“Ok, well, thanks. On that bright note, you can tell me how much I owe you for this.” She waves her hand at the door.
“You don’t owe me anything, Ellie.” Her warm brown gaze briefly touches mine when I say her name. “I’m the one who owes you, remember? Come on,” I say, grabbing my tools and heading for the door. “You can explain why you saved my ass over dinner.”
“Are you sure? I feel bad that you’re going to all this trouble for me.” The inflection on for me has me turning back. It almost sounds like she doubts she’s worth the bother.
“I’m very sure. And I’m hungry. You’re not going to turn down a free meal, are you?”
“Not likely,” she acknowledges. “So where are you taking me?”
“I don’t know. Where do you want to go? There’s always Applebee’s.”
She laughs. “Right, so I don’t mistake this for a date. You know, you could probably get rid of me faster if we went to Chipotle. And the food would be better.”
That makes me pause. Then I can’t help but shake my head and chuckle softly. “The food would be better,” I admit. “But I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
She hums some kind of cryptic agreement before she says, “Would you mind if we stop off to pay my rent?”
“Uh, sure, no problem.”
She grabs her purse and locks the door. “Thanks, the landlord’s a bit of a letch. I always hate going there alone.”
I’m about to ask her why her friends or brothers don’t help her out when she starts chattering away non-stop like she did a few days ago. It must be a nervous thing.
“I mean, he’s never actually tried anything, but I hate the way he looks at me. Like he’s groping me in his imagination.” She shivers with exaggerated disgust as we pass the lobby and head down the other side of the building, still on the main floor. “You know the type, right? Really creepy? But I suppose imaginary groping isn’t a crime.”
The landlord’s door is the first on the left. Ridiculously, she jumps on the spot a few times like a boxer warming up for a fight, she even includes a few neck stretches. If she weren’t so obviously uneasy, I’d laugh.
She knocks firmly and I set my tool box down while we wait.
The door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy wearing a wife-beater that does little to cover his paunch. To complete the picture, his dandruff speckled hair is slicked back. What a nasty cliché.
“Ahhhh,” he drawls. “Miss Summers. How are you?”
Sure enough, his gaze drops to her chest, though I’m not sure what he’s looking at since she’s pretty much covered.
“I’m good, Mr. Bostwick,” she says too brightly. “How are you?”
He leans against the door jamb as his eyes slither lower. “I’m doing a little better now that you’re here. What can I do for you?” His suggestive tone has a short grunt of disapproval coming from me. He finally spares me a quick glance, but doesn’t change his attitude.
“Just came to pay my rent.” She pulls out a wad of cash from her jeans pocket and holds it out to him. When he doesn’t take it right away, I frown. What’s with the blatant disrespect? It’s not my place to say anything though.
“Tomorrow’s the first,” he states like she’s an idiot.
“I know. I’m a day early.”
With a noisy exhale, he takes the money and shuts the door in our faces.
She nods absently as if acknowledging to herself that the encounter went as well as could be expected. “I just have to wait for the receipt.”
“No worries. I see you weren’t exaggerating his charm.”
Her eyes widen as she whispers, “Right? He’s such a worm.”
The door jerks back open and Mr. Bostwick, the creep, is pissed. “Fifty dollars short, Miss Summers.”
Ellie’s shoulders shrink slightly. “I know, it’s just till I get paid,” her voices dwindles, “in twelve days.”
“The deal is the full rent or an eviction notice. You’ve run out of chances.”
“But it’s only my third time,” she pleads. “I’ve lived here for three years. You know I’ll pay.”
“No, your boyfriend used to pay. You, on the other hand, are unreliable.”
I’m not sure if it’s because I hate that she’s being talked down to by this skeevy asshole or if I have a hero complex like Desiree claims, but I’m reaching for my wallet to put an end to this before I can really consider the ramifications.
“Here’s the fifty bucks she owes you.” My words stop whatever further insults he was about to launch at her. “And she’ll need a receipt.”
Ellie
Mr. Bostwick glares between Scott and me before he grabs the cash from his hand and disappears back inside.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I squeak out, mortification flushing my cheeks.
“You’d prefer the eviction notice?” His voice takes on a teasing tone that flusters me a bit.
“No, I . . .”
“When your next check comes in, you can pay me back, okay?”
“Of course,” I say vehemently. Oh my god, how humiliating. So much for my hope that Mr. Bostwick would cut me some slack in front of an audience. Why can’t he appreciate the way I came so close to scraping the money together?
“You should see your face,” Scott says on a laugh. “It’s no big deal, all right? I’ll get my money. I know where you live – at least for the next month.”
A thin, sputtering noise trails from my throat. “Was that a joke? Please don’t make fun of me. This is so embarrassing.”
Mr. Bostwick is back then, pushing the receipt at me. “Come prepared next time.” The sudden quiet in the hall when he’s gone is nerve-racking until Scott leans down to grab his tool box and says, “Come on. A burrito with my name on it is waiting.”
I hurry after him. “I’m turning out to be the most expensive charity case ever, aren’t I?”
“Charity case?” His eyebrows lift as we pass through the main doors and out into the quickly cooling night. “You keep forgetting that I’m the one who owes you.”
“I’m sure that’s not true anymore.”
“Yes, it is,” he says pointedly as he pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the doors to a small pickup truck that’s parked down the street. Tucking his tool box in the tiny extended cab space behind the seat, he gestures for me to get in.
“No one actually fits back there, do they?” I ask once we’re both seated.
He starts the engine and pulls out before glancing at me. “Actually all three of them fit back there nicely.”
Huh? “All three of who?”
“My daughter, my niece, and my littlest sister. They’re all about the same age.”
Oh, right. “How old are they?”
“Six, seven and eight.”
“And why do I keep getting the impression that you’re the one who takes care of them?” I wonder aloud.
“Because I do. My grandmother and I are basically their parents.”