I shook my head. "Actually—"
He held up a hand. "Hold that thought." He turned and looked toward the long, winding road that led up to the neighborhood. On that road, a pair of headlights was heading our way.
The guard tossed a quick apology over his shoulder, and rushed back into the guard shack, slamming the door shut behind him.
Damn it.
From the shadows, I watched the headlights get closer until they stopped just outside the gated barrier.
A moment later, the barrier slid aside, and the headlights, which belonged to a sleek dark sedan, eased through the opening and kept on going.
When the gate slid back in place, I waited, expecting the guard to return. But he didn't. Instead, he opened the window facing me and called out, "So, see you in a half-hour?"
Crap.
"Actually," I said, moving toward him, "we can talk at the window if that's all right."
He held up a hand, as if to ward me off. "Sorry. Not now."
I stopped moving. What? Why? I glanced around, wondering what I was missing. I assured him, "I can make it quick."
"Quick's no good," he said. "Besides, I've gotta finish up here first."
Double crap.
I glanced toward my car. Even if I wanted to stay – which I totally didn't – what was I supposed to do for thirty whole minutes?
I lived on the opposite side of town and was beyond eager to leave. I gave the guy a perplexed look. "So you want me to wait in my car?"
He looked toward my car and frowned. "Nah, that's no good." Suddenly, he perked up. "Hey, I know. You could go on a walk or something."
I stared at the guy. A walk? Now? I looked longingly at my car, ugly as it was. It would be so easy to just hop into that thing and drive off, leaving this whole mess behind. After all, nothing was technically stopping me – except my own sense of decency, which was feeling severely strained at the moment.
I looked to the gated barrier that blocked the exit. Last night, the exit gate had opened automatically – or at least, that's what I'd assumed.
But what if the guy in the shack had to open it? What if last night, I'd only thought it was an automatic process? How awful would that be, to force the issue with a guy I'd just gotten fired, even if he didn't yet realize it.
Again, my shoulders slumped. Who was I kidding? I wasn't going anywhere until I'd given the guy a heads-up.
After all, it was the least I could do.
And who knows? Maybe he wouldn't be fired. Maybe, if I gave him an advance warning, he'd be able to prepare some sort of argument that would save his job.
Or maybe – and this was a big maybe – Zane wasn't seriously planning to fire the guy at all. Either way, I needed to tread very carefully or risk doing more harm than good.
I looked down to my feet. It could be worse. At least I was wearing tennis shoes.
As if sensing his victory, the guard called out, "All right, see ya then!" A split second later, the window slammed shut, cutting off any further conversation.
Well, that was nice.
Without much enthusiasm, I decided to take the guy up on his suggestion. If nothing else, the time would go a lot faster if I was doing something. Plus, it was a cool night, and the heat in my car was iffy at best. At least if I walked, I reasoned, I'd be generating my own body heat.
So with a sigh, I turned back and started walking down the wide tree-lined sidewalk. As I moved deeper into the neighborhood, I tried to tell myself that a stroll through this rich fantasyland would be the perfect thing to distract me from my troubles.
After all, I loved to walk, and I loved to look at houses. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Boy, was I wrong – because, as it turned out, Zane Bennington had even more misery to fling my way.
Chapter 12
As my feet moved forward, my head was constantly in motion, taking in all the massive homes, with their interesting architecture and manicured lawns, all clearly visible thanks to crazy amounts of accent lighting.
The way it looked, nobody in this neighborhood ever worried about the electric bill – or any other bill for that matter.
I saw very few cars, but that wasn't terribly surprising, considering that each and every home had a three-car garage at the bare minimum. But the cars I did see? Well, they probably cost more than the little house I was currently renting.
Heck, they probably cost more than the farmhouse I'd grown up in. As a kid, I'd been surrounded by acres of open fields. At the time, I'd barely realized that gated neighborhoods like this even existed.
Now, walking along the quiet street, I was overly aware, and I couldn’t help but wonder, were these people happy?
I thought of Zane Bennington. He wasn't happy. That much was obvious. But why not, when he had the world at his feet?
The guy wasn't just a prick. He was an idiot, too. He had to be.
As I strolled along, there was one house I was determined to avoid – his house, if it could be called that. No. To call Zane's place a house was like calling the Titanic a boat. I felt my lips curve into a slow, evil smile. If only I had a giant, portable iceberg.
Take that, Zane Bennington.
I'd been walking maybe fifteen minutes when I spotted a street sign that made me pause. The name of the street sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t seem to place it. Hoping to jog my memory, I said the name out loud. "Longwood."
And then it hit me. While I'd been hunkered down inside the catering van, I'd overheard Zane Bennington tell that Bob guy that he had to move out of his family home, which happened to be on what street?
Longwood. I was sure of it.
But was it the same Longwood? If so, it made no sense. Last night, Bob had summoned a driver to take Teddy home. But why would he do that if they lived within stumbling distance?
Suddenly curious, I turned and headed down Longwood, noting that the homes on this street were still amazing, even if they weren't nearly in the same league as Zane's.
But then again, none of them were.
I snuck a quick glance at my watch. Probably, it was time to turn around.
