit.

  THIRTEEN

  Jesse

  then

  “You remind me of a surgeon,” comes the accented voice behind me as I stand in front of the table, the various wrenches and socket sets lined neatly; boxes ready for the clamps and bolts and fasteners to the right, rags for my hands and the tools to the left, sealers and lubricants waiting to be grabbed. The Aston Martin manual open to the table of contents.

  I’ve heard this before. The guys in shop class used to break my balls about it. I glance over my shoulder to see Viktor at the garage door, dressed all in black. “It helps the work go faster when you know where things are.”

  “I see the hoist worked?” He eyes the seized engine now sitting on the ground.

  “Yup. Easy.” It’s a good one. Not one an ordinary person would have access to. I don’t want to know where he got it.

  He drops a notebook and pen on top of the tools. “Write down everything you need on here. The sooner you get the list to me, the sooner I can appropriate the parts.” He turns with the sound of the entrance gate opening.

  An adrenaline rush hits me as the silver BMW pulls up. I can’t help but watch Alexandria’s long legs as she climbs out of her car, pulling her messenger bag out with her.

  “Where have you been?” Viktor snaps.

  “I had a midterm. I told you that.” Her tone is soft, but it only seems to anger him more.

  “And I told you that I will not pay for these courses if they interfere with our lives.”

  Obviously, Viktor isn’t too keen on the idea of her in school. That doesn’t surprise me. Wh
at’s going to happen when she actually becomes a nurse?

  She dips her head and seems to force “Yes, Viktor,” through gritted teeth.

  “Excuse me?” Ice slides into his words as he closes the distance. “Have you forgotten? Do we need to talk more about this when I get home later?”

  She lifts her head, her jaw set defiantly. “No, Viktor.”

  He pauses, his hand twitching at his thigh. “I don’t know what has gotten into you lately but I don’t like it, Alexandria. I didn’t marry a defiant girl and you are becoming defiant. Get inside.”

  I turn away just as she storms past, her heels clicking fast and hard against the stone walkway.

  “I give her everything she could possibly want and she is still not happy!” he mutters, and when I glance over, I realize he’s talking to me.

  “They never are, are they?” It’s the only response I can think of. She definitely isn’t happy, I can say that much. I’m guessing he wouldn’t be either, if he knew what happened between his wife and me. Would he slap me like he did her? How would he react?

  He smirks, as if that’s the answer he was hoping for from me. “I will be late. Remember the list.”

  Five minutes later, Viktor already gone, the interior door at the back of the garage opens and Alexandria steps out. She’s still dressed the same, though she’s traded her heels for slippers and her white blouse is untucked and hanging out. All the flashy jewelry has been stripped off her body. “Are you hungry?” She holds up a plate and two bottles of beer.

  My stomach grumbles at the sight. The last thing I stuffed into my mouth was a Hot Pocket at breakfast. “Starving, actually.” I hold up my filthy hands.

  She smiles and points to the door she just came out of. “Inside and to the left.”

  I follow her instructions into a mudroom that is separated from the rest of the house by a heavy door on the opposite end and is the size of Boone’s and my living room. When I return to the garage with clean hands, Alexandria has set up a blue folding chair next to the table and cleared some space for my dinner. She’s standing in front of the engine, her arms folded across her chest, a beer in one hand. “So Viktor hired you to fix this?”

  I stroll over to the plate. “Yup. Last night, standing in front of the urinal.” Stabbing a piece of stew meat, I shove it into my mouth. “Wow,” I mumble around a mouthful. “Did you make this?”

  “One of my duties as Viktor’s wife.” There’s no missing the bitterness.

  “Viktor’s lucky to have a wife who cooks like this.” I wonder how often she hears that. Because all I’ve heard is ridicule. Sure, he kissed her. Once.

  But so have I.

  I feel her eyes on me as I shovel in hunks of meat and potato like a man starved. Growing up with a surgeon and a police officer for parents, I didn’t get a lot of home-cooked meals, and the few I did weren’t memorable. My mom may be a genius in the operating room, but in the kitchen she’s limited to a box of spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce.

  Before I can place the plate on the table, she’s diving for it. “Let me get that.”

  “Thanks.” I try her name out on my tongue. “Alexandria.”

  “It’s Alex. Call me Alex.” She pushes a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “When it’s just us.”

  “But not when it’s not?”

  “Viktor prefers Alexandria.”

  Of course.

  She looks down at the plate in her hands. “Did you really enjoy that?”

  “Yeah, it was fantastic. Why?”

  “Because you left half of it.”

  “No I didn’t. I ate the entire—” Oh . . . I grin sheepishly. I’ve been picking vegetables out of my food for so long, it’s second nature now. “I ate all the good stuff,” I offer, hoping she isn’t offended by the tidy pile of peas and carrots I left behind. God knows I’ve heard enough about starving children from my mother for the past twenty-four years.

  She smiles. “So, not a big fan of vegetables. What about fruit?”

  “Tomato sauce.”

  “That’s not . . .” Her voice drifts off with a sigh, her eyes flickering with amusement. “You must have driven your mother nuts.”

