“Right.” He walked over to the kitchen, pushing the rejected daisies down into the trash, squashing TV dinner boxes in the process. So much for that gesture. Come to think of it, maybe she wasn’t a hearts and flowers kind of girl. He turned to watch her, her feet moving quickly, opening a black duffel bag, and sliding her laptop inside, the cord along with it.
“Are you done with your route?”
“Yes. Are you allergic to flowers?”
“Where is your personal car?”
“It’s a truck. It’s at the distribution center.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Umm … like ten minutes. Are you going somewhere?”
“We.”
“We … what?”
She stopped, turning to him, an irritated expression on her face. “We are going somewhere. I need a car. Take me to yours, and I will pay for you to take a taxi home. I’ll bring your car back to you in the morning.” She turned back to her bag, shoving in a thick black object, and a bound stack of cash. His eyes followed the cash, his mind questioning his vision even as it focused on the cash’s wrapper. $10,000?
“Uh … no.”
“No?” She turned, her eyes flashing at him—dark and confident. Wherever the crazy psychotic was, it had taken a break and was sipping coffee somewhere else in this girl’s mind. “We’ll talk in your truck. Let’s go.” She grabbed a ring of keys, stuffed her feet into tennis shoes, and headed for the door. With no clear option in sight, Jeremy followed.
She avoided the elevator, hesitating briefly before banging open the stairwell door at the end of the hall and jogging down the steps, the black bag easily carried in her hand. She took the multiple flights quickly; time seemed to be a valuable commodity. At the bottom she paused, took a deep breath and pressed the exit door open, stepping into the light.
Vampire. His niece’s diagnosis popped into Jeremy’s mind when he saw her reaction to the sun. She swayed briefly, froze, and squinted—seeming to notice and avoid everything in one brief moment. She looked around urgently, her eyes locking on his truck, and moved quickly toward it, her feet stumbling slightly.
The sensation of being outdoors is something I am not prepared for. You don’t realize how much damn activity, noise, and smells assault your senses when you do something as simple as stand on a public street. I have been shut away too long. The gritty feel of pavement beneath my shoes, the feeling of actually wearing shoes—my feet feel heavy and hot. My nose recoils from the smell of car exhaust, my skin prickles from the feeling of warmth and non-artificial light from the sun, harsh and powerful to my raw senses. My eyes squint and I look around, wanting the cover and protection of a vehicle. Jeremy’s truck is at the curb, and I step unsteadily toward it.
He beats me to the passenger side, pushing a jacket and box off the seat and grabbing some trash out of the floorboard, flashing me an embarrassed grin. I move past him, climbing onto the truck and sit on the warm vinyl seat. The outdoor world briefly distracts me, a rainbow of colors and sights before me as the beauty of everyday life beckons. Images and memories—rolling on the grass with Summer—hit me, a wave of nostalgia interrupting my focus. Jeremy climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the truck, and a roar fills the air, the truck shaking briefly before settling into a constant vibration. The lack of protection in the truck unnerves me; the missing doors and loud engine are strange to my sheltered senses. I focus, pulling out my laptop and logging into Ralph’s hard drive, to look for anything that I might have missed. Jeremy is saying something, a garble of words in the background that I tune out. All of my thoughts and focus center on finding Annie and getting to her as soon as I can. I feel something jabbing me, and I look at my shoulder, following the finger, to the hand, to Jeremy’s irritated face.
“Pay attention—I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, scrolling through files, opening occasional documents.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to visit someone. It is very important that I get there as soon as possible.”
“Why don’t you have your own car?”
“I don’t leave the apartment. A car is an unneeded expense.”
“Why don’t you leave the apartment?”
“This is all a waste of time. Please focus on driving to your car as quickly as possible.”
“I’m not letting you take my truck.”
“Why not?”
“Can you even drive?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Want?”
God, it was like talking to a parrot. “What do you want in exchange for letting me use your truck?”
“I want to know what’s going on!”
I glance over, and see his handsome face twisted in frustration. “I can’t tell you what’s going on; I can tell you that I need your help. If you won’t let me use your truck, then drop me off at a car rental place. I’ll pull one up on my phone.”
“Let me come with you.”
“Absolutely not. It’s hard enough for me to sit next to you right now.”
The wide smile that crosses his face makes me realize the error of my words. “Not for that reason, Fabio.”
“Oh.” His face falls. “You’re still on that kick about hurting me?”
I grin, despite my irritation. “Yeah. I’m still on ‘that kick.’ “
“I can defend myself.”
“Whether that is the truth or not, I don’t have the time or the energy to fight you. I have something else I need to take care of.”
“A date.”
“What date?” I find a folder titled “Niece” and open it, seeing a bunch of candid photos of a blond girl, who, in one set of photos, wears a pink boa and crown and sits in front of a cake. Annie. My joy at finding her is instantly dampened by the idea that someone would want to hurt this perfect little individual.
“You asked what I wanted. If you take my truck, I want to take you on a date.”
“Not gonna happen.”
We pull into an empty parking lot, clones of our UPS vehicle lining spots to our right. Jeremy focuses on driving, pulling forward and then backing into spot on the far right. He shuts off the engine and turns to me, his eyes studying mine.
I fight the urge to fidget, my eyes flitting from his to his keys. GO. The command pounds in my head. “Please,” I manage, the word awkward on my lips. It is a word frequented in my cam chats, but neglected entirely when the camera is off.