How to Score (10 page)

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.” There was a rueful pause. “The next time I went out, I dropped a fork at the restaurant. My date bent down to pick it up, and I accidentally elbowed him in the eye.”

It sounded as if he’d gotten off easy with just a scalded crotch. He’d better get into serious coach mode, because this gal needed some serious help.

He sat down on his couch. “In the game of life, fumbles are usually caused by nervousness, and the cure for nerves is practice. You need to build your self-confidence. So we’re going to work on your assertiveness skills.”

“Um… okay.”

“Just like a quarterback calls the plays in a game, you need to call the plays in your life. So here’s an assignment: I want you to go to a flea market or garage sale and buy something for half of its marked price.”

“Half price? Won’t an offer that low be kind of insulting?”

“That’s the wrong mind-set. Don’t worry about someone else’s reaction; keep your eye on your goal. Focus is the key.” His phone beeped. He was oddly reluctant to hang up. “That’s my next client, Sammi. I’ve gotta go. Remember… to win at the game of life, you’ve got to know how to score. Call me at your usual time on Saturday and give me a full report, okay?”

“Okay. But I’m not sure I can afford two sessions a week on a regular basis. We haven’t really discussed your fees, anyway. How do you want me to pay you?”

He had no intention of taking any money from her.

“Should I go through PayPal,” she asked, “or do you want me to mail you a check?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Gotta go,” he said abruptly. “Talk to you Saturday.”

“But—”

He hung up the phone to cut off her protest. If only, he thought as he blew out a sigh, he could cut off his thoughts about her as easily.

S
aturday dawned clear and unseasonably warm. Chase rose early, drove to the storage unit where Paul’s dad stored his auto parts, loaded them into his Ford Explorer, then headed to the auto-swap-meet site on the far outskirts of Tulsa. He found the ten-by-ten booth marked “Maloney’s Vintage Auto Parts” among the string of booths at the old flea-market site, then got to work setting up shop. He propped three 8-by-8-foot white pegboards against the back and side boards of the booth, then used hooks to hang the hubcaps on the pegboard, arranging them in neat rows, according to their make, model, and year. When he was finished, he listed them on an inventory sheet.

The last time he’d helped Paul and his dad at a swap meet, Paul had teased him about his systematic approach. “What are you doing—putting them in Dewey Decimal order? No need to be so damned particular.”

That was easy for Paul to say—he’d never lived in a trailer with dirty dishes piled in the sink, roaches crawling out of the walls at night, and splinters of broken beer bottle glass hidden in the filthy carpet. When you grew up in chaos, you learned the value of order.

The overalls-clad man in the next booth glanced over as he set a yellowed box of old spark plugs on a folding metal table. He wore a ball cap that said “John Deere” and gummed a wad of chewing tobacco. “You’re a friend of Maloney’s kid, ain’tcha?” he asked, scratching a belly that jutted out like a sideways photo of Breadloaf Mountain.

Chase nodded. “I’m Chase Jones.”

The man stuck out his hand. “Bubba Dunlap. I seen you around before. Where’s Sonny and Pop?”

“At the hospital. Mr. Maloney had knee-replacement surgery.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember him talkin’ about that at the meet last month.” He stuffed a fresh wad of Skoal in his mouth. “I’ve worked a lot of swap meets with the Maloneys. If there’s anything I can do to help, you just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Chase said.

The man resumed pulling car parts out of a greasy cardboard box, and Chase finished setting up his merchandise.

Within half an hour, customers started wandering in to browse, shoot the breeze, and look over the merchandise. As Chase had noted at previous swap meets, some of the best customers were other dealers. Since they constantly recycled their merchandise among each other, it was hard to see how any of them made any money.

The Maloneys bought most of their merchandise on eBay, however, so Chase’s business was brisk. By ten in the morning, he’d made as much money as some booths did all day.

“Is this a copy?” asked a man who looked like Willie Nelson sans ponytail, pointing to a 1956 Cadillac hubcap mounted to the back of the booth.

“No, sir. We only carry original parts.” Chase carefully took it down and handed it to him. “Feel how heavy it is.”

The man turned it in his thickly veined hands. His head bobbed on his skinny neck. “They don’t make chrome like this anymore. Whatcha askin’ for it?”

“Five hundred.”

