The bell dinged. Frazier had finished my sandwiches, and I had work to do.
“Cook, I don’t know what to say.”
“Janey,” she said, taking my hand into both of hers, “don’t you dare feel bad. I should have told you.”
“No. It was none of my business. I shouldn’t have forced it out of you.”
“We’ll give you a ride home, pumpkin,” Bobert said.
A sadness had settled over both of them, and suddenly my dog-excrement analogy seemed too light-hearted.
“That’s okay. I have to do a couple more things before I leave.”
Bobert’s interest was piqued. “You aren’t going to do what you said you wouldn’t, right?”
“No way. Speaking of which, did you find anything out?”
“I’m meeting with a guy tonight. He’s with the local FBI.”
The FBI? Wow.
“You just have to stay out of trouble until then, capisce?”
“Got it. If there’s anything I can do, it’s stay out of trouble.”
I hurried to get the sandwiches, paid for them with my tip money, then headed out the front door and straight toward trouble.
Mr. Vandenberg’s door was locked, and the sign had been turned to CLOSED a few minutes earlier than he normally quit for the day. I cupped my hand and peered in the glass door. The store was empty, and all the lights were out. Alarm and a sickening sense of dread rose inside me. What if they were finished with him? What if they didn’t need him or his family anymore? Would they kill them?
I had no choice. I was going to have to bring Ian into this. To tell him what was going on. He might not believe the whys or hows, but he would have to report it to his superior officers. I’d just drive home ad nauseam the fact that they could not go rushing in without knowing the whereabouts of Mr. V’s family first. If they were being held captive and someone tipped off their captors…
I shuddered with the thought and turned my immediate attention to the dry-cleaning business next door – and grew more confused than ever. If the men in Mr. V’s shop were tunneling that direction, maybe it had nothing to do with the business. Maybe there was hidden treasure under the shop. It was an antiques place, after all. It could have pirate loot underneath it. Because why on planet Earth would anyone dig a tunnel into a dry-cleaning business? What could they possibly hope to gain? A dinner jacket? A prom dress, maybe? Window treatments?
I decided to go deep. I’d pose as a customer and check it out. Get a feel for the place.
By the time I walked the fifteen feet to the store entrance, I was already shivering. The jacket I had, the only one I owned, was an old army jacket, and while it was plenty warm most days, today was not most days. The wind crept through the pores of the fabric and sliced into me like razor blades, cutting the marrow of my bones. The wet air hung thickly, and the threat of a freezing rain loomed close by.
I’d have to hurry if I planned on making it home before I froze to death, but more importantly, in time to borrow Mable’s car. She was my neighbor, and she hadn’t had an actual license in over a decade, but she’d kept her husband’s car to drive to church twice a week. Unfortunately, she went to bed early, and once that woman was asleep, there was no waking her up.
After checking the dry cleaner’s hours, I pushed open the door. No bell chimed to announce my visit, so I cased the joint while I had the chance. It looked completely legit. Then again, so did that Louis Vuitton I bought off a man named Scooter in the Walmart parking lot. Not to mention the Rolex.
Plastic-covered clothes hung on an automated rack behind the front desk. Not a lot, but enough to look believable. A cash register with tickets piled beside it sat on the desk along with a cup for pens. A framed business license hung on the wall to my right, and a huge man sat in a padded red chair on my left.
I jumped when I noticed him, wondering why he wasn’t the first thing I noticed when I walked in. He had biceps the size of my waist.
He folded a paper he was reading and stood. His muscles were so big, he was unable to drop his arms at his sides, and I wondered how on earth he wiped after going number two. It was wrong of me, but still…
He walked around the desk and pinned me with a set of cool gray eyes. We stood in uncomfortable silence for, like, ever. The dark hair that had been sheared short all over his head topped off a rather menacing look, mostly because he was glaring at me from underneath it.
Just as I was about to speak, he asked in a thick Russian accent, “Vy you are here?”
Odd way to greet a potential customer. If his attitude didn’t change lickety-split, I was so giving this place a negative review on Yelp.
“I – I need something dry cleaned.”
A woman came up then, older than the man and a lot shorter though no less stout. “Vy you are here?” she asked me in the same thick accent.
What the hell? I glanced around again just to make sure I’d come into an actual business. Yep. They had a sign and everything. I turned back to her. “I need something dry-cleaned.”
“Vat?” she asked, shooing the man aside. But I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I needed something to dry-clean and fast, but the only thing I could take off without making Schwarzenegger think I was desperate for a man was my coat. My warm, plush coat that a nice homeless lady gave me when I offered her a lap dance.
It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. I was looking for a second job and needed an opinion.
A cold wind rushed up my backside as two men walked in. They stood behind me, speaking softly to one another. I chanced a glance over my shoulder. They wore expensive charcoal suits, and one carried a leather briefcase and a ticket stub. He nodded to his comrade, then spoke to the woman, his tone brusque, and I fought to keep my eyes from rounding.
He spoke in Russian. Russian! And I understood every word, which was basically “Vy she is here?”
