Deja You

by Sandoval, Lynda

  Her forehead crinkled with incredulity. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t call your mother in the middle of the night.”

  “She’s an E.R. nurse supervisor and she works graveyards. This is probably her perkiest time of the day.”

  Erin stared at the cell phone in her hand for several long moments, then flipped it open with her thumb and clicked through his contacts list. He watched as she read the screens for Mom—home, cell, pager and work—then snapped the phone closed and handed it back to him. “Where is area code 702?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  “Are you from there, too?”

  “Yes. Born and bred.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “Business.”

  She nodded, seeming to ponder this.

  Several tense moments passed.

  “Do you like animals?” she asked, nailing him with an unflinching stare.

  Okay, wow. That came out of nowhere. He cocked his head at her curiously, then opened his phone again. He pressed a few buttons to launch the camera function, then pulled up a photograph of his black cocker spaniel, graying slightly around the muzzle, but still a beauty. “That’s my dog. He’s nine years old and going strong.”

  She leaned forward and looked at the picture, her mouth registering the faintest of smiles. “What’s his name?”

  “Boomer. And—” he clicked through until a photo of a powdery brown, lop-eared rabbit filled the screen “—this is Boomer’s pal, Thug. He’s just one-year-old.”

  She gaped at the phone, then faced him, blinking. “You have a bunny named Thug?”

  He nodded. “Terrifying, isn’t he? He’s house-trained. Uses a litter box, and I have to brag that he’s quite the neat freak. Not all house-trained rabbits are.”

  “Huh,” she said, wonder in her tone.

  Hopeful, he forged ahead. “He and Boomer sleep side by side on Boomer’s dog bed. They’ve done so since Thug was eight weeks old.”

  “Thug.” She paused. “A dog-loving bunny.”

  “More surprising, really, is the bunny-loving dog.”

  “Good point.” She studied the photo a moment longer, then shook her head and pushed to her feet. “Okay. You win, Nate. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 3

  Despite the water bringing out the awful smoke smell again, Erin stood in the stark hotel shower longer than she should have, trying to muster her courage to face the stranger in the other room. It had seemed like a sound decision as they’d driven here, but now, in such close quarters, the second-guessing had begun. Big-time. Her self-consciousness was at an all-time high.

  Had she lost her mind?

  She’d always been a good judge of character, so it wasn’t that she feared Nate anymore. He truly seemed harmless, and she was no idiot. Maybe Good Samaritans did exist. But nothing mitigated the fact that her decision to take him up on his offer was insanely out of character for her.

  Good guy or not, no one in her life knew where the hell she was. No one. She could disappear and wind up on Cold Case Files in five years—no leads. They’d show still photos of her with her stupid high school hair, and her family and friends would give tearful, on-screen interviews, pleading for any detail that might crack the case.

  That improbability aside, she just didn’t head off to hotels or homes—or anywhere—with men, strangers or otherwise. Not since…

  The pain stabbed at her again.

  Stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

  Oh, God. How had she managed to avoid dealing with this for so long, only to have it hit her so hard all of a sudden? She took advantage of the shower’s loud whoosh, leaned her head back, and let her tears come freely, gulping back audible sobs as the water doused her face. She’d cried more in the past few hours than she had in the last decade, and she didn’t much like it.

  But she had to face facts.

  What kind of pathetic life was she living, anyway? Solitary, tormented, getting herself into stupid situations in bars, for God’s sake? She threw herself into work and denial and avoided close relationships like the Unibomber, pretending a bravado and a “charming snarky humor” she didn’t truly feel. At least not all the time.

  This wasn’t supposed to be her life.

  Bottom line.

  She and Kev had been Troublesome Gulch High School’s golden couple. Most likely to marry right after graduation. Most likely to come to the ten-year reunion with photos of their two-point-five kids, and imminent plans to renew their marriage vows. Solid. Exuberant in their once-in-a-lifetime love and committed to each other, mind, body and soul.

  But, look at her now. Twenty-nine years old, and she hadn’t even kissed, much less made love with, a single man since Kevin. Couldn’t even wrap her brain around the idea. She wasn’t “most likely” to do jack anymore, except perhaps die alone and lonely with a fake smile pasted on her face.

  Is that what Kevin would’ve wanted for her?

  Was he looking down on her now with pity in his beautiful green eyes?

  She wiped ineffectually at her tears before turning off the shower. The curtain rings sang along the metal pole as she pulled the white plastic aside and groped for a towel. She took her time smoothing the fluffy terry cloth over the tight, ugly scar tissue that covered her entire torso, not completely feeling its roughness, thanks to deadened nerve endings.

  As always, she avoided looking into the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. She appreciated her body for what it could do. After all, look at Lexy, who hadn’t walked since the accident. Things could be much worse. But still, functional or not, Erin didn’t want to glimpse the body she’d never really accepted. At least visually.

  It might be her, but it didn’t feel like her.

  And yet, the grotesque physical scars from that fire were a mere blip compared to those on her heart.

  Wasn’t she just the total package. Ha.

