Chapter 5
But he can’t leave
Dina
Ichange into my scrubs because I bet the hospital will call me in this evening. I work an as-needed shift in admission in the ER. Tris got me the job when I told her about my divorce. She’s twice divorced, so I didn’t need to explain why I need the extra cash.
Lawyers charge an arm and a leg by the hour. I probably should’ve continued studying law.
I pause by my vanity and decide to replace my earrings.
On my way out of the bedroom, I thread my (fake) bunny rabbit tail earrings through the first holes in each of my ears.
I have three holes in my left ear and five in my right, but I seldom fill them anymore.
Sometime in my late twenties, I got tired of wearing lots of jewelry in my ears.
I’m into bracelets, whenever I remember to stack them on my wrist.
I pile my blue-and-burnt-orange stacks on my wrists now. Wait, where was I going? Oh yeah, to check the fridge and make sure I have enough to make dinner for two.
In the kitchen, I discover I have barely enough meat for myself. At least I have salami and cheese for two sandwiches for lunch. I’m pretty hungry.
I close the fridge door and yelp.
“Gosh, you’re quiet,” I tell my houseguest, who just appeared there as if by magic.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Well, you are.”
“If you say so.” The man sits on the bar chair and picks up the remote control, then turns up the volume on the news.
I grab a jar of pickles. “Already thirty-seven people have been reported injured. Over a hundred arrested. They won’t say how many dead.” I eat a pickle. “You think Massio Crossbow is one of them?”
The man shrugs. “I don’t know.” He navigates to the settings on the screen, turns on captions, then mutes the TV. He spins on the bar chair and faces me, his gaze dropping to my sandwich. He might be hungry.
“I can make you one of these,” I offer.
“Thanks. I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s a weird thing to say.” After putting the bread on a plate, I stack salami on top of cheese. “You like mustard?”
“No.”
“Mayo?”
“No.”
“What do you like?”
“Walking with my ankle intact. You?”
I chuckle. “My phone. I like my phone.”
A corner of his lips turns up. “I told you I can fix your phone.”
I hold out a plate with a sandwich and a pickle on the side. He’s watching the TV and not paying attention to me, and I pause for a moment to admire his profile.
He cleans up nicely. His jaw is hard and strong, and his nose is straight. His hair is too short to tell the color, but I’m pretty sure he’s a natural blond or at least a light-brown-headed man.
I avert my gaze, feeling awkward about checking him out. If my daughter were straight, she could date him. He’s a few years her senior.
“When is your shift?” he asks since I’m wearing scrubs.
“I’m on call whenever they need me.”
“I’ll pay you more to stay.”
I laugh. “You’re a funny guy.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“I won’t take your money for a sandwich, and I definitely won’t let you pay me to stay.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
I wipe my hands. “Listen, I let you stay in my daughter’s room because I can’t deal with a court day where an injured man says how I ran him over.
Even though I was there for a house call for my client, who happened to be staying at the Crossbow mansion, just having been in the vicinity will raise suspicions that my lawyer will have to fight in court with my ex.
And every time my lawyer fights with my ex, I have to shell out a stack of bills as thick as my thigh.
” I bite into my sandwich. He’s not eating yet. “You’re lucky I’m keeping you.”
He opens his mouth and shoves half the sandwich inside, bites, and rips it into two. Eyes on me, he chews. Okay, the way he’s looking at me makes me want to get on my knees and pray for mercy. I should probably make him another sandwich. Or five. Or I could turn down the sass.
Yeah, no, I probably couldn’t do that last one even if I tried, so I lay out three slices of bread and stack him a triple-decker since he has a big mouth.
I put it on his plate nicely. “There you go. I didn’t fling it at your head, so say thank you.
” I toss the empty bread bag in the bin under the sink.
“Thank you,” he says. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”
“You don’t have to tell me when you’re hungry. After almost twenty years of marriage, I know what a man needs before he does.”
“You know a man,” he repeats with emphasis on one man, my ex-husband.
“Don’t get me started.”
“But I must. I’m interested.”
I set my hands on my hips because that’s where I’m strongest. “Fine. I’m scorned, okay? ‘A man’ is a reference to any man who is not my father or my family. I’ve grouped you all into a single character I call an Asshole. That’s with a capital A. I’m only helping you because I ran you over.”
“Wish you hit me harder?”
“Maybe.”
He laughs.
It’s a nice, masculine sound that lights up his face. He’s very handsome. I shouldn’t think that, but I’m not blind.