I stood stunned. Eight. I knew eight languages. I was a freaking genius. I couldn’t wait to tell Cookie. Seriously, who speaks eight languages? I suddenly wondered if I knew more. Maybe I knew Icelandic or Arabic or Swahili.
I turned to the man and asked, “Do you speak Swahili?”
He glared. I took that as a no and faced the woman again.
“Let me have,” she said, snapping her fingers at me.
With a heavy sigh, I peeled off the coat and handed it to her. She took it and looked it over, then asked, “You need mending?”
I most definitely needed mending. My coat, not so much.
The men behind me were inching closer, showing their impatience by trying to intimidate me. Sadly, they didn’t have to try very hard. I was ready to sprint out of there.
Instead, I stepped closer to the counter, hinting that my personal boundary was being invaded.
When they kept back, I said, “No mending. Just a cleaning.”
“You are stained?” She was still studying the coat, but I was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t really talking about me.
“No stains.” Not visible ones, anyway.
“Today,” she said, tearing off a ticket and shoving it into my hand.
“Today?” I was impressed. It was already late.
“Two day,” she said louder, holding up two fingers.
“Oh, right. Okay, thanks.” I turned to leave but was blocked in by the Wall Street boys. “Excuse me.”
The one in front moved ever so slightly to the side, giving me just enough room to squeeze past. He spoke Russian to his friend again, and I almost told him exactly how impudent zees Americans could be. The nerve.
The cold!
A freezing gust slapped me in the face when I walked out. Not just chilly. Not just frigid. An eighty-below gust of sleet-infused wind scraped across my exposed skin. I had a thick sweater at home that would have to hold me over until I could get my coat back. If I made it that far.
I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking the bag of sandwiches under one arm, then hurried down the sidewalk. I only lived two blocks away, but in
this weather, it would be a long two blocks. And it had all been for naught. I now had neither a coat nor answers. I asked myself for the thousandth time why anyone would tunnel into a dry-cleaning business.
Just as I rounded the corner to go north to my apartment, I caught sight of the two Russian men getting into their car, a sleek black job that probably cost more than all my hospital bills combined.
But that wasn’t what caught my attention. They weren’t carrying any clothes. They’d had a ticket when they walked in but hadn’t walked out with any clothes. Even more interesting was the fact that the briefcase was gone.
Maybe the dry-cleaning business was even less legit than Scooter’s entrepreneurial adventures.
7
I have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life.
If I die next Thursday.
—T-SHIRT
The sun set completely as I walked home, abandoning me like everyone else in my life. If that weren’t bad enough, I hadn’t made it half a block before the heavens opened up and poured buckets of ice-cold water over my head. That was what it truly felt like. When it stopped raining for a split second, I saw flurries of snow drift down as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and then the sleet-infused rain started again.
By the time I hit Howard Street, I’d turned blue and lost all feeling in my extremities, and my voice had taken on a mind of its own. Odd, whining sounds erupted out of my throat with no rhyme or reason. Every time a shudder took hold, I’d wheeze out some grumblings that sounded like profanity but lacked the true conviction of blasphemy.
My hair hung in thick clumps around my face and shoulders, parts of it turning to ice. I realized my shirt now revealed more of my body than it hid, and this was not the best neighborhood to be peddling my wares.
I could see my apartment, or at least a small corner of it, as I forced one foot in front of the other. The wind mocked me. Taunted me. And I suddenly knew how salmon felt when they swam against the current.
I realized I was walking past the Hometown Motel. The one in which Reyes Farrow was staying. Glancing over, I saw rows of run-down blue doors and a dirty white exterior. Even after all this time, I didn’t know what Reyes drove, so the cars parked out front gave me no clue as to which room was his. It was for the best. If I knew which room was his, I’d be tempted to knock on his door and beg for a ride, and I doubted he was attracted to drowned rats.
But my good fortune seemed to get gooder and gooder. The door to one of the rooms on my right opened, streaming light onto the sidewalk in front of me. I looked over as Reyes Farrow stepped into the doorframe. He must have had the heat all the way up, because a warmth from heaven slid over me like a blanket. The door stood twenty feet away, so either that or his heat could penetrate even this torrential weather. Not that I cared at that moment.
Since the light shone from behind Reyes, I couldn’t make out his features. I didn’t need to. The harshness in his voice spoke volumes. “What are you doing?”
I slowed my pace but didn’t stop. It hadn’t been a question of concern but one that demonstrated his complete faith in my ineptitude. What the hell had I ever done to this guy?
“Walking home,” I said, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself with every fiber of my being. My wet clothes clung to my skin, leaving little to the imagination, I was sure, the thin material slowly turning to ice. But the heat that now saturated me made me want to cry. I would’ve sold my soul for more.
The light cast a soft glow on the hills and valleys that encased his exposed forearms. Unlike the Russian’s, however, Reyes’s were smooth. Sinuous. Fluid. The shadows that rested in the negative spaces shifted with each movement he made as though a gorgeous painting had been brought to life. The unearthly fog that cascaded over his shoulders like a cape and pooled at his feet billowed around him, and the fire that licked across his skin glowed a soft amber in the low light. I wondered for the thousandth time what he was. I did know one thing for certain: He was not completely human. I also wondered if he knew.
