by K. A Knight
"It looks like the papers are in order," he notes, brushing his fingertips over the form. It was generic, something he used on his TV show. I'd had to fill in the name of the company and Mr. Spaniard filled in all the financial details.
I shake my head, patting my still unnamed rescuer on the arm. "Put me down, it's getting weird."
His chest vibrates with his laughter as he sets me on my feet.
I turn to Mr. Spaniard and glance at the paperwork in his hand one last time. This is a huge deal, something that can change my entire life and I don't want anything fucking it up. My fingers touch the magical number—two million—before Mr. Spaniard tucks the paperwork into his jacket. He looks more frustrated than normal.
It looks almost like there's a smear on the paper, but he snatches them away too fast for me to see. Oh well, I'm sure he can handle it; I don't want to aggravate him further.
"My name is Grant."
I turn my attention back to the behemoth and raise an eyebrow. "I'm Misery."
"Misery?" His eyes go wide the second before he lets loose another bout of booming laughter.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," I mutter.
"Does your mom hate you, or something?"
"Maybe. Asian parents are weird." I shrug and go to turn away, but a tug on my hand stops me. I look down to see one colossal hand wrapped around mine. I glance back up at Grant with a look of confusion.
"I'm sorry, you've just been through this whole ordeal and I'm makin' jokes. It's not nice, is it? Let's start over. I'm Grant." He shakes my hand thoroughly, pulling my short but chunky frame closer to him with every motion.
"Misery," I mumble with an eye roll.
"Fantastic to meet you. First earthquake?" His eyes gleam with something I can't quite put my finger on.
"Um, yeah. We don't really get them here often." I look Grant over one more time, noting the muscles, the tight plain t-shirt. His pants are loose enough they ride on his hips low and the beautiful V peeking at me looks like it has a tattoo—
"Like something you see there?"
My eyes snap back up to his and I groan. Caught.
"Uhhhhh . . ."
"Misery!" Mr. Spaniard interrupts—thank God—with a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s up?” I keep an eye on Grant, who looks way too amused.
“It looks like the quake as a one-off. I’m about to go, do you need a way home?”
“I’ll take her.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Spaniard inserts himself between me and the large man, puffing his chest out as he looks him up and down. “Didn’t you just meet?”
“I’ll be fine,” I laugh, shooing him away. “I’ll get myself home.”
“What about—”
“I promise not to go home with strange tattooed men. Goodbye Mr. Spaniard.” I wink at him.
He glowers at me, muttering under his breath as he walks to his car.
“Spaniard? Like the guy from that show? Wow.”
I turn to Grant, laughing at the shock on his face and nod.
“Yeah, you just saved Jay Spaniard and his new protégé. Feel proud now?” I slide my hands into my back pockets, watching as people leave the parking lot. The coffee shop seems unharmed, other than the one light fixture that crashed.
From the looks of the two men chatting in front of the door, the shop is going to be closed for the rest of the day. I huff, ruffling my hair as I scan the parking lot for my car.
“You alright?” Grant sounds genuinely concerned. I’m not sure why he’s still here, if I’m being honest.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I sigh as I finally spot the little thing across the parking lot. I’m about as good at remembering where I parked as a little old lady. I really need to start doing some of those brain exercises I see on TV all the time. It couldn’t hurt, at least.
Walking toward my parked car, missing the latte I never got to finish, I realize I can feel someone behind me. I come to a stop a few spots over from my car and spin around, narrowing my eyes on Grant.
“Can I help you?”
“I—” he rubs his hand over the back of his head, a shy smile pulling at his lips. “I don’t know, honestly. I feel like I need to get you safe into your car, miss.”
“Well . . .” I look around a little nervously. “I guess that’s sweet. How do you know about earthquakes? You’re not from around here?”
“I am,” he answers, falling into step beside me. “I was in Haiti when the quake hit a few years back.”
“Oh wow, that was bad. What were you doing in Haiti?”
“Mission trip.” He grins wide as I come to a stop by my car.
“Ohh. You don’t look like—”
“Mhm.” Grant cuts me off, reaching for my door handle. It’s locked, but I click my keys and he pulls it open for me. “How does someone look Christian?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“It is, but that’s okay. Christians look like all kinda things, Misery.” Grant's eyes look a little dimmer than they did before.
I chew my bottom lip, thinking about the next words I want to say carefully. He doesn't look like what I think of when I think Christian. That's true. I don't want to lie about that. I've never really been much of a liar and lying to the man who yanked me out of the way of danger seems like a bad way to start.
"You're right," I groan. "I stereo-typed you. I'm sorry."
"It's alright. I bet you're a math wiz and had straight A's in school." Grant winks and I snort.
"Hardly. I was lucky they even let me graduate," I laugh, adjusting my seat until I can reach the pedals. I'm short, even shorter than mom. Somehow, my giant of a dad gave me no genes except whatever he did to make my hair curl the way it does.
"Thank you for everything in there," I whisper. "This scrape could have been way worse."
Grant leans into the car, brushing a finger over the small cut one more time and smiles at me.
"Can I call you sometime?" His lips are dangerously close to mine and my heartbeat is doing flip flops.
