8. MIDNIGHT: DEJA VU
Dax
It’s taking every bit of self-control I can muster to lay here and pretend to go to sleep. My heart has been racing faster than a dragster at the end of a quarter mile ever since I saw the drawing and recognized Ava’s mother.
It’s her. It’s her. It’s her. It’s her.
The words are echoing in synch with each thump inside my chest. I can’t believe it’s really her. My Ava. I wanted to tell her, but I worried she won’t remember that day. She might not remember me.
I need to figure out some way to ask so if she doesn’t remember, I can play it cool and not wind up looking like some stalker from her childhood. The last thing I need is ammunition for her to like me less than she already does.
Taking a peek at her, I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest. I knew she would fall asleep fast after her crying spell, but I need to be sure. I whisper her name, but it draws no response. The book slips out of my pocket with the ease of my hand, and I open it to the place I left off. Knowing she’s my Ava brings the thrill of snooping to another level, like a covert mission to find classified information. I’ve been dying to know what she’s been doing for the last ten years, and by nothing short of a miracle, the answers are sitting in the palm of my hand.
June 27
My prediction of Sergio being a pawn in fate’s game against me has turned out to be accurate. He’s beyond annoying.
Preston flew into Oceanview today. I almost stroked out with excitement when he asked me to go to dinner tonight, but now all I can think about is the first (and last) time I went on a date and got left in the backseat of a car while the driver walked his girlfriend to the door of her house and never came back—well, he did, but not for a really long time. When my date inched his way over to my side and asked me what I wanted to do, nerves took over and I challenged him to a game of rock-paper-scissors. Word traveled fast in my small high school, and that was the last time I got asked to a dance. I guess none of the other guys wanted to sit in the backseat of a car and play rock-paper-scissors. And lose.
Anyway, I rushed home after work to get ready, and then dug through my closet to find the only purse I own. I hate purses. In my opinion, they are a useless accessory and somewhat of a nuisance, an area where my mother and I always strongly disagreed. I threw lip gloss, my wallet, keys, and cell phone into the purse, just as the doorbell rang fifteen minutes early.
I hurried to the door, but my excitement immediately evaporated when I was greeted by Sergio, the king of ickiness. I hate the way he takes a long drag from his cigarette, and then blows a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. And the boy has no manners. He dropped the butt on my front step and extinguished it with his scuffed-up combat boot. Did I mention that he reeked of cheap aftershave? And his lame attempt to look like the bad-boy version of Colin Farrell is a major fail. I’m not sure which is worse—his hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days or the ripped jeans that don’t quite fit—a little too short and too baggy where it counts. The only part he got right was the tight, black V-neck, but that only drew attention to the industrial-sized silver chain around his neck and the skull earring in his left ear. Without his uniform on, I could clearly see his tattoo. The large snake slithered through the eye socket and mouth of a skull that covered his bicep and wound down his arm past his wrist to the head that covered the back of his hand. The serpent’s mouth was open, bearing oversized fangs, and the long, forked tongue stretched up the middle finger of his right hand. Disturbing.
He whistled to let me know he approved of my appearance and then said, “Don’t you look delicious?” His black T-top Trans Am, a collector’s model with a large, gold eagle spread across the hood, was parked across the street, and a small worry formed in the back of my mind. How did he know my address? He proceeded to claim I owed him dinner and he came to collect, then he licked his lips with a wicked gleam in his eye. I felt like small prey staring into the eyes of a vicious wild animal and thought about slamming the door in his face, but then I pictured him kicking the door in. I’m positive he could.
I told him I already had plans and tried to shut the door, but it stopped three inches from the frame because the toe of his boot kept it from closing. I re-opened the door carefully and was freaking out, but I didn’t want him to know it. Apparently, he wasn’t used to rejection because his expression darkened and irritation was evident in his voice when he accused my mother of not teaching me any manners because I’d closed the door on him. I told him my mother had taught me not to talk to strangers or let them in the house. I think I was brave because I was counting on Preston to show up any minute and save me.
