by Kristi Rose
“Well, let’s see. Right now I’ve Colin Firth on the other line begging me to fly in and see him. Graham Norton keeps texting me to leave this small hick town to do wardrobe on his show, where he promises I shall meet more eligible men than I can handle, and Ryan Reynolds is naked in my bed as we speak. So make this quick.”
“So you’ve got nothing going on. That’s great!” Now she’s fairly singing with excitement.
“What’s so great about my pathetically boring existence and that I’m home on a Friday night?” I sigh wearily, seeing now how I must have appeared in Amit’s eyes. A young woman who can’t even be bothered to meet a young, and in hindsight somewhat handsome, doctor. I really am a sorry sod.
“Nothing except now you do have plans. Get your bum off the couch and put on something pretty, but casual. Meet us at Maggie May’s. Oh and brush your teeth. I bet you’ve had Indian food.”
I huff. “I always brush my teeth.” But I’m saying it to the air because she’s already rung off.
Chapter 2
I hop up and get moving, because Paisley’s punctual and will be ringing me incessantly if I’m not there in the time she thinks appropriate. I’m curious as to why she’s invited me on her blind date. Likely it’s to be a buffer, and I’m interested to see how awful this guy is that he requires an intermediary. There’s no use counting on Josie and Brinn. They’re only good for the beginning portion of an evening, typically, as the night progresses they lose focus in everything and everyone but each other.
Truthfully, I’m excited to be getting out. My books can wait until tomorrow. Besides, I’ll be refreshed and more on top of it all then. If I’m honest, today, I’m too knackered for anything more than mindless conversation and laughter.
I don a pair of light pink skinny jeans, a gauzy tunic with a pastel floral print, and belt it using a silver, pressed-metal chain. I eye my shoes; my toenails look fabulous, so open toe it is! I’ve two pairs that will work with this outfit. One flats and the other modest heels. If I wear the heels, small as they are, I’m more than likely going to be taller than any guy I may come across tonight. My accent does a good job of attracting men. Once I stand, however, even being British can’t overcome my height. I settle for flats.
A quick fluff to the hair, a light dusting of blush followed by an even lighter coat of powder, and a swipe of gloss to plump up my lips and I’m ready.
The unpainted nails glare at me in the mirror.
Shite. The smart thing to do is take the time to soak and remove the polish, let my nails go naked. But that’d be ten minutes at least, and any other method of removal would destroy my nails and make my hands look bloody awful. Besides, I’d like them done for tomorrow’s meeting. I weigh my options. Why’d I have to use the bloody gel polish?
I decide to paint on the drive to Maggie May’s—I can get the second hand done on the way over. Put the topcoat on in the car park. Drying time isn’t exceptionally long. The whole routine will take less time than doing a removal and tomorrow my morning won’t be frantic, which has the tendency to set the day off poorly.
I drive and paint, changing gears only when the whine of the engine is unbearable. The bottle, resting in a cup holder, bumps the sides as I take corners. It’s a skill, driving, shifting, and painting. The yawning’s started up again; the wine I imbibed hasn’t helped. I have two nails left when I pull into the lot, so I park, turn off my car, and complete the job. I place my hands on the dash to dry and tilt my head back against the headrest while I wait. My eyelids drift closed.
The subtle beep from a car on the street jolts them open again. I do several deep blinks in hopes of improving my state of arousal.
Blimey, this isn’t going to work. I’ll be asleep before I get the topcoat on. I consider cancelling, texting Paisley to tell her I’m too knackered, and once again I hear Amit’s remarks. From between the slats of my blinds, I have watched others come home from a late night out. Plus, I’m certain my phone is buried in the bowels of my handbag. There’s no point going through all this nail work only to have it ruined by digging into the bag. I do a quick brush of the topcoat and return my hands to the dash, rest my head on the steering wheel, and blow gently on my nails.
I yawn and slip into blissful darkness once more.
Startled by a sudden rapping sound, I jerk up, only to discover my left hand is affixed to my cheek.
“Bollocks,” I say, coming alert and blinking rapidly as I try to clear the sleep from my eyes.
