Seducing Fortune (A Serendipity Novel Book 3) (23 page)

I grab my keys, jump out, and run to the door. My clothes are plastered to me, and I’m chilled now due to the air conditioning we keep at arctic levels. I try to visualize where I’d be if I were a first aid kit. Yep. We probably don’t own one.

In the upstairs bathroom, I rummage through the drawers in hopes of finding a bandage. I grab hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth. I’m down the stairs and going to the door when I realize I didn’t shut it completely.

“Hey, Guy?” Veronica stands in the partially open doorway. She looks vulnerable—hair plastered to her head and wet clothes molded to her body. “Can I use your bathroom? I wouldn’t ask, but I really need to go.”

It’s no longer hailing, but the rain and wind continue. I hesitate for a second. She’s a seemingly helpless girl, but I’m certain there’s been a show on Dateline that covers not letting crazy girls you’ve picked up on the side of the road into your house.

“Sure.” I point to a narrow hallway beside the stairs.

She makes her way inside, halts on the ceramic tile entry, and points at the washcloth. “You have a paper towel? I don’t want to ruin your stuff.”

I jog to the kitchen and grab a handful of paper towels. “Here.”

She bends down to swab her ankle and I notice her arms. Purple bruises dot the outsides, and there’s one on her upper arm that looks as if it was left by three fingers.

Veronica lifts her head and catches my gaze. Her mouth tightens into a small, mad circle, daring me to call her on it. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I say. Her reaction tells me more than words ever could.

She gives me a poisonous glare through her wet strands of hair. Her lips part and her eyes shoot daggers. It’s like she wants me to say something. If looks could kill, hers would have sliced me open and let my intestines hang out. Finally, she drops her gaze. “I’ll be a second,” she mutters.

I nod once rather than speak. She’s got the look of a commuter with road rage—ready to run over the next driver who pisses her off.

Hmm… Been there, done that.

I grab some clean towels from the laundry room and rub one over my face. I take the rest out to my car and spread them over the damp seats.

Quit thinking about those bruises.

I’m ready at the door when she finally comes out. Her hair is swept back from her face. Clear blue eyes framed by long, thick lashes study me.

With her lack of makeup and cotton shirt molding to every curve, she’s a picture of innocent farm girl meets lingerie model. It alarms me that some lecher could’ve picker her up.

She holds out her hand and for a second, I’m confused.

“Peroxide?” she says.

“Oh, yeah. Here you go.”

She bends again with some tissue from the bathroom in her hand and pulls her muddy jeans up to expose the cut. It’s a deep gash and a fine stream of blood runs down her skin.

“You need stitches. I mean, it looks pretty bad to me.”

“No. It’s fine.” She lifts her head.

“I don’t have bandages here.”

Veronica shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

I can’t quit looking at the bruises on her arms. Definitely finger marks.

“I get hurt all the time.” She glances down at her left arm as if to acknowledge the damage. “Call me clumsy.” Her self-deprecating smile spears my chest.

The thick silence physically bears down on me. “So,” I finally say. “Bus station.”

“That’d be great. Thank you.” Veronica smiles, one corner of her mouth tipping up.

“After you.” I hold open the door and walk out behind her. She’s probably close to my age. I cannot take my eyes off the marks on her arms.

We do an awkward jockeying around the passenger door. After a second, she realizes I’m opening it for her and she blushes. “Oh. You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah. I do. It’s called good manners.”

Veronica blushes deeper. “Well, you’re nice and all.” She gets in and I close the door, unintentionally making her jump.

I slide into the driver’s seat. “Where are you taking a bus trip to?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You are taking a bus somewhere, right?”

“Can I have a ride or not?”

“Hey, no problem.” I raise my hands defensively. “Just trying to help.” Maybe I didn’t give her enough credit for being smart. She shouldn’t tell a stranger where she’s going.

“I appreciate the ride. I’ll give you money.” She unzips her bag and pulls out a change purse that reminds me of my grandmother. Veronica twists the gold clasp at the top and peers inside.

“No. I don’t need your money.”

Her eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “My money not good enough for you?” She turns her face to the window and crosses her arms across her chest.

“If I wanted your money, I’d ask you fix my bumper.”

The rain slacks in a sudden reprieve. I reverse the car and try not to think about why she was walking earlier. She obviously has no one to call. Not. My. Problem.

My urge to help her, fix her, know her … is a dangerous one. I can’t get involved.

Traffic is nonexistent, as though everyone is taking shelter. I turn the stereo up to combat the silence of the ride.

She watches the numbers on the stereo display when I punch the button to scan through stations. I stop when a weather bulletin comes on and listen with an uneasy feeling. We’re under a tornado watch and it sounds as though the weather’s going to be bad for much of the day and night.

“You from around here?” I ask.

“No.”

“Okay. Are you having your car towed somewhere?”

“No.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

She turns to face the window.

“Veronica? Want to use my phone to call somebody about the car?”

“No. I’ve taken care of it.”

Crazy chick indeed. I resist the urge to ask more questions.

“You have a nice car.” Veronica’s small voice accuses me.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Sorry if I messed up your seats and stuff. You’ve been really nice.”

“Not a problem.”

“Really.” Then she turns to me. “I appreciate it.”

I give her a dismissive nod. I don’t want her gratitude or her problems. I moved from Chicago so I could start fresh—minus the problems of people who need and demand and deceive. I’ve left those people behind.

V
eronica

My feet make wet rubbery sounds as I wiggle my toes in the sneakers. The rain has started again and the guy—Collin—keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead. The luxury car is spotless except for the wet stains he’ll never get out of the floor mats. There’s a spot of blood where my hurt ankle dripped on the car mat, and I rub my foot over it wishing I could make it blend in to the fibers. This makes the spot worse, a rusty swirl of color in the beige fibers of the mat. I slide both feet over the damning evidence.