Then Sergio actually peeked inside my house and his wandering eyes fixed on my couch before he said, “If you let me in, we could eliminate the whole stranger issue in a matter of minutes.” Dis-gus-ting! I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat and told him I had to hurry and get ready because Preston would be there any minute to pick me up. His brows lifted in shock at the mention of Preston’s name and his sly smile vanished. In fact, he glanced down the street, looking a little flustered and angry, and then said, “So you’ll go out with him, but not with me?” in an accusing tone and then said, “What’s wrong? I’m not the right kind of stranger for you?” My plan backfired and I had no other, except to lie. I never lie. I told him, “Preston isn’t a stranger.” Liar. Liar. “I know a lot about him.” Pants on fire. “And he knows a lot about me.” Okay. Not a total lie. Preston does have a calendar that contains a brief description about Miss April.
I let that info sink in, and then I told Sergio I should hurry and finish getting ready. He eyed me with suspicion before huffing through his nose, telling me he’d take a rain check before he finally slid his foot off the threshold. I smiled timidly before closing the door and forced myself to shut it at a normal speed so he wouldn’t know he terrified me, but I was too scared to look through the peephole to see if he was gone. Why did I feel like he could see me through the door? I turned the lock and hurried to the bathroom where I locked that door for double precaution.
So here I am, sitting on the edge of the tub, writing this entry and waiting for my pulse to slow and for Preston to get here. Despite a visit from the king of creepiness, this is still the best day ever because I get to spend the next few hours in the company of Preston.
I can only imagine what he
That’s how the entry ends—right in the middle of the sentence. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduct two things. First, she tossed the journal aside to run to the door and greet Mr. Sizzling Hotness himself, and second, all the details of the big date are probably surrounded by Xs and Os on the next page. I don’t know why, but a shot of jealousy works its way into my gut and warns me never to turn the page.
Jealousy and anger are two emotions I haven’t felt in a while. That Sergio creep makes me want to rearrange his face, starting with ripping out his eyes for the way I imagine he sees Ava—like she’s some economy car he’s going to take for a test drive before he buys it and runs it into the ground instead of a one-of-a-kind luxury sports car in mint condition that should be cherished and treated with the utmost respect. He doesn’t even deserve to be in the showroom.
Curiosity overrules caution, and I turn the page.
June 28
Okay Mom, this entry is for you because if you were alive, I know you’d want every little detail about my amazing date last night. Preston showed up in Mr. Caruso’s private limo and looked like a GQ model standing in my doorway with his sunglasses on, his tan chest showing through the unbuttoned V of his dress shirt, and one hand in the pocket of his designer jeans. You would have been impressed and Dad would have been worried because Preston doesn’t really look like a rock-scissor-paper kind of guy.
On the way to the restaurant, he asked me if I always went to dinner with strangers. I almost laughed. I wanted to tell him ‘only the ones that don’t make me want to bathe in hand sanitizer,’ but
I chickened out and told him we weren’t really strangers. He agreed but pointed out that he knew a lot more about me than I knew about him when he said, “So, Ava Starr, who just moved here from Colorado on her own, who likes to play volleyball and soccer in her free time, who just graduated from high school with honors, and who loves rainy days and a really good book… do you want to know my last name?” He quoted the caption below my calendar picture, almost word for word. I let out a nervous laugh and asked him his last name. “Preston King,” he said, holding out his hand in a gesture of a friendly handshake as the limo rolled to a stop. I shook his hand, and then he motioned toward the door, smiling in a way that made me want to melt into the seat.
He requested a table on the far side of the Mexican restaurant, in a quiet corner away from the bar. A waitress appeared out of nowhere with water, chips, and salsa. I picked up the menu and started looking it over, but Preston studied me instead. It makes me so nervous when he does that. He crossed his arms, tilted his head to one side, and then asked how my parents felt about their young daughter living alone in the golden state. A knot formed in my stomach, and I reminded myself to keep it together. I was positive crying might be at the top of the list of what not to do on a first date and could turn it into a last date even faster than rock-paper-scissors. The seconds ticked by until I decided saying the words would be easier if I didn’t look him in the eye, then I spilled the news the same way you rip off a Band-Aid—fast to minimize the pain. I glanced up to see his reaction and wondered if I should ask for a to-go box, but then his playful smile returned and he leaned across the table to say, “Well, the good news for me then, is you don’t have a curfew.”
