Don't Bet On It

by J. L. Salter

  Well, I needn’t get all dressed up, since the normal warm weather dining attire for Verdeville females was tank tops, cut-offs, and flip flops. I seriously considered making myself a little extra unappealing so this guy would lose the scent and hunt elsewhere. But that notion lasted only two seconds. Though nowhere near a beauty queen, I had good skin, noticeable curves, and nice legs — and I couldn’t let myself appear in public as ratty as some of the women I’d spotted at the Laundry-Mat.

  However, I wasn’t likely to see anyone I knew at the pizza place, so I figured to go unadorned — neat and presentable but bland. My hair was clean but pulled back to a plain pony tail; I removed my contacts and wore glasses. Figured I’d cover up as much as possible for May weather, so I selected a long-sleeved Henley and my fat jeans that were a full size too big since I’d slimmed down again.

  If that outfit didn’t scare him off, nothing would.

  It only took about fifteen minutes to reach the mall. When I arrived at the restaurant, Mr. Pizza was leaning on the front of his Chevy pickup, which showed several years, numerous dents, and obviously lots of miles.

  Great, he’s a pauper too. Why hadn’t I found a rich guy to take my place in line? He was in boots and clean jeans, with a blue denim shirt… long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not sure why tanned and hairy forearms turned me on, but they did — even on presumed serial killers.

  I could tell he’d noticed my deliberately bland appearance but he offered no comment, just some blah-blah that he was glad I showed up. Right. It threw me that he had no reaction, however, because if he’d said anything about my clothes or hair, I could’ve unloaded on him. But all he did was look into my eyes… and every time he made that contact, I thought he was sucking information directly from my brain. Spooky.

  We were seated quickly and our meal arrived within about five minutes of our order. But everything felt awkward because I resented being there and wanted to be certain he knew it. He tried to initiate small talk a few times, but my replies were terse and chilly. Wondering when it would be acceptable for me to leave, I picked at my pizza slices and wished I’d remembered my watch. Checking my cell phone for the time would be too obvious. Finally, I deliberately dropped a napkin so I could lean way over and examine his fancy runner’s timepiece. It was a bit after 7:30 p.m.

  After about half an hour of being awful to the man who’d trapped me into eating with him, I started feeling guilty and decided to act half-way civilized. He noticed the change immediately.

  During the next half hour, while I was about fifty percent civilized, I allowed conversation, though it remained superficial. He revealed very little about himself except his name, Brett Hardy, that he’d entered the military after college, and he was presently in graduate school at Tennessee State University in Nashville.

  “What on earth are you doing in Verdeville? We’re at least thirty-five miles from that campus.”

  “I didn’t want to live in the big city and I only have to commute three mornings a week. My other courses are online.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Not taking a full load, because I also work part time.” He didn’t say where, so I figured he probably flipped burgers or delivered pizzas… possibly from the same place where we were dining.

  “What are you studying?”

  “MBA.”

  That was a good vague degree. “What line of work are you aiming for?”

  He didn’t answer, just acted like there’d been no question. Then he shifted. “So, you’ve pumped me for intel… what are you doing in Verdeville?”

  I explained I’d gone to school in Chattanooga and also didn’t want the big city life. “Moved here five years ago. I teach at Verdeville Elementary.”

  He didn’t ask about my love life and I wouldn’t have told him anyway. Besides, not much to tell. Leaving the large city had also left behind a considerable proportion of the potential dating pool. My social life in Verdeville could be characterized by about one date per semester… and approximately half of those had been blind dates arranged by meddlesome friends or colleagues at school.

  I had already decided to decline dessert, but he never even offered.

  He obviously had something else in mind, but what?

  Brett gave me the eyes again — extremely disconcerting. Then he spoke slowly as though each word had been rehearsed. “I understand that you came here grudgingly… and I can appreciate the likely reasons why. I can also imagine this meal has been less than pleasant for you since anyone in your, uh, position would suspect that I might behave inappropriately…”

  The thought had definitely crossed Joan’s mind — and mine.

  “…or otherwise take advantage of your reluctant presence.”

  I realized I’d started to tune out his words because I was waiting for him to pull out a knife and haul me off to a corner like they’d do on TV crime shows. He didn’t.

  “But I’d still like to have a pleasant meal with the regular Chloe Watson…”

  So what did he think I was… chopped liver?

  “…so I have another proposition.”

  Okay, here we go. “Don’t bet on it, buddy. I’m not jumping through any hoops for you, whether I have fifteen minutes or fifteen hours.” I’d been loaded for bear all evening and was about to let him have it.

  Brett held up both hands, flat. “Whoa, you haven’t heard my proposition yet.” His hands returned to the plastic table’s stained surface. “And this does not involve a bet.”

  It took my adrenaline a moment to settle. Meanwhile, I sat back in my chair with my arms folded tightly across my chest. “Explain.”

