Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  I smiled in response and nodded, pushing away my curiosity at what exactly he was doing in Garden Oaks. “Okay. Come on.”

  He gave me a curious look but didn’t ask anything. Instead he got into the passenger seat, wordless and stiff. As soon as he was in, I was pulling out of the parking lot.

  Was I taking him home?

  The only answer to my mental question was silence, obviously. I hadn’t used the radio in forever and hadn’t plugged in my phone to the car’s stereo system in the distraction of having Reiner Kulti in my car. My dad was probably going to shit his pants when I told him.

  Damn it. Poop. Poop. Poop.

  I cleared my throat and made sure to keep my eyes on the road. “Do you need to call a towing company or something? I have a service on my phone in case of car trouble you could use.”

  His attention was focused on the view outside the window. “No.”

  All right. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  “I said no,” he replied forcefully enough that I felt it in my chest.

  Jesus freaking Christ. All I was trying to do was help. What a prick.

  Suddenly angry with myself for making an effort to be nice to someone who obviously didn’t want it, I clenched my mouth and kept my eyes forward.

  This was exactly what I got for trying. Why did I even bother anymore? Sure, he’d been nice to my dad by making up for being a freaking bag of nasty dildos, and he’d gotten me out of my crap with Cordero and given me a couple of tips on how to improve some playing skills, but it wasn’t enough. Not everyone was like this. I’d been nice to thousands of people in my life, and most didn’t act like pricks.

  Especially not ones that I’d idolized.

  Embarrassment at being snapped at made a knot form in my throat as I got on the freeway. For a second, I thought about turning on the radio to avoid the awkwardness that had settled in the car, but I didn’t. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it wasn’t me who deserved to feel awkward. He did.

  “What exit should I take?” I asked in a controlled voice when we were close enough.

  He answered.

  I exited and then asked whether to turn right or left.

  Step by step, I asked him to tell me when to turn again and he did. What lane to get in, he told me. Two more turns and I was driving my car down a street I had a client on. Go figure.

  Right before an immaculately landscaped two-floor modern monstrosity that seemed to take up two lots, Kulti gestured. “Here.”

  I pulled the car closer to the curb and stopped, keeping my eyes forward; it was immature. I didn’t have to do that. I didn’t have to let him know that what he’d said bothered me, but I couldn’t help it. In hindsight later on, I’d curse myself for letting him see that he’d upset me, but right then I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept staring out the windshield.

  I waited patiently, hands gripping the steering wheel gently.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t get out. He didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t look at him or ask him to get out of my car. I just waited. I could wait. I wasn’t impatient. Chin up and face relaxed, I out-waited him for what seemed like five minutes but was probably only thirty seconds.

  Finally he reached for the handle and got out. There wasn’t a sigh or an apology out of his mouth, or even a freaking thank you for the ride.

  The minute the door was closed, I pulled away. I didn’t peel out or act like a jackass as I tried to get away; I got back on the street and on the way to work like he hadn’t just hurt my feelings.

  But he had, a little.

  It was enough that I didn’t give a single shit about whether the big house in the family neighborhood was his or not. I didn’t even bother telling my dad about it.

  * * *

  “…like this,” he said in that deep voice with a hint of a watered-down accent in it.

  I blinked at the ball on the ground and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Yes?”

  Scratching at my neck, I nodded again. “Got it.”

  Maybe he expected me to jump for joy or kiss his feet for working with me for the third time, but I couldn’t find it in me to drag enough of a shit together to care that he had singled me out again. After having the weekend to cool off, I’d come back to practice with my head straight yesterday. Needless to say, that included me deciding to avoid Kulti as much as possible. I had better things to waste my time and energy on, and jackasses with short tempers and no manners weren’t at the top of my list.

  I managed to make it through one whole practice without expending any calories on him.

  Then today he decided to jump into the middle of a five-on-five game I was playing.

  To be an adult, I really watched what he did and listened. I sure as hell wasn’t going to do more than that. I lifted my head and gave him an affirming nod, my face neutral. Moving around him, I went back to where I’d been and gestured to the defender I was playing against that we should restart. We did.

  Fifteen seconds later Kulti interrupted us again. His long legs ate up the turf as he stopped right between us. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said, showing me what he wanted me to do differently.

  I nodded and went back at it.

  Another fifteen seconds of uninterrupted playing time went on before he stopped us again. “Watch. You’re not watching,” the German insisted.

  I was watching. I was watching him very carefully.

  “All right, I got it,” I said as soon as he’d finished his demonstration.

  The other player shot me a look that I returned.

  Not even ten seconds later, “Twenty-three! What the hell was that?” exploded out of Kulti’s mouth.

  My hands clenched at my sides, and I asked myself, why? Why it’d been decided that this ass-wipe would make an appearance in my life ten years too late?

  Taking a deep breath to steady my frustration, I put my hands on my hips and slowly faced him. “Please tell me what I did wrong because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said before I could even comprehend the fact that words had come out of my mouth.