He's covered in tattoos.
He's a Christian.
He's compassionate.
Why not?
"Yeah, 555-9958." My fingers fumble as I try to slide the key in the ignition and I curse under my breath. My head snaps up, expecting some kind of reaction from Grant, but he's busy putting my number in his phone.
Mine vibrates in my purse and I laugh.
"Did you just call me?" I crank the car and slide the gear shift into neutral, leaning my head back to examine this strange man.
"Yep. Gotta make sure you didn't give me a fake number. I'll call you later, Misery." He tosses me a serious hot-boy wink and stands back before he slams my door closed. Two quick taps sound on the roof of my car.
I back out of the spot and drive away. Something in the rearview mirror catches my eye. I suck in a breath at the sight of him leaning against a black car, his eyes on me as I pull away. My phone vibrates again and I fish it out of my purse as I come to a stop at the exit, waiting for traffic to clear so I can merge onto the highway.
Unknown: I'm going to ask you on a date later. If you plan on saying no, you better practice, because I'm stubborn.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat beside me and shake my head, a smile twisting my lips to the side.
Chapter 3
Misery
25 years old
"Misery Anne, have you been listening to a single thing I've said?"
I wince at the sound of my dad's voice and lay my phone down on the table with a smile. The dating app Mr. Spaniard and I developed together has finally taken off. It's been integrated into the top two streaming services worldwide and I've been fielding emails about other services who want to patch into our system.
"Sorry, Dad," I mutter. "Work has been kind of busy."
"Mhm. What do you have lined up other than this dating app?" Dad has never approved of Misery Loves Co. and probably never will.
He doesn't see the appeal, or at least, that's what he's told me . . . repeatedly.
"Joe!" My mom sits his plate down a little harder than is necessary and crosses her arms. Her smooth black hair is pulled up in a high bun, which only makes her narrowed eyes seem even more severe. "Your daughter has developed something! A whole service that Jay Spaniard thought was good enough to invest twenty million dollars—"
"He only meant to invest two," I chime in. I still can't believe that happened. A few weeks after we'd met to go over all the details, I'd gotten a notification from my bank app that a deposit had gone in. I still remember how excited I was that I was going to see two million dollars in my account and when I opened the app, I had to count the zeros a few times before I could believe it.
"Yes, yes, we all know the story, Misery." My dad shakes his head. "He meant to invest two million dollars, but a smear on the paperwork made the accountant think it was twenty and that's what they filed all the paperwork as. I still can't believe he let that stand."
"Be that as it may," my mother snapped. "Your daughter has been very responsible with her money. She developed this app. She's bought her own home, paid for it in cash and started another business. Why are you so unsupportive?"
"How many boyfriends do you have now, Misery?" Dad asks, his tone hushed.
I lay my silverware down, breathing out a heavy sigh.
"Two, sort of. Trey and I aren't officially together. Grant and I have been seeing each other for a while, though."
"Two boyfriends." He repeats the words like he's trying to understand, but I know he isn't.
I look to my mom for help and she offers me a smile full of pity. There's only so much she can fight him on, I know that.
"I still don't understand how that works for any—"
"Gah!" I scream. "Dad, it doesn't have to work for anyone else and you don't have to understand it. Trey and I work the way we do, and Grant is smart enough to let me live my life without butting in. I have one overbearing father, I don't need another one! So yeah, he's fine with me doing what I want."
"Overbearing?" Dad's voice is tight, his face slowly turning red.
I swallow and scooch my chair back away from the table. It had been a mistake to think he was going to understand me this time, when he never had before. I'd been a daddy's girl all through school, until I hit high school and then it's like he lost his mind. Something about the idea of me dating had sent him over the edge.
Add the fact I was apparently polyamorous by nature, and my poor father had been living in a constant state of astonishment since I was about sixteen years old. It had only gotten worse when I turned twenty one and added Grant to the mix.
"I'm just going to go. It was good to see you Ma," I mumble as I slide the chair back up the table and grab my bag off the back of the chair.
"Wait, Mizz, you don't have to leave," Dad sighs.
"Yeah, I do. It's fine." I speed walk out of the house I grew up in and don't slow down until I get to my car. I'd kept the same one even though I'd upgraded everything else in my life. My parents had bought me this piece of junk when I was sixteen.
"Misery, wait!" My mom jogs up behind me and I turn to speak with her.
"It's fine, Ma, I promise. I'll see you guys in a couple weeks." My eyes fall on the house across the street, the one where Trey grew up. Movement next door to the abandoned house catches my eye.
"Who lives next to Trey's old house now?" I ask, genuinely curious. A curtain swaying in the window sends shivers down my spine. It's an odd thing to be creeped out by.
"The same women who lived there when you were a child, love. They're getting older now, I suppose. We never see them out, but they haven't moved."
I scratch my scalp beneath my curls and nod.
"Why?"
"I really don't know. Just a random question, I guess." I wrap my arms around my mom's neck and smile against her silky hair when her arms come around my back.
"You know we love you," she whispers.
"I know, Ma." I can't help but inhale before she backs out of the hug. My mom has always smelled like jasmine. It's her favorite herb in the entire world.