  He smiled… not a big smile, but one which suggested he knew he had me again. I couldn’t see how, but I wasn’t able to peer into his brain like he could apparently read mine with those bright blue eyes. “I know most schools are always raising funds for supplies and other supplemental programming which regular institutional budgets don’t usually allow for.”

  I nodded without realizing it.

  “And being a civic-minded supporter of public education, I want to make a donation to your classroom for whatever materials you and your students need.”

  By pure practiced reflex, I extended my hand to accept his check.

  Another smile. “But I don’t have it on me, so we’d need to arrange another meeting…”

  “Oh no, you don’t. Just mail it to the school board or drop it off at the principal’s office—”

  “Hang on, you’re jumping the gun. Donations at those levels always evaporate before they reach the classroom — I know all about this because my mom was a teacher. So I’m just trying to get this supplemental funding directly into your hands, for the students who need it.”

  He was right, of course. And if he’d picked any other of a hundred poorly funded programs, I could have just tossed my paper napkin into his face and stalked away. But he’d deliberately chosen the single cause he knew I couldn’t sidestep. “How generous of a donation?”

  His eyes bored blue holes into my psyche — obviously to discern a number I’d find impressive enough to jump for. “One hundred.”

  My own eyes widened — couldn’t help myself. It would take at least a full week of cookie sales to generate anywhere near that much net cash.

  “How extensive of a meeting would be involved for me to acquire this generous donation?”

  During his initial pause I figured he might be brassy enough to expect he could jump my bones for that much money, and I was braced to tell him off — loud and proper.

  “Dinner again… tomorrow evening.”

  He’d aimed much lower than I’d expected but I was still indignant. “You think you can buy a date with me?” When I sputtered, it was louder than normal and nearby diners turned their heads — no doubt to see what kind of transaction was underway. “If you have to purchase a date for tomorrow night, just dangle your cash at a hooker.” My terminal word didn’t even faze him, even though I’d hissed it with appropriate disgust.

/>   “If that’s what I wanted, I could easily find one for that amount in Nashville.” His blue eyes didn’t blink. “I’m not purchasing you and I don’t have cash anyway. It’s a gift card to the local hobby and craft store that I don’t need, but I know you could put it to good use for your students. To generate that much money selling popcorn or whatever, you’d waste a lot more time and effort than it requires to simply enjoy a pleasant meal with me.”

  He was right, absolutely correct. But it still seemed tawdry somehow. “Show me the gift card.”

  That made him blink. “Uh, I don’t carry it around with me, but I assure you I’ll figure out where I left it and bring it tomorrow for supper.”

  “Who gave it to you?” Five years before, I had flipped a coin whether to teach elementary kids or enter law school.

  “Uh, my Aunt Hilda… who figured I could use some of that kind of stuff where I work.”

  I absolutely knew he was fibbing, but was pleased to see him back on his heels for a change. “So where would this theoretical supper happen to be?”

  Brett exhaled softly. “At the Ranch House Barbecue.”

  “And all I have to do for this hundred dollar card is show up and eat?”

  Those eyes again, reading my cerebrum. “I have only two stipulations: show up without your current hostility and give me an even chance to provide you an enjoyable meal experience.”

  He was right to nail my hostility, but I had every right to exhibit it. Duress is duress. I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ve been cold tonight because you took advantage of my situation to get me here. And I’m willing to drop some of the attitude if I don’t feel so manipulated.”

  “Don’t you feel manipulated when you have to waste weeks on fund raisers for less actual money to your own class than I’m turning over for almost no effort at all?”

  I reluctantly nodded.

  “That’s the way my mom usually felt. She hated all those fund raisers. During her final years of teaching she just bought supplies out of her own pocket, which was a lot less costly in the long run.”

  As I took a final sip of my iced tea, I stared into his eyes over the brim of my plastic tumbler. Then I put down the beverage and folded my hands like Perryanna Mason. “You’d made up your mind to trick me into another date but hadn’t figured out how to do it until we got here. Plus, you fibbed about the card and Aunt Who’s-it, didn’t you?”

  When he smiled evenly, his blue eyes sparkled. “I really do have an Aunt Hilda.”

  “And you have no intention of responding to my other points, do you?”

  He continued his smile as he shook his head.

  “Therefore,” I said in my attorney’s summation voice, “you are obviously guilty of perjurious and premeditated maneuvering.”

  “Only guilty of wanting to see you again… under circumstances more pleasant for both of us.”

  But I still had no clue why. “Let me warn you, Mr. Hardy, if I show up for supper tomorrow and there’s no gift card, I’m going to haul you into small claims court with a few broken ribs… and I don’t mean the ones with barbecue sauce.”

  He obviously didn’t believe I knew how to crack ribs and did not appear frightened. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  Chapter Three

  Monday, about 6 p.m.

