Chapter 3
THREE
WESTON
The girl is the size of a pixie—a hot pixie—and her eyes narrow on me with shrewd calculation as I approach.
She’s smart. Clever, to be filming me the way she is.
Clearly not from around here. It’s not just the license plate that’s tipping me off to that. I can feel it on her, even from back here. The aura of adventure. There’s something familiar in it, kindred.
She’s got enough street smarts to be wary of a tall man, significantly larger than she is, who’s got her all alone on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. This is probably the start to a dozen horror movies.
But not in the Heights.
Not even starring two outsiders.
She clearly doesn’t know that though, so it’s my duty—in addition to being a good Samaritan stopping to help her—to disarm her and calm her worries a bit. Poor girl’s probably having a rough fucking day if she’s waving my ass down for help. She doesn’t need to fear for her life while she’s at it.
My ease, my readiness to be upfront about my identity, I think it’s helped smooth a couple of her feathers. Supposing she believes me, that is.
Her dark brown hair, barely past her chin, is full of attitude, just like her face. Wavy, choppy, not quite messy, but fierce all the same. Tiny features, absolutely adorable I’d go so far as to say, if I didn’t think she’d stab me for the compliment, based on the way her face is screwed up as she takes me in. Perfectly straight button nose with a dainty metal ring through the septum. Oversized tan sweatshirt with the logo of a band I love on the front, New York Ave. It’s probably a kid’s size, but it hangs to the tops of her thighs, which are covered only in what looks like tight athletic shorts. Do my best not to be a creep and let my eyes linger beyond the obvious details, like her white sneakers and the stacked necklaces she’s wearing.
It’s her eyes, though, that intrigue me the most. Never seen another pair like ’em. Almost teal in color. A depth to them that is rarer than the shade itself. They call to me more than any other part of her, and that’s saying something with how good the rest of her looks.
When I get close enough she doesn’t have to shout, she responds to my offer of help with the most random three words.
“Van Gogh died.”
Weird pickup line. Dropping hundred-and-fifty-year-old news on a stranger as an opening.
“I heard,” I say dryly. “Someone beat you to giving me that news in, like, fourth grade.”
She pops a hip at me and bites back a chuckle. Taps on her phone to stop the recording, I’m guessing, because then it gets tucked into those tight shorts of hers, and all her attention—all that attitude—is back on me.
“No, my van.” She points one of her arms to the vehicle next to her. “Van Gogh. It died.”
“Oh, yeah, that actually makes more sense.” I nod, bobbing my head.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” The girl—woman—doesn’t ask it like a question she wants me to answer. She says it like it’s a realization, confirmation of something she’d been weighing.
“If I am, I’m the worst one in history. Zero confirmed kills. Not even a single attempt. In fact, they’re going to kick me out of the National Association of Serial Killers soon for just not getting the job done. Apparently, I’m an embarrassment. ‘Bad for the brand.’” I give her air quotes.
“Oof,” she says, not missing a beat. Her face pulls in a way that shouldn’t look as good as it does. But then, full of interest, dry as the sawdust on the floor of my brother’s auto shop, she asks, “Have you tried talking to your NASK union representative? There must be some form of recourse for you, this sounds unjust.”
I give her a one-shouldered shrug and a long, defeated sigh. “They say I’m just not ambitious enough. Little do they know I was just there for the free buffet on the first day, and I only stayed this long for the benefits.”
She puts on an affected, overly concerned tone. “Gosh, what are you going to do now? How will you make ends meet?”
“It’s been rough,” I say with a somber nod of my head. “Had to auction off two of my kids just so I could feed the other seven.”
Her eyes make a run for my left hand—ring-free—and back up to my face, a sparkle in those unique-colored irises.
“Well, if you can help me get my van up and running again, I might be able to throw in a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese for your trouble. Afraid I don’t have much more to offer when it comes to rugrats.”
I give in to the pull, let my eyes rake down her frame for just a beat, before meeting that mysterious gaze once more. “Shame.” It could be my imagination, or maybe it’s the cool dusk air, but I could swear she shivers at the tone I use. “They could really use a new mom, since theirs left me for an ex-con. She told me, and I quote, ‘at least he’s got a record. What have you ever done?’”
Finally, finally , I get a giggle from the girl. She covers her mouth delicately with a few fingers and gives in for just a second before regaining her composure and looking back at me, straight-faced. I shouldn’t be mesmerized by a stranger, a clearly morbid one at that.
What is this impulse I have to lighten her mood?
Why is it any of my business if she laughs or not?
Yet here I am, following her lead, this dark little angel with the morose sense of humor, determined to lighten her burden. Couldn’t tell you what hers is, but I could tell you it’s there. Undoubtedly.