The man blew out a low whistle. “No way. I’ll give you three.”

Chase rubbed his jaw. “I could let you have it for four-fifty.”

“Four.”

Chase shook his head regretfully.

“Four twenty-five.”

“Man, you’re killin’ me,” Chase said. He blew out a sigh, but inside, he was high-fiving himself. Mr. Maloney would have been happy with the first offer. “That the best you can do?”

“Yep. Got a lot of other stuff I gotta buy today.”

“Well… ” Chase feigned reluctance. “All right. But don’t tell anyone I let it go so low.”

The man shot him a grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Which was a guarantee he would—which was just what Chase wanted.

The man pulled a wad of bills wrapped with a rubber band out of his pocket and peeled off four hundreds, a twenty, and five. “Here you go.”

Chase carefully stashed it in an envelope. In the world of swap meets, it was pretty much cash and carry. He was writing down the amount of the sale on the inventory sheet when he heard a familiar silky voice.

“Hello, Chase.”

Chase jerked up his head and saw Sammi standing in front of the booth. She wore a fitted pink T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and her hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders.

His pulse spiked. He shoved his hands in his pocket and tried to act nonchalant. “Hi, Sammi. What are you doing here?”

“Well, you mentioned that this swap meet was going on, and I thought it might be a good place for my sister to find some art supplies. Chloe, this is Chase. Chase, my sister, Chloe.”

Chase pulled his eyes from Sammi to the shorter woman beside her. She had Sammi’s hazel eyes, but that’s where the family resemblance ended. Chloe’s midnight black hair had bright blue stripes, her eyes were rimmed with heavy black liner, and she wore torn black jeans and a black skull T-shirt. She extended a hand clad in a fingerless black glove and grinned. “So you’re Sammi’s latest victim.”

Chase shook her hand, his eyebrows quirked. “Victim?”

Two bright pink spots formed on Sammi’s cheeks. “I told her about the, uh, accidents,” Sammi said.

“My sister only injures men she thinks are hot,” Chloe said. “You should be flattered.”

To Chase’s amusement, Sammi shot Chloe a homicidal look, cleared her throat, and pretended her sister hadn’t spoken. “Chloe’s looking for some items to incorporate into her art.”

Yeah, right. He wasn’t buying it for a moment. All the same, he looked at Chloe and pretended to. “What kind of things are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure. I never know what I want until I see it.”

“What’s your medium?”

“Bowling balls.”

Chase inclined his head. “Come again?”

“Her hobby is welding things to bowling balls,” Sammi explained.

“It’s not a hobby.” Chloe shot her sister an indignant look. “It’s a passion.” She looked at Chase. “Mind if I look around and see if I can find something interesting to work with?”

“Not at all. Help yourself.”

What about you?
Chase thought, glancing at Sammi.
See anything you’d like to work with?
The blood pumped harder in his veins, even as he reminded himself that Sammi was off-limits.

Chloe wandered out of earshot.

Sammi looked at him. “How’s your… ” She hesitated, clearly looking for an appropriate word.

“Crotch?” he supplied.

Her lips curved upward. “I was going to say ‘burned area.’ ”

Still on fire
. “No damage done. How’s your dog?”

“Good. I’m using the dog-training manual my life coach mentioned in our first session, and we’ve mastered everything in the first chapter.”

“Did the chapter address how to keep your dog from strip-searching people?”

“No, but it covered sit and stay. We’re currently working on ‘Down, boy.’ ”

It sounded like a chapter Chase needed to read himself.

Sammi’s gaze raked over the hubcaps hanging on the lean-to pegboard. “So this booth belongs to your partner’s dad?”

“Yeah. He’s always loved old cars, so when he retired, he started doing this as a part-time business.”

She rocked back on the heels of her sandals. “It’s really nice of you to fill in for him.”

Chase lifted his shoulders. “He’s a cool guy. Kind of like the dad I never had.”

Her eyes fixed on him. They were amazing eyes—light olive green, with a halo of gold around the pupil. She pulled her brows together in concern. “You didn’t have a dad?”

“Not one I’d want to claim.” Why the heck had he said that? Something about her made him speak without thinking.

To his relief, Chloe chose that moment to amble up, holding a spiked hubcap. “How much is this?”

