by K. A. Tucker
And these guys stink of money.
As we take our seats and Rust pours, I scan the three other guys sitting around the table. Two are talking quietly on cell phones. The third, a lean, blond guy with angular features, dressed all in black, in his late thirties by my guess, gives the glass in front of him a hard glare while he rolls what looks to be a wedding band around his ring finger.
Now I know why Boone likes hanging around with these guys. He loves the stink of money.
“From what Miller tells me, my nephew’s not full of shit. Miller’s never seen anyone work so fast before.” Rust pushes my glass—almost overflowing—to me. “And I hear you might have my Corvette running again soon? No one’s been able to get that lemon working.”
I’m unable to smother the proud smile. I’ve been fiddling with engines since I got my first wrench and a dirt bike at nine years old. I used to sit on the bench in the garage and watch my dad work on his ’67 Mustang. The car I ended up finishing before he sold it. It was just a hobby to him. To me, it was a calling. The guys in high school shop used to call me the engine whisperer because I can fix anything; it doesn’t matter how complicated or how broken.
Regardless, I try not to act like a douchebag about it, so I play it off with a shrug. “I like classics.”
“Luke was telling me. You’re looking to get a . . .”
“’Sixty-nine Barracuda. Black.” No hesitation with that answer. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was seven years old and saw one race through Main Street back home on rodeo weekend, its black paint glistening after a car wash. It’s what I’ve been saving for. It’s the reason I’m driving a piece of shit now. Another year and it’ll be mine.
“Huh. That’s a good one.” Rust nods slowly, seemingly impressed. He lifts his glass in a toast and then gestures to the man in black across the table. “Well, my business partner here, Viktor, may have some extra work for you.”
I turn to find steely blue eyes already fixed on me from across the table, in a hard face that doesn’t appear accustomed to smiling. He sure as hell isn’t smiling now.
“Yes . . .” This guy, Viktor, pulls out a single cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket and proceeds to light it up. “Perhaps first you could tell me about yourself. Rust has not shared much.” An accent touches his words, though I can’t identify where it’s from. Either way, he doesn’t sound particularly friendly. He must not be from America. That would explain why he thinks it’s okay to light up in a public establishment. That or he’s just ballsy as fuck.
I shrug. And then I hear my dad’s voice inside my head, ordering me to stop shrugging. Criminals and half-wits answer with shrugs. “Not much to tell. I just love working on engines is all.” There’s not much else Rust could tell this guy because there’s not much his nephew knows about me. Despite Boone and I living together and going to school together, we stay out of each other’s personal lives. He’s too self-involved to ask and I’m too private to offer. He knows I’m from mid-state but he doesn’t know I’m from a small town northwest of Bend, called Sisters. He knows my parents still live there and he’s overheard enough arguments over the phone to know that our relationship is rocky, but he has no idea that my dad’s the sheriff and my mom is a reputable surgeon. He knows I have a twin sister named Amber who’s a nurse, but I sure as hell am never introducing him to her.
I glance at Boone, not sure what else this Viktor guy expects me to divulge. Boone’s unusually quiet, though, his eyes bright and curious as he watches the man. In awe. Probably memorizing his style. If Boone starts smoking in our apartment, I’m going to kill him.
When I turn my attention back to Viktor, I see that he’s no longer focused on me, but on a spot behind me. Through a puff of smoke, two words laced with anger emerge. “You’re late.”
The guy to Viktor’s left slides out of the booth just as a waft of perfume catches my nose. It’s a nice enough smell and somehow familiar, but it’s way too heavy. I like a hint of perfume, where you’re not sure you caught it the first time, and you have to lean in closer, maybe dip your head into her neck, to catch it again.
A young woman in a flashy dress and too much makeup slides into the booth. Her side profile makes me think she might not be legal. Maybe a head-on look would change that assumption, but she hasn’t turned her face from the guy for one second. “My hair stylist took longer than expected,” she explains evenly.
