Falling In (3 page)

Her legs wobbled beneath her, pins and needles attacking her foot. Gasping, she caught her weight on the desk. He was very close and the scent she had picked up on in his closet was now intensified and heated by the warmth coming off his body.

“What does that say?” he barked and jammed his finger to a note scribbled on a slip of paper sitting in the center of the desk.

Scout stared at it, hating the cryptic cursive letters. She thought the first letter was a
D
and then an
O
. After that she couldn't tell. She may have detected a
T
, but there were too many letters she still didn't recognize.

Finally he snapped, “
Do not touch the desk!”
He enunciated each word with a stab of his long, thick finger on the note. “If I took the time to leave you instructions not to touch my personal items on my desk, what makes you think I'd be okay with you rifling through my paperwork?”

Scout gasped as he ripped the pages out of her hand.

“Sir, I—”

“You're not Bridget. Where's Bridget?”

She needed to get this guy to not freak out. If he told Tamara, she might wind up getting suspended or worse, fired. This guy couldn't submit a complaint with her managers or she might lose her job.

“I'm sorry, Bridget called out today. I'm new. I didn't mean to touch your desk, but I accidentally knocked over a pile of papers.”

A piece of ice settled in his glass and she jumped as she waited for him to speak. She wasn't usually this skittish around others. Long ago she had mastered keeping her emotions behind an iron expression of indifference, but she was completely out of her element in the presence of this man. She'd observed his wealth and power firsthand by simply admiring the world he existed in, and Scout had never been more aware of her insignificant position in this life.

His cold black eyes scrutinized her dress and gazed dispassionately at her too-large sneakers. He frowned.

Scout batted away a wisp of windblown hair that had fallen loose and accidentally knocked her paper bonnet askew. Righting it quickly she said, “If you'll just let me collect my belongings I'll be out of your way.”

He stepped aside, not providing much space for her to pass, and waved his hand for her to be gone. He was broad and daunting, hulking in his power suit over her slight form.

“By all means,” he purred. “Please remove your things.”

Scout scurried past him like a mouse running for its life. Her hands shook as she gathered the vacuum cleaner and wound the cord over its handle. Very aware of him watching her, when her shoe caught on the thick tread of the carpet she whimpered, but kept moving.

She couldn't remember where she left her basket of supplies. Frantically she searched the surrounding area.

“Looking for something?” He glared at her, his arms crossed over his wide chest, stretching the sleeves of his crisp silk shirt. When her gaze reluctantly met his, she froze.

“M-my basket. I forget where I left it,” she stuttered, hating the way her voice wavered.

“Perhaps you left it with more of my personal items.” His clipped accusation had the effect he'd intended.

Shame and fear for her transgression choked her. Scout's eyes suddenly spotted the basket of supplies beside his desk.
Shit
.

Knowing she couldn't leave the items, she pulled back her shoulders and met his gaze with as much bravado as she could fake.

“Sir, I'm sorry I disturbed your things. I didn't see your note, but I assure you it won't happen again.” Her eyes glanced at the basket on the floor pointedly and he followed her gaze.

He looked back at her but said nothing, and Scout had the sense he was daring her to retrieve her things. Her lips twitched nervously at the challenge in his eyes.

She was outmatched. Quickly, she brushed past him and collected her items. He didn't make room for her to pass and she again found herself cornered behind his desk. The gaping glass view made her feel as though she were on a plank suspended high above the city, being backed into her death by a formidable pirate.

“Whom do you report to?”

Scout's heart sunk to her knees and she quickly blinked back the sharp sting of tears. Her voice cracked. “Tamara Jones, sir.”

His eyes moved over her face and she took his inspection as her penance, lowering her gaze to the floor. She needed this job. In that moment Scout let go of all her stubborn principles, realizing she would do anything to keep it.

The touch of his fingers below her chin caused her breath to quicken. His large hand tipped her face up so that her gaze met his. His glare narrowed as he inspected her.

She felt naked under his watchful eyes.

“What did you say your name was? Skip?”

“Scout, sir. Scout Keats.”

“And how long have you worked at Patras Hotel, Scout Keats? I don't recall seeing you here before.”

“Two weeks.”

He nodded. “Are you new to the Folsom area?”

“No, sir. I've lived here my whole life.”

His fingers tightened on her chin and turned her face to the left. “You have very unusual eyes, Ms. Keats. How old are you?”