"Besides, your father is just jealous he's stuck in a monogamous relationship with little old me." She elbows me and I groan at the cheap joke.
A shiver runs down my spine, my hand stilling on the door handle. My gaze turns back to the house across the street. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention; I could swear someone is watching me somewhere nearby. I read somewhere that when you feel like you’re being watched, nine times out of ten, you are.
Movement from the same window snaps my attention back up and the dark silhouette of a woman blocks out the light inside the room. I can’t seem to look away.
Suddenly the window goes dark and I jump, quickly sliding into the car and shutting the door. I hit the door lock for good measure. Just in case. After I crank the car, I sit for a moment just rubbing the goosebumps on my arms away. Weird ass neighbors.
I turn the dial on my radio, scanning the road ahead of me. The house is a little ways away, and I want to shake this bad mood I picked up at my parents' house. The radio says its 8:00PM in between stations. My fingers pause the dial on a country station and I tap the steering wheel shamelessly to the tune of 'You're Happy' by Walker Hayes.
The man is a siren in the worst way. I found his music by accident one night drinking with Trey and Ashley, and no one has been able to convince me to stop listening to him since. I swear, one day this awful-but-amazing music is going to give me an aneurysm but it's exactly what I need right now.
Just as the second chorus is coming up, headlights blind me. My eyes squint against the sudden brightness and I swerve over a little, just to make sure I don't get clipped. The wheel pulls in my hand and I gasp, fighting to keep the car on the road. My tires make an odd kerplunk sound before I shoot toward the ditch.
My stomach lurches. It's as if everything is in slow motion; I stomp on the brake pedal as if that can stop the car from flying into the embankment. For some reason, the airbag deploys the second before the car hits the ground. In my peripheral vision, a shadow catches my eye. A deer maybe? I don’t have time to think about it before my head slams forward as the car comes to a stop, hitting the weird material with a hard bounce.
Despite what you may think about airbags, they are not soft, pillow-like things that cushion your head. They're more like rocket powered plastic bags that come flying at your face at the same time your face goes flying toward the steering wheel. Luckily for me, these weirdly defective airbags had deployed before the car crashed into the embankment, so I was spared the cuts and bloody nose I had been expecting.
I rub my hand across my forehead and take the keys out of the ignition. That's one of the first things you're supposed to do in a wreck, right? Cut off the gas?
"Oh God," I groan. "Please don't explode. I really just can't right now." I pet the steering wheel, bribing the old car with some loving. My fingers fumble over the seatbelt and I realize I'm a little dizzy, which is odd, considering I didn't hit my head or anything.
"Ma'am!"
"Yes? Hello?" I shout out the busted window. I hadn't realized it was broken until this moment. Maybe I was going into some kind of shock. It's as if noticing the broken glass summoned the hundreds of tiny pebbles in my lap and under my thighs. I groan as they dig in my skin while I fumble with my seatbelt.
"I'm coming. Try not to move, okay? The car is off, right?" The man sounds nervous and my heartbeat skitters a little faster.
"It's off," I call out, coughing. "Why?"
"You're sitting on a gas main," the disembodied voice answers from the other end of the car.
My heart hammers harder against my ribcage and I say a silent prayer for protection. I should probably apologize for all my sins, but I don't feel particularly sorry for any of them. I figure if I'm about to die, honesty is probably the only thing keeping me out of Hell at this point.
"Are yo
u sure?"
"Don't you smell the gas, lady?"
I scrunch my nose up and try to sniff. I can't smell anything, but maybe that explains the dizziness. Oh man, I've really done it this time. I gulp down some air, pushing at my seatbelt over and over until I realize the thing that makes the tears start.
"I'm stuck! My seatbelt won't come undone."
A dark face pops up in my shattered driver-side window. I wipe at my eyes while he pulls on the door. He's a large man, tall from what I can tell while I'm sitting down, and bald. It's hard to make out his features in the dark, and that upsets me for some reason. I'm going to die, this guy is going to die trying to save me, and I won't have any idea what he looks like because he's dark skinned.
"Okay, okay, look." The man wipes a hand across his brow before he pulls the door open and brandishes a knife. God, the south is weird. Everyone just has knives on them all the time for no reason! "I'm gonna cut this seat belt and then you are going to run. Get to the other side of the road, at least. Okay?"
I nod my head and squish myself back as far as I can against the seat.
His wide shoulder is blocking most of my view, but I'm able to see the handle of the scissors he's holding. They're a pair of those fancy seat-belt cutters my dad had told me to put in my car years ago. I blink back a new set of tears, trying to ignore the guilt zipping through my chest. I should listen to my dad more.
"Okay, almost done. I'm Patrick, by the way. Everything's going to be okay. You can move your legs, right?" He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.
"Yeah, I'm okay . . . " I whisper. He's not a small man and he's leaned over my lap at the moment, trying to cut the belt and all I can think is that he smells really, really nice. That's when the smell of gas finally makes sense by comparison—yep, that's definitely why my head is hurting.
The belt falls free and I'm pulled from the car in one smooth motion as Patrick backs out of the vehicle. I remember his words and start running toward the other side of the street where what must be his truck is parked.