You know what? I can think he’s handsome. He’s a grown man. I’m a grown woman. Albeit much older than he is, but still, a woman.
He sticks out his plate like a beggar, but I have no more bread.
I put the plate in the sink. “I can start on dinner now if you want.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll need supplies.”
Who calls food supplies? Or maybe it’s the language.
He’s not a native speaker, but he does speak with a barely noticeable accent, so he’s fluent.
Which means his vocabulary must include the correct word, which in this case is food.
Or groceries. Or similar. Supplies is… Maybe he’s in the military?
Did Crossbow hire him for his skills? The way he handled the gun was skilled.
I need to let the mystery of the man be. Stop being so curious about him.
I bite the sour pickle and wash my hands, then round the kitchen bar to where he’s sitting. His leg is up on the other bar chair. His ankle is looking rough. He’s wearing Chi-chi’s boy shorts and the black Metalminini T-shirt I got her after the concert we went to her sophomore year in high school.
“You are not wearing my daughter’s underwear, are you?”
“No. That’s why I need supplies. Clothes, food, some hardware.”
A picture of Massio Crossbow on the TV screen derails my reply. Under the image it reads: “Presumed dead.”
I gape. “Holy crap, turn it up.” I reach for the remote, but the man swipes it so fast, his hand is a blur. Those are some fast reflexes. He must be military or law enforcement or something along those lines.
The man unmutes the TV, and we listen to the reporter, who confirms what the captions say. Massio Crossbow, Selnoa’s kingpin and one of the most awful men in the world, is presumed to be dead.
“Serves him right,” I say. “What kind of a man hangs his wife from a bridge? And by her intestines, so her extremities hang at awkward angles? I remember I was in the school bus the day we passed under the bridge where she hung, and I kept thinking, how come this woman is just hanging there for days with nobody picking up her body, you know?”
The man stares at his hands.
“You probably don’t remember that.”
The man lifts his gaze back to the TV and shrugs. “Someone else will take Massio’s place.”
“Or law enforcement could do their jobs right and not take bribes so we can have some justice for once in the hundred years the city’s been under the control of one criminal or the other.”
“You’ll never have justice.”
“Fine. How about a police department that people can rely on when one of us tangles with someone from Crossbow’s crew? Can we have that?”
“I’m sure you could.”
Awkward silence halts the otherwise good conversation we were having.
I twist my earring. “Order supplies online.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing digital.”
“Is it because it can be tracked?” I ask. Did I not just say I need to stay out of his business? Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Didn’t it? Gawd.
The man doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. He’s giving me that scary look again, trapping me in his gaze. It’s a warning.
My phone rings in his pocket.
I startle, my shoulders straightening instantly.
He ignores it. “There’s a grab-and-go kiosk across the street. Let’s get what we need for the next few days.”
My phone keeps ringing. “Aren’t you going to let me answer that?”
“No.”
“Okay, then you answer it.”
“No.”
“Mute it, then.”
“It’ll go to voicemail.”
“The voicemail is full.” I run a hand through my hair. “I have bills I can’t pay, and they keep calling.”
Silence falls. I didn’t mean to tell him I’m broke, but I can’t take it back. I clear my throat. “That’s probably the hospital calling to ask if I can come in. I need to work to pay said bills. Divorce is expensive.”
“I can help you with that.”
“How?”
“I told you I’ll pay you for the sandwich. I’ll pay for supplies, and I’ll double whatever you’d have made if you went to work.”
“What about when I have to show up at my hair salon on Tuesday? You’re going to pay me to stay at home and cancel my appointments? And if so, who will replace the income from my long-term clients when I call out and they think I’m no longer reliable? There are many other hairstylists.”
“Good point. They’re not going there just for the hair. There’s only one Dina, and they want you. If they’re coming for you, they’ll forgive you for not showing up for one day.”
I open my mouth, close it. I feel some sort of heat in my cheeks. Am I blushing? No way. I’m probably entering perimenopause and this is a hot flash.
“Tell them you underwent surgery. The recovery time is as long as I suspect I’ll need.”
“How long is that?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. If you get me good supplies, I can shorten the length of recovery.”
“If I say I’m recovering from surgery, they’ll want to send flowers.”
“Let them send you flowers.”
“But I can buy my own flowers.”
“A princess can too. Yet, she employs a gardener instead.”
“I’m no princess.”
“Nah, you’re right. You’re ripe for a queen.”
I cock my hip. “Did you jab at my age?”