He took a drink from a whiskey glass, keeping his glittering gaze locked on me as though laser guided. It was the one thing on his face I could make out clearly, his dark eyes glistening beneath thick lashes. The light rainbowed off his irises as he regarded me with what I could only assume was derision.
He lowered the glass to his side, the ice clinking – salient word: ice – and hooked a thumb into his jeans pocket. “Where’s your coat?” He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, only the buttons weren’t buttoned. The shirt hung open. The cold didn’t seem to faze him. It irked.
“Where’s yours?” I countered.
He ignored me. Kept his piercing stare locked on its target, its visage so arresting I stopped. As though he’d ordered me to. As though he’d willed it.
Frustrated, I said with a heavy sigh just as a gust of wind sent a chill shuddering through me, “Getting dry-cleaned.” I tensed my arms, curled my hands into fists, prayed he couldn’t see how cold I was. Or how blue.
“Why?”
I frowned at him. “Why what?”
“Why are you getting your coat cleaned?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Get in here,” he said, releasing his talonlike hold at last. He turned and started inside.
I stiffened. Or I tried to. I was pretty sure I shook visibly now, and it was only partly due to the cold. That boy had no idea what he was asking. If he didn’t hate me so much and he wasn’t an evil supernatural being, I’d be on him like black on Cookie’s toast.
That woman could not make toast.
I let go of my musings when he turned to look at me over the expanse of a powerful shoulder. When he arched a shapely brow. When he engaged his tractor beam and pulled until my feet started moving me forward. Damn it. He was an alien. I should have known. An evil, throw-me-against-a-wall-and-fuck-me alien. Aka, the worst kind.
I stepped inside the sparse motel room and almost climaxed. It was so warm, it hurt. In a hurts-so-good kind of way. My frozen skin didn’t know what to think. How to react. What color to be. It tingled as if pins were pricking it, or maybe tattoo needles. I was pretty sure I knew what it felt like to get a tattoo. I had one. A little-girl grim reaper on my left shoulder blade. Just didn’t remember getting it. Maybe that was where the scythe dreams were coming from.
Reyes walked out of the bathroom and handed me a towel before stepping around me to close the door to my one and only exit. I wanted to be afraid. I wanted to be very afraid, but I couldn’t quite manage it, the warmth felt so good.
He walked to a small kitchenette, poured me a cup of coffee, and doctored it without asking me how I took it. Not that it mattered. My answer would have been “Any way I can get it.”
My Pavlovian response kicked in at the smell, at the sound of the spoon clinking against the ceramic cup, at the steam billowing over the sides of it, and I had to swallow my enthusiasm. I’d put the sandwiches on a rickety table and was scrubbing my hair with the towel when he handed me the mug and gestured for me to sit. He sat on the other side, then stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankles, his motorcycle boots making a clunking sound.
The whole thing was so casual, so everyday, it felt oddly comforting. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but everyday did not make the list. Sadly, clandestine orgies and human sacrifice did.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. Then I tried not to moan. I had no idea if I succeeded, I was so lost in the moment.
He wrapped strong fingers around his glass and examined it, but only for a second before turning his attention back to me.
I cleared my throat, then asked, “How long have you been staying at a motel?”
“Few weeks.”
I nodded. Took another sip. “Do you like it?”
“It’s a bed.”
I nodded again and looked around, mostly to keep my wayward gaze from locking on to his chest. He had clothes draped over a third chair in a co
rner, clothes I’d seen him wear often, simple yet exquisitely tailored. The bathroom light was on, and I saw a few manly toiletries, but nothing extravagant. And the bed looked like it had been made before someone lay across it. Before Reyes lay across it.
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“Long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?” Was he a temp of some kind? Perhaps a construction worker or professional assassin?
“My business.”
“Oh.” Clearly he had no intention of elaborating. “What do you think of the town? Do you like it here?”
That time, he thought about his answer more thoroughly. When he spoke, it was with a singular intensity. “I like some of the people in it.”
I brightened. “Me, too. I love Cookie, the woman I work with, and her husband, Bobert.” When he raised a questioning brow, I amended the name. “Robert, actually. I just call him Bobert. And I like Dixie, my boss. She’s so great.”
“And the cop?”
His questions surprised me. “The cop?”
He dropped his gaze back to the glass. “Your boyfriend.”
“Ian?” I asked, taken aback. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You’re always with him.”
My eyes rolled of their own accord. “No, he is always with me. Big difference.”
“Then tell him to get lost.”
Who was he to tell me what to do? I stood, utterly annoyed. “I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready. What do you care, anyway? You have throngs of women throwing themselves at you. Have you told any of them to get lost?”
“Throngs?” he asked, eyeing me as I picked up the sandwiches and headed for the door.
“And why did you invite me in here when you’re in a relationship?”
“I’m in a relationship?”
I turned. As if he didn’t know. “You’re seeing Francie.”
“I’m not seeing anyone. And who the hell is Francie?”
“The waitress at the café? The gorgeous redhead with legs as long as the L train?” When he continued to frown, I added, “You always sit in her section? She serves you coffee and giggles every time you look her way?”