I was thankful he changed the subject and brought up the calendar. He told me he liked it better than the one last year, so I asked which month was his favorite, expecting him to choose one of the summer month beauties with their tan bodies sprawled across the aircraft, but he said “I’ll give you a clue…it’ll be April all year ‘round in the cockpit of Hotel Charlie.” I felt my face flush but recovered quickly and asked him if there was a misprinted calendar. “Not at all,” he said. “I just like girls that are a little more natural—if you know what I mean.” Then he winked and took a sip of his water. He must have been implying that there are body parts of my coworkers that aren’t the originals they were born with. I hadn’t noticed. I definitely needed to be more observant.
We talked about our favorite things during dinner. I told him I loved to write and draw, and there’s nothing better than reading a good book. At least, I used to think so. Our date blew that theory right out of the water. Aside from PE, his favorite subject in school was speech and debate. He said he loved the competition, but there’s a confidence about him that makes me think he was better than the average student. I imagine him rendering all the girls in debate class completely speechless—most likely even forgetting the topic—overwhelmed by his very presence. I’m also sure he was the guy in P.E that all the girls wanted desperately to have on their team, but the one the guys didn’t want for fear he’d make them look bad.
I don’t think he knows how heavenly he is. Every woman in the restaurant must have been dying to be in my shoes, including our waitress, who showed up with warm sopapillas and a tub of honey, gawking at Preston as he fed me the last bite of a taquito.
We were about to eat dessert when he pulled his phone from his pocket to glance at the screen. He apologized, explained that it was his boss, then he excused himself and headed for the bathroom.
My napkin slipped from my lap to the floor, so I bent down to retrieve it. When I sat up, Sergio was sitting in Preston’s chair. He reached across the table to take a taquito from the platter, and I couldn’t contain the horrified expression I knew was plastered to my face. I tried not to panic and asked him if he followed me there.
A sly smile crept over his thin lips, and I watched in shock as he helped himself to some chips and salsa. “Follow. Such a moot word,” he said, and then told me he just happened to be driving in the same direction and decided the restaurant looked like a great place to stop and eat. Yeah, right. “The food and women are both mouthwatering,” he said. Licking his lower lip, he then lowered his voice. “Well, not all the women, just one in particular.” He winked.
I swallowed and looked around in horror, but no one besides me seemed to notice how repulsive he was. I asked him what he wanted and he laughed, delivering a healthy dose of mockery and condescension at the same time, and then his smile vanished before he said, “I wanted to have dinner, and you turned me down. But yet, here we are, having dinner together. See how that works? I always get what I want. Next time, maybe you’ll accept my offer.”
His dark eyes narrowed to emphasize his warning and I froze, entranced by his menacing stare, but then his sudden movement caused me to flinch. He leaned across the table to take my water glass and held it up. Spinning it around to find the pink print left by my lips, he licked it off before taking a swig of water. “Mmmmm. Cherry lip gloss. My favorite,” he said, obviously relishing the fact he was causing me to squirm uncomfortably in my chair.
His boldness made it clear he’d had too much to drink, and he stunk of smoke and beer, mixed with his overpowering cheap aftershave. The smell made me nauseous. I glared and told him to leave before Preston came back and caught him bothering me, but he didn’t act like he cared. He held a shrimp up to my mouth that he’d drenched in hot sauce, but I leaned away. “So you let Preston feed you but not me?” he asked accusingly, and I’m still creeped out because I have no idea how long he’d been watching us. I refused to comment, so he popped the shrimp in his mouth without losing eye contact and then licked his fingers, one at a time, with a soft smacking sound.
