Chapter 5 Olena
OLENA
Ifind myself staring into the fridge Thursday morning, chewing on the inside of my cheek and wishing breakfast could choose, prepare, and clean up after itself.
Wyatt shuffles out of his room to join me in the kitchen.
He’s still in his pajamas and slippers, his rumpled blond hair sticking out at strange angles, pillow creases lining his face.
“Someone’s looking fancy today,” he says, taking in my outfit.
I shut the fridge and look down at my clothes. Shrugging, I smooth down the fabric of my fitted silk blouse. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my cropped dress pants and bite my lip, hoping my appearance hides the stomach-churning anxiety I feel about this new job with Mr. Faulkner.
I scoured the internet last night for images of the property but it remains elusive. With no idea what I’m walking into, I feel uneasy. I shrug again nervously.
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to wear; it’s always tricky to dress business-casual when meeting clients outdoors.
Don’t want to lose a heel in the muck, you know?
” I fidget with my lucky sitka tree pendant.
“I hope I look like a proper, dignified businesswoman,” I add, putting on an air of formality as I do a small twirl.
Wyatt nods appreciatively and approaches me with a contemplative expression.
“What? What is it?” I’m suddenly on the defensive.
“I just…” Wyatt reaches for my hair and pulls it back, holding it up behind my head and letting a few strands fall back down at the front. He leans back a bit to take in the effect.
I frown.
“Hmm. What if you wore your hair pulled up, babe?”
After much contemplation in the mirror this morning, I settled on wearing my hair down, the long brown waves tumbling around my shoulders.
“What? No.” I roll my eyes and swat his hands away before smoothing my hair back down. “It’s fine like this. And don’t call me babe, babe.” I throw him a snarky look.
“Okay,” he says defensively, “I was just thinking, you know, outdoors, big property up on that cliff way out there… I’m seeing wind and I’m seeing that gorgeous hair of yours whipping all around…
” He trails off, squinting at me. “I’m just saying, it might not create the professional je ne sais quoi you’re going for. Babe.”
He winks and I roll my eyes again.
“Well, too late to change it now because I need to get going.” I check the time on my phone and realize I’m cutting it too close. “Shit.”
My stomach twisting, I dash to the door to grab my purse and portfolio.
Wyatt slowly pours himself a coffee and turns to watch me rushing around, scrutinizing my every move.
I stuff my feet into my ankle boots and pat my pockets, muttering to myself as I mentally go over my checklist of things to bring. I grab my coat and scarf off a chair by the door.
He sips his coffee, eyeing me over a mug that reads “Gay and tired” below a sleepy-looking cartoon rainbow.
“Wait, isn’t your car still in the shop?” he asks with a confused furrow of his brow.
“Nat’s letting me borrow her car. Damn it, where are her keys?
” I rummage through my purse frantically, panic rising.
There’s no time to go on a what the fuck have I done with the car keys this time hunt.
I swear, the interior of this purse is a portal to another dimension, and all my belongings have been taken captive in the blackness, evading my desperate clutches.
I walk to the table with my bag and remove the items one by one to help me see what’s left.
Lip balm, tissue packet, wet wipes, two pens, sunglasses…
Wyatt sits down at the kitchen table and puts his feet up on the chair next to him. He stretches out his long limbs and runs a hand through his hair, the picture of relaxation. He watches me with amusement.
“Wow, you still carrying this around?” He picks up my small canister of bear spray, turning it to read the label. He raises his eyebrows at me.
I snatch it back from him. “Yes.”
He gives me a look but says nothing.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Look, ever since the robbery… It just helps me feel safer, okay?” I let out a frustrated groan. “Ugh, where are those keys?” I sweep all my belongings back into my purse with my forearm and scan the apartment.
“You mean those keys?”
I freeze. My eyes snap up to his, then quickly follow his gaze to the nearby counter—where Nat’s keys are sitting in plain sight. Because of course they are. I huff out an exasperated breath, then dive over to snatch them up. I whirl around to leave, jamming them into my pocket.
“Wish me luck!” I call over my shoulder.
“Kisses, vibes, colors and light, babe!” Wyatt croons, raising his voice as I make my hasty escape down the hall.
Pulling onto the highway, I take several breaths in an effort to steady myself after my frenetic exit from our apartment.