And yet, I didn't.
Instead, I came to a complete stop as I spotted something that made me frown. It was a giant moving truck, parked up against the curb, just a few houses ahead.
Racked by indecision, I turned to glance in the general direction of the guard shack. And, then I returned my gaze to the truck.
As I watched, a couple of big guys in brown uniforms emerged from somewhere beyond my sight, carrying an antique table across the front lawn. Together, they loaded the table onto the truck and then returned to the house. A minute later, they emerged again, carrying an antique armoire, and then, a Victorian fainting couch.
My heart sank. Someone was definitely moving, all right.
I tried to tell myself that it was probably someone else – someone entirely unconnected to Zane-the-Prick Bennington. And whoever that someone was, they were probably moving because they wanted to – not because some heartless bastard had kicked them to the curb.
That had to be it.
After all, Zane had given Bob until Monday to move, and it was, – oh, crap – Sunday night. I heard myself sigh. Who was I kidding? The way it looked, I was getting yet another first-hand glimpse of needless misery, thanks to you-know-who.
It was beyond depressing. And yet, like a fly to a big steaming pile of crap, I found myself moving closer, hoping against hope that I was wrong.
I wasn't.
Of course.
I knew this, because when I passed – working like crazy to keep my gaze straight ahead – I saw from the corner of my eye a man who looked sadly familiar. It was Robert or Bob What's-His-Name, the silver-haired gentleman who'd been so actively involved in the catering setup.
He was standing on the front lawn, wearing khaki pants and a dark sweater. He watched the movers in stoic silence as they loaded an ornate side table onto the truck.
Surrounding him we
re a stunning array of Victorian antiques. I knew, because my mom had a fondness for them, even if the very best pieces were well beyond her price range.
The way it looked, these antiques were headed to a new home.
Just like Bob.
It was depressing as hell, and yet, I tried to tell myself it could always be worse. At least nobody was sobbing out on the front lawn.
Turns out, I spoke too soon.
The house was on a cul-de-sac, which meant that I'd need to turn around and pass the same house yet again only a few minutes later, from the opposite side of the street. When I approached it the second time, Bob wasn't alone. Instead, he was standing with a waifish young woman, who looked to be around my own age, or possibly younger.
She wore a stylish red dress and had thick, dark hair, done up in some sort of fancy twist. She was leaning against Bob and crying her eyes out, not bothering to hide it. She pulled away only long enough to choke out, "But this is our house."
Who was she? His daughter? A trophy wife? Or something else?
Bob pulled her close and mumbled something that I couldn’t make out.
Whatever it was, it didn't make her happy. She stepped away to glare at him. "I don't want a better place," she yelled. "I want this place! You promised!"
Through the outburst, I kept my eyes straight ahead, pretending not to see or hear as I strode along the sidewalk. In truth, I was wishing that I hadn't witnessed any of this. Already, I'd had more than enough misery for one day.
But I had to face facts. More misery was definitely coming. After all, I still had to give the security guard his bad news.
I trudged onward, feeling guiltier with every step. Behind me, the woman's voice carried across the distance. "He's such an asshole!"
I heard myself gasp. I don't know why. It's not like I believed that rich people never cursed. It was just that, well, I didn't think they cursed on their front lawns like Jimmy the Shank – the crazy welder who lived three doors down from my current residence.
I kept my head down and kept on walking. The young woman's voice rang out again. "I hate him!"
Yeah, you and me both, sister.
On instinct, I picked up the pace. After all, there was nothing I could do, and I had my own bad news to deliver. As I moved, I snuck another quick glance at my watch. Damn it. The half-hour had been up five minutes ago.
I broke into a jog, and then into a run, practically sprinting, until I was within sight of the guard shack. And then, fearful of arriving sweaty and breathless, I deliberately slowed my pace.
Better late than disgusting, right?
I was still a good distance away, walking in the shadows of the trees, when the guard emerged from the shack, looking a little sweaty and breathless himself.
He tugged at his collar and looked around, as if searching for someone in particular.
Me?
That was my guess.
I was just about to call out to him when he abruptly turned and hurried back into the shack. He emerged a moment later with a buxom brunette in a skin-tight black dress.
Leading her by the hand, he hustled her toward the small parking area, where a cute little sports car was parked near my old beater. I tried to think. Had the car been there earlier?
Yes.
It had.
Definitely.
Not that I'd paid it much attention at the time.
Unsure what to do, I came to a complete stop. I watched as the guard gave the woman a lingering hug, complete with a whole lot of ass-grabbing – by him, not her.
In a totally perverse way, I was actually glad for the guy. If nothing else, his night wasn't all bad, which was more than I could say for myself.
And heck, given what I was about to tell him, he'd need all the cheering up he could get.
From the shadows, I watched the brunette climb into her car and shut the car door behind her. Soon, the car backed out of its parking space and turned – not toward the exit as I'd anticipated – but rather into the neighborhood.
A moment later, the car sped past me and kept on going. As for the guard, he returned to the shack, whistling a happy tune.
Weird.
Little did I know, things were about to get a whole lot weirder.
