Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Jack’s heart lurched. Carla caused her own accident.
Died as a result of said accident. And now she sat before him, whole and hale and smirking, clearly amused by his horror.
“You…” he started to say. But his breath came in frantic gasps.
He pressed his forehead to the table, struggling to calm down.
“Whoa, hey,” said Carla. Her chair scraped against the floor. A hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Look, I didn’t die, OK? I have a pulse and everything. Want to feel it?”
“No,” Jack groaned, but she caught his hand and pressed it to her wrist, where he felt her heartbeat, strong and fast.
“It’s a good thing,” Carla insisted as Jack flinched away. She dropped his hand. “If something happens, you’ll come back.”
Had he bled out that night in the shower? Had he actually died? It felt impossible, but he remembered the blood—egregious, unbelievable amounts that stained the tiles red.
There was no way.
“Look, I know all of this is really weird, OK? I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Carla rambled. “You want a drink? Or like, I don’t know, a valium? I think Fat Frank left his here last week. I bet it’s still in the cupboard.”
“No,” Jack said, forcing himself to take a deep breath. It shouldn’t be such a shock to learn that Carla came back. The time loop ensured that nothing really changed, that consequences were eternally delayed.
But what happened when it ended? Would Carla still be alive? Or would Jack find himself staring into the empty eyes of a corpse, lying spattered with blood in the roadway?
What if he was dead, too? Would housekeeping find him in the shower, naked and drained of blood, bloated from the still-running water?
Would Boris be the one to find him?
Jack’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want Boris to see him like that. Didn’t even want to think about it.
“It’s gonna be OK,” Carla told him. “I promise. Take a deep breath.”
“Like it’s so easy,” Jack rasped.
Her laughter rang out loud and piercing. “See, you’re already feeling better.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jack said, lifting his head. Carla watched him with worried eyes. A part of him, tense and raw, finally relaxed. If she wanted to care about him, he’d allow it.
He’d spent the last few weeks with no one else.
If Carla was only pretending to worry, that was alright.
Anything was better than endless days stuck in a town where nobody knew him, and everyone judged him as some sort of dangerous outsider.
In the city, he was unremarkable. Here? Everyone thought they saw through him.
OK, maybe he suffered from anxiety or something, but there was no fucking reason for everyone to act like he was some kind of horrible monster that had stumbled from the woods and into their vulnerable little town.
With every passing day, Jack felt more and more a freak.
“You just go through life like that,” said Carla, unimpressed. “Without any medication or anything?”
Jack blinked at her. “Yeah? I don’t panic every day.”
“You don’t?” She squinted at him like she saw through his facade, carefully propped up with a little bit of charisma and a dash of charm. “You sure seem like you do.”
“I’m not always stuck in a time loop in an unfamiliar town,” Jack pointed out.
Carla nodded. “I guess it’s a lot to process.” She gave a wistful sigh. “At least I’ve spent plenty of time here. Even if it’s boring as shit.”
“You don’t like it here?” Jack tried not to dwell on the fact that he was stuck. That he couldn’t afford to do much of anything. Exploring was his only option, and he feared he might grow sick of it.
“No,” Carla grumbled. “There’s nothing to do out here. Ronnie thinks it’s romantic, but he wouldn’t know romance if it chewed off his dick.”
Jack choked on a laugh. “That’s, um, not romantic.”
“Are you saying I wouldn’t know romance, either?” She quirked an eyebrow. The teasing delight in her eyes sent a flash of heat through his belly.
“I have my doubts,” he said, just this side of playful. He didn’t want to give the wrong impression, but it had been so long since he had a genuine conversation with anyone but Boris.
“Listen, I can wine and dine a man,” said Carla.
“But I have to give Ronnie pointers. He’s got all this money, and he can’t even light a fucking candle.
” She tipped her head back and groaned. Long hair cascaded over her shoulders like a caramel waterfall.
“At least he knows how to pick a good restaurant.”
Jack considered all of this and shrugged. “I’m sorry about that.” He’d disappointed everyone he’d ever dated in some way or another. Lighting a candle wasn’t going to change his financial prospects, make him any more likable, educated, or suave.
He wondered what Carla would think if he admitted that he usually ate off a TV tray with his cat munching away on her food beside him, then decided that he did not want to know what she would think and kept that little fact to himself.