Where in the hell am I? I squint at the neon sign.
Maggie May’s?
Ah, yes. I remember. Paisley’s phone call. The drive over. The nail polish.
The wet nail polish! Of course. That explains why my hand is stuck to my face. Apparently, while I was dozing I slid my hand under my cheek to cushion it. Hence, the bonding.
I tug slightly and my pinkie gives way, leaving a burning sensation in its place.
Fabulous.
Only three more to go.
“You okay in there?”
I scream and, with a tearing of flesh, press both my hands to my racing heart. A pale, ghost of a face swarms toward the window. “Do you need help?” he says and jiggles my door handle.
“Don’t kill me,” I scream at the same time and click my locked door button. Did I fall asleep only to wake and find the zombie apocalypse has begun? I really shouldn’t watch such disturbing shows alone.
I can see my death unfold. Ironic how I was safely comfortable in my home, bemoaning my lack of life, and now I’m facing certain death. He’ll drag me from the car. Tell others I’ve had too much to drink and that’s the end of Jayne.
See Jayne dead. At least her outfit was cute even though her nails were a manky mess.
I brave a glance toward him.
He’s in possession of a longish face, a square chin, and spectacles are tucked into the pocket of his faded and slightly fraying oxford. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, and either it is in desperate need of some bleaching or my window needs to be cleaned. Could go either way.
He’s unremarkable, aside from the piercing blue eyes and strong simple facial features; he’s the perfect serial killer. No one would remember what he looked like.
I take a second glance, attempting to commit something to memory should I manage to escape, while feeling for my handbag and hopefully finding my keys.
He’s pressed one large hand against the top of my car door; the other is leaving his palm imprint on my window. He removes it to rake a hand down his face.
I make a mental note to try to preserve the print in case he truly is an ax murderer and these my last few breaths on earth.
Silver lining? Mum and Dad will be quite comfy with the life insurance policy I took out against myself.
“Jesus, you scared the hell outta me.” He shakes his head.
“I scared you?” I cry. “I nearly wet my knickers. What’s wrong with you? Sneaking up on a sleeping person?” I rub my stinging cheek. The rough patch of skin—likely residual polish—is tender to my touch.
“What are you doing sleeping in your car at a bar? I thought maybe you passed out. Or worse, were someone who had more than their limit and had intentions to drive.” He levels me with a pointed stare. “Considering the establishment, the time of night, and your...um...position, the odds are in my favor.”
“Oh sure, paint yourself to be the Good Samaritan and me a menace to society. But what if you’re a nutter? What if you’ve already measured out my boot to make sure my body fits?” I say through the window, the only barrier between us, while motioning to the backend of my car.
“Listen, lady. I came out here to look for someone—”
“To murder?” I finish and use my own well-honed stare to make my point. Fumbling with one hand, I dig in my handbag and find my phone and quickly bring it up for a snapshot. Bless the designers who made that possibly with two strokes.
The flash blinds us both.
“Jesus
, you’re crazy,” he says.
When the halos from the flash fade, he’s rubbing his eyes. He shakes his head, does a long blink, then stands, hands on his hips. Mercy, he’s tall. I stare at what I’m sure beneath his shirt will be his belly button. For a possible serial killer, he’s well built. Slender yes, but solid. His arms corded with sinewy muscle. Not a tattoo or distinguishing mark to be found.
The better to lure you with, my dear. This generation’s Ted Bundy perhaps? Seriously, who sneaks up on a person sleeping in their car?
“I’m over here,” he calls. Likely to his accomplice.
I fumble in my purse for my keys before I realize they’re still in the ignition.
Paisley’s face comes into view outside the window. Her wild red hair is pinned back in the cute mother of pearl barrettes I gave Josie for her birthday last year.
“Hey, you found her,” she says to the tall killer. “We were getting worried. Why are you still in your car?” She leans closer to the window. “What’s happened to your face?” The tip of her finger touches the glass, smudging his palm print.
Damn her.