His question caught her off guard. She had always known her eyes were unique. Against her dark brown lashes, the blue irises appeared almost white. Witch eyes, Parker called them. Once she tried disguising them with a makeup pencil she had found, but their glasslike color within the dark ring only became more startling.

“I'm twenty-seven,” she lied. Adding five years to her actual age seemed necessary, like those five imaginary years could somehow protect her against this superior being.

Scout shifted her feet, the weight of her basket becoming awkward in her hands. The motion attracted his attention. He looked down at her burden and suddenly released her face and stepped back as if the collection of cleaning products worked as a reminder of her situation. Peasant in the presence of royalty. Recalling his balcony, she decided it was more a throne than anything else. She imagined him holding court there as all of Folsom gazed up at him.

“You may go.”

His sudden dismissal had her gaining control of her faculties, and in a split second she rushed toward the penthouse door. Quickly setting the basket there, she returned the sweeper to the supply closet. He followed her at a distance, watching her as if to make sure she didn't steal anything. Scout didn't make eye contact. She simply kept her gaze lowered to the ground and collected her items and left.

On the ride down to the next floor she regretfully accepted that this might be her last day at the hotel. Likely the man would submit a complaint about her to Tamara and they would care more about keeping the in-house billionaire pleased than keeping their homeless new housekeeper employed. This paycheck would have to last.

Chapter 2

The Tracks

Stepping out of the pawnshop where she had her check cashed, Scout walked directly to the gas station across the street. Once inside the public restroom, door locked, she deposited her bag on the rusty sink. Her fingers rifled through the wad of soft money in her hands and her heart raced. Counting slowly, focusing on her numbers, Scout formed four piles of one hundred dollars and recounted each to be sure.

Once certain she was given the right amount she folded each stack tightly. Each faded green pile sat neatly on the tank of the toilet. Inside her bag she found her jeans, regular shoes that fit, a hooded sweatshirt, and her money belt. Stripping out of her uniform, she folded it as best she could so that it wouldn't be wrinkled in the morning.

After strapping the belt tightly around her ribs, she inserted three of the piles into the zipper compartment. Pulling on her jeans, Scout divided the remaining hundred dollars into four stacks, slipping a stack deep in each denim pocket. Once dressed, her hands compulsively checked that her money was secure.

Parker would be waiting for her. There were only two hours until curfew, but she needed to find Pearl before she returned to the shelter. If she didn't make it in time, she'd have to sleep at the tracks, which wasn't something she enjoyed doing, especially with four hundred dollars on her person, but she couldn't go back without taking care of Pearl.

The sun never made it through the haze that day. The blustery autumn wind chased litter along the back roads of Folsom beneath the webbing of vapor-bloated clouds. Past the point of beauty, brown leaves clogged the gutters and pathways. As she turned deeper into the forgotten crannies of the city, signs of life showed less and less.

Decrepit planks of pavement made up broken sidewalks. Faded abandoned buildings created the backdrop for graffiti. Barbed-wire fences formed treaty lines separating frightened drivers who accidentally lost their way from those hiding from the world.

Cutting directly to the hidden section of fence that'd been previously ripped from its poles, she lifted the heavy chain-link sheet, rolling under the sharp edge. Striding quickly and with purpose, Scout kept an eye on her surroundings and favored the fastest route to the tracks.

The scent of burning trash and sulfur from the nearby refineries irritated her sinuses. A cold trickle ran toward her lip from her nose. She brushed it away and hoisted herself onto the ledge of a loading dock outside of an abandoned warehouse. Lowering to her belly, she rolled under the metal garage door propped open by a cinderblock.

The vacant mill was silent, but Scout could detect the signs of life, never forgetting those who wished to remain unseen were watching her. Stowed belongings were stashed in secreted corners, secured by makeshift safeguards serving only to bring peace of mind, but lacking any real purpose.

A man wearing a belt of water bottles filled with various fluids rocked in a shadowed nook. He spoke to an emaciated cat as he tended to a small fire built between four bricks. Something cooked within the coffee can resting above the flame. He paid her no mind and she reciprocated in kind.

Sallow eyes followed her. Dirty faces turned as she made her way deeper into the belly of the abandoned mill. The scent of rotting life and urine forced her to breathe through her mouth. The farther Scout traveled, the darker her surroundings became. Boards covered windows, showing only the tiniest slice of light. Occasionally, a broken windowpane permitted a burst of light, a beam no wider than a finger width, but it was too dim to depend on. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Needles and crack pipes marked the way to the more populated quarters. Recognizing the familiar ductwork at the entrance of a long passage, a sense of unpleasant nostalgia filled her. Home.