“Are we almost there?” Although I’ve never held a cigarette between my lips, my voice holds a raspy smoke-a-pack-a-day quality.

“A few more miles west.”

We come to an intersection and stop at a red light. Collin has both hands on the wheel at ten and two. A black, expensive-looking watch adorns his left wrist and a tattoo winds from under the watchband to disappear into his shirt sleeve. I can’t read the words, the script scrawled in small letters.

A rich guy with a tattoo. I hold back a snort. He must think it’s a fashion statement, like the watch. He looks damp and wrinkled due to his stint in the rain, but his clothes still say money. A tiny emblem sewn above the breastbone says his shirt costs more than my entire outfit plus shoes.

Rich boy driving a luxury car. I glance down at the stains I’ve caused and stifle a groan. I hate ruining things.

First the outside of his car, now the inside. Murphy’s Law rules my life now. I might as well get used to it.

He maneuvers the car into the empty lot and shifts into PARK. “Well, this is you.”

“Oh. Umm … thanks.” I swing the car door open wide and hesitate. The rain is lightly falling as I hop out. I don’t attempt to shield myself since I’m already drenched.

“Veronica?”

I pause while holding the edge of the door and turn to look into the car.

“Good luck.”

I give him the briefest of nods and slam the door before taking off in a run for the front of the bus station, my duffel bag slamming against my right hip.

The inside of the building is quiet. I count seven people waiting in orange plastic chairs lined along the walls. My wet shoes
shloop, shloop, shloop
with each step to the seat nearest the door.

I don’t make my way to the ticket window immediately. There’s no need.

I sit with my hands folded in my lap and close my eyes. I learned how to meditate from a DVD I borrowed from the local library back home in Shelby City. The librarian knows me by name and always orders anything I request since I’m no trouble and her most loyal customer.

Homesickness washes over me in an unexpected wave. I’m not far from home, but one state over isn’t far enough. I never dreamed I’d leave for the reason I have.

My mind clears with an effort and I begin to focus on the visual I’ve prepared for calming myself. The image, each pixel a vibrant shade of blue, sharpens in my head. Ocean water laps the sugar-white shore of the beach. White caps peak in the distance. Each roll of the waves moves like a kiss of tranquility.

I’ve never actually visited the ocean. This doesn’t stop my mind from intimately knowing the vivid colors. The salty smells. The peaceful sounds.

A place I might belong if I can ever get there.

“Miss?” A voice breaks into my meditative state and destroys it instantly. The rupturing reality descends again as the face of a middle-aged man appears in front of me.

He wears a blue and white-striped T-shirt, and I can’t help picturing a sailor from the picture books I had as a kid. A stale, musty odor clings like a cloud around him. The hairs on the back of my neck tingle in warning.

“What?” I scoot back in my seat to put some distance between us.

“Are you all right?” The stranger’s hand settles on my knee.

My flinch does nothing to deter him. A telltale shudder ricochets down my spine. “I’m fine. Would you take your hand off me?”

He gives a friendly and altogether creepy smile and pulls his hand back. “You looked like you might be having an episode. Can I get you a candy bar or something?”

There’s a smudge across one side of his black-framed glasses and a crusty residue coats the corner of the same side. Creepy doesn’t even touch the vibe he gives off.

“I’m fine. I was resting. Not having an episode or whatever you said.”

“My grandmother is a diabetic. Her sugar levels fall, and you had that look.”

“No.” I glance around to see if there’s anyone watching. His foot bumps mine as he inches closer. The man uses two fingers to push against the right side of his glasses. No wonder he has the perpetual smear across the lens.

“You seem to be alone here. I know how it is to be alone. A young, pretty girl like you should be careful because you never know—”

“I’m not alone.” My gaze wanders to the ticket window. I grab my wet duffel bag and rise in a quick move to get away from the guy.

I take a step to the left and he moves left. I move right and he matches it.

“Excuse me,” I say, resisting the urge to run.

“I think you need a friend.” The man drops his hand to the strap of my bag before I can back away.

I turn my head to look pointedly at his hand. “I’m not going to tell you again—”

“She’s with me.” The deep voice comes out of nowhere. It’s Collin. I’m so relieved I smile before I can stop myself. “Come on,” he says and nods toward the doors. “The car’s out front.”

There’s a lump stuck in my throat—a lump of gratitude, of shame, or of relief—I don’t have to name it to know I’m going to feel I owe him something. This is not a position I want to be in at the moment.

The man wearing the blue and white striped shirt makes eye contact with me before he does a weird double eyebrow raise like he questions my choice of leaving with Collin.

Really, Weirdo? “Yes. Please.” I hurry to the door and Collin steps to open it for me. It’s an awkward thing—having someone open a door for you when you’re not expecting it. I move back so the door won’t whack me in the face.

Before I can over think what may happen next, I’m following him out the exit. My steps slow.

Collin looks mighty good to me. When I was little, Mama always had a saying about watching out for things that look too good to be true.

He’s five yards ahead when he turns. His eyebrow arches, giving me a prompt for an explanation. “Coming?”

I shake my head. “Why did you come back?”

Collin lifts his right hand. He holds my change purse. It’s lightweight and worn, a black smudge marring the side facing up. “You must’ve dropped this in my car.”

I stumble in my enthusiasm to grab the pink purse from him and regain my balance at the last second. “Thanks for bringing it.” A flush heats my face.

He holds the wallet up high and then lowers it. “Not so fast.”

“Hey. Give it to me.”

“I happen to know you don’t have enough in here to buy a ticket across town.”