Chapter Ten - KATYA – FOUR YEARS AGO
“Excuse me?”
I cancel my provocative body language and stand up to see what’s happening. A man is walking across the street. A very… good-looking man. Tall, light brown hair, maybe blond in the sun, his arms covered in tattoos and his jeans spotted with rips and tears.
My client startles, redirects his attention from me to the stranger interrupting our business. “Can I help you?” he asks, with that air of superiority some men seem to wear like a coat.
“Do you know this guy?” the stranger asks, having reached the car. He peers over the roof at me.
“Do you mind?” my client says.
“I actually do mind. You see, that’s my house over there and I don’t think it’s appropriate for perverts to pick up schoolgirls at the bus stop while I’m watching.”
My client looks at me. I expect him to explain our story. I’m his daughter’s friend. He’s offering me a ride home.
But he just steps on the gas and leaves.
“That’s right, asshole,” the stranger says, watching the black Mercedes turn the corner a block down until it disappears. “Was he coming on to you?”
“What?” I am so shocked at what just happened, I don’t know how to answer that.
“Did you know that guy? Or was he trying to pick you up?”
“Um…”
“Look, I get it. You probably think you’re old enough to be in control of that situation, but you’re not, OK? He was wearing a wedding ring. Don’t get involved with men like that. Bad news, take it from me.”
“I… I think he was only going to offer me a ride home.”
“That’s what they all say, kid. Trust me.”
“But—”
“No, seriously. It’s just an opening. A way to get you alone. Make you vulnerable. And then after that they want…” He smiles at me, almost embarrassed. “You know.”
“Sex,” I offer, taking advantage of his reluctance to say the word. “I know him. He’s my best friend’s father.”
“Jesus Christ,” the guy says, swiping a hand across his brow.
“My dad’s on a business trip until Sunday night and I’m home alone.” What am I doing? “I don’t like to stay home alone. So I was hoping he’d invite me over for dinner. Or let me stay the night. But my friend, she’s out of town for the weekend with her mom. A fashion show down in Denver. So I knew there was no chance of that. I’m… Katya, by the way.”
And I just gave him my real name.
“Oliver,” he says, crossing the distance between us to offer his hand.
I shake it. Hold on to it a little longer than necessary. He’s warm and his grip tightens on my hand just a little more than it should.
“Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask, eyeing the building across the street he said was his house. “Maybe I can call another friend. Find somewhere else to stay this weekend.”
“Uh,” Oliver says, looking over his shoulder at his place. “Sure. Follow me.”
I watch his ass, and the muscles in his back that I can see, even through his thermal shirt. And listen to the way his boots thud on the street as we walk towards the building. “What kind of house is this?”
“Oh,” he says, opening a glass-front door and holding it for me. “It’s an old mechanic’s garage. I bought it a couple months ago. Still doing the residential conversion.”
Inside it’s all industrial. Concrete and metal and one of those pits in the floor that mechanics have for oil changes.
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, pointing to the pit.
He looks at where I’m pointing. Silent for a few seconds. “I’m gonna plant a buckeye tree.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or ask for details.
“Yeah, fill it with dirt, plant a little buckeye. See how long it takes to reach the ceiling. Then tear the whole place down when it gets too big.”
I look up at the ceiling. It’s high. Maybe twenty feet? Then look back at Oliver, his blue-gray eyes dancing along with his mischievous smile. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “Family tradition.” And then he points to a large potted tree in the corner, up against the folding glass doors that are big enough to drive a car through. “That came from our farm out in Bellevue. It’s doing OK in the pot for now, but I gotta get it transplanted pretty soon.”
“Huh.” I take a second to appreciate how much better my day just got. No weird fantasy with an older man. No creeping around pretending to be his daughter’s friend. No groping or kissing.
At least not with him.
But this guy? Mr. Buckeye? Now this is a man I might be interested in.
“I know that guy was picking you up.”
I look over at Oliver and wait to see what he says next.
“I went to Catholic school. Just down the street at St. Joseph’s, in fact. And I dated my share of Parson girls when I was a kid. Your uniform is not even close to standard. That blue blazer only goes with the solid blue skirt. The Parson girls don’t even have tartan. You’re wearing a St. Joseph’s skirt with a Parson blazer.”
Shit.
“I know my way around a schoolgirl costume. And fuck that guy anyway. I’ve had my eye on you since you sat down on the bench. If you were waiting there for fifteen minutes, he was probably late.”
I have nothing to say to that.
“Am I wrong?” Oliver asks, taking two steps closer to me. He flashes me the most charming grin. “Just say so and I’ll apologize.”
I weigh my options. I can pretend to be offended and stalk off, keeping my ruse intact. My secrets safe. But then I’ll probably never see him again. And maybe this is just some rush of teenage hormones, but I might regret it for the rest of my life if this guy was interested in me and I blew him off.
“No,” I say, blowing out a breath. “You’re not wrong. He’s a client. He has a daughter’s best friend fantasy.”
“And you’re her?”
I shrug. “For this afternoon I am. Was. Going to be.”
Oliver walks off towards what might be the kitchen of this place, opens the door of a grease-stained fridge looking like it’s been in this garage for fifty years, and grabs two beers. “Want one?” he asks, popping the top off the bottle using the counter. “It’s local.”
“I’m not old enough to drink.”
“For real?” he says. “You’re a kid? Or you just look young and so you use that to play your little game with the perverts?”
“He’s not a pervert, by the way. I checked him out pretty thoroughly. And I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen. Barely underage.”
“Uh-huh,” Oliver says. “Do you want the beer or not?”
I take it, muttering, “Thank you.” Sip it while he pops the top off his too. “So you’re not against contributing to my delinquency?”
He takes a gulp of his beer, then leans back against the counter. Fucking smile. “Who did you hire to run the background check on that perv?”
I roll my eyes at his name-calling. “I did it myself. A website I found.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I got his credit-card number. And his place of employment. I even called there to make sure it was for real. And I got his wife’s name. Just in case.”
“That it, Sherlock? That all you got?”
“No,” I say, lifting my blazer up to show him my gun. “I came packing heat too.”
His guffaw echoes loudly in the high ceiling. “Ho-lee shit. Katya. You’re my dream girl.”
I smile at his pleasure and take another sip of beer, backing up to lean on the counter opposite him. “Maybe I am.”
He takes a step forward.
If I could back up I would. But I can’t. The counter presses firmly into my back.
He takes another step. “You’re one of those girls, huh?”
I bite my lip and nod. Unable to take my eyes off him. Unsure of which kind of girl he’s referring to, but still very sure I’m definitely that kind.
One more step and he’s so close to me I have to tip my head up to keep his gaze. “Is your father really out of town?”
“He’s far enough away that he won’t be missing me tonight.”
The back of his hand brushes against my cheek, then drops down to my neck. My head follows the motion because his touch… his touch…
He leans into my ear and whispers, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”