  Catching him so off-guard must have been a testament to how much he was not accustomed to people talking back to him, or at least not accepting his word as something holy to be treasured.

  Those light-colored eyes narrowed on me, and his eyelids dropped just enough to shield the interesting shade. “You would have a clearer shot if you—“ He broke off his words as he quickly changed the foot he was leading with and turned around with the ball.

  I looked at him and asked someone, somewhere for patience. “Wouldn’t it be better if I passed the ball?” Of course it’d be better, I was asking a hypothetical question.

  A question that he obviously didn’t understand by the way he shook his head in response. “No.”

  No?

  “If you have the shot, take it.”

  I glanced at Genevieve, my teammate who was standing off to the side watching us, and then looked back at Kulti. “It’s not sure I’ll have it.”

  “Unless you’re not paying attention or you suddenly can’t move your feet, you’ll have it,” he ground out in an irritated tone.

  Fighting the urge to pinch my nostrils, I squeezed my fist tighter. “All right. Whatever you say.” Whatever you say for me usually meant yeah, sure, and then I’d end up doing whatever the hell I wanted anyway. He was wrong. What he was telling me to do was too risky, and it was selfish. But, whatever. I knew how to pick my arguments.

  For some reason he didn’t look appeased by what I said at all. It was almost as if he knew I was just saying the words to get him off my back, which I was, but he didn’t know that. At least he shouldn’t.

  He didn’t say anything else, and a minute later time for our game ran out. Another ten players headed out onto the field for their practice game. I watched and shouted out encouragements, Harlow receiving some of them. As much as I tried not to pay attention to Kulti, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t stop
that game to make any suggestions.

  Of course not, I thought almost bitterly.

  Sometime later practice ended and I found myself walking to my car. I was debating whether to try and catch a yoga class that night, or just do some serious stretching at home, when I happened to look up and find someone standing by the driver side door of my car.

  Only it wasn’t just someone. It was the German.

  My muscles immediately tensed up at the sight of him leaning so casually against my beloved car.

  I took a calm casual breath and tried to push my emotions down as I kept walking. Kulti had his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white polyester workout shorts. He looked exactly like he had a dozen other times on a magazine cover. Show-off.

  Oddly enough, I wasn’t affected in the least bit.

  I felt smug and disinterested. Mostly I didn’t find myself giving a single crap that Reiner Kulti was standing by my car. Not anyone else’s, mine. He wasn’t the first guy I’d seen doing it, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  My face didn’t betray me as I closed the distance between us. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d ripped my headband off as soon as I finished cooling down, that I hadn’t tweezed my eyebrows in a week or taken care of my upper lip.

  My muscles were tight from exercise, I felt strong mentally, and that was more than enough for me.

  Kulti’s lake-colored eyes stayed locked on my face as I walked right in front of him to pop my trunk and drop my things inside. I hadn’t finished slamming it shut when I said, “I have to get to work. Do you need something?”

  “My driver isn’t here.”

  So that’s why he’d gotten into the backseat the one day I saw him getting into his car, and why he’d hitched a ride with me the day before.

  I left my hand on the trunk and looked at him over my shoulder, at his short hair, his stern face, his full mouth. Yeah, I still didn’t care. “Okay. Do you need to borrow my cell?”

  “I need a ride,” he said in his low voice.

  What was I? Driving Miss Daisy?

  “Could you give me one?” he asked.

  Was this real life? Was this really happening? “You want me to give you a ride again?”

  To give him credit, he didn’t break eye contact once. “It would be appreciated.”

  It would be appreciated. My eyes almost crossed in response. “I have to get to work,” I told him in a calm voice because it was the truth. Sure I was meeting Marc at a house about a mile away from Kulti’s, but he didn’t know that. Also it wasn’t like spending one-on-one time with an ungrateful jerk was at the top of my list of things I wanted to do.

  The look he gave me in response said that he didn’t exactly believe me. At all. For one second, I felt guilty for lying. Then I remembered how I’d tried being friendly with him time and time again and for what? To get snapped at? I didn’t owe him a thing.

  The corners of his mouth tightened and a noticeable deep breath made its way out of lungs that used to carry him across the length of a full-sized soccer field effortlessly. The “please” caught me totally off-guard.

  I faltered. For one split second I faltered, and then I found myself again and reached for the door handle. My attention stayed forward. I almost said I was sorry, but that would be a lie. “I’m sure just about anyone would give you a ride if you asked nicely.”

  A hand that wasn’t my own pressed down on my window, long fingers with short fingernails extended wide, his palm as big as I remembered from our handshake. “I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m not the only person that can give you one. I need to get to work.” I jerked the handle, but the door didn’t budge. At all.

  “Casillas.”

  Holy shit. My name came out of his—

  Poop.

  I glanced at him over my shoulder; this wasn’t a big deal. So he’d said my name when I didn’t think another player’s name had crossed his lips… hell. Ever?

  “I would appreciate it,” his deep voice insisted.

  I didn’t say a word, I just jerked on the handle again.

  His forearm flexed as he held my door down. “I can pay you,” he offered, casually.

  The hell?