“Nothing, I—” I glance into the rear view mirror and gasp. Four large red-welted dots run up from the corner of my mouth to right below my eye, inflamed. “Bloody Judas Priest.” I gently press on a dot and it blanches. Allergic reaction to the nail polish. Why not? This evening has been special thus far. An allergic reaction is a perfect scarf to complete the ensemble.
“I need to get some hydrocortisone,” I say to Paisley. “Sorry, I can’t stay.”
“I understand. You gonna be okay?”
“Yes, of course.” My eyes dart to the man’s belly. He’s become a rock, not moving, simply standing there radiating his irritation.
“Oh, gosh, I sure thought this would go differently but....” She tugs the guy’s arm, forcing him to look back in the window. “Jayne, this is Stacy. He’s Brinn’s president of finance. He’s moving to the area. Stacy, this is our friend Jayne.”
We stare at each other through the glass. Even the way he blinks his blue eyes expresses his lack of interest or, perhaps, his distaste for crazy women who sleep in their cars and accuse strangers of being psychopaths.
“We’ve met,” I say, focusing my attention on him. Levity would be welcome. “I suppose your murdering of women will have to cease while you’re here. Now that I’m onto you and all.” Unfortunately, I suck at imparting the joke. I try to smile but moving the right side of my face is difficult.
“It’s bound to happen. Cops were on my trail anyway. A hiatus is called for. Guess you lucked out,” he deadpans before turning and walking off.
Gawd, there’s something adorable about a man who has a sense of humor.
“Lucky me,” I say and fire up my car. I look toward Paisley. “You fancy him?” Maybe Josie’s wrong about Paisley’s feelings for Hank. It would prove my point about love being fickle.
Paisley shakes her head. “Do you?” she whispers.
“No,” I say, though without conviction. There was something very appealing about him. Perhaps his eyes? “I should go.”
“Yeah, okay.” She looks to the retreating Stacy and back at me, puzzled. “Do you think he’s cute, at least?”
“He has killer eyes,” I say and shift into reverse.
Wouldn’t Mum be proud? I met a man.
And I scared him off in under thirty seconds.
Chapter 3
Knowing I had a long day ahead of me and being short on sleep, I used my feel better fortune cookie jar and its slips of wisdom to set the tone for the day. Secretly, I wished it would encourage me to shop. Those are my favorite. Usually pulling from the jar gives me a bit a fun. Sometimes, the tiny slips of paper are spot on with their message. Even if they are a tad disappointing.
Like today’s: The road to riches is paved with paperwork.
Don’t I know it. Today, I did not let paperwork cast its dark, nasty shadow over me but rallied my strength and dug into it with vigor my Viking ancestors would be proud of. I completed and submitted my loan application, seeking preapproval, and because I am calling today a win for Jayne, I printed up and arranged nicely in a binder all my recent budgets and number thingies.
I also made a note to stop letting Josie see my books and hire an accountant. Every time she sighs when she sees how delinquent I am with inputting all the important figures, it stresses me out.
You must do this weekly, Jayne. Not monthly.
This is something I am acutely aware of. I just loathe it with a fiery passion.
But the day is coming to a close. Well, the business end that is.
Now for the best part, the evening and hanging with my friends. I predict large amounts of chocolate and wine in my future. I need no fortune cookie for that!
Josie’s hosting an impromptu get-together, which can’t be counted a girls’ night out as Brinn and some other guys will be there, according to Josie. Which means instead of letting my hair down as I hoped, I check my French twist and replace a few bobby pins to keep it in place.
I smell slightly like fish, as I rushed from my shop to my parents’ pub to help with the dinner rush. Another article about a self-made bazillionaire woman who managed this great feat before she was thirty was waiting for me. Mum tucked it in my pocket so I wouldn’t misplace it.
Several cars out front tell me I’m late when I arrive at Josie’s and let myself in the front door. Cutting through her large open living room, I see my friends gathered outside around a fire pit, laughing. Brinn is alone by the grill. There’s an assortment of food laid out on a long table and I beeline for it. Brinn comes up next to me and places a tray of sausages with steam rising from them, a vapor invitation.
“Burgers up next, Jayne.” He hands me the tongs and disappears.
