Chapter 3 #3
Right on cue, Mr. Jones yells from the other side of the fence surrounding my front yard, “Miss Roberts, your door is not where it should be.” He says it as if we’re not looking at the same door.
“I know, Mr. Jones,” I say, trying to sound as polite as I can. In reality, I would like to grab him by his hair and throw him at the door. Jesus, I’m quite aggressive when I have a hangover. I need to chill before I end up serving a life sentence for multiple murders.
“Do you need someone to fix it?” This time he has a different tone. He sounds sincere, almost worried.
“Probably,” I murmur.
“My son can fix it for you.” Mr. Jones doesn’t wait for an answer; he shouts for his son instead, “Alex, come here, son.”
A man in his thirties, whom I have seen twice in the four years I have lived here, appears from inside Mr. Jones’s house.
“What do you need, Dad?” Alex looks like he had a rougher night than I did, and for a moment, I consider any other option than having him fix the door.
“We’re late,” Noah whispers, low enough for only me to hear.
I can’t afford to leave the house open, so I muster my best flirty tone and smile as I walk to the fence.
“Hey, Alex. I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Rachel.
” I smile and offer my hand for him to shake, which he does with a nod.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I continue.
“I wouldn’t usually do this without notice, but as you can see, I ran into a little problem with my door. ”
“It’s hard not to see,” Alex murmurs, looking at the door.
I ignore his snarky comment and continue with my smile and flirtation.
Eyes on the prize, Rachel; we need that door fixed.
“Would it be too much trouble to fix it?” I smile wider and flutter my eyelashes.
“I’ll pay you.” I can’t afford to pay him, but I don’t seem to have any other options unless I can glue the door with builder gel, which I’m pretty sure won’t work anyway.
“How about you cook me dinner when you get back from work?” he offers, and I should have known this would go in that direction from the way he’s looking at me.
I take a second look at him. He’s good-looking and doesn’t seem to talk much.
I guess paying him with dinner isn’t the worst thing that could happen, and it’s not like I have anyone better to entertain.
I smile. “Deal.” I toss him the keys to the door.
“Your father has my phone number. Lock the door when you’re done and text me what you would like for dinner.
” I turn to my friend. “Let’s go, Noah.” I toss the car keys his way and move toward the passenger side.
“See you tonight, Alex,” I say as I open the door to get inside.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I truly appreciate the help,” I add, even though the old man probably caused me more trouble.
But at this point, it’s not like I have other options.
I need to get to work, and I can’t just leave with my door wide open.
“You’re a terrible cook,” Noah says loud enough for both Mr. Jones and Alex to hear him.
I smile politely, trying to dismiss the asshole I call my best friend.
“Don’t listen to him. I’m a great cook. He’s just a little upset today; didn’t sleep well, you see.
” I lie through my teeth, and Noah looks ready to burst into laughter, barely holding himself together.
“I’ll see you tonight. Thank you again,” I call out one last time.
“You’re driving,” I tell Noah, who’s standing next to the driver’s seat with the door open, looking like he saw a ghost. I bet he’s wondering why I have the van in my driveway.
It’s the salon van. We use it when we have to get inventory, and yesterday was my turn to do that.
I never returned it, so now it’s our only option.
“I figured as much.”
Did you now, Noah? He doesn’t move, and I stare at him from the passenger seat.
“Please tell me this isn’t the white van Biker Boy was talking about.” That’s what he’s thinking.
I lower the window to allow air into the car. “The very same. Now get inside. We’re going to be late.”
“Who the fuck uses a car with their work logo to kidnap someone?” he murmurs as he gets in the driver’s seat.
“I think we established that I didn’t think things through before I decided to catch him,” I point out, but he shakes his head in disappointment.
“You mean before you decided to kidnap him,” Noah points out.
“Rachel, how are you going to explain to Danielle when the cops come asking what you’ve been doing with her van?
” he questions, but that’s not something I worry about.
This guy won’t go to the police; that’s for sure.
He wouldn’t text me if he were going to report me.
Besides, he truly doesn’t seem like someone the cops would be fans of.
He probably has his own issues to worry about that have nothing to do with me or my criminal activity.
“I’m sure we won’t see him again, and he will most definitely not be going to report me to the cops,” I say with confidence. “So, stop worrying and start driving.” He doesn’t argue. Instead, the van starts to move, and I close my eyes, finally having a moment of silence.