  “Maybe if she cooked more, I would have better eating habits.”

  “You’re blaming your mother?”

  “Exactly.” I suck back the rest of my beer and hand it to her. “Thank you. You don’t have to serve me, though.”

  “I know.” She bites the inside of her mouth. “Viktor wouldn’t like me in here with you.”

  “Aren’t you worried about being caught on camera?” And why is she telling me this at all?

  “No. There aren’t any cameras in here. Or anywhere in the house. Viktor thinks that people can hack into them and watch us. There are cameras around the perimeter of the property, as well as an alarm system, though.”

  “You probably shouldn’t tell people those sorts of things,” I warn. “You don’t know me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t, but . . .” Those pretty eyes regard me for a long moment. “I feel like I do.”

  I can’t keep my gaze from dropping to her mouth as I murmur, “I think I know what you mean.”

  She stands across from me in front of the engine. “So . . . how long do you think it’ll take you to finish this car?”

  “Not sure. Depends on how many distractions I have.” Like right now, I’d rather be looking at her than playing with this engine.

  And I love nothing more than playing with engines.

  Her beer bottle pauses at her lips. She clears her throat and begins to move away. “Well, I should probably get back to studying. I have another midterm next week.”

  She misread my words. She thinks I’m trying to get her to leave. “Bring your books out here,” I suggest casually, testing the bolts on the manifold. They’re corroded. Not surprising.

  “Yeah?” A hint of something in her voice pulls my attention up. Excitement, perhaps. Is it excitement about spending time with me or just a warm body in general? I wonder how often they have people over here. And how often Viktor is actually home with her. Something tells me she spends a lot of time alone.

  “Yeah.” I scan the front of her shirt, the outline of her bra underneath just barely visible. “You may want to change out of anything nice, though. Things tend to get dirty out here.” That could be taken in an entirely different way. I don’t normally say shit like that, but she seems to bring it out in me.

  She gives me a small smile. “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  Even with her shirt hanging long, I can see her hips sway as she strolls toward the door. And then I remind myself that that’s Viktor’s Petrova’s wife, I’m in his garage and working on his car, and I don’t believe for one second that this place isn’t under some kind of surveillance.

  I dive back into the engine, keeping my attention glued to it until I hear the door open again and Alexandria’s slippers pad across the concrete floor.

  “Here.” I look up to find another beer in her hand. “It’s this or vodka, and you don’t like vodka much.”

  “How do you know that?” I frown as I take the bottle. Our fingers graze and I temporarily forget my question.

  “Because you looked like you were forcing it down at The Cellar.”

  “You were watching me?” Now I can’t help but stare openly at her—changed into jeans, a fitted T-shirt stretched over what I’m guessing is a B-cup chest, her hair pulled into a bun, reminding me of Amber when she used to get dressed up for ballet on Saturday mornings. Except it’s Friday night and Alex can’t be mistaken for a nine-year-old. “You kept your head down the entire time.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Well, how would you know unless you were watching me the entire time?”

  Caught. I go back to my engine, a smile now affixed to my face. She has a confident streak in her.

  “Viktor doesn’t let me drink,” she admits. Then she leans her head back and, closing her eyes, pours the beer down her long, slen
der throat.

  A confident, rebellious streak.

  “You don’t talk much. It’s too quiet in here. Do you mind if I put on some music?”

  “Go nuts.” Inviting her in here might have been a bad idea after all. I can’t keep my eyes off her ass as she strolls over to the radio on the back wall. She punches in a few buttons and an alternative rock station comes on. “Thank God,” I mutter, turning my focus back to my task.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “I was afraid you were going to put that trance shit on, from the club.”

  “Oh, no.” She shudders. “I can’t stand that music. Or that place. The people there are all phony and vapid. I hate when Viktor makes me go.” She walks back over to stand near the engine, leafing through the manual. The silence lasts for only a minute before she asks, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  The hesitation swirling around her is palpable. “Why not?”

  “Guess I haven’t met the right girl yet.” I broke up with Shyanne six months ago, after dating on and off for close to a year. It was never serious—not to me, anyway—and I can’t say that I miss her. I certainly don’t miss being accused of looking at or talking to or flirting with another girl every single day. And I never was—not knowingly, anyway. Which made it ironic when I found out she was screwing around with her brother’s friend.

  “My husband is sleeping with that waitress, Priscilla.” Alex just throws it out there, so matter-of-factly, that I take a moment to process it. Not because I’m shocked that he’s doing it. I pretty much knew.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I found out a few weeks ago.” She sets the manual down. “I was taking his dry cleaning in and I found her pink lipstick all over the collar.”

  “Maybe just an innocent hug?”

  “On the inside of his dress pants, too. And a receipt for a hotel in his pocket.”

  You’re busted, Viktor. I can’t lie—I’m glad Alex knows, even if it hurts her. That was a few weeks ago, she said? Around the same time she got a flat tire. Is that what sparked the tears, the questions . . . the kiss? “And you know it’s her?” I should probably warn Boone, in case Viktor’s the type of guy who gets territorial about his mistresses.