Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) (7 page)

She wants to go out, I'm all for ordering in. We finally settle for walking to the taco truck on the corner, and eating there.

"Leo says you ran right past him the other day and didn't even say hello," Phillipa says between bites. "He sounded a little put out when he told me."

"Shit," I say, folding back the wrapper of my taco. "I wondered why he hasn't called at all."

Not that I called him. I'm not huge on socializing now. And maybe Scott was a little right about Leo, I think he does like me. Which is not something I'm capable of handling right now.

"That might have been last Friday," I say. Someone did call my name as I bolted past them. I'm really still flaunting my insanity for all to see.

"Maybe you should give him a call," Phillipa suggests, tossing a piece of her tortilla for the birds that have gathered around us. "You two seemed to have hit it off the other night."

"I'm not ready to start dating yet," I blurt out.
 

She turns to me sharply, scaring the birds. But there's a wide, surprised look plastered across her face, her eyes very soft. "I didn't mean to suggest, sweetie…no I just thought for a distraction."

Distraction. That's how everything started between Scott and me in the first place. With my selfish, pigheaded need to make him be with me. And that never really ended. Until three weeks ago. When it did. For the last time. Shame is what I feel now, most strongly of all other things. Because I forced him into something he didn't want to do. Couldn't do, it seems now. And we both ended up hurt.

"I'll see," I mutter, taking another bite, even though I'm totally not hungry anymore. I just want to go back home, maybe go to sleep for a few hours.
 

I'd expected all sorts of nightmares starring Mike to return when I moved back to the house he kidnapped me from. But mostly I don't remember my dreams now, and when I do ,they're of Scott. I think maybe I'd prefer the nightmares. I woke up this morning with butterflies in my stomach, certain I'm about to see Scott sleeping next to me, because my dream that he'd come back was that real. If I concentrate I can still feel them now.

"It's not dating if you just call him and talk about those complicated legal issues you're both so interested in," Phillipa says.

I shrug and wrap up the rest of my taco up. I can eat it later, once my stomach settles.

I can't sleep when we get back to the house, and I can't really study, but I try anyway, because burying myself in a pile of work is probably the best cure right now. Phillipa would call it avoidance, but she's not, most likely because she's afraid I might lose it at any moment.

I get the call I've been dreading on Tuesday. Until then I could blissfully pretend I'm not doing anything wrong, not working for a lunatic Serbian mob boss called Vlado. Pretend that Gail and me just had a little argument. A misunderstanding.

"It's on for tomorrow night," Mike tells me. "Someone'll pick you up at six then they'll tell you what to do."

I don't really remember what I did for the rest of Tuesday, or on Wednesday before six.

But at five forty five PM I'm down in the street. The wind's blowing at like 100 miles per hour, and all I can think of is Gail. How her hair would look flapping in this wind, soft and silky, her cheeks red from the cold.
 

"You coming in or what?" a guy asks, leaning across the inside his car and pushing open the passenger door. It's the guy I asked whether he was hitting on me, and I see it as just another example of how things always go wrong for me.

I climb in and slam the door shut with too much force, making him wince. "You wanna watch that?"

"I've never broken a car door yet," I snap, because people who are oversensitive about slamming car doors too hard really annoy me.
 

Something starts beeping like crazy as we drive off, and the guy's eyeing me pointedly now like I'm doing it.

"Put your seat belt on," he finally says. I shrug and do it. The beeping stops immediately.
 

"Where are we going?" I ask, after we pass the exit Mike took when he drove me to the warehouse.
 

"Jersey," the guy says, extending his right hand to me. "I'm Greg, by the way."

I shake hands. "Scott."

"I know."

"It was the thing to say, Greg." I turn and stare out the window. Twilight is falling, and everything looks two-dimensional like I'm just watching it on screen. Like it's not actually my life.

"So what's the job?" I ask, barely recognizing my own voice. Maybe if I looked in the mirror, I wouldn't recognize my face either.
 

"It's more of a collection tonight, really. Getting an Audi off some impound lot. I'm coming with you for back-up."

"I'm gonna need back-up?" I don't like doing any job without obsessing over it for at least a week in advance. But this will work too. Whatever.

"It's an in and out thing," Greg explains. "I'll get you into the lot, you take the car and follow me."

"How do you expect me to follow after this slow ass ride?" I ask. It's a nice car, a black Mustang, but the way he's driving, it might as well belong to some old lady. "We'll just get caught."

He chuckles, pulling a pack of cigarettes from him pocket. "We got some time." He offers me one, but I shake my head and he doesn't press it this time. "You just make sure to keep up once it's on."

The hard ball of nerves starts forming in my stomach as soon as we get off the expressway. It's full dark now, and we're somewhere the fuck out in Jersey. But it's only just past eight, it can't be time yet.

Greg pulls into the parking lot of a diner. "We have a few hours to kill."
 

"How many?" I ask, getting out of the car. My hands are shaking, nerves over knowing next to nothing about this job catching up.

"Two, maybe three," Greg says and locks the car.

"I hope you'll at least tell me which car to take," I mutter at his back as he starts walking towards the diner.
 

He laughs outright. "You are funny. Don't worry about any of that. This one is simple."

I'm dreading the wait more now. And the long ass ride back home. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks, even though I slept for more than twelve hours last night.

Inside the diner, Greg takes off his jacket revealing more of his tattoos. They cover both his arms, painted on so close together I have trouble seeing any one thing.

"You like the tats?" he asks, winking at me just as the waitress dumps a couple of menus on the table. Her smile disappears as she looks at him sharply then back at me, and walks away.