“Maybe today is my lucky day,” I tell her with a hopeful, boyish grin. “Maybe if I can fix your van, I can finally have an accomplishment to my name, and my family will be whole again.”
“Who would I be to stand in the way of that?” the angel asks, a hand on her chest.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I tell her, flashing another smile. It pierces her cool exterior, I see it happen in real time.
This isn’t one-sided. Seeing a visceral reaction like that in a woman I just met—hell, any woman—doesn’t normally send a thrill running through my veins, but that sure just did.
My system must think a fresh scent is in the air for me to chase. It didn’t get the memo that I’m here to help with rearranging her car’s insides, not the beautiful girl’s.
“Please, be my guest.” She waves a hand in offer to the van behind her, and I step over toward it.
“So what’s going on with this Van Gogh?” I ask.
“Everything was going fine, until we passed this other van on the road, and I dunno, I think he started to get jealous or something. Before I knew it, he cut off one of his own side mirrors and threw it at a prostitute we passed back in Florida, and now he’s just a mess.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. She’s funny. Refreshingly so.
“And here I was hoping it was going to be as easy as a flat tire. If your van is having a mental health crisis, this might require a professional.” One side of my mouth tips up at her and she grins back at me.
“I’m just kidding. Van Gogh is female, and she would never deface herself over another van. She doesn’t get into other-van drama. She’s got more self-esteem than that.”
“The energy this world needs in these times,” I say solemnly. “Maybe she could start a podcast and inspire more vehicles to feel good about themselves.”
Her eyes widen before a grin splits her face. “Would you believe that she and I were just discussing her opportunities on the way here? I told her at her age, she’s not going to land a TV gig without getting a new pair of headlights, but she’s still got the presence for a podcast if she hustles. She’s not getting any younger, you know.”
My head falls back as my laugh splits the peaceful night air.
This is certainly somewhere I never saw my first evening back in Smoky Heights going. Any evening in the Heights going. I was already going to check out her van, but now I feel like I owe her more than that for the laughs and the best part of a half hour I’ll probably get for the rest of my stay here.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with her here, and I’ll see if I can’t help you get her back up and running and on your way. Is it a dead battery? Need a jump start? Forget to change your oil? How bad are we talking here?”
Her face pulls into a grimace. “Was I supposed to change the oil?”
“They say every three thousand miles, but it’s a pyramid scheme. You’re probably good for closer to ten, maybe even more on this girl right here if you gave her the good stuff. Don’t tell me you’ve been driving her while she’s thirsty?”
Her eyes narrow on me in a way that’s somehow sardonic. “You really think I roam the country, living out of my van, and don’t know to change the oil? Give me some credit.”
I hold my hands up in innocence.
“Then tell me, darlin’. What are we dealing with?”
She opens the sliding door to the side of the van and steps inside, a clear invitation to follow her. I let out a loud whistle when I duck down and climb the couple of steps to get inside. “Damn. Van Gogh is hot .”
She chuckles, nodding. “And she knows it.”
Granted, I haven’t been in many Sprinter vans that have been outfitted for the van life, but this shit is gorgeous. Natural wood finishes. A small living space, even an area I would refer to as a kitchen, lots of cabinets and hidden storage nooks, some sort of closed off tiny closet or room behind a door, and what is clearly her bed at the back of the van. I bet when you open the back doors, she’s got the best view anyone’s ever had from their bed.
“You live out of her?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says, popping the p .
While I was taking in her setup, she climbed into the open space next to the driver’s seat, and is now watching me from there, expectantly. Being what has to be well over a foot taller than her, it’s not quite as comfortable for me to move about within the van as it clearly is for her, but I make it work, getting to the bucket seat she drives from, and plopping down in it.
“So, she, uh, how do I say this?”
The girl taps her chin with one finger thoughtfully, nose wiggling, and it’s inexplicably cute. She’s gotta be mid or late twenties—she’s jaded enough to be older than that—but her features make her look on the lower end of her twenties.
“She shuddered? And then she didn’t want to go forward anymore, and there was this terrible burning smell.”
“Isn’t that what stroke victims report?”
She levels her turquoise gaze at me and implores me wordlessly.
“Yeah, okay, that doesn’t sound good,” I admit. “Let’s see what happens when I try to crank her up.”
I press the power button without depressing the brake pedal to see if the battery is working, and sure enough, the dash lights up and the electronics start up too.
An orange light catches my eye, and I look at the owner of the van pointedly.
“Your check engine light is on.”
“And aren’t you going to check it?” she asks, somewhere between playful and hopeful.
