Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Where’s that going? I can take it—”

  “No!” I reply a bit too emphatically. “I’m good. Thanks for the help.” I rush down the hallway and, dang it, the stupid box is heavy and I have to stop and shift the weight. Finally, though, I’m across the vacant parking lot, standing beside my new ten-year-old white Camry, thankfully parked under a streetlight.

  I shove my haul into the backseat and quickly open the driver’s door. Unable to fight the urge, I turn to look back at the building, and I suck in a breath when I find Trouble standing at the doorway through which I’d departed, staring at me. And once again, I, too, just stand there and do nothing but stare at him. I’m not frightened, though maybe I should be, but I think … I think he’s making sure I got to my car okay. I think I want to go back to the building, thank him for his help, and find out his real name. But that would be inviting real trouble. I almost laugh at the silly play on words but they hold too much truth to dismiss them, and I force myself to turn away from my locksmith hero. Trouble is exactly what that man makes me want to invite.

  I slide into my car and lock the door but don’t drive away. I sit in the darkness with this sense of being afraid, and not of the man I’ve left behind. Of always running and never being daring enough for a man like Trouble. Of always being so cautious that I’m never more than I am right now.

  Ella was right. I have to take risks. I have to make things happen, or life will slip away. I pull the plastic pouch out of my pocket and work the paper free again, searching for an address to punch into my GPS.

  I’m going to the bus station. I’m going to find out what’s in that locker.

  • • •

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’ve parked in the deserted bus station parking lot and there are a number of reasons I’m staring at the locker key and not moving. First and foremost, this is my last chance to find a way to earn my $700 back, and how likely is it that the prize is in a bus station locker of all things? The location feels like it’s home to some nefarious secret I may be better off not knowing. However, sitting in this car and diving into the old memories and emotions Ella has inadvertently stirred up with her “fear” comments holds zero appeal. I didn’t leave Los Angeles over fear. I left because I chose to start a new life. I left because … damn it. He was still there, but it wasn’t about fear. It wasn’t me being a coward. I simply chose to be smart. To leave a situation that could have turned dangerous. Again. It could have turned dangerous again.

  Needing out of my own head, I pop open the door and step outside into a gust of the typical San Francisco evening winds, which send a chill down my spine and inspire me to grab the lightweight jacket I keep handy in the backseat. I slip it on and decide to leave my purse in the car, lock the door, and stuff my keys and cell phone in my pocket, while the locker key is in my other hand, ready for fast use so I can get the heck out of here.

  Crossing the parking lot, I assess the whole three cars parked here and there and decide it must be a slow time for travel. Entering the building, there are rows of worn blue empty seats in the middle of the room and lining the walls, and some sort of unmanned checkin counter to the far right. Spying the lockers directly ahead, I charge forward and find the number I’m looking for rather quickly, but I’m ridiculously nervous. I inhale and then try to stick the key in the hole, only to discover my stupid hand is shaking, a bad reaction to adrenaline I’ve had since I was a kid and need to fix before law school. I just really need this locker to be worth $700. I steady my hand, turn the lock, open the steel door, and stare down at an envelope. I am not encouraged.

  Sighing, I reach for it and open the seal, retrieving a note card from inside that is typed with only a short note.

  Jason, It didn’t have to end like this.

  A chill races down my spine, a sense of foreboding with it. The past is just too present and messing with my head. There is nothing wrong and I’ve taken self-defense classes. I can handle myself now, anyway. Inhaling on that logical thought, I reach inside the envelope again and find only a Ziploc bag, which I hold up to inspect. It holds nothing but what is surely a fake World Series $50,000 poker chip.

  I stare at the chip and wonder why it’s in a plastic bag. Frowning, I grab the note I’d found with it and read it again.

  Jason, It didn’t have to end like this.

  Something about this feels really wrong. Like blackmail? Nervous laughter bubbles from my throat. “You, Skye,” I murmur, scolding myself, “have been watching too much Law & Order.”