“And you were incapable of calling?” It’s not even anger in his voice now. It’s ice.
“My cell phone battery died.”
“Of course it did,” he mutters, picking up his glass and swirling the clear liquid around, his jaw visibly clenched. “Why is charging your phone battery so difficult for you to remember?”
She sighs, like she’s tired. “I don’t know, Viktor. But I’m here now, at your demand.”
He butts his cigarette out on a plain white plate sitting on the table. And then his hand shoots up and slaps her cheek so fast that I almost miss it. It’s not a big slap—more of a sharp tap—but he does it, all the same. “Thirty minutes late.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I watch this domestic scene unfold in front of us. If anyone else is bothered by it, they’re hiding it well, carrying on their own conversations.
She hesitates and then, when she speaks again, it’s with a more contrite tone. “Yes, Viktor. I know. I’m very sorry.”
“You complain that I don’t spend enough time with you, and then when I ask you to meet me somewhere, you make me wait and accuse me of being demanding.”
A gaudy diamond band sparkles on her delicate hand, catching my attention as she touches her long, straight hair. The color makes me think of Boone’s giant tub of peanut butter back home, as odd as that is. “Do you like it?”
“No, not particularly.”
I can’t keep my eyebrows from jumping at that one. I may be only twenty-four, with minimal relationship experience, but isn’t there a golden rule that you lie with these kinds of questions if you want to get laid?
“Do I look fat?” “No.”
“Am I ugly without makeup?” “No.”
“Are you attracted to my friends?” “No!”
Viktor takes a sip of his drink and then, staring at the liquid within, murmurs, “What am I going to do with you, my beautiful wife?”
Five long seconds pass, where I watch her watch him without blinking, her right hand balled into a white-knuckled fist on the table, and then Viktor leans in and lays a slow kiss on her lips. Despite her stiff demeanor, I feel the air shift around me with the affection, as if she just avoided a catastrophe. Hell, I feel like I just avoided a catastrophe.
His finger twirls a strand of her hair. “At least you did not cut it.”
She gives a half-hearted smile and then shakes her head. “Just wanted to try something new.”
“Viktor . . .” The thick-necked blond guy to the right nudges him, covering his phone with one hand while he spews off a bunch of words in a foreign language. It allows his wife’s attention to flicker over the other faces at the table. Striking reddish-brown eyes suddenly land on me. They rest there for one . . . two . . . three quick seconds, before she shifts her gaze to the vodka bottle in front of her.
And I realize that I’ve been staring at her for way too long. I quickly swing my attention to Rust and Boone’s conversation.
“How much longer before I can start running the garage?” Boone asks.
“Not until you learn how to balance a tire properly,” Rust throws back. “Don’t think I didn’t hear what happened with the Cayenne.”
“Ah, fuck. That wasn’t my fault! Miller distracted me with . . .” I wonder how long it’s going to take Boone to figure out that Miller is gunning for him. He knows that Rust has no use for two managers. Once Boone’s ready, Miller’s out. The forty-eight-year-old—who’s as abrasive as a Brillo pad against your cheek—is in no rush to let that happen.
Either way, I’ve heard this story before an
d I don’t need to hear about Boone’s dumbass mistake again. My eyes drift back around the table. The guy to Viktor’s right is off his phone now and leaning in to tell Viktor something. I can’t hear what they’re saying but both of them look agitated, Viktor’s finger tapping the table repeatedly. His attention seems fully occupied.
Maybe that’s why I hazard another glance at his wife.
Maybe that’s why I find her blatantly staring at me.
Her expression is hard, disinterested. She’s probably bored, sitting in this booth with a bunch of men and no one to talk to, no drink offered, nothing to do but twirl that flashy wedding band around her finger and fiddle with the top of her sparkly blue dress. She certainly put effort into her appearance, a dark layer of blue swiped across her eyelids and bright red lipstick painting her full lips. She has perfect, high cheekbones. The entire package looks impeccable and rich, and yet also somehow cheap.
