Burying Water
Page 17

“I told you, you don’t have to do this.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
I start laughing when I look down to see the blue balls floating around the creamy yogurt.
She cocks her head playfully. “Not even blueberries? They’re my favorite.”
“Not even blueberries.”
She shrugs, still smiling, taking several steps toward the door. “I figured it was worth a shot. I’ll leave the bowl here, in case you feel like impressing me. More than you do.” She adds quickly, “With the cars, I mean.” Her cheeks flush with red.
I watch her take another step and bump into the boxes with the brake parts. One tumbles, hitting the ground with a rattle. Her eyes widen with panic. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!”
I chuckle at her sudden shyness and her clumsiness. She’s cute when she’s awkward. “It’s fine. They’re car parts, not china.”
Her bottom lip slips between her teeth and then she bursts out laughing. It’s an infectious sound and it lights up her entire face. I’m pretty sure she’s laughing at herself.
I hope so. Because I love a girl who can do that.
A slew of Russian words fly from Viktor’s mouth as he marches past the open garage door, a phone in his ear. I try to keep my focus on the engine that’s now sitting on the floor, a mess of cylinder caps and valves and bolts, but it’s hard, especially when I hear who he’s talking to.
There’s a pause, and then in English, “I am a busy man, Alexandria. You should know. You are out spending my hard-earned money right now! . . . I do not have time to chauffeur you around . . . No . . . Maybe waiting two hours for roadside assistance will teach you to watch your gas levels after this. Or, you can always walk the five miles.”
Oh Jeez. What is with that woman and cars?
He jabs at the “end” button and then to me, he raises his index finger. “When you marry a woman, Jesse, make sure she has some common sense. This one?” He holds up his phone, as if it represents his wife. “I married her for her youth, her beauty, her obedience, and her ability to suck my cock. I should have also looked for common sense. All she does lately is cause me headaches.” Shaking his head, he slides his phone in his pocket. “You are on your own here until she gets back. How much longer for that list?”
“I should be able to get it together in another couple of hours.”
“Good. And, just remember, the longer you take on this car, the more time you will need to work on yours.” With that thinly veiled threat, he climbs into the passenger side of his Hummer. The big blond guy from The Cellar is behind the wheel.
What a dick.
And I’m not even talking about my Barracuda. He’s going to just leave his wife sitting on the side of the road, in the rain, because she made a mistake? We’ve all made mistakes. Hell, I’ve made more than my share. I watch the gate close behind the Hummer and wonder if he’s just shooting his mouth off, acting tough. If he’s actually going to go get her.
Twenty minutes later, I still feel convinced that he’s not.
And now I can’t concentrate. Finally, I throw the wrench down and run out to my car, hitting the garage door button on my way out. He said she’s five miles out and she was shopping. The mall’s to the west, but I’m guessing she doesn’t shop at malls. So, she’s likely coming in from the trendier part in the north.
But if she’s not?
I look at the gate across the driveway . . . If I leave, I won’t be able to get back in to finish what I was working on. Viktor will be pissed.
I crank my engine.
The rain hits my windshield in sheets, the pools of water across the road pulling at my steering. Normally, all we get is a drizzle. Yet this is the second time she’s been stranded and it’s pissing rain. I’ve heard enough stories from my dad to know that drivers can get confused in heavy rain and plow into cars on the shoulder. I bite away at my thumbnail, speeding down the road, keeping my eyes peeled. What if I’m wrong and she is a mall girl?
I crest a hill to see the silver sports car pulled over on the opposite side. My chest swells with relief. And nostalgia. Even though it’s mid-afternoon, this is all too familiar.
I can just make out a single figure sitting behind the steering wheel, the windows fogged up with her breathing. Making a U-turn, I park directly in front of her. That way she can see me. Ducking from the rain, I run to her driver’s-side door and rap against the window.
There’s a long delay. And then a delicate hand wipes the fog away and Alex’s face appears. She cracks open her door, wiping the tears from her wide, red-rimmed eyes. “Jesse?” She frowns, glancing at the back of my car. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting soaked.” My sweatshirt’s drenched and clinging to my body. “So I hear you ran out of gas?”
“I was trying to make it to the full-serve near our house, but obviously I didn’t.”
“You’re not the first to ever admit to that.” I pull the door open and offer my hand. “Come on.”
“But I’ve called Triple-A.”
“And how much longer do you want to sit out here, waiting for them?”
She considers my callused palm, then slides her smooth one into my hand. She squeezes tight as I pull her out. “I have an umbrella,” she offers.
I laugh, switching hands to rope my arm around her waist and keep her close to me as we run on the shoulder. Her body tenses against me. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the proximity. I usher her into the passenger side and stand in the rain, waiting for her to buckle up—another by-product of being raised by a police officer and a surgeon who have seen too many ejected bodies—before I shut her door and circle my car, my fingers grazing across the rain-splattered hood.
I shiver as I climb in. “Sorry it’s not as nice as your ride.”
“Does it have gas? Because if it does, I’ll take it over my car right now,” she jokes, pulling a tissue out of her purse to blow her nose. “Did Viktor send you?”
I grit my teeth and pull onto the road. “No. I caught the conversation. Figured I’d come find you.”
“I didn’t think so.” She leans forward to inspect the heavy gray sky. “It hasn’t let up all day, has it? It’s depressing. I much prefer the sun.”