  Shoving the plastic bag and the note back inside the envelope, I shut the door on the empty locker. I can officially say my auction hunting has been a bust. I have a poker chip you can most likely buy for about fifty cents and a bunch of someone else’s underwear. Perhaps I should have listened more to the Storage Treasures training and gone with no money my first time. Then Ella would not have been able to push me into bidding on something that didn’t feel right for me.

  Okay. Yes, she would have. She’d have just made the high bid herself and given me the locker. I should have stayed home; now I’ll have to work double shifts at the restaurant for months to make up the cash I’ve lost.

  Ready to get out of this place, I head toward the end of the row of lockers only to catch my jacket on the steel edge. I reach for it, and the key to the locker I’m holding goes flying from my hand. I cringe. Not again. Good grief. It bounces on the hard floor and goes under a row of lockers. I squat down, thankful I’m still in the jeans and tennis shoes I’d worn to dig through the storage unit, but I am not about to touch the filthy floor. Somehow it feels different than digging through dusty boxes. I’m also not getting the key unless I do. And why do I need the key anyway? The locker is empty.

  Decision made, I stand up and walk through the deserted rows of fake leather seats and past a man with ripped, dirty clothes who wasn’t here a few minutes ago and has decided to use several chairs as a bed. Coming here alone, after dark, was not my smartest decision. Who would even know if I went missing? Ella, I assure myself. And my asshole boss. Still, I’d let my fear over lost cash dictate my actions, and I’m sharper than that, but then I’ve never been to a bus station before, I remind myself. I thought it would be more like an airport, with lots of security and a food court to soothe my now extremely empty stomach.

  I’m almost at the exit when a tall, broad man in a leather jacket enters the station, and while not unattractive, his features are intimidatingly hard, his dark hair spiky. He holds the door for me and instant unease splinters down my spine, but then I’m jittery after reading that note. Using the same avoidance strategy I harness frequently at the meat market that is my gym, I avert my gaze and dart past him, murmuring a “Thank you,” and exit the building without incident, to be greeted by a chilly wind.

  I hunker down into my jacket and hurry forward, and it’s all I can do not to look back, but I don’t want to encourage interaction with the stranger. Thankfully the streetlights are brighter than I remembered, fully illuminating the parking lot that is now empty but for my car. I guess that means the spiky-haired guy took a bus here. Hmmmmm. Where is everyone else who was on his bus, if that’s the case? And the bus doesn’t seem to fit him anyway, which is silly, since this is a bus station and he is here. But then, so am I. He must have gotten dropped off to take a bus. It’s the only logical answer.

  Finally at my car, I allow myself a peek at the door to find no sign of the spiky-haired man in leather, and I’ve just started to slide into my car when I hesitate. The only way I can prove that locker is now mine is with that key, and yes, the locker is empty, but some gut feeling tells me I need to hold on to it. What if there’s some sort of registration paperwork the key will allow me to access? What if it connects to another locker? Most likely not, but I’m not ready to rule that out as an option if it might mean money. I slip the envelope under my seat, get out, and lock the car again, then some silly instinct has me removing my cell from my jacket pocket and typing in 911 before shov
ing the phone and my hand back inside my jacket. I’m ready, and giving myself no room to second-guess my actions, I jog back to the station.

  I rush inside and frown at the absence of the sleeping man, wondering where the heck he went to so quickly and where he might pop up.

  Actually, where’s the man in leather?

