Don't Bet On It (3 page)

“Who gave it to you?” Five years before, I had flipped a coin whether to teach elementary kids or enter law school.

“Uh, my Aunt Hilda… who figured I could use some of that kind of stuff where I work.”

I absolutely knew he was fibbing, but was pleased to see him back on his heels for a change. “So where would this theoretical supper happen to be?”

Brett
exhaled softly. “At the Ranch House
Barbecue.”

“And all I have to do for this hundred dollar card is show up and eat?”

Those eyes again, reading my cerebrum. “I have only two stipulations: show up without your current hostility and give me an even chance to provide you an enjoyable meal experience.”

He was right to nail my hostility, but I had every right to exhibit it.
Duress is duress
. I took a deep breath. “Okay, I've been cold tonight because you took advantage of my situation to get me here. And I'm willing to drop some of the attitude if I don't feel so manipulated.”

“Don't you feel manipulated when you have to waste weeks on fund raisers for less actual money to your own class than I'm turning over for almost no effort at all?”

I reluctantly nodded.

“That's the way my mom usually felt. She hated all those fund raisers. During her final years of teaching she just bought supplies out of her own pocket, which was a lot less costly in the long run.”

As I took a final sip of my iced tea, I stared into his eyes over the brim of my plastic tumbler. Then I put down the beverage and folded my hands like Perryanna Mason. “You'd made up your mind to trick me into another date but hadn't figured out how to do it until we got here. Plus, you fibbed about the card and Aunt Who's-it, didn't you?”

When he smiled evenly, his blue eyes sparkled. “I really do have an Aunt Hilda.”

“And you have no intention of responding to my other points, do you?”

He continued his smile as he shook his head.

“Therefore,” I said in my attorney's summation voice, “you are obviously guilty of perjurious and premeditated maneuvering.”

“Only guilty of wanting to see you again… under circumstances more pleasant for both of us.”

But I still had no clue why. “Let me warn you, Mr. Hardy, if I show up for supper tomorrow and there's no gift card, I'm going to haul you into small claims court with a few broken ribs… and I don't mean the ones with barbecue sauce.”

He obviously didn't believe I knew how to crack ribs and did not appear frightened. “You won't be disappointed.”

“Don't bet on it.”

Monday,
about 6 p.m.

“You
sold
yourself to a serial killer? For school supplies?” By the third time Joan had screeched it — with her dramatic pause in between for me to curl up and feel mortified — I had actually begun to think of myself as a harlot plying my favors for glue sticks and crayons. It was an ugly picture.

“Joan, you're overreacting. I'm not selling myself… just loaning out my presence, so to speak.” I was on her non-working recliner again, which seemed to be where I always landed in her second floor apartment.

“That's exactly what Julia Roberts told Richard Gere when he hired her as his
companion
for a week.” Joan used air quotes for the operative word.

“This isn't anywhere near a full week, it's just one evening and all we're doing is barbecue.”

“Even that sounds illicit when you're being paid in cold hard cash.”

“He said it's a gift card…”

“Chloe, do you hear yourself?” Joan was practically stomping by that point so I figured the downstairs neighbors would soon be involved in our spirited debate. “Just because it's for the kids in your class doesn't make prostitution okay. At the very least, it's somewhere on the chart with human trafficking.”

I'd known it was a mistake to confer with Joan, but I really needed a woman's take on what
Brett
had said about wanting to see me again… and she lived so close by. To this point, we hadn't gotten past my friend's screeching recriminations.

“So he wants to see you again,” Joan sneered. “That's exactly what the Boston Strangler told those unfortunate, deluded women in whatever place that was.”

“Boston, I believe.”

“Probably so. He laid on the charm and made them feel wanted.” Joan huffed. “Sure, he wanted those unfortunate girls, so he could strangle them and chop them up… or whatever else he was into.”

“That was a bit before my time.”

“Well, your time is coming, Chloe. I said before that you're probably Victim Eleven, but now I figure this guy has handed out two or three dozen gift cards and probably has at least that many bodies — hidden in the lake, the quarry, and out in the woods. I'm surprised your students haven't stumbled over one of them during a field trip.”

I tried to calm her. “Joan, just sit down and listen for a minute. Stop reacting like you're a grocery tabloid and just be my friend. I need to know why this man wants to see me again so much that he'd come up with this preposterous scheme.”

She clutched my wrist and squeezed like she was checking me for osteoporosis. “Chloe, you listen to me. I know you're flattered at what he said. Heck, any girl would be. But you have to think past his words… and certainly way beyond the gift card he's hooked you with. Why would a normal red-blooded male need to resort to bets and bribes to get a date?” She took a deep breath. “I mean you said he's okay-looking—”

“He's a lot more than
okay,
” I interrupted. “He's actually pretty dadgum fine.”

“Okay, no difference — Ted Bundy was cute, too. You have to ask yourself why he uses all these gimmicks. Why won't he just call you up like regular guys do?”

“Regular guys
don't
call me, Joan.”

She couldn't argue away that key point, though neither of us had figured why guys didn't call me. Of course, Joan didn't date much either, which I put down to her tendency to screech and stamp her feet.

But
Brett
's unique approach had puzzled me too. And if I survived the evening with him, I intended to inquire. For now, I had a hunch. “Maybe he's just shy…”

“Shy? He's shy like Hugh Hefner is prudish!” More sputter and a bit more foot stamping. “Chloe, he's reeling you in. Maybe not while eating barbecue tonight, but once he totally lulls you into letting down your guard… then he'll pounce.”