Chapter 13
To give the guard some semblance of privacy, I waited ten extra minutes before approaching the guard shack. But when I arrived, it didn't take long for me to wonder why I'd bothered.
After greeting me with a smile this side of creepy, he flicked his head toward the shack and asked, "So, you wanna go inside, check it out?"
I gave a mental shudder. No. Definitely not.
After all, I wasn't quite sure what he and the brunette had just done in there, but I did know that I wasn't eager to bask in the stale afterglow.
Still, I tried to smile. "No. But thanks." I glanced around. "We can talk out here, if that's all right."
"Aw come on," the guy said. "I got a space heater and everything." He lowered his voice. "Don't tell on me, but I also got half a bottle of merlot. You interested?"
Half a bottle? I could only guess who drank the first half. But it didn't even matter. I hated merlot. And even more so, I hated where this was going. "Actually," I said, "I'm just here to give you a heads-up."
He grinned. "So, you wanna give me head, huh?"
I drew back. "What?"
He gave a bark of laughter. "Sorry. Bad joke."
I bit my lip. "Uh, yeah."
"Although," he continued with a sly wink, "I'm not saying I'd turn you down."
I stared at the guy, wondering what on Earth I should say to that. The way he acted, this was my lucky day, like it was so hard to find a guy willing to accept an impromptu blow job.
It was definitely time to set him straight. Speaking very slowly and clearly, I said, "What I'm here to give you is a heads-up." I stressed the word, "up" and repeated it twice for good measure. "Up. Up. You heard me, right?"
"Oh, don't be like that," he said. "I was just kiddin' around." He glanced down at his crotch. "Not that I'd complain."
My jaw clenched. "Good to know."
He leaned forward. "Is it?"
I leaned back. "No."
For the briefest instant, I wondered if Zane Bennington might've been right all along in wanting to fire this guy.
But damn it, he couldn't be. Because Zane Bennington wasn't right about anything.
Still, in spite of my hatred for Zane, even I could see that I might've misjudged the guard at least a little.
Okay, a lot.
How depressing.
I tried to think. Maybe it wasn't so much that Zane was right. Maybe, it was just that, well, I might've been a teeny bit wrong.
See? That was totally different.
I looked to my car. "You know what? On second thought, I'd better get going."
The guy frowned. "Why?"
Because you're creeping me out, that's why.
But I didn't say it, because at this point, all I wanted was to be on my way.
Abruptly, the guy said, "You know, your hair looks a lot better tonight."
Obviously, he meant compared to last night, when he'd issued me the original parking pass to work at Zane's party. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I reached up to smooth my hair away from my face. I mumbled, "What?"
He was still looking at my hair. "Yeah, it's all long and pretty." He laughed. "Last night? Eh, it wasn't a good look. I'm not a fan of the bun, you know?"
I wasn't a fan of the bun either, but I had been dealing with food, which left two options – wearing a giant lunch-lady hairnet or wrapping my hair up in a tight bun. If the guy thought the bun was bad, I could only imagine what he'd think of the lunch-lady look.
But I didn't bother explaining. Instead, I muttered, "I've gotta go," and then, I turned away.
"Wait," the guy said. "Where ya goin'?"
I was already walking to my car. "Home."
Unable to take a hint, he turned and followed along
beside me. "Hey," he said, sounding almost peeved now, "I let you in when I wasn't supposed to."
I kept on walking. "So?"
"So, you know how this works, right? I do you a favor. You do me a favor…"
Abruptly, I stopped and gave him a sharp look. "I don't get it," I said. "Earlier, you asked for my number, and you were actually pretty nice. And now you're all…" I let my words trail off, because I wasn't quite sure how to put this.
"Yeah," he said, "because your story was bullshit."
"What?"
He made a scoffing sound. "That whole 'I lost my phone' thing? What? You thought I bought that story?"
"It wasn't a story," I said. "It was true."
He snorted. "Yeah, right."
"It was," I insisted, and then immediately thought better of it. This guy didn't deserve an explanation, not anymore. I looked toward the guard shack. "And what were you doing in there, anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"With that chick, the one who just left."
"Hey, that 'chick' knows how it works." Under his breath, he added, "Unlike you, who wants favors for free."
Unbelievable.
I said, "I thought you were just being nice."
"I was," he said. "So why don't you be nice to me?"
Ick. With a sound of disgust, I turned away, heading once again for my car.
And once again, the guy followed along beside me. "Hey," he said, "I'm sorry, all right? I was just kidding, like I said before."
Sure, he was. I kept on walking, barely listening as he blathered on about my apparent inability to take a joke.
When I reached my car, I pulled my keys from my pocket and jammed the car-key into the lock.
The guy said, "I could've been fired, you know."
I had to laugh, even as I yanked open my ugly, rusted car door. "Oh, I know."
"What's so funny?" he demanded.
There were so many ways I could've answered that question. I might've told him that it was absolutely hilarious that I'd spent any energy at all in trying to save his job when I'd lost my own job today.
I might've told him to enjoy the guard-station while he could, because it wasn't going to be his love-shack for much longer. I might've also told him that he was a giant douchebag and that he reeked of stale coffee and old cigarettes.
Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance Page 7