I jog to the kitchen and grab a handful of paper towels. “Here.”
She bends down to swab her ankle and I notice her arms. Purple bruises dot the outsides, and there’s one on her upper arm that looks as if it was left by three fingers.
Veronica lifts her head and catches my gaze. Her mouth tightens into a small, mad circle, daring me to call her on it. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say. Her reaction tells me more than words ever could.
She gives me a poisonous glare through her wet strands of hair. Her lips part and her eyes shoot daggers. It’s like she wants me to say something. If looks could kill, hers would have sliced me open and let my intestines hang out. Finally, she drops her gaze. “I’ll be a second,” she mutters.
I nod once rather than speak. She’s got the look of a commuter with road rage—ready to run over the next driver who pisses her off.
Hmm… Been there, done that.
I grab some clean towels from the laundry room and rub one over my face. I take the rest out to my car and spread them over the damp seats.
Quit thinking about those bruises.
I’m ready at the door when she finally comes out. Her hair is swept back from her face. Clear blue eyes framed by long, thick lashes study me.
With her lack of makeup and cotton shirt molding to every curve, she’s a picture of innocent farm girl meets lingerie model. It alarms me that some lecher could’ve picked her up.
She holds out her hand and for a second, I’m confused.
“Peroxide?” she says.
“Oh, yeah. Here you go.”
She bends again with some tissue from the bathroom in her hand and pulls her muddy jeans up to expose the cut. It’s a deep gash and a fine stream of blood runs down her skin.
“You need stitches. I mean, it looks pretty bad to me.”
“No. It’s fine.” She lifts her head.
“I don’t have bandages here.”
Veronica shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
I can’t quit looking at the bruises on her arms. Definitely finger marks.
“I get hurt all the time.” She glances down at her left arm as if to acknowledge the damage. “Call me clumsy.” Her self-deprecating smile spears my chest.
The thick silence physically bears down on me. “So,” I finally say. “Bus station.”
“That’d be great. Thank you.” Veronica smiles, one corner of her mouth tipping up.
“After you.” I hold open the door and walk out behind her. She’s probably close to my age. I cannot take my eyes off the marks on her arms.
We do an awkward jockeying around the passenger door. After a second, she realizes I’m opening it for her and she blushes. “Oh. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah. I do. It’s called good manners.”
Veronica blushes deeper. “Well, you’re nice and all.” She gets in and I close the door, unintentionally making her jump.
I slide into the driver’s seat. “Where are you taking a bus trip to?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You are taking a bus somewhere, right?”
“Can I have a ride or not?”
“Hey, no problem.” I raise my hands defensively. “Just trying to help.” Maybe I didn’t give her enough credit for being smart. She shouldn’t tell a stranger where she’s going.
“I appreciate the ride. I’ll give you money.” She unzips her bag and pulls out a change purse that reminds me of my grandmother. Veronica twists the gold clasp at the top and peers inside.
“No. I don’t need your money.”
Her eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “My money not good enough for you?” She turns her face to the window and crosses her arms across her chest.
“If I wanted your money, I’d ask you to fix my bumper.”
The rain slacks in a sudden reprieve. I reverse the car and try not to think about why she was walking earlier. She obviously has no one to call. Not. My. Problem.
My urge to help her, fix her, know her … is a dangerous one. I can’t get involved.
Traffic is nonexistent, as though everyone is taking shelter. I turn the stereo up to combat the silence of the ride.
She watches the numbers on the stereo display when I punch the button to scan through stations. I stop when a weather bulletin comes on and listen with an uneasy feeling. We’re under a tornado watch and it sounds as though the weather’s going to be bad for much of the day and night.
“You from around here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Okay. Are you having your car towed somewhere?”
“No.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
She turns to face the window.
“Veronica? Want to use my phone to call somebody about the car?”
“No. I’ve taken care of it.”
Crazy chick indeed. I resist the urge to ask more questions.
“You have a nice car.” Veronica’s small voice accuses me.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Sorry if I messed up your seats and stuff. You’ve been really nice.”
“Not a problem.”
“Really.” Then she turns to me. “I appreciate it.”
I give her a dismissive nod. I don’t want her gratitude or her problems. I moved from Chicago so I could start fresh—minus the problems of people who need and demand and deceive. I’ve left those people behind.
Chapter Two
Veronica
My feet make wet rubbery sounds as I wiggle my toes in the sneakers. The rain has started again and the guy—Collin—keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead. The luxury car is spotless except for the wet stains he’ll never get out of the floor mats. There’s a spot of blood where my hurt ankle dripped on the car mat, and I rub my foot over it wishing I could make it blend in to the fibers. This makes the spot worse, a rusty swirl of color in the beige fibers of the mat. I slide both feet over the damning evidence.
“Are we almost there?” Although I’ve never held a cigarette between my lips, my voice holds a raspy smoke-a-pack-a-day quality.
“A few more miles west.”
We come to an intersection and stop at a red light. Collin has both hands on the wheel at ten and two. A black, expensive-looking watch adorns his left wrist and a tattoo winds from under the watchband to disappear into his shirt sleeve. I can’t read the words, the script scrawled in small letters.
A rich guy with a tattoo. I hold back a snort. He must think it’s a fashion statement, like the watch. He looks damp and wrinkled due to his stint in the rain, but his clothes still say money. A tiny emblem sewn above the breastbone says his shirt costs more than my entire outfit plus shoes.
Rich boy driving a luxury car. I glance down at the stains I’ve caused and stifle a groan. I hate ruining things.
First the outside of his car, now the inside. Murphy’s Law rules my life now. I might as well get used to it.
He maneuvers the car into the empty lot and shifts into PARK. “Well, this is you.”
“Oh. Umm … thanks.” I swing the car door open wide and hesitate. The rain is lightly falling as I hop out. I don’t attempt to shield myself since I’m already drenched.