It was vintage Cadillac. “Five-fifty.”

“That’s all?” Her face lit up. “I’ll take all five.”

Chase shoved his hand in his pocket. “That’s, um, five hundred and fifty. Dollars. Apiece.”

“You’re kidding.” Chloe’s eyes widened. “What’s it made of—platinum?”

“Chrome. But they’re the original of a 1959 Coupe de Ville. Now, these over here”—Chase gestured to the hubcaps at the rear of the booth—“are just twenty dollars.” They were actually thirty, but what the hell—he’d pony up for the difference. Sammi had said Chloe was a starving artist.

“That’s more like it,” Chloe said, stepping toward them.

Following her, Chase pulled one down and handed it to her.

Chloe flipped it over. “Cute.”

Chase grinned. “Not a description I’ve ever heard applied to a hubcap, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I can make a bowling ball hat out of it.” She lifted it to eye level and studied it. “Or maybe I could pull out the spikes and solder them on like hair.”

“Don’t let any of these car buffs hear you,” Chase warned. “That’s desecration talk.”

Chloe turned the hubcap right-side up again. “This is great. I’ll take it.”

Sammi stepped forward. “What she means is, what’s the best price you can give us on it?”

Oh, jeez—Sammi was going to pull her negotiating assignment on
him
. He rubbed his jaw. “I already lowballed it when I told you twenty, but I guess I can let it go for eighteen.”

Sammi shook her head. “Too much. How about five?”

“Five dollars?”

“Well, she’s only going to use the spokes, and it has ten. Fifty cents a spoke seems reasonable.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Okay, okay. Seventy-five cents a spoke.”

“Hubcaps aren’t priced by the spoke.”

“I’ll pay the twenty, already,” Chloe chimed in.

“No, you won’t.” Sammi took the hubcap from her sister and eyed it critically. “It has a scratch on it. This isn’t worth a penny over eight dollars.”

He’d been wrong about Sammi needing assertiveness training. She was as assertive as her overgrown dog. He shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s just too low.”

“Well, then, I’m sure there are hubcaps for sale at other booths.”

“Hey, y’all, I’ve got some right here,” called Bubba from the next booth, who’d been watching the proceedings with great interest. “I’m willin’ to negotiate.”

Sammi turned and shot Bubba a dazzling smile. “Terrific.” She gave Chase a little wave and headed out of his booth. “It was really nice seeing you again. Come on, Chloe.”

She was going to just walk away? “I can let you have it for ten,” he found himself calling, even as he wondered what he was doing.

She turned back around and eyed him challengingly. “Nine and you have a deal.”

What the hell. He’d already been planning on putting in the difference from his own pocket; might as well kick in a little more. “Okay. Nine.”

“Thanks.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “That’s terrific!”

Yeah, terrific. Why had he thought she needed assertiveness training? When she dug in those kitten heels, she was tough as a tiger.

“At that price, I’ll take all five of them,” Chloe said.

Chase silently groaned as Chloe pulled a beaded wallet out of her purse and handed him a fifty-dollar bill. He gave her five dollars in change.

“Thanks,” Chloe said, drifting over to look at Bubba’s wares.

Chase started to the back of his booth to take down the other four hubcaps.

A rangy man with a buzz cut wandered up to Chase’s booth. “Got a hood ornament for a ’62 Impala?”

“Just a moment and I’ll check.”

“Go ahead and help him,” Sammi said. “I’ll get the hubcaps down.”

Sammi strode to the back of the booth, reached up on the pegboard, and pulled on one of the hubcaps. The wall wobbled precariously, but the hubcap remained affixed to its hook.

“Hold on a moment and I’ll get it for you,” Chase told her.

“It’s okay. I have it.” Sammi grabbed hold of the hubcap again.

Oh, hell. “You need to lift it up off the hook,” Chase warned. But it was too late. The pegboard shook and tilted forward. Sammi tried to steady it, but her efforts only shifted the wall’s weight more off-kilter.

Chase dashed to the back of the booth, grabbed Sammi, and pulled her out of harm’s way just as two hubcaps clattered loudly to the ground. He put his hands on the pegboard, hoping to stabilize it, as another hubcap rolled across the dirt floor.

The wall careened forward. A hubcap flew past his face like a UFO. Another one hit his head, and then the world went black.