Burying Water
Page 22

“You’ve got to be . . .” I want to launch my phone at the wall. Instead, I type out:
He was worried about you so he hit you?
No. He wanted his pinstripe suit laid out for a breakfast meeting and he expected his wife to be home to do it for him.
A second text comes through quickly after:
You can’t say anything, Jesse. It won’t end well for either of us.
Tossing my phone on the far end of the bed, I storm across the room, pushing Boone’s door open. “Do you know that the f**ker beats his wife?”
Boone, on the floor in nothing but shorts, pauses mid-crunch. He never misses his daily workout, even on days when he hits the gym. I’ve seen him come home from the bar annihilated and drop for a hundred reps. “Who?”
“Your man crush, Viktor Fuckhead Petrova.”
He flops to the floor and reaches back to give Licks a belly rub. By the muscles straining against his abdomen, I’d say Boone’s already done most of his reps for tonight. “Are you surprised? You saw him slap her at the bar.”
“So . . . what? You think it’s okay?”
“Of course I don’t, but what the hell am I supposed to do?” He scowls at me.
“You should have seen her lip tonight.”
Boone just stares at me.
I throw my hands in the air. “What?”
“Nothin’, man—I’ve just never seen you get heated about anyone before. You usually don’t give a f**k.” He starts in on his crunches again. “Why doesn’t she leave him?”
“She’s twenty-two, Boone. She thinks she’s trapped.”
“Trapped with a whole lot of fancy shit,” he puffs out.
“The guy treats her like a servant and he hits her. She made a mistake, marrying him.”
He pauses, resting on his elbows, regarding me with recognition in his eyes. “And are you making an even bigger mistake? Because f**king with Viktor Petrova’s wife will not end well for you, my friend . . .” He shakes his head, his mouth open like he’s holding back from saying something. “Just make sure it’s worth it.”
“I’m not doing anything with Alex,” I lie.
His brow pops up. “She goes by Alex now?”
“Alex, Alexandria. Whatever. The point is . . .” What is the point? Viktor beats his wife and . . . what? “The point is don’t ever repeat any of this to Rust or anyone else because he will probably hurt her for it.”
“Repeat what? I didn’t hear shit.” He rolls over onto his stomach for his push-ups.
I head back to my room, slightly more calm. Checking my phone, I see that Alex hasn’t texted again and I don’t know how to respond to her just yet, other than to say, “Call the police and leave the ass**le.” My gut tells me Viktor would get off and Alex would pay for reporting him.
Reaching over my head, I peel my shirt off. Kicking off my jeans, I drop to the ground for my own set of push-ups. I have no specific rep number, though. I figure I’ll just keep going until I can work this shit out in my head.
I wake up at some point in the middle of the night, facedown on the floor beside my bed, having pushed myself to exhaustion.
And having no answer.
TWENTY
Water
now
The old Chevy truck comes to a sputtering halt on the now familiar dirt road.
I check the dashboard. All needles point down.
This isn’t good.
A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I’m alone. I’m not surprised. I’m about seven miles from home, surrounded by fields and trees. I rarely ever pass anyone out here.
Reaching down, I turn the key to “off” and then try to crank the engine again. All I get in return is a clicking sound. I flop back against the bench with a heavy sigh.
Ginny’s truck is dead.
And I’ve got the week’s groceries sitting in the back. It’s too far to carry them, especially with an arm that’s still weak, although my leg has been better lately. I check my watch. A quarter after five. There’s no way I can get home and get dinner in front of Ginny in time, and I can’t even call her to warn her, because she doesn’t have a phone. Thank God for neighbors.
I dig my cell phone out of my purse to call Amber. It isn’t until I see the blank screen that I remember I forgot to charge it at work earlier. “Dammit!” I cry out, slapping my steering wheel in frustration. I’ve been so good about plugging it in for the afternoon.
Until today.
Because today, all I could focus on was that low, hypnotic rhythm over the stereo system and the ball of anxiety sitting in my stomach.
It’s a clue. I know it.
I lied to Dakota. I told her I loved trance. I pleaded with her to keep it playing all day, desperate for a bigger sliver of insight—a flashback, a clearer feeling.
But all the incessant music did was grow that ball of dread bigger and stronger, making it impossible to ignore.
And now I’m stuck on an old dirt road with a broken truck and no phone.
I rest my head on the worn steering wheel. Ginny’s going to freak. When she says she wants dinner at six o’clock sharp, it’s not just an expression. It took me a few weeks to realize that her eyes are actually glued to the minute hand of her watch and if her meat dish—because there’s no such thing as dinner without meat in Ginny’s eyes—doesn’t hit the table on time, she starts pacing and fidgeting.
It’s not my fault. She knows as well as I do that this old thing was running by the grace of God and nothing more. On the way home from work last week, it started making a rattling sound, like something was loose in the engine. I mentioned it to her. She merely shrugged and asked me if it got me where I needed to go.
Up until now, it has.
How am I going to get to work tomorrow? Dakota needs me there. It’s the first Saturday that the farmers’ market is open, so the shop will be busy.
How am I even going to get home?
I’m not, until someone comes by and I wave them down. Someone I know. Otherwise, what will I do? Get into the car with a stranger? “It’s okay, Water,” I coach myself through slow breaths—like Dr. Weimer told me to do whenever I feel panicked. “You’re in Sisters, Oregon. You’re perfectly safe. Your truck just broke down. It’s a normal thing. It can happen to anyone.”
Except, I’m not just anyone. I’m the girl who was dropped off in an abandoned building parking lot not far from here and left for dead.