By that point, I'd tuned her out. I understood Joan's concerns, but she couldn't seem to accept the slim possibility that a nice-looking man was interested in me. And, to my hopes and dreams, it would
not
be as Victim Eleven.

I also borrowed her old AC power cord, since the battery on her antique laptop had died at some point during the millennial change. Yeah, that meant I hadn't gotten any writing done on Sunday night after the pizza.

****

Later that evening

After I returned home from Joan's I got to thinking about my day at school — much like any other except that between every class section I'd mulled over snippets of Sunday's experience with
Brett
at the pizza place. Also, I couldn't help noticing how bare my classroom cabinets were of operating supplies; it seemed well below survival level even for that late in the school term.

Brett
had disarmed me with his final comment of last evening — he only wanted to see me again. Under different circumstances, such a sentiment could seem rather sweet, but his use of the juicy bribe rankled me.

Running all this by Joan had provided no moral support at all, yesterday or today, so I just shrugged on my martyr cloak and admitted I was loaning myself to a handsome stranger for his money. Yeah, it sounded awfully mercenary, but I rationalized it was for my second graders, so I could swallow my pride or indignation… or whatever morality might be in play.

I also decided
Brett
was correct that our evening would have no chance of being even remotely pleasant if I brought along all the attitude and bristle. I even briefly wondered if I could manage to play-act a little agreeable charm.
Nah, probably not.
I intended to be pleasant enough to show him I was trying, but sufficiently frosty that he'd fully understand I didn't want to.

But I wouldn't scuttle my appearance this time, because there was a much greater chance at the barbecue place that I'd encounter some folks I knew. No, I'd play fair — showing up in whatever I'd wear if I actually found him attractive. Well, he
was
attractive — that Christine woman in line behind me certainly found plenty to drool over. I meant I'd select clothing as though it were a real date with somebody I actually wanted to be around.

I settled on a short-sleeved V-necked blouse, freshly dried jeans with no visible holes, plus socks and sneakers. In Verdeville, that would be appropriate for opera tickets… had there ever been such a production that far east of Nashville.

About twenty minutes later, when I arrived in the parking lot,
Brett
was already there, leaning on the front of his truck as before. Seemed to be wearing the same clothes, too, but as I got closer I realized they were just similar variations of denim, high and low — with slightly different styling details. So slight, in fact, that he probably thought they were all identical.

Not as apprehensive as I'd been at the pizza place for punishment number one, I actually relaxed a bit and decided to try to enjoy the barbecue, which was always delicious there. But I was still kicking myself for getting sucked into the second penance.

When we were ushered into the smaller porch area off the main dining room, I wondered if he'd made arrangements or if it had been the luck of the draw. On Monday evenings, the Ranch House was not usually busy enough to open its porch section.

I was, indeed, more pleasant than before, but nevertheless studied
Brett
like an uncategorized specimen. Not that I believed anything Joan had warned me about, but I did need to figure out this man's modus
operandi
. I could not accept at face value that he simply wanted to get to know me — if I were that fascinating, someone would have tipped me off long ago.

The meal was delicious and I relaxed enough to enjoy my dinner and his company, but I was still quite skeptical. Also I hadn't seen the card yet, so maybe he needed a prompt. “So, was it worth a hundred dollars to dine with me?”

His eyes seemed to scan all the data in my brain. “It was worth that investment to get you to give me a real chance.”

“Chance at what?”

“For you to get to know me a little.”

“Oh, I think I know you well enough.” I tried to get my eyes to penetrate his cerebral data, but they only offered a few guesses.

He continued to study me. “For most people, it requires a few exposures, because it takes me a while to warm up.”

“You seem plenty hot to me already.”
Oops, that came out horribly wrong
. But I figured it would be worse to try to explain it, so I glanced down at my tea glass instead.

I caught his slight smile in the reflection of his watch face.

After a few seconds, I looked up again but did not meet his eyes. “So why do people supposedly find it so difficult to get to know you?”

As he shook his head, the grin faded. “Not sure. Folks seem to expect something in particular… and inside, I'm apparently not quite what they figured.”

At that point I had flashbacks to Joan's shrill warnings, but kept them to myself. “So the image you project varies from the real you.” I did that also… and imagined most people probably did.

He nodded slightly. “Not exactly, but I guess you're close.”

After the waitress cleared our plates,
Brett
pulled from his pocket the gift card he'd pledged and slid it pointedly toward my hand. “Just like I promised.”

“I would ask to see your receipt, because I know you bought this today, but I've decided not to let that part of your fib worry me.” I flipped over the card to see if it looked legitimate. “But I do still find it bizarre that you concocted such a ruse just so you didn't have to eat your brisket alone.”

“It's not about the meal, Chloe.” He looked wounded. “I thought I'd made that clear.”

Not even close to
clear
, but I didn't want to bicker about it. “Okay, Mr. Hardy, we had the required pizza last night and now you've collected on your bribe to ply me with barbecue. But I don't know why you bothered — we'll never see each other again in a million years, unless you happen to have a kid in second grade.”

His eyes probed mine for a moment. “Suppose we
did
see each other again.”

My head was already shaking sideways. No way I'd get near this guy a third time, even without all of Joan's hysterics.

“Now, hear me out.” It was obvious he was thinking in mid-stride. “What say we make another wager?”