The stench of fecal matter made her eyes water. The glow of a flickering flame bounced like a strobe past the last door in the vacant hall. The quiet mumblings echoed like a child playing alone, whispering over dolls or imaginary friends. Scout entered the chamber.

Pearl sat huddled on a flattened cardboard box sorting through a torn plastic bag filled with crushed cans. Quiet, incoherent words whispered past her cracked lips as she took inventory of her treasures. A sharp sadness had Scout swallowing hard. Pearl's gaunt, jaundiced flesh hung off of her protruding cheekbones. It had become almost impossible to equate the pretty woman from Scout's childhood memories with the woman crouching before her now.

“Momma?” Pearl hugged her belongings defensively and scowled at her. It hurt, waiting for her mother to recognize her. “Momma, it's me.”

“Scout?” Pearl grinned, cracked lips stretching over gray gums. “Oh, you should see all the goods I scouted out today. Traded a can of fruit for this here sock. What you got for me, Scout?”

Scout reached into her bag and pulled out a small jug of milk, a half pound of sliced turkey, a handful of bananas, and four cans of stew. Pearl cooed and greedily took the bounty.

“Good, good,” she mumbled as she eyed the door and quickly stowed the food out of sight, keeping a banana and peeling it back.

Scout sat on the edge of her mother's pallet and rifled through her bag. “I also got you these, Momma.” She dropped a collection of half-used shampoos and bars of soap from Patras.

She picked up a bottle and frowned. “What is it?”

“Soap.”

Pearl tucked it away in the corner and continued to eat her banana, quietly singing over each bite.

“I'm going to bring you more stuff tomorrow. Do you need anything specific?”

“I need a hit.”

Scout sighed. The life of a heroin addict was a never-ending cycle of scavenging for that next fix and strategizing ways to secure it. Finishing the banana, Pearl tossed the skin into a pile of odorous compost in the corner. Flies and maggots terrorized the new addition.

“How much do you have left?” Scout asked wearily.

“A bit. Hank'll be back tomorrow. I can get some from him.”

“Don't do that, Momma. I'll give you the money.”

There was no use not giving her the money for a fix. Pearl couldn't make it more than a few days without it and she'd do anything to get it.
Anything
. Scout's lectures about sharing needles and sexual favors had fallen on deaf ears, and Hep C was the only competition heroin had in the race to end her mother's life. Her gaze purposefully avoided the slavered candle in the corner next to the filthy spoon.

“I gotta go, Momma.” Pearl never asked about her job or where she got her money. She was too far gone in a world of her own. “It's almost dark.”

“How come you don't bring your friend?”

“Parker's at the shelter.”

“He treatin' you good?”

“You know it isn't like that between Parker and me, Momma.”

She gave her a look of skepticism. “He reminds me of your daddy. You bring him back here with you next time.”

“I will.”

Scout nodded and wearily stood. Some days it was so hard not to take her mother into her arms and hug her the way she used to. It'd been years since Pearl let her touch her like that, like a daughter. It was for the best, considering her health.

“I'll be back tomorrow night, Momma.”

Leaving the mill, Scout's energy abandoned her. Streetlights flickered above as she slowly headed back to the shelter. Her cold fingers shook and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her hair as the bitter wind snuck down the collar of her shirt. Thoughts of the day played through her mind and she tried not to worry about what would come tomorrow. Scout still wasn't sure if she had a job to return to in the morning.

By the time the black silhouette of St. Christopher's showed in the distance, her hunger pangs had converged into a dull throb. She spotted Parker's tall form in the shadows before stepping onto the cracked pavement of the old church's courtyard. He pushed off the wall and met her by the broken steps of the shelter.

“You went to see Pearl.” It wasn't a question. Parker wasn't her keeper, but he liked to pretend he was.

“I needed to drop her off some things. She wants you to come with me tomorrow.”

“You're going back?”

“Yes.”

There was no need to explain that she'd gotten paid and wanted to bring Pearl more supplies. It was none of his business. She'd be going back with or without him. Like Pearl and her reckless lifestyle, Scout could be unbending too.

“You almost didn't make curfew, Scout. You can't keep going there this late at night.”