A sudden hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I look up to find Priscilla hovering behind my chair. “Did you want another drink?” She obviously hadn’t even checked the glass in my hand; otherwise she’d know it’s full and that question was stupid. Given her eyes are on Viktor, it’s safe to say I’m only an excuse for her visit here, anyway.
“No, thanks. Can I grab my check when you get a chance?” I’d like to say “close the tab and get me the fuck out of here ASAP,” but with my employer here, I hold myself back.
“Priscilla,” Viktor calls. She managed to grab his attention, after all. To his wife, Viktor utters an abrupt word in that other language, pushing her out of the booth with a hand on her slight upper arm.
Reaching out to touch Priscilla’s shoulder with a degree of gentleness that he didn’t show his wife just a moment ago, Viktor rattles off something to her. She answers him with a coy smile and a nod, obviously understanding him. I don’t miss the smirk she throws toward his wife before turning and leaving, her hips swaying way more than they did when she walked away from our table earlier. I’m guessing a guy like Viktor would be right up her alley.
I’m also guessing Viktor’s already been up her alley. Something about this guy—and what I just witnessed between him and his wife—tells me he’s not above fucking around on her, no matter how beautiful and young she is.
And, I’ll admit, Viktor’s wife is definitely beautiful.
“It was good to meet you.”
It takes an elbow from Boone in the bicep to realize that Viktor’s standing over me, looking down at me, talking to me.
“Uh, yeah. You too.” Not really, but what the hell else do I say?
“Perhaps we can discuss my business proposition another night.”
I shrug. “All right.”
That cold, steely gaze weighs down on me for a split second and then he leaves, dragging his preschool trophy with him by her wrist.
Fucking weird people. And fuck Boone for bringing me here.
Boone leans in and whispers, “Are you an idiot? Do you know who that guy is?”
“A rich, foreign asshole?” I don’t do well with arrogance or authority. Probably why having a sheriff for a father hasn’t worked out well for me. Then again, maybe it’s because I have a sheriff for a father that I don’t do well with arrogance or authority.
Boone’s eyes flash as he scans around us, a hiss of warning sailing through his teeth. “That’s Viktor Petrova.”
“That name means exactly nothing to me.”
“Whatever.” Boone rolls his eyes. “The dude just picked up your tab.”
With a frown, I glance over my shoulder. Priscilla is already at the bar, collecting drinks for someone else. “How do you know he grabbed my tab?”
“Do we even know each other? I’m part Russian. I understand some.”
My face screws up. “Really? ‘Boone’ is Russian?” Russian. So, that’s what that sharp-sounding language is.
“No, my mom’s side. Her father didn’t speak a word of English. I learned from him.”
I seek out Viktor and find him standing with Rust and another well-dressed, middle-aged man. Whatever had him heated earlier seems to have blown over, because he’s smiling.
But why the hell would he pick up my drink tab? He’s either trying to butter me up for this “business proposition” or he’s just showing his money off. Rich people and people who want to pretend that they’re rich like to do that. “What did you say he does again?”
“I didn’t say.” Boone’s focus shifts to the glass in his hand, pausing for a moment. Like he’s making a decision. “Officially, him, Rust, and two other guys own an international car sales company together.” Then he leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Unofficially . . . if you want a car—any kind of car—Viktor is the guy who can get it for you. Well, not him. But he’ll arrange it.”
“So he sells stolen cars. Is that what you’re saying?” My dad would go ballistic if he knew I’ve been sitting at a table with a guy like that.
“Jesus, Welles!” Boone barks, scanning the area around us again. “Don’t ever bring that shit up with anyone. I’m only telling you because it looks like he wants to make some sort of deal with you.”