Eyes on the road, I reach into the Purse of No Return and feel a crinkle of paper; finally, an object is where it’s supposed to be.
I hold the small note against the top of the steering wheel and squint, my eyes shifting back and forth between the scribbled directions and the highway.
I can’t decide if I enjoy or resent the handwritten directions, but I have no choice but to use them as the rural property wasn’t searchable when I tried using my phone.
“Right on Blackriver Road,” I read out loud, “left on Elmwood Avenue, then right again on Dogwood Road. Follow it all the way up until you see a sign that reads ‘Faulkner’ on your right.”
Okay, I can do this, I think to myself. I am a professional adult, I am good at what I do, and I can take on a big project. Mr. Faulkner—Charles—was so kind so this’ll be fine. I’m fine. This is fine.
The sun is bright but, I notice with mild concern, dark gray clouds are gathering up ahead.
They look ominous. I realize I completely forgot to check the weather forecast before I left this morning.
That would have required foresight, you bonehead, I grouse to myself.
That’s what proper adults do: check the weather forecast and choose sensible attire accordingly.
Not me, apparently. I glance over at the light jacket I brought and frown.
Two quick flashes of bright light in my rear-view mirror pull my attention away from the weather.
I flick my eyes up and see a large, forest green pickup truck following behind me, closer than I’m comfortable with.
From my comparatively low vantage point, I can’t see much other than the front grill.
I frown again, returning my eyes to the road and sliding the wrinkled note paper into the cup holder beside me.
I check my side-view mirror to see if I can get a look at the driver.
The sun is behind us, and I can’t decipher much beyond a vague man shape. I bite my lip and keep driving.
Tiny raindrops pepper my windshield and a shadow quickly envelops the car, as if all the warmth and light suddenly got sucked down an invisible drain. Ah, shit. I turn on the wipers as the rain picks up quickly.
I try to ignore the guy riding my ass, relieved when I see my exit up ahead: Blackriver Road. Good. At least this shithead will get off my tail. I flick on the turn signal.
Seeing his matching turn signal flashing in my mirror, I roll my eyes. What is this guy’s problem? I do not have time for this. As we slow down along the exit ramp, he flashes his lights once more, derailing me again.
“Oh my God, what?” I grit out through clenched teeth. “Why won’t you just pass me already?” I ask out loud, like the empty car will give me an answer.
Some women might get nervous about being followed by a strange man in a dark truck, but I’m so keyed up with nerves already that this guy is straight-up pissing me off. I’ve gone from anxiety mode into anger mode like a video game character getting a power-up.
Huge raindrops splat against my windshield as though a rain cloud from a cartoon is suddenly dumping its contents here and only here.
It’s getting harder to see where I’m going and I click the wipers up to full speed.
Distraction and anger nagging at me, I find myself repeatedly glancing at my mirrors, trying to figure this guy out.
Squinting quick glances at my crumpled-paper copilot, I prepare to make the left on Elmwood. A fresh wave of exasperation hits me when the asshole honks his horn behind me.
Are you kidding me? I am so done with this jackass and I do not need this stress right before arriving at work.
I complete the turn and pull over to the side of the road, fuming.
Readying myself to watch him pass me, I imagine his self-important, big dickhead truck roaring around my inconvenient little car and tearing down the street.
Instead, I’m met with the crunch of gravel as he pulls over behind me.
Shit.
I twist in my seat and scowl over my shoulder. The rain is too intense to see anything through the bleary back window. Turning back around, I take a deep breath and let out a string of profanities as my fingers dig into the steering wheel. Am I really going to have to get out and face this prick?
Muttering to myself, I snatch up my coat, fighting to coordinate arms, sleeves, and my wayward hair within the tiny space between the seat and the steering wheel.
I yank up the hood with a grumble, not bothering to put on my scarf.
I didn’t even bring an umbrella. I can feel the weather forecasters laughing at me.
I swing open the door and heavy rain pelts my thighs. Stepping out and slamming the door in one surprisingly coordinated movement, I whirl around and stalk back toward the truck, my arms out at my sides in the universal sign of “what?” with a hefty side of “the fuck?”
The truck door opens and a large black umbrella emerges, followed by its owner.