“You’re living in the wrong city, then.”
She chuckles. “Tell me about it. I grew up in Seattle. Rain is what I know best.” There’s an awkward pause. “So, where’d you grow up?”
“In the interior. Small town called Sisters. Way more sun there.”
“So you’re a small-town boy in a big city.”
“I guess you can say that.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’ll move back again, one day.” When I can buy my own piece of land so I’m not living under “the sheriff’s” roof. Hopefully by then, he won’t run the town anymore.
“I’ve heard it’s stunning out there, all those wildflowers in the mountains. And horse ranches, right?”
“Yeah, my parents live right next door to one. Well, former ranch. The old woman who lives there now hasn’t kept it going.”
She sighs. “I’ve never seen a real horse up close.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. My mom was terrified of them. Of their size. She thought I’d be trampled to death. I’ve never been swimming in a lake, either.”
Horses and lakes are what I know best.
“I think I’d like to live somewhere like that. One day. Lie out under those stars that you can’t see here.” She pauses. “I guess I’m a city girl who should have grown up in a small town. I feel like I’ve been living in the wrong life all these years.”
I try to picture Alex—in her sparkly blue dress and exotic sports car—pulling up to Poppa’s Diner in town, where three generations of families stuff their faces with grits and sausage every weekend, and every single person sitting in there has not only seen a horse but has probably grown up riding them. The image makes me smile. Then again, I know that these clothes, this car . . . it’s not the real Alex. It’s what Viktor has made her out to be.
“Your husband’s an ass**le. You should leave him.” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
Her gaze drops to her hands resting in her lap, her fingers tugging at the thick diamond band. “I wish it were that easy.”
Fuck it.
“He left you sitting on the side of the road.”
She clears her throat. “He’s right; it’s my fault. I should have filled up twenty miles ago.”
“No, Alex. I hope you don’t believe that. If you do, then he really is right and you have no common sense.” I catch the hurt flash across her features and immediately regret my words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Not that way. It’s just . . . he’s an ass**le. He talks down to you. He was out f**king some bartender last night; we both know that.” She flinches. “Hell, I’ve seen him slap you around!”
“I know,” she admits in a whisper.
I sigh. “How much older is he than you, anyway?”
She turns away from me to look out the window. “He’s forty-two. Twenty years older than me.”
“You’re only twenty-two?” I’m two years older than her. For some reason, I assumed she just looked young. I try to picture an eighteen-year-old Amber bringing home a guy like Viktor Petrova to meet my parents. To tell them that she’s marrying him. My dad would have his gun out in under five seconds. Where the hell were her parents in all this? Who was there to say, “Whoa! Hold up. This guy is all wrong for you!” For all that my parents are and have been, they’ve always made sure I know where they stand on my choices and my mistakes.
“Do your parents like him?” I can’t imagine anyone wanting their eighteen-year-old daughter to marry a man twenty years older.
She sighs. “I never met my dad, so I guess I don’t need his permission.”
“And your mom?”
“My mother would have married him for herself if he was willing.” Her lips press together. “She worked right up until the day that she collapsed from cancer. Twenty-five years of working with cleaning chemicals. She died before the wedding. I have nothing, no one, without Viktor.”
“And he knows it, Alex. Buying you expensive cars and jewelry doesn’t give him any right to treat you like this.”
“Well, what should I do, Jesse? Just pack a bag and leave?” She stares at her hands in her lap. “I want to finish school so I can get a real job first.”
“So you’re just going to put up with a cheating, abusive husband for how many more years? And what if he wants kids?”
“He doesn’t, believe me.” There’s venom in her voice, and I can tell there’s more to this topic of kids that she’s not telling me. “He doesn’t want me in school anymore. He said he’s not paying the tuition. My job is to take care of him. That’s why he married me. Apparently I haven’t been doing that well enough since school started.”
“I assume you signed a pre-nup?”
She shakes her head.
“Seriously? Well, hell! Take half his money and run!”
Another quick head shake. “I wouldn’t even know how to ask for a divorce from Viktor. Besides, it’s his money. He earned it.”
“What do you know about that, anyway? About how he earns his money?” It feels like the wrong word to use in relation to Viktor Petrova.
She shrugs. “He owns a company with a few business partners. They sell all kinds of cars . . . trucks . . . even boats and stuff . . . for companies and for the public. They have sales offices all over the world.”
“And you think it’s all aboveboard?”
She pauses. “It’s a publically traded company. They sell cars for insurance companies, dealerships, banks. It’s all on his website.”
So she’s looked into it. I wonder if it was due to curiosity or doubt. I rephrase my question. “Do you think everything he’s involved in is aboveboard?”
I get a look. A look that tells me she at least suspects that Viktor isn’t necessarily on the straight and narrow with everything.
The gas station is seven miles up the road and we close the rest of the distance in silence. I make her wait in the car as I fill up a can I keep in my trunk.
The rain has eased up by the time we get back to the BMW twenty minutes later. She rolls down the window as the engine purrs again, tapping the gas gauge. “Do you think this is enough to get me to the gas station? The needle hasn’t moved.”
With my arm on the roof, I stick my head into the car to check it. “Yeah . . . It’ll climb up in a second. But I’ll follow you to the gas station and then home, just in case.”