  Before smoothing lotion over her skin, she set out her underwear and the oversized Avalanche T-shirt Nate had thoughtfully picked up for her at the grocery store when he’d stopped for a few toiletries he thought she might need. He’d even bought her a razor—a pink one. She shook her head, one corner of her mouth quivering into a half smile despite her melancholy. Her savior-out-of-nowhere really did seem like a nice guy.

  Ugh. What did he think of her?

  How could she face him?

  Her insides bubbled with humiliation.

  This whole situation was world-class awkward.

  At least, thank goodness, she’d never see him again.

  A soft knock on the locked door startled her. She jerked, clutching the towel to her chest before swallowing twice to steady her voice. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you. No rush, but a great old movie is available on pay-per-view, A Guy Named Joe. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Well…it’s one of my favorites. World War II flick. If you’re interested.”

  “I…uh…” A movie? This was weirder and weirder. “I’ll probably just go to sleep, if that’s okay. But I can sleep through anything, so feel free to watch it. Seriously.”

  “Okay.” He paused, but she could tell he was still there. “Are you, um, hungry? I was going to order pizza from room service. They make a pretty good one here.”

  “No,” she said quickly, still frozen in the shower, vulnerable and wanting him to move away from the door so she’d stop feeling so damned…naked. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  A pause. “Sure.”

  She listened, alert, until he was gone. Alone again, she eased out an exhale, dressed quickly, then went through the blow-drying, tooth-brushing, moisturizing routine. She wasn’t going for prom queen perfection here. Why would she care what Nate the Savior thought of the way she looked?

  She didn’t. She was going to bed.

  Bed. Ugh.

  The land mine zone, as she could see it, stretched between the locked bathroom and the bed. Twenty steps, tops. She wanted to navigate it as qu
ickly and safely as possible, pile herself beneath the covers and slip into oblivion. She wasn’t one to take sleeping pills, but if she’d had one, she’d pop it tonight, no questions asked.

  Enough stalling. Now or never.

  She took a deep breath, then eased it out through pursed lips. The lock clicking open sounded like gunfire. She froze again, like a bunny facing a starving rottweiler.

  Why was she so edgy? Gee, maybe because she’d humiliated herself in front of a total stranger, and now she had to spend the night in his room?

  Nate glanced up with a faint smile as she entered the main room. The phone rested between his shoulder and ear, and he was busy ordering extra this and extra that, thin crust and a side of whatever.

  Erin forced her standard fake smile back, then climbed into her bed on the far side. Safety. Thank God she’d made it. She covered herself chin high, chilled to her marrow and shivering, despite the extra-long steamy shower.

  Nate hung up. “I ordered an extra large in case you change your mind.”

  Small talk. Bleh. Oh yeah—that’s what strangers did in excruciatingly squirm-worthy situations such as this. “That was nice of you.”

  He lifted his chin in the direction of the bathroom. “How was the shower?”

  “Fine.” She forged ahead. “Listen, I didn’t thank you for picking all the stuff up for me.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re more than welcome.” He stood, glancing toward the bathroom. “Think I’ll take a quick one before the pizza gets here. They said it would be thirty minutes, but you know how it goes.”

  Her mind wasn’t on pizza delivery schedules at all at the moment. She twisted her mouth to the side, guilt squeezing her breathless.

  Nate lifted an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t realize you wanted to shower. I hope I didn’t hog all the hot water.”

  He grinned. “Not to worry, I grew up with a bath-loving mom and three sisters. I’m used to cold.”

  Yeah, that didn’t assuage anything. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “No, really. I shouldn’t have stayed in there so long. It’s your room, and—”

  “Stop.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Erin, you needed the time. I get that, okay? Besides, these big hotels never run out of hot water.”

  Feeling slightly better, she relaxed—at least as much as she could when everything was so formal and clumsy and surreal between them.

  “Let’s make a deal. You stop saying ‘thanks’ and ‘sorry’ for the rest of the night. Okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good enough.” Nate halted at the end of her bed en route the bathroom. He snapped his fingers, then fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “If, for some strange reason, the pizza arrives while I’m in there, I’ve got cash for a tip.” He lobbed it onto the end of her bed.

  Her body went cold as she stared at the worn leather. It seemed too intimate, this wallet so perfectly molded to his backside.

  “Now what’s wrong?”

  She flicked a hand toward it. “I…I can’t just dig through your wallet.”

  He blinked. Poker face. “Sure you can. I just said you could.”

  She shook her head. “B-but, that’s not the point. We just met.” She groaned. “This is really uncomfortable. I could be some coldhearted criminal taking advantage of your kindness.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. But that’s not the point.”

  “I can solve this. Answer one question.”

  She waited.

  “Do you like animals?” he asked, playfulness in his gentle eyes.

  “You can’t use my questions against me.”

  “Why not? It worked for you.” He spread his arms wide. “See?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are way too trusting.”

  He laughed softly. “Somehow, you just don’t strike me as the criminal type.”

  “I suppose that’s comforting.” She swallowed thickly, eyeing the wallet as though it were a rattlesnake poised to strike. “Just hurry, okay? Then I won’t have to touch it at all, which will make us both feel better. Think, quick shower.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a guy. How else do we shower except quickly?”