“Let’s try and start her up first and see what happens then.”
I press the brake pedal and the on button once again, and what happens isn’t good. That smell she warned me about hits, and I turn the thing off.
“Well, I hope it isn’t a stroke, because if so, I’m having one too,” I say dryly.
“Oh God,” she moans, dropping her head into her hands. “This isn’t good, is it?”
“Did you think it was?”
“I’m sort of an optimistic pessimist,” she explains. “I knew it probably wasn’t great , but I still hoped it wasn’t terrible , if that makes sense.”
The little shoulder shrug/head tilt combo she gives as she explains only further endears her to me. Am I under a spell? Should I be checking the van for crystals and shit? I’m pretty sure this girl’s got me wrapped around her finger and she’s not even trying.
For all I know, she could have a boyfriend bigger than me behind that door back there, and he could be waiting to knock me over the head so they can take my debit card and enjoy all fourteen dollars on it. They should’ve caught me tomorrow, once I’m back to work and have some money again.
“All right,” I relent. “Pop the hood for me and bring your phone as a flashlight.”
A couple minutes of rummaging around under the pitifully short beam that her reach allowed and it’s confirmed. The diagnosis isn’t good, and it’s out of my wheelhouse, at least on the side of the road.
A flat tire, I would’ve been your guy. Some extra coolant, or your belt slipped off, coulda been me. This? This is looking a lot more like something major, but I don’t wanna be the one to give her that news.
I wipe my hands off as best I can on my pants, and she runs back inside to grab a hand towel for me and offers that instead. After getting as much off of my forearms and hands as seems possible without hot water and special soap, I let out a heavy sigh.
“Before we go any further, I feel like I’ve already been to second base, maybe third, with Van Gogh, and I still don’t know what to call you. Call me old-fashioned, but where I come from, we learn a girl’s name before we go elbow-deep under her hood.”
The somber tension cracks, and she lets out a little laugh.
“Weston Grady, are you too proper to go any further without a meal or at least a movie?”
“All I need’s a name, darlin’.” Give her a little wink, and it’s pretty dark out right now, but I think I see a flush in those cheeks of hers.
“A—” her eyes flash over my shoulder and I wonder if this is where her boyfriend clubs me over the head. I turn to check, but the coast is clear. Only Van Gogh is watching us. “Amelia.”
“All right, Amelia. Not gonna lie to you. It’s not something I can fix right here. She needs a professional.”
Amelia’s head drops back, and she lets out a little wail that’s too comical to be truly pathetic.
“Just fucking perfect,” she says. “My phone has no service, I’m in the middle of nowhere, and now I’m stuck.”
“Hey now,” I tell her. “You’re not alone out here. I can call a tow truck.”
Her eyes gleam softly at that. “Could you?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m not just gonna leave you out here. They’d revoke my country boy chivalry card. And my phone has service, so there’s a little bit of luck.”
“Ugh.” She drops her head back again, short hair swaying as she does. “Thank you. You’re a lot nicer than most people I’ve met.”
“Hey, don’t get any ideas now. I need that mac’n’cheese for the rugrats. This isn’t philanthropic. It’s transactional.”
A tiny smirk pops out on that captivating face of hers, and she gives me a grateful smile. There’s something soft about her looks, her energy, but there’s sharpness there too. The mix intrigues me.
“Right,” she says. “You get me a tow truck, and I’ll make sure your nine kids get their mac’n’cheese.”
“I’m down to seven, remember?” I correct her.
She nods solemnly. “That’s right. The auction.”
“Lucky for you, and my seven remaining kids, I know a guy who can help you. Let me get ahold of him.”
She nods and puts her hands behind her, resting on her hips in a way that makes her arms stick out to the side as she watches, and waits.
The phone rings, and rings, and rings.
“This is Wyatt. Don’t leave a message.”
I smile at Amelia, then turn around and glare at my phone.
“Don’t do this to me now, you prick,” I whisper, and then redial.
The same message greets my ears.
I call his wife, who answers on the second ring. “Hey West! You get into the house okay? Did the code work?”
“Actually, I need Wyatt. I ran across someone stranded on the road, their Sprinter van broke down. I can’t get ahold of him.”
“Can’t you?” Why do those two words sound like a threat? I think she’s speaking through bared teeth, and not at me.
“Wyatt, it’s your brother .” That word sounded a little dangerous for my liking. “He’s been trying to call you apparently.”
Some muffled noises on the other end of the line before I hear sounds that tell me the phone is passing hands. Maybe forced into a closed fist.
“Yeah?”
Here goes nothing. I screw my face up tight and hold my breath. “I need your help.”