“No, I don’t know,” I talk over her. “Nor do I care or understand how the fuck that pertains to our situation.”
“My point is, he said I have a face made for art.” She uses her full palm and circles her face through the air.
“Again, I have no idea how this pertains to me hitting your car.” I shake my head. “I’ll pay for the damages. Don’t worry about mine.”
“I’m not worried about paying for yours since it was your fault.”
I cock my head to the side when I catch a hint of her perfume. Never in my thirty years have I met someone who smelled like cotton candy, like a damn carnival snack. Not even when I was the age of a kid who was excited to attend a carnival.
Like everything else, it suits her.
Gives way to her personality.
Has me wanting to get to know her more than I should.
To kill that, I open my wallet and riffle through the business cards until finding the one I need.
“Here’s my info.” I offer her the card. “Call this number. My assistant will get you taken care of.”
She snatches the card from my hand and holds it in the air, reading it as if it were toxic. “A card? How do I even know this is you?” She points at my wallet. “Can I see your driver’s license? Proof of insurance? You could run off, and I’d never see you again.”
“Trust me, your damages will be paid.” I grab the card, pull a pen from my pocket, and write my license plate number on the back. “I won’t run off.”
I turn around without giving her a chance to ask more questions.
“What the hell is happening?” she mutters.
I get into my car, and this time, I’m the one leaving her.
3
Georgia
I focus on his license plate number when he pulls away.
Homeboy isn’t leaving me high and dry with a banged-up car.
It matches.
Who knows their license plate number by heart?
Hell, half the time, I forget my birthday.
I sigh and lean back against my car.
Why do I always need a moment to refresh, to regain my thoughts, when he’s around?
I play with the card in my hand. Expensive card stock. The name Chase Smith written in gold.
He didn’t look like a Chase Smith.
Didn’t put off a Chase Smith vibe.
The name is too simple.
Generic.
No offense to any Chase Smiths out there.
He was right about the damages being minimal, but I don’t have the cash for even minimal repairs. When I get back into my car, I crank up the air-conditioning and make myself comfortable for some stalking.
I Google Chase Smith.
The results pop up with a list of generic Chase Smiths.
Frat boys.
Guys with fishing poles thrown over their shoulders.
Family men.
None of them the grumpy, handsome, has a stick up his ass man who keeps ruining my days.
I bet he doesn’t use social media.
He doesn’t seem like the type to post selfies or double-tap memes.
Not that he’d have many followers or likes with that stank attitude of his.
Damn you, Lola.
Jinxing me with the you’ll run into each other again shit.
I call the number on the card to make sure I don’t need to call the cops and report a hit-and-run accident. Rather, a hit, stop, hand card, and run situation.
“Hello, this is Kiki,” a woman answers in a chirpy voice. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, this is Georgia Fox. Your boss, Chase Smith, hit my car and said to call this number.”
“Ah, yes, he told me to expect your call.” She proceeds to give me all the information I need.
Two days later, Kiki—a woman close to my mother’s age with bright red hair and dark sunglasses—shows up at my door.
“From Chase,” she says, handing over a thick white envelope and leaving.
It keeps getting weirder with this guy.
When I open it, I nearly faint.
It’s cash.
I count the bills.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
Way more money than the damages would cost.
Way more than my car is worth.
Who is this man?
Is he into illegal shit?
A Mafia dude?
I pull out my phone to do the thousandth search of this mystery man.
Chase Smith, Mafia.
Nothing.
Chase Smith …
I want to know more about you.
4
Archer
3 Weeks Later
Fuck this day.
And fuck tomorrow too.
I signal to the bartender for another shot.
He delivers.
This one’s to failure.
I knock it back.
Ask for another.
This one’s for defeat.
Another.
This one’s for Lincoln.
Tonight, I’ve chosen to test my alcohol tolerance at Bailey’s, a hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Over the past few months, I’ve become a regular here, spending more time in the run-down bar than my home, even though my penthouse holds a superior liquor collection.
You don’t come to places like Bailey’s for the liquor selection.
Or the customer service.
Or the decor.
You come when you’ve stopped caring.
Sometimes, you’re so down on life that you want to pop a squat on a broken stool and drink cheap booze.
Bailey’s provides privacy from my life without complete isolation.
The only person I had left in this shithole life is in prison now.
No matter how big of a dick I was to my brother, Lincoln, he never let me push him away. Now, it’s me, the outcast of the family, drinking alone in a bar that reeks of mold and desperation.
As if the bartender, Ted, can read my mind, he slides another drink to me. My gaze lifts as I grab the glass, and my attention drifts to the opposite end of the bar. Every hair on my body stands when I see her. She drapes her purse over the ripped barstool and runs her hands down her patterned dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. When she slumps onto the stool, her posture mimics mine.
Why is she here?
Reasons swirl through my mind so fast that it’s hard to keep up.
It’s not her.
She doesn’t belong in a place like this.
Man, this cheap shit knocks you on your ass.
I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands, expecting to find an empty stool when I drag them away, but disbelief clouds my drunken brain.
It’s her.
Ted approaches her with a smile—one too friendly for my liking—and she delivers a forced one in return while speaking to him. I edge closer, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation, but there’s too much chaos—people yelling over the loud music and glasses being moved around. He taps the bar, pulls away, and starts on her drink.
It’s a struggle to make out her features underneath the faint, sorry excuse for a light shining above her. Even though I’ve consumed enough booze to stock a small distillery, my throat turns dry as I observe her. The distance separating us doesn’t conceal her pain.
She’s hunched over in defeat and flicking at the chipped wood on the bar.
The glow she carried before has faded.