“It’s not your fault,” said Carla, slumping forward. “Honestly, that’s not even the real problem.” She blew a strand of hair from her face. “But that’s not why we’re here, huh?”
“I don’t mind,” said Jack quickly. “I don’t have anything else to do today.”
“You’re sweet,” she said, sitting up again. Her smile was soft and sad, disappearing as quickly as it came. “But we’ve got shit to do.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I was thinking we could make a list, for starters. What you’ve tried, what I’ve tried. Maybe we can come up with something.”
Jack reached for his satchel. “That’s a good idea.” He’d thought of something similar but hoped that Carla might have a white board, or even a blank wall. Something large enough that they could really outline their thoughts, see them written out in one place.
She reached to stop him. Slender fingers brushed against his arm, just firmly enough to be felt through his jacket sleeve. “Not here,” she said. “There are too many servants. We gotta go downstairs. Nobody will bother us.”
Rumors of mafia dungeons and torture chambers jumped to the forefront of Jack’s mind.
He doubted Carla meant to hurt him, but he was already afraid of this place, of the people who could be lurking down long hallways and inside empty rooms. “I think I’d rather stay where the servants are,” he admitted, glancing anxiously around the kitchen.
No sign of anyone else. If he screamed, would anyone hear? Would they care?
Carla wrinkled her nose. “Why? They’re busybodies. Besides, I don’t want any of the family to hear."
“The, uh, family? Like Ronnie’s family?”
A laugh. “You’re cute,” said Carla. “And sure. It’s whatever kind of family you want it to be.”
“That is not reassuring.” Jack crossed his arms. “That actually makes it worse.”
“How many times do I need to promise that nobody’s gonna hurt you?”
“At least another ten or twenty. Look, I’m not stupid—”
“I never said you were—”
“You know why I’m nervous—”
Carla gave an exasperated groan and stood.
“No, I don’t.” She carried her plate to the sink, turned and leaned her hip against the counter.
Jack very purposefully did not notice the outline of her body.
Not at all. “I promise you’re safe here.
Whatever you think is going on, you’re wrong.
I’ve been living the same day over and over again.
Nothing’s gonna fucking happen. I only see Ronnie in the mornings.
Nobody comes by until late, and they aren’t even looking for me.
It’s gonna be fine.” She jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”
“I really don’t like this,” Jack said, but he followed her anyway, relieved when she paused to grab a bottle of wine from the rack.
“It’s gonna be OK,” said Carla. “Jeez, you’re like a stray dog, or something. Why the fuck would I hurt you?”
“It’s the mob,” he hissed, sticking close to her. “Nobody trusts the mob.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re with an expert navigator. You don’t need to trust them. You just need to know how to deal with them.”
They passed the living room, complete with a huge television that spanned halfway from floor to ceiling (Rainy would have loved to nap on top of it, Jack thought with a pang), another office, a bathroom bigger than his entire apartment, and a supply closet that reeked of chemicals.
Plush carpet cushioned his every step, and a breeze from an open window sent a chill down his back.
A guest room featured a colossal oil painting of a nude woman—Jack did a double take to confirm that someone had indeed stuck a dart between her rounded butt cheeks.
Dread settled in his stomach. He was comically out of place here—like a door-to-door vacuum salesman who somehow found himself inside Buckingham Palace.
Jack was accustomed to the occasional stare.
Knew he barely met anyone’s expectations despite his best efforts, especially in the office.
Everything he owned was secondhand. Holes dotted his sleeves.
Occasionally, the sole of his shoe would come loose and flap about like an open mouth.
He hemorrhaged papers and pens. At least once a day, he lost his calculator, and—occasionally, inexplicably—his typewriter.
Things were better outside of work. The bar, the library, the grocery store—wherever he might go, he was just another working class man. He didn’t stand out.
But here? The servants would realize he didn’t belong.
“Your boyfriend won’t care?”
Carla paused at the top of the stairwell. “Why would he?”
“Uh, well, because I’m a man?” Jack shrugged. Maybe Ronnie wasn’t the jealous type. Maybe he and Carla had an open relationship.
But that seemed unlikely.
“He’s not gonna know,” said Carla, starting down the stairs. “Come on.”
She would be the death of him; he just knew it.
“Ronnie’s got better things to do than worry about me,” she continued. “I’m not even one of his top ten priorities, trust me.”