  She’d succumbed to a slice of pizza after all—the aroma had gotten to her. Tummy full, she rolled over to leave Nate to his movie, circa 1943, or something like that.

  Weird.

  She didn’t think guys liked old movies, not that she was any expert on guys. And she was probably being grossly stereotypical. Then again, this was a war flick.

  Or so he alleged.

  Turned out the WWII fighter pilot main character gets killed on a mission, and is forced to come back as another young fighter pilot’s guardian angel, only to watch while the guy falls in love with his mourning fiancée.

  Yeah. Not a war picture.

  Partway through, she couldn’t contain her curiosity, so she rolled over to watch.

  Nate glanced at her. “Is the TV keeping you awake?”

  “No. I just…this film seems familiar somehow.”

  He turned his attention back to the screen. “Richard Dreyfuss and Holly Hunter starred in the remake. Always. Late eighties, I think, and a whole lot different. But based on the same story.”

  A vice gripped her stomach, while her eyes were transfixed on the television. Of course. Always was one of the many sad movies about loss of love that she’d studiously avoided. They never failed to rekindle her melancholy to an unbearable burn. What were the odds? Pretty damn good, actually, since every sad movie affected her that way.

  Ghost? Forget it.

  “Seen it?”

  She shot a glance at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Always. Just wondering if you’d seen the remake. Maybe that’s why this one’s familiar.”

  “Oh.” She dropped her gaze. “Yes.” Unfortunately.

  “Original version’s better.”

  Great. She pondered his earlier description of the movie, amused in spite of herself. “Nate, there’s something you should know,” she said, her tone deliberately grave.

  He held up the remote. “Should I pause it?”

  “Maybe.”

  He did. “Okay, what’s up?”

  She leveled him with a serious gaze. “This may come as a shock, but A Guy Named Joe isn’t a war flick. Hate to blow your cover.”

  He did a double take, aiming a thumb toward the still screen. “Sure it is. You saw the uniforms. The planes.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a love story. An old-school chick flick. Practically a precursor to Love Story itself.”

  Nate sighed. “Okay. Truth time?”

  “Hit me.”

  “I know it’s a love story. But being the only male in my household, it was the closest I ever came to an action flick of any kind.” He eyed her from the side. “My sisters—”

  “What are their names?” She found herself suddenly curious about this guy. Sisters? A mom? Boomer and Thug? Like, he had a whole life beyond this hellish night, which struck her as so…strange.

  “In order, Flannery, Colette and Piper. We’re all about a year apart, and I’m second in the lineup, smack between Flannery and Colette.”

  “Cool names.”

  “My mom’s creative.”

  “Are they married?”

  “Nope. Not even Mom’s remarried.”

  “Where’s your dad?” she blurted, before realizing it was a fairly rude question.

  He shrugged, as though it didn’t matter a bit. “Not really a part of our lives.”

  “Ever?”

  “Well, I don’t remember him.”

  She felt a pang of compassion before another thought struck. “Wait a sec. You’re not married, are you?”

  He castigated her wordlessly. Those eyes of his could speak volumes.

  She held up both palms in surrender. “Just asking. Because if you were my husband, away on business, and you brought some woman back to
your hotel room, I wouldn’t be happy. To put it mildly. Even if she was a whackjob and you were just being nice.”

  He bonked his head on the headboard. “So you’re married. Great. Is some burly guy going to come after me with a sawed-off shotgun?”

  She widened her eyes. “Me? No, never. It was just an example.”

  “That’s a relief.” He pointed toward the entertainment center. “So, back to why I’m watching a chick flick and calling it a war movie.”

  “Yes.” She inclined her head. “Sorry for the nosy interruption. It just struck me as interesting that you have sisters.”

  He laughed. “What—you thought I sprang out of nowhere in that bar?”

  “Superheroes usually do.”

  He scoffed. “I’m no superhero. Anyway, it’s okay. The interruption, I mean. I like talking about my family, and they’re the whole point anyway. The truth is, I was outnumbered growing up when it came to picking movies. And Mom took my sisters’ side not because she favored them, but because she didn’t want us to watch violence anyway.”

  “Ah. Well, no shame in that.”

  “So you say. I had to keep some kind of street cred with my buddies,” he said. “So I started ‘redefining’ the movies we watched. Steel Magnolias? I’ve seen it about fifty times. I could probably quote dialogue, a skill that doesn’t go over big on the basketball court.”

  A short laugh burst from Erin, the sound unfamiliar, almost painful on this night. It shocked her so much, she reached up and covered her mouth.

  He smiled, the expression etching lines around his eyes, which were a beautiful shade of turquoise—a great contrast against his black hair and tanned skin. “So, all my ugly secrets aside, will you humor me and let me call it a war flick?”

  She cleared her throat. “Sure. Go back to your war flick. I’m going to try to sleep.”

  “Good night.”

  She rolled over and settled in. He still hadn’t started the movie. She could almost feel his eyes boring into her back. “Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I ever thank you for helping me?” she asked, without turning around.

  “I thought we had a deal about that.”