“If I miss curfew I'll just stay there.”

He stilled and then quickly caught back up to her as she pulled the heavy door to the church open. Her muscles were tired and weak, begging for a break. “I think you should only go there on the days you don't work. It isn't safe to go there when it's dark.”

“I grew up there, Parker.”

No matter the years Parker had been on the streets, he'd never fully understand what it meant to be born there, to never have any other option or never know what it might be like to have a roof over your head no one could take from you. His background was very different than Scout's. The streets of Folsom were all she'd ever known.

He'd long ago given up asking why her mom couldn't stay in the shelter and she was grateful he had. Scout rarely took the time to explain herself, but Parker was her friend. He worried. It was easier when he accepted this was the way it would be, and his opinions wouldn't change what was.

They walked into the church and down into the basement. The scent of stew and boiled carrots had her cramps returning with a vengeance.

“I'll go with you,” he said as he held the door for her.

The subdued chatter of the residence greeted them. Following Parker to the line of people, she secured her bag over her shoulders and lowered her hood. They each grabbed a tray.

“You don't have to,” she told him as they followed the sluggish line.

Parker's eyes focused on the new resident three spaces ahead of them. He was an older tan-skinned man whose left eye never moved. The man had stared at them the entire time they ate the night before, and Parker already decided to hate him.

“Ignore him, Parker.”

“I don't like the way he leers at you.”

“He's harmless.”

Moving through the slop line, they filled their trays with potatoes, rolls, wilted salad, and what looked to be beef stew. Parker followed her to the end table where they sat and ate in silence. Scout tucked her roll in her bag at her feet for lunch tomorrow. The potatoes were flavorless and too mushy to cut. Gently scooping one into her mouth, she chewed as her cheek stretched over the boiled tuber.

“How was work?”

The watery potato disappeared down her throat with little flavor to herald its journey. “Good, but I might've gotten in trouble today.” They ate in silence for several minutes, food taking precedence over all else.

Once their plates were mostly clean, Parker asked, “What happened?”

Scout's fork scraped the last of her stew into the crease of her bowl, hoping to get one last bite. Her stomach was already cramping with fullness, but she couldn't waste the warm sustenance.

“I had to do the penthouses today because the girl who usually does it was out. There're people who actually live in there. Can you believe that? The place I cleaned was so luxurious you would've pissed yourself, Park. It was insane.”

“So how did you get in trouble?”

Parker never commented on her references to others' wealth anymore. He found it unimpressive, whereas Scout found it fascinating how rich people lived. He'd constantly told her that her standards were screwed up, and people like them shouldn't fixate over a life they'd probably never have. She didn't see it that way. There was no predicting what the future could bring.

“Well, I accidentally knocked over some papers and of course the guy who lived there walked in the moment I was picking them up. I don't know what he does for a living, but whatever it is I'm pretty sure he's good at it. He was terrifyingly powerful.”

Parker scowled, his soft green eyes taking on a menacing glare. “How so?”

“Just in the way he carried himself. Even his shoes were intimidating. He was tall and handsome and rich. I think he thought I was snooping. He sort of cornered me and gave me an inquisition.”

“Did you tell him to go fuck himself?”

Scout rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Parker, I told the billionaire to fuck himself. Are you nuts? I need this job.”

“There're other jobs, Scout. You don't need to take any crap from some self-important asshole. You should've told your boss if you felt threatened.”

“I didn't say he threatened me. He just intimidated me. It doesn't matter. I'll probably never see him again. I may not even have a job in the morning. Whatever was on those papers, he seemed pretty protective of.”

Parker was no longer listening to her. She followed his gaze, and the older man who'd been watching them the night before was leering at her again. Scout sighed and stacked her dishes. “Let it go, Parker.”

“I don't like him.”

“He knows.”

Following supper they walked over to the old school. Parker headed to the men's bathroom and Scout visited the ladies' room. Once she used the toilet, she went to the sink and unraveled a bar of Patras soap. After scrubbing her hands and face vigorously and picking any flecks of dirt from under her nails, she took a wet washcloth into the stall to clean her body. Changing her pants and underwear, Scout shifted all her money into her money belt and tightened it around her ribs. Her belongings were stuffed back in her bag and she headed to the girls' quarters.

Selectively, she pulled a mat from the pile, discarding the stained one at the top of the heap, and carried it to the far corner. The echo of a baby crying from the family quarters overwhelmed the silence.