“Like I would.” I glance over my shoulder at them again. A blue sparkle catches my eye. His wife is standing in a corner now, released from Viktor’s ironclad grip. She’s much taller than I would have guessed. And thin, her curves subtle and delicate. That dress of hers barely covers her ass, making her long, slender legs that much longer. “How old is his wife?”
“Dunno. Old enough to land herself a rich husband who buys her all kinds of stuff. She’s been in here before. Never says a word to anyone. I think her face might crack if she smiled.”
“If I were married to someone who slapped me around, I probably wouldn’t be smiling either.”
Boone helps himself to another drink from the bottle on the table. “Slaps her . . . fucks around on her . . . and she’s not going anywhere. I guess the diamonds and fancy clothes are hard to walk away from.”
“Yeah.” I turn my back to her and dump the rest of that smooth-tasting free Russian vodka down my throat.
SIX
Jane Doe
now
“A psychological amnesia with a global loss.” I repeat what the hospital psychologist—a tall, thin British woman who wears glasses on the bridge of her nose—told me as Dr. Alwood takes a seat in the chair next to my bed. “She said she wants to do further assessments, but that is what she suspects. And it’s extremely rare.”
“Yes, I spoke to her this morning,” Dr. Alwood admits, hitting the automatic button on my bed’s handrail. The upper half of my body slowly rises. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but this is very good news. It gives us hope that you’ll remember something.”
That’s what the psychologist said. But she also said I may not. Or I may remember just bits and pieces. I may remember them next week. Or next year.
Or not at all.
And until then, what do I do? I’m stuck in this hospital room for now, my bones mending as my muscles go into atrophy. The nurses come to shift my body several times a day to help avoid bedsores, telling me that they’ll be forcing me out of bed to move around soon. Next will come rehab. All of this is government-funded because I have no identification and therefore, no insurance. And then what? If I never regain my memory and no one comes to claim me, where will I go? What will I do?
How will I survive?
“I want you to remember that there is still some bruising and swelling, especially around your nose area. That will change the look of your face,” Dr. Alwood says, cutting into my silent worries, the handle of the blue-framed mirror gripped in her hand.
I eye it warily. “You really didn’t have to do this. Reid or Amber would be willing.” Or any other nurse, for that matter. Anyone but “the best surgeon in the hospital,” on her day off, sitting at my side in jeans and a red sweater, her long hair normally tied back now cascading over her shoulders.
“Also, the
redness in the scar will fade. I’m hoping for a fine line,” she says, ignoring me. She pauses to smile. “Really. It could have been so much worse, Jane. Remember that. Okay?”
I nod slowly, my adrenaline spiking as she raises her arm, angling the mirror just right, so I can set eyes on a face I’m sure I’ve seen thousands of times.
A complete stranger stares back at me.
“Breathe,” I hear Dr. Alwood remind me and I inhale sharply, as if I wasn’t able to gather air in my lungs before. She waits patiently, quietly, while I study this battered stranger who I do not recognize.
“So, that’s what russet looks like.” I zone in on my deep reddish-brown irises while I try to ignore the purple bags hanging beneath. Most of my face is puffy and mottled with yellow and purple bruising, the worst of it around my nose. If this is what I look like and this is a vast improvement, I understand why no one would hand me a mirror before now.
There are so many details to take in, I don’t know where to focus first. I run my tongue over the dark mark across my bottom lip, where Dr. Alwood confirmed it had been split open. The stitches have since dissolved. My long, straight hair—a light blond color with dark roots and hanging limp from grease—is partially pulled back to reveal a shaved patch and dark scab on the side of my scalp.
But it’s the glaring red line running vertically down the side of my face from my temple to the underside of my chin that holds most of my attention. I flinch as I take it in, wondering what caused it. Was it accidental?
Probably as accidental as the rape.
“It will fade with time,” Dr. Alwood reminds me as I stare at my reflection.
“And what if I still don’t recognize myself then?” I ask with a hollow voice, my gaze catching the gap on the top side of my mouth. Three teeth. I’m missing three teeth. Was I pretty once?