  No one in my life had ever offered to give me money for doing them a favor, because it wasn’t necessary. Here was a person who made more money retired than I would in a decade. He had a freaking driver yet, he wanted to pay me to give him a ride.

  Ugh.

  What was I doing? I might feel like a badass right now telling him that I wouldn’t take him home, or wherever he was going, but later on there was no doubt I’d feel like an asshole for not doing a favor that was easily within my reach. I didn’t want to be that person who was an asshole just to be an asshole; it wouldn’t make me any better than this jerk-off.

  I fought the urge to tip my head back and groan; instead I let out a resigned sigh and waved him on. “I’ll take you.”

  Kulti blinked and then quickly nodded, getting in. Wordlessly, I pulled out of the lot and made my way in same direction we’d gone on Friday.

  “Same place?” I asked with only the slightest hint of an attitude in my tone as I pulled onto the freeway.

  “Yes” was his solitary answer.

  All right. This time I did turn on the radio, and I drove quietly to the same house in the same family neighborhood I’d just been in.

  Just as I was pulling over he started shifting in his seat, and I glanced over to see him pulling a slim black wallet out.

  Jesus. I pulled over to the curb in front of the square white stone home. “Don’t.”

  His silence was deafening as he sat there, duffel on his lap, one hand on the car door, and the other holding a slim coffee-colored leather wallet.

  “I’m giving you a ride as a favor. I don’t want your money,” I explained to him carefully.

  He started to pull out a bill from his wallet regardless.

  “Hey, I’m not joking. I don’t want your money.”

  Kulti started to shove a fifty at me. “Here.”

  I reached up and cupped his hand, crushing the bill between us. “I don’t want it.”

  “Take it.” He pushed against me.

  I pushed back. “No.”

  “Stop being stubborn and take the money,” Kulti argued, his face exasperated.

  Well if he thought he was the only one getting aggravated, he was dead wrong. “I said no. I don’t want it. Just get out.”

  It was his turn to start with the one-word replies. “No.”

  Screw this. I put some muscle behind it and slowly started pushing our hands back toward him. Well I made it two inches before he realized what I was doing and then began pushing back, only he was stronger and he advanced more than two inches.

  “Quit it. I’m not joking. Take your money.” I grunted a little, putting more weight into my push, almost futilely.

  Those green-brown eyes flicked up to with an even look that had annoyance written all over it. “I said I would pay you—“

  “I don’t want your money, you hardheaded ass—“

  Oh dear God.

  I stopped pushing the second I realized what I said. It must have been so unexpected that he wasn’t paying attention because the next thing that I knew, he was punching me in the shoulder.

  It didn’t hurt at all.

  But for some reason, instinct had me saying “oww” anyway.

  We both looked like we’d violated the other. Like I’d backstabbed him for saying ‘oww’ and I’m sure I looked at him like I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to hit me. Sure it was an accident, and an accident that didn’t hurt on top of that, but…

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking down at his hand like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

  I opened my mouth and then I closed it.

  Reiner Kulti had just punched me in the shoulder.

  I had driven him home, argued with him over how I didn’t want his mon
ey, and then he punched me in the shoulder.

  I closed my eyes, pinched my nose and burst out laughing.

  “Get outta here,” I said when I started laughing harder.

  “I didn’t mean to—“

  I threw my head back against the headrest and felt myself shake with how stupid this was. “I know. I know you didn’t. But just get out, it’s fine. I need to get to work before you punch me in the other shoulder.”

  “This isn’t funny,” he snapped. “It was an accident.”

  Suddenly I stopped laughing and snapped right back at him, “I know it was, jeez. I was just messing with you.” I gave him a wide-eyed look. “A joke, do you know what that is?”

  I mean, I’d already gone for calling him a hardheaded ass, and he hadn’t thought twice about it, but that might have been because he’d punched me immediately afterward.

  “Yes, I know what a joke is,” he grumbled back.

  Whether it was because I was tired of this shit, his shit or whatever, I found myself caring less and less who he was and how I should probably treat him differently. Maybe not totally, but at least a little bit. “I’m happy to hear that.” I scooped the fifty bucks that had fallen on my lap after the meeting of his fist and my shoulder and tossed it at him. “I really do need to get to work though, so…” I tipped my head in the direction of the door at his side, indifferent to how rude I was being.

  Did he look confused that I was kicking him out? I think so but he didn’t argue, and he took the wadded-up money and held onto it as he got out of the car. Straightening up, he held the door in one hand and looked inside. “Thank you.”

  Finally.

  I blinked at him and nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Just like that, he shut the door.

  * * *

  “Can you confirm that his license is suspended?” the eager man asked.

  I rubbed at my eyebrow with the back of my hand and stared at the reporter awkwardly.

  What I could confirm was that he had an unreliable driver and I had yet to see him behind the wheel. Then again, didn’t rich people have drivers? I’d met a few who did. It wasn’t an uncommon thing. Hell, if I could afford it, I’d have someone drive me around too. Driving in traffic, in Houston traffic, sucked.