  “You sold yourself to a serial killer? For school supplies?” By the third time Joan had screeched it — with her dramatic pause in between for me to curl up and feel mortified — I had actually begun to think of myself as a harlot plying my favors for glue sticks and crayons. It was an ugly picture.

  “Joan, you’re overreacting. I’m not selling myself… just loaning out my presence, so to speak.” I was on her non-working recliner again, which seemed to be where I always landed in her second floor apartment.

  “That’s exactly what Julia Roberts told Richard Gere when he hired her as his companion for a week.” Joan used air quotes for the operative word.

  “This isn’t anywhere near a full week, it’s just one evening and all we’re doing is barbecue.”

  “Even that sounds illicit when you’re being paid in cold hard cash.”

  “He said it’s a gift card…”

  “Chloe, do you hear yourself?” Joan was practically stomping by that point so I figured the downstairs neighbors would soon be involved in our spirited debate. “Just because it’s for the kids in your class doesn’t make prostitution okay. At the very least, it’s somewhere on the chart with human trafficking.”

  I’d known it was a mistake to confer with Joan, but I really needed a woman’s take on what Brett had said about wanting to see me again… and she lived so close by. To this point, we hadn’t gotten past my friend’s screeching recriminations.

  “So he wants to see you again,” Joan sneered. “That’s exactly what the Boston Strangler told those unfortunate, deluded women in whatever place that was.”

  “Boston, I believe.”

  “Probably so. He laid on the charm and made them feel wanted.” Joan huffed. “Sure, he wanted those unfortunate girls, so he could strangle them and chop them up… or whatever else he was into.”

  “That was a bit before my time.”

  “Well, your time is coming, Chloe. I said before that you’re probably Victim Eleven, but now I figure this guy has handed out two or three dozen gift cards and probably has at least that many bodies — hidden in the lake, the quarry, and out in the woods. I’m surprised your students haven’t stumbled over one of them during a field trip.”

  I tried to calm her. “Joan, just sit down and listen for a minute. Stop reacting like you’re a grocery tabloid and just be my friend. I need to know why this man wants to see me again so much that he’d come up with this preposterous scheme.”

  She clutched my wrist and squeezed like she was checking me for osteoporosis. “Chloe, you listen to me. I know you’re flattered at what he said. Heck, any girl would be. But you have to think past his words… and certainly way beyond the gift card he’s hooked you with. Why would a normal red-blooded male need to resort to bets and bribes to get a date?” She took a deep breath. “I mean you said he’s okay-looking—”

  “He’s a lot more than okay,” I interrupted. “He’s actually pretty dadgum fine.”

  “Okay, no difference — Ted Bundy was cute, too. You have to ask yourself why he uses all these gimmicks. Why won’t he just call you up like regular guys do?”

  “Regular guys don’t call me, Joan.”

  She couldn’t argue away that key point, though neither of us had figured why guys didn’t call me. Of course, Joan didn’t date much either, which I put down to her tendency to screech and stamp her feet.

  But Brett’s unique approach had puzzled me too. And if I survived the evening with him, I intended to inquire. For now, I had a hunch. “Maybe he’s just shy…”

  “Shy? He’s shy like Hugh Hefner is prudish!” More sputter and a bit more foot stamping. “Chloe, he’s reeling you in. Maybe not while eating barbecue tonight, but once he totally lulls you into letting down your guard… then he’ll pounce.”

  By that point, I’d tuned her out. I understood Joan’s concerns, but she couldn’t seem to accept the slim possibility that a nice-looking man was interested in me. And, to my hopes and dreams, it would not be as Victim Eleven.

  I also borrowed her old AC power cord, since the battery on her antique laptop had died at some point during the millennial change. Yeah, that meant I hadn’t gotten any writing done on Sunday night after the pizza.

  ****

  Later that evening

  After I returned home from Joan’s I got to thinking about my day at school — much like any other except that between every class section I’d mulled over snippets of Sunday’s experience with Brett at the pizza place. Also, I couldn’t help noticing how bare my classroom cabinets were of operating supplies; it seemed well below survival level even for that late in the school term.

 
; Brett had disarmed me with his final comment of last evening — he only wanted to see me again. Under different circumstances, such a sentiment could seem rather sweet, but his use of the juicy bribe rankled me.

  Running all this by Joan had provided no moral support at all, yesterday or today, so I just shrugged on my martyr cloak and admitted I was loaning myself to a handsome stranger for his money. Yeah, it sounded awfully mercenary, but I rationalized it was for my second graders, so I could swallow my pride or indignation… or whatever morality might be in play.

  I also decided Brett was correct that our evening would have no chance of being even remotely pleasant if I brought along all the attitude and bristle. I even briefly wondered if I could manage to play-act a little agreeable charm. Nah, probably not. I intended to be pleasant enough to show him I was trying, but sufficiently frosty that he’d fully understand I didn’t want to.