I load my plate. Famished as I am, I don’t hold back as I would if I weren’t among friends.
After adding a sausage, I reach for the slotted potato salad spoon, excited about all that glorious mayonnaise, when my hand collides with another.
“I beg your—ack!” My apology is lost when my gaze meets that of the car park murderer. I should definitely stop thinking of him like that. It’s clear the only thing he’s culpable of is killing it with numbers, according to Paisley and Josie, who natter on about him often. Which makes no sense as Paisley says she’s not interested and Josie says she’s doing it to help Paisley figure out exactly what she is interested in. The topic of love has reduced my friends to ninnies.
“It’s you,” he says, jumping away. The spoon’s handle clatters on the table before coming to rest half in the bowl and half out.
“This is awkward.” Covertly, I attempt to check him out. It’s his lovely blue eyes I remember the most. They make quite an impression. Gawd, he’s tall. It’s a pleasure looking up at him, a treat really. If I focus on his bewitching eyes and charming chin dimple, I can block out the atrocities he calls clothes. The Albert Einstein t-shirt and faded jeans say college bum, not numbers genius. “We could pretend this is our first introduction and ignore that one the other night.”
“Steel trap.” He taps his temple with a long index finger.
“In my defense, I was disoriented from being startled awake. Up close and in the light you don’t look like a murderer. Apart from the—” I start to point to his ratty clothes but clue in quickly that I should shut up. I turn my point into a whole hand sweeping motion. “Well, you don’t look like one at all.”
“I’ve never been accused of being a serial killer before. Nerd. Dork, even. In college someone once accused me of cheating. But never a killer.” He rubs his chin in thought.
Fearing I’ve offended him greater than I initially thought, I screw up the courage and scan his expression. The slight upward crinkle of his eyes tells me he’s teasing.
Instant relief.
“Nor have I been accused of being such a lush I pass out in a car park. Though perhaps when you
weigh the two side by side, your assumption is more likely.”
“Shall we begin a reductio ad absurdum? Perhaps yours has a basis of merit.”
“Er....”
His chuckle is deep. “Sorry, math talk.”
“Ah.” I shift, causing my hip to bump the table.
Unexpectedly, he lunges toward the table and catches the potato salad spoon, stopping its flight from the table to the floor.
I’m caught completely off guard by the litheness of his movements. There’s something graceful yet sexy and predatory about it. Not car park killer-like. More the sort to take a woman up against the wall.
I do a long blink to try to get the image of this man and me up against a wall out of my mind. I must stop watching that naughty channel. Just last night this sort of thing played out between a package deliveryman and a romance writer.
Unsuccessful at erasing the vision, I stare openly at him and try to fixate on his clothes instead of how full his lips are.
“Why are you staring at me?” Balancing his plate on his palm, he takes a step back.
“Er, was I?” I look over his shoulder to where my friends sit. Paisley’s giving me the thumbs-up.
“Yeah, you were.”
“I think I’m overly tired. Been working loads. There’s a good chance, probability you might say, that I’ll suddenly fall face first into the dessert—it’s lemon meringue, a favorite of mine—and catch a good snoozer. So I, er, am not so much staring as I’m trying to stay awake.”
He’s quickly loading his plate.
“Not that you’re boring or anything. This is titillating conversation. Oh, er...perhaps interesting is a better word.” I picture his large hand ripping off my shirt.
“Okay. Sure.” He does a quick shuffle backward. “Good seeing you again, Jayne—right?” He splits faster than too-tight britches.
I nod. Of course I’m still watching him when he looks back, having mentally redressed him as the deliveryman.
Crikey. It’s Paisley’s fault, all this staring. She made him out to be such a saint. ‘Stacy is a single dad, isn’t that amazing? He’s really funny and was looking forward to meeting you, not killing you! He’d only gone outside to look for your car. Duh, Jayne.’ And ‘Stacy is such a revered mathematician.’ (How easy it would be for him to make calculations regarding body weight to boot-size ratio.) ‘He did an internship at Cambridge, and Stacy...blah blah blah.’