A low rumble in the distance, like thunder, and a dust cloud marks the approach of a car. A few seconds later, black paint shines in the late-day sun.
Relief slams into me. I know that car. It’s Jesse. He’ll recognize me. He’ll stop.
Won’t he?
With a hint of trepidation, I scurry out of the driver’s side and round the truck to stand next to the tailgate, butterflies in my stomach as I watch the car near. I don’t really know this guy at all. Sure, he’s Gabe and Meredith’s son. Sure, he waved at me. Once. Sure, he brought over all that firewood. But he’s also the black sheep of the Welles family, of the entire town.
The sports car comes to a stop about ten feet away, its engine grumbling.
I hazard a slight wave. Not really a wave. More a tentative hand held in the air.
He kills the engine and slides out of the car, his body lean and muscular in a pair of jeans and faded black T-shirt.
“Hi . . . Jesse, right?” I’ve never actually talked to him directly, and yet it feels so natural to use his name.
“What’re you doing out here?”
With my panic at being stranded and the subsequent thrill over being rescued, I temporarily forgot about my face. Now, though, standing in front of him, I casually brush my hair forward. Gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb, I explain, “Ginny’s truck just died. I don’t know what happened.”
He smirks. “You didn’t run out of gas, did you?”
“No! I mean . . . I don’t think so.” It sounds like he’s teasing me. I hope I didn’t do something so stupid. Then I remember stopping at the local full-serve on Wednesday. “No. It’s at least three-quarters full.”
I follow him as he moves to the front of the truck and lifts the hood, his arms straining against the weight until he has it propped open. A chill is settling with the early evening. I fold my arms across my chest to ward it off as I study Jesse from the side, while he tests various wires with the ease of an expert.
I would never guess he and Amber are twins. He’s definitely Sheriff Gabe’s son, though, with that same olive complexion, the strong jaw, and the tiniest cleft in his chin. He really is a good-looking guy.
And I’m staring at him.
“You look like you know cars,” I blurt out.
“I know a little bit.”
He doesn’t seem overly chatty, and yet this strange, giddy feeling inside compels me to say something. “You haven’t been back for a while.”
“You noticed?”
“Yeah. I mean . . . no. I mean . . . Meredith said you come home on weekends but you didn’t, so . . .” And now I’m rambling.
Jesse disappears behind the driver’s-side door. Seconds later, I hear that clicking sound again. He reappears, pulling the prop down and letting the hood slam shut. “It’s your alternator,” he informs me, lifting his hands to inspect them. “And a dozen other things.”
Alternator? “I don’t know car-speak. Is that a big deal?”
“Could be worse.” Jesse turns to face me, his dark eyes boring into mine. I automatically turn to give him my better profile. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.” He starts pulling the grocery bags out of the truck bed and carries them to his car in one arm, the muscles chording beautifully. He uses his free hand to pop his trunk. When I reach the passenger side, he’s already standing there, holding the door open.
The scent of leather and mint fills my nostrils as I slide into the passenger seat. Jesse waits for me to buckle my seat belt before he pushes the door closed—that’s rather nice, and unexpected—and then strolls around the front, his fingers sliding across the hood as he passes.
The gesture is familiar.
I’m momentarily distracted by the car’s interior—the soft black ceiling, the chrome gear stick, the wide backseat that now holds two large duffel bags—but that familiarity lingers. In fact, as I reach forward to skim the dash, it’s even stronger. Could this car be reminding me of some part of my life?
It only intensifies when Jesse cranks the engine and the vibrations reach deep into my chest.
“You all right?”
I smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He shifts into first gear and the car lurches forward. I instinctively brace myself, one hand grabbing the door while I reach for the console with the other, and accidentally grab his forearm, his skin hot against my fingertips. I pull back immediately, feeling my cheeks flush. “Sorry.”
He says nothing, throwing the car into second and then third gear, before reaching up to tune the radio. “Any preference?”
“No.” I quickly correct, “Just no trance music.”
Jesse swerves to avoid a pothole, tossing me back and forth a little. “Why not?” He sounds wary.
“I’m not sure, honestly.” How much has Jesse’s family told him about me? He knows I was in the hospital, but what else does he know?
Drums and guitars fill the speakers and I sigh with relief. I keep my eyes on the mountain range ahead as I absorb the beat, feeling Jesse’s gaze flicker between the road and my face several times. Thank God he can only see my good side.
“You saved me from a very long walk, so . . . thanks.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “No problem.”
I keep my eyes forward until he turns into the Welleses’ driveway. “Ginny doesn’t want my car in her driveway,” he explains.
Or you. “Yeah, she might have mentioned that before, once or twice.”
“Or a hundred times, I’m sure,” he mutters.
When we pull around to the back of the Welleses’ house—which they use as the front, with a giant sliding glass door off the kitchen—Sheriff Gabe is standing next to his cruiser, watching us. He doesn’t look happy.
What would it have been like, throwing your own son in jail? Being told that he had stabbed another teenager? No wonder they seem to have a strained relationship. I can’t imagine either has recovered completely from that experience.
Jesse hops out of the car to meet his dad head-on. No fear.
“I thought we agreed,” Sheriff Gabe says in a low, ominous tone.
“Ginny’s truck broke down,” I blurt out, pushing open the heavy door, feeling like I need to jump in and protect Jesse from his father’s anger. “Jesse, can I get my groceries, please?”
He pops the trunk and grabs the bags before I have a chance to reach for them.
“Where do you think you’re going with those?” Sheriff Gabe hollers after his son.