“Alexia, please don’t go without giving me your number. Let’s have one conversation and you can decide if I’m a bad guy or not. Unless you have a boyfriend.”
Maybe it’s the mouth-twist thing girls do when someone brings up a boyfriend who doesn’t exist, but he read my expression and a satisfied look glittered in his eyes. Lorenzo pulled a pen from his back pocket and held the tip to his palm. “Number?”
And like a freaking zombie, I found myself reciting my home number. Why not? I’d met the worst mistake of my life in a shop full of sugar. Maybe I’d meet the man of my dreams in a rundown parking lot by a shoe store and an overflowing dumpster.
“I’ll ask around to see if anyone I know is interested in the car,” he promised me. “I know what it’s like to have something you want to get rid of, but for some reason, it keeps hanging around like a curse.”
“Thanks,” I said. “The car needs to go, so if anyone you know wants to take a look at it, give them my work number. Tell them about the car before they show up and change their mind—you’ve seen it, so you’ll be able to sell it better than I can.”
He smiled. Not the kind with teeth, just a broad smile with his lips pressed together. “I’ll do that, Alexia. It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said, raising his hand in a wave. “And my name is Lorenzo Church. Friends call me Enzo, business associates call me Church, but you can call me anytime.”
He bowed his head, and I listened to his black boots tread heavily on the pavement as he walked back to his truck.
***
The next day, I called in sick. I’d caught a bug of some kind and it was slowly taking my body hostage. My fever hovered around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit for most of the day. Stuff like this happened a lot when I first started working at the shop. Kids collected germs, which is why I became vigilant about wiping down the counters with sanitizer. But lately, I’d been lucky with my health. I’d managed to accrue about twenty sick days, so I made the executive decision to use some of them.
I also handled food and giving our customers Ebola wasn’t high on my list for the top ways to earn a promotion.
It was the night of Naya’s party, but I’d already told her I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to make it. I called April at work to let her know she was still invited, but she shied out and made up an excuse about painting her bathroom the color of lemons. I really wanted to see her cut loose and have a good time. She was too young to be sitting around the house and not going to parties and dating. The strange thing was how little I knew about her, but sometimes people don’t like to show all their cards until they’re ready to go all out.
All my blankets were piled on the floor so I could stretch out across my bed. I had turned down the air conditioning, but nothing soothed my fever and restless legs. The blinds and drapes remained closed, submersing me in darkness.
My skin crawled, sensitive to everything. I didn’t have any violent fits of vomiting—thank God—but there was a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach. Not hunger, but almost like when you’re at the top of the hill on a roller coaster, three seconds from going down a steep track. Odds are I had the latest bug going around, as the symptoms mimicked what I had heard about—minus the vomiting.
The music cranked up at Naya’s apartment as her festivities were in full swing.
Of all times to get sick.
A knock sounded at my front door and I sat up, listening. Sometimes partygoers got lost and wound up on the wrong doorstep. My stringy brown hair covered my face and I flipped it back. Getting dressed wasn’t high on my agenda that day, so the only thing I bothered putting on was a long black tank top that fell just below my panties. I would have never worn a silly shirt like that in public because of the giant pair of red lips on the front in the shape of a kiss. Due to my fever, I would have preferred to sleep in the nude, had I not been afraid of an apartment fire and having to run naked into the arms of a fireman. Not that it would be a bad outcome.
But then the knocking sounded again.
“Dammit,” I murmured, dragging my bare feet across the carpet. Too tired to look out the peephole, I pressed my cheek against the painted wood. “Who is it?”
“It’s Beckett.”
I made some kind of a growl and thumped my head against the door.
“Come on, Lex. Just give me five minutes and you’ll never have to see me again. I saw your ad in the paper for the car and you won’t be able to sell it without the title. I brought it over; you left it at the house.”
Double ugh. I’d never sold a car before. Did I need a title? Damn.
“Five minutes,” I warned, turning the locks and opening the door.
“Jesus, Lexi, you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I said as he shouldered past me and casually walked inside.