I stopped myself from gagging and held my breath as he leaned over the table to flash me a wicked grin. He told me to enjoy the rest of my evening with ‘pilot boy,’ but that he’d take pleasure in knowing he’d haunt my thoughts and maybe my dreams. “You’ll definitely be starring in mine,” he said, laughing in spite of himself. He glanced over his shoulder before getting up to leave and when he walked away, he dragged his serpent-tongue fingers up my arm, which caused me to cringe. Ugghh!
Preston came back a minute later and apologized again for leaving me. I shoved Sergio to the back of my mind but not before Preston noticed my distress and asked what was wrong. I just told him someone I didn’t really like stopped by to say ‘hi’ and Preston said “Oh, no. What are the chances of that?” After I told him they were better than most because I’m a magnet for bad luck, he said, “Come on, how bad can it be? Give me some examples.”
An endless list from my childhood flashed through my head, but then Preston drizzled his sopapilla with honey before taking a bite, and then licked the powdered sugar from his lips—lips I imagined myself kissing. Whoops! Sorry, Dad. Then I noticed he was staring at me—waiting for me to talk—and then I remembered he’d asked me a question so I snapped out of my daydream of kissing his sugared lips and filled him in on the history of my unlucky past.
Of course, I left out the obvious—that I’ve been orphaned at eighteen and am now being stalked by a psychotic coworker—because I didn’t want to ruin the date. Instead, I told him about all the times the three of us went out to eat—how I’d be the one to find a fly in my hash browns or a hair in my soup. And remember when I broke my arm from tripping over that dog that ran into me at the park? I told him that, too, and how I sported a black eye in my ninth grade school picture from that softball that hit me as I ran to third base in PE. Then I told him the only pet I ever owned was Mr. Bubbles, the fish I spent hours picking out at the pet store—only to have it die on the way home. He laughed really hard and told me he considered it a miracle that he and Kirk arrived at the hotel in one piece with me behind the wheel, and he might be right!
The limo sat waiting out front when we left the restaurant, and Preston slid in beside me rather than across from me like before. The uncomfortable situa
tion with Sergio in the restaurant left me too upset to be nervous about Preston’s close proximity and his arm that draped over the seat behind me. He smelled so good. The combination of his cologne and freshly laundered shirt was incredible and the warmth of him beside me made me realize how lonely I’d been. I haven’t sat that close to anyone since the plane ride to California. I was in heaven.
He told me his schedule was full the next couple of days but asked if we could hang out when he comes back next week. Of course, I said yes. He grabbed a loose curl resting by my neck, gently pulled it straight, then let go and watched it spring back into place. “So am I forgiven for my obnoxious behavior?” he asked, but the big smile on his face reflected his enjoyment of the memory. He examined my hair and then my face. I felt feverish. He is breathtakingly handsome, even when he’s gloating. I told him I would if he promised not to do it again, but he said he wouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, adding that he’d just have to try harder next time to make me forgive him. (sigh)
The limo pulled up to my house, and the car door opened. I thanked the driver and then thanked Preston for dinner as he walked me to the door. He stepped ahead of me and stood in front of my door with his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the frame. I was searching for my keys. See, Mom. Another reason I hate purses. He asked if I wanted him to call and let me know when he was coming back in town, but I told him I wanted to be surprised. If I knew when, I’d spend all my time counting down the days, minutes, and seconds. Time seems to go torturously slow that way.
He placed his fingers under my chin and lifted it to look into my eyes. I waited for him to kiss me, but my heart dropped with his hand that he casually slid into his pocket. “Okay, Miss April, I’ll see you soon,” he said with a wink before brushing past me to stroll back to the limo. I’m sure you are both relieved to hear this and are somewhere in heaven elevating him to perfect gentleman status. As for me, even with the absence of a goodnight kiss and the unexpected appearance of Sergio, the date was incredible. Well, that’s it for now, except that I must admit that for the entire next week, my every waking moment will be spent obsessing over my next encounter with Preston King.
I want nothing more than to turn the page and find out if when Preston came back, he hunted Sergio down to have a one-sided conversation using his fist, but I mark the page and tuck the book back into the safety of my pocket. Taking one more look at Ava, I close my eyes to drift off to sleep.
Wicked Luck Page 10