  Glancing at the checkin counter, I note that it’s still vacant as well. Feeling ever so uneasy, my heart races, and I quickly cut through the rows of chairs and approach the locker, stopping dead in my tracks. The man with the spiky hair is standing in front of it, and it’s open. Air freezes in my lungs. He found the key. The implication that he somehow knew I had dropped it is clear, and I am now standing right out in the open. If he turns his head he will see me. My heart leaps into my throat and I take off running. I am out of the building and hiking it to my car in a flash, and I’m not foolish enough to look back. My car keys are still in my hand, and I scramble inside the vehicle and lock the doors. I am shaking so hard that I can barely get the darn thing started. Finally, I put the gear into reverse and back up with a screech of tires, and as I do, I look at the entry of the bus station. Acid burns my throat. The spiky-haired guy is standing there staring at me. I hit the accelerator.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I pull to the curb in front of my town house, and while I usually love my quaint little street, and my redbrick building hugged by two identical structures, it’s way too deserted and dark right now. In fact, it’s so far from the word quaint that it feels more like Nightmare on Elm Street. I’m regretting not having had the foresight to leave my porch light on. The idea of rushing to my door in the midst of the shadows isn’t pleasant, and I really wish I had a garage to hide my car in case the spiky-haired monster snagged my license plate number. Not that I’m sure he’d know how to find me with it, but he was watching me. He wanted that key. That means the poker chip and the note I’d found mean something to someone. What if the poker chip is really worth $50,000? Surely not, but come to think of it, I believe there was an acronym on it. For a casino or a hotel, maybe? I know nothing about poker and chips. Maybe I’m making this all up in my head. Maybe. Please let me be making this all up in my head.

  The porch light to the town house next to mine flickers to life and Molly, my sixty-something-year-old neighbor, opens her door and quickly claims the rocking chair on her porch. Relief washes over me at the friendly audience I’ve acquired, and I pop open my door, grab the envelope under my seat, and climb out of the car. “Hi, Molly,” I call out, pleased to have my little mother hen on guard, or what I expect a mother hen would be like to a daughter.

  “Hi, honey,” she calls out.

  I open my rear door and grab the box of paperwork I’d brought with me from the unit, shoving everything, my purse included, inside it. With quick steps, I hurry across my small patch of barely there lawn and up my brick steps, which are divided from Molly’s by a black steel railing with roses in the design. On my porch, I set the box on the floor and glance across the short brick wall between me and Molly to oblige the downfall, at least tonight, of mother-hen supervision. Chattiness.

  “How’d the date with Mr. Michaels go?” I ask, glancing toward my car and hoping there are no visitors.

  She crinkles her nose. “Boring old man. All he talked about was crossword puzzles and when I wanted to bet on which one of us could finish the same puzzle first, he balked at the chance to make it fun. Where are all the good men of yesterday?”

  “You really are a character, Molly,” I say, a bit of laughter bubbling from my lips despite my quick scan of the yard. “You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. I’m exhausted tonight.”

  “Oh, right. The auction was today, wasn’t it?” I nod, and she angles her chair more in my direction, crossing her legs while her black slacks ride a bit high on her ankles, proving fashion is not one of Molly’s favorite things, as it once was mine. “Was it fun?” she prods eagerly. “Did you win a bid? Is that what the box is from?”

  “Yes, I won a bid but it wasn’t a good unit—the box is nothing but paperwork.” And a $50,000 poker chip, I think, not about to drag her into my potential trouble. “Which is why I don’t like to gamble.”

  “I should have gone with you.”

  “Then I’d have no savings left.”

  “No risk, no reward, honey.” She motions me forward. “Go rest. We can chat later and plan your next auction.”

  There will be no next auction, but again, I zip my lips on the topic. “’Night, Molly. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

  “You’d better. I’m dying to hear more about your day.”

  While I’m dying to turn back time and forget this day. “I’ll stop by once I’m up and about tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. I’ll make mac ’n’ cheese,” she continues. “I know how you love it.”

  I smile, warmed by how this woman has made me the granddaughter she never had, and that I never was to anyone else who cared. “I do love it.” I lean over the brick and kiss my wild, gambling surrogate grandma good night. “Don’t have men at the house until all hours of the night.”

  She giggles. “I could only hope.”