"Not really," I say. He got me back, I guess, for that gay comment. Or maybe he is gay and is really hitting on me. I have no idea anymore.
 

"What do you got that's better?" he asks, studying the menu.

"Nothing," I say.
 

"I should think not," he mutters.

"I mean, I don't have any tattoos at all," I say leaning back. "But if I did, they'd all be better than yours."

For some reason, Greg is almost as easy to talk to as David. And I've seriously missed that, more than I let myself realize.

The waitress comes back and I get a burger and fries, though I'm so not hungry I might as well have just stuck to water.

"Not a single tattoo?" Greg asks, peering at me like he thinks I'm lying. "How's that even possible?"

"I just never came across anything I'd want to be wearing for the rest of my life."

"Not even like something for a girl?" he won't let up. The thought is an icepick straight to the heart. Yeah, I'd get something for Gail. Maybe I should, to remember her by. Though I'd probably just end up scratching it off one night, because I couldn't stand it.

I shake my head. "Besides you can never get just one."
 

"Tell me about it," he says, glancing down at his forearms.

"I didn't think I had to," I say and he chuckles again.
 

Then we eat, mostly in silence. I'm imagining what Gail is doing right now and what she'd say if I got a tattoo. Greg's not really big on small talk, and even though he's friendly and easy to talk to, he's still a complete stranger and works for the people who might actually be trying to kill me.
 

The call finally comes just after ten. The ball of nerves is a cement block in my stomach, and I wish I didn't drink so much coffee.

The headlights of Greg's car glint off a golden emblem on a white plaque to the side of the impound lot entrance. Otherwise it's all dark and looks deserted.
 

My heart thunders in my chest as I take in the high wall surrounding the lot. Why steal cars from a mousetrap? Though with any luck they'll just arrest me tonight, then it'll be all over fast.

"The car's just behind here," Greg says, turning off the headlights and stopping next to the wall about thirty feet from the entrance. "Don't worry. Everything's arranged."

He reaches into the backseat for a tightly wrapped bundle, ending in what looks like an anchor.
 

"Here," he says, holding it out to me. "You'll use this to climb over the wall. I'll get the gate open in the meantime."

I realize it's actually a climbing rope attached to one of those climbing picks. I've never used anything like it. And I haven't climbed a rope since high school gym class.
 

"Don't you have a ladder or something?"

He shakes his head. "I'll set it up for you."

I follow him out of the car, careful not to slam the door this time. He leaves his open. It's almost pitch black outside, the only light coming from the floodlights inside the lot, which are well obscured by the wall.
 

I check the wall, though the top is shrouded in darkness. A hard gust of wind makes the pine trees surrounding the lot hiss.

"Don't they have cameras and shit?" I ask.

"They'll be off," Greg says, uncoiling the rope.

"What about dogs?" These kinds of places usually have vicious guard dogs. "I came across some of those once, and I still have nightmares about it."

That was actually back in the ninth grade when David and me climbed over a wall to check out what was supposed to be an abandoned house. Luckily the old guy who lived there turned out to be pretty nice, which I don’t think is the case here.

I'm talking too much, because I'm nervous. It does nothing to unravel the hard knot in my stomach.
 

"You'll be fine," Greg says and walks closer to the wall. "If there are dogs, they'll be chained, I'm sure."

"I hope it isn't one of those long ass chains," I mutter, following him. I can deal with getting arrested, even shot, but torn to pieces by dogs is a horrible way to go.

Greg manages to get the pick to stick to the wall on the second throw. "All yours," he says, handing me the end of the rope. I tug on it and it holds, but I weigh about 250 pounds so I'm still not sure it'll actually hold me. Just as well, maybe I'll fall and break my neck. That would solve shit too.

"Once you get to the top, just toss the rope over and descend," Greg tells me.

"Yeah, so simple," I murmur. The wall is three times my height at least. "If there's no security, why can't we just walk in through the front gate?"

"Stop asking so many questions," he says pointedly, so I guess it's time.
 

"What car?" I ask.

"It's a black Audi limousine. License plate says Mad Dog, so it should be easy to spot. It's parked right by the wall on this side anyway. Here's the keys."

He hands them to me, but I'm too stunned to reach for them. "Keys? What kinda theft is this?"

"It's an extraction, like I said. Ready?"

I shrug, pocket the keys and grip the rope, start climbing. The leather gloves I'm wearing slip a little, but I'm sure it's better than having the rope burn into my palms. It's slow going, and I'm actually panting by the time I reach the top of the wall, my arms burning. Once I do, I look for the car, and I think I see it, but it's right below me so I can't read the license plate.
 

I jump off the rope too soon, and the impact sends a spine jarring jolt through me, my left knee buckling. But I hardly feel the pain with all the adrenaline pumping through me. This is just like any of the hundreds of jobs I've done. And it seems to be better planned than most. I stay by the wall for a few moments, listening hard for an alarm, or the sound of dogs barking. There's neither.
 

The license plate on the black car actually reads MaDog, but I guess that's close enough. It's unlocked, and the radio blares some weird techno as I turn the engine on. I turn it off, my heart hammering somewhere in my throat.
 

The gate is already opening as I reach it. This was too easy. Way too easy.

I follow Greg's car, and for all his trash talk earlier, he's still obeying the speed limit.

There's a thick, nauseating smell in the car, a lot like rotting meat. I open the windows and breathe through my mouth, but I still feel like I'll throw up at any moment. I hit a stretch of road lined with streetlamps and see the source of the stench. That's not just tinted windows in the back. Both the back passenger windows are covered with dried streaks of black blood, as is most of the rear window. I almost throw up, acid burning the back of my throat so bad I might pass out.