  And she means it. She’s got a better sex life than I do, but that’s not hard since I don’t have a sex life at all these days. I unlock my door, flip on the entryway light, and grab the box. Finally inside, I lug the box up the twelve stairs leading to my living area and kitchen, then cross a short foyer to the next level of matching steps, which leads to my bedroom. My chest is heaving when I get to the top floor, and I now know why Molly uses her living room for her bedroom. I don’t know how she handles the first level of steps, let alone two, but then, sometimes the woman has more energy than I do

  Settling everything on the bed, I grab my phone, but have no idea who to call. Oh what I wouldn’t do for a real father, not a sperm donor jerk who wanted a boy, to turn to right about now. And oh, how certain I am that my sperm donor, and his gambling habit, would have answers for me if I did call him. I don’t even want to think about what his solution to my potential problem might be. Besides, he wouldn’t take my call. That’s why I stopped trying to contact him years ago. I consider dialing Ella but decide against it. She’s bold and daring, a younger Molly, sure to charge at the situation when caution might be a better choice.

  I set the phone down, kick off my shoes, and grab my MacBook to power it up. Opening the envelope, I remove the Ziploc bag with the poker chip. It reads “RDR, but nothing more. I Google it but find nothing that tells me whether this is real or fake.

  My cell phone rings and I grab it, glancing at the number to find Ella on my caller ID. I hesitate for several rings, afraid my need to tell someone what is happening will win, but remind myself I need to work on my own poker face, or rather my courtroom face. “Hey,” I answer. “What happened to your hot date?”

  “Oh, ah … nothing. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Well then, he can’t be that hot,” I tease.

  She’s quiet a beat. Then two. “Look, Skye. I tend to create a bubble around me and I think I pulled you into it. You wouldn’t let me buy the unit and—”

  “You can’t spend your money on my unit.”

  “I talked you into this.”

  “I made the decision. I’m strong-willed. You didn’t decide for me.”

  “But you don’t have the money to spare.”

  “And you do?”

  Another beat of silence. Then another. “Thanks to you following me to the auctions, I know where you live. I left the cash under your doormat.”

  “What? Ella—”

  “Like I said, I pulled you into my bubble.”

  This is not the vivacious Ella I know. “What bubble? What’s wrong?”

  “I need to run. But get that money so no one will steal it.”

  “Ella—”

  The line goes dead.

  I frown, staring down at the phone, not sure what to make of Ella. I barely know her but I l
ike her, and now I’m worried about her, though I’m not sure why. It’s just a gut feeling. I can’t believe she left cash under my mat and I’m suddenly worried about it. Shoving off the bed, I rush down both levels of stairs and stand at my door. Never in the six months that I’ve lived here have I been nervous about opening my door, but for the second time in one night I punch in 911 on my phone and hold my finger over the dial button. I then flip on my porch light, inhale, and open my door. Quickly, I squat and lift the mat to grab an envelope in a split second, and am back on my feet in another. I’m just about to shut the door when movement across the street to my left catches my eye. Searching the shadows, a chill runs down my spine as I realize someone is next to a tree, but dressed in all black and wearing a hoodie, and I can’t make them out. But I’m pretty sure they’re staring at me.

  I slam the door shut and lock it, my heart thundering in my chest. Whoever that person was, they were looking at me because I turned on my porch light and opened my door. That’s all. That’s why. I leave the light on and race up the stairs and don’t stop until I’m on my bed again. I need a gun. Of course, I need to learn to shoot one first. Or … I could just pull the trigger. I open the envelope and find seven $100 bills. Guilt overtakes me, and I clear the emergency number and dial Ella. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. I try twice more and leave her a message.

  Sighing, and starting to calm down, I stuff the envelope in the drawer of my simple black nightstand, which doesn’t have to match my headboard because I don’t have one. I drag my MacBook to me and since it’s my boss’s property, I suddenly remember why I wanted this auction thing to work. I’m ready to make something of my life.

  Shaking off the disappointment the idea stirs in me, I prepare to deal with the lingering problem that $700 won’t solve. I google stolen World Series poker chips but find nothing, though I wonder if it would be made public. I try several other searches and finally find a brief reference to a tournament a year and a half ago that came up short a high-dollar chip that was never found. Suspicions of cheating were floating about but were unproven. I search for the amount of the chip but can’t find it. Shit. Shit. Shit. I think I have the chip.