Never Have I Ever(39)

“Without the provenance, art’s just paper and lines. That was more like a gift.”

“Sure,” I said, the way she used that word. Sarcastic.

She smiled, recognizing the inflection. “People like to give me things. I’m nice if you give me things. You’ll see.”

I understood then; she’d done this before, traded secrets for things she wanted or needed. Maybe this was all she did. Her mystery job.

Meanwhile her hands found the tied strings of my suit, the tankini top still damp under my dress. “You went to the beach? You smell like beach.” I didn’t answer. “What the hell are you? I have your whole life in my hands. I told you to dump Kanga and get over here, and you . . . what, you geared up and went diving?” She sounded almost admiring, her fingers running along the suit’s underwire. She brushed her thumbs across the cups, and I jerked.

“Are you searching for my nipples?” I asked, acid. “Because you found those.”

“Just a mike,” Roux said. “Or a gun. Little knives. Ninja stars.”

It sounded like a point of pride. It sounded true.

“Oh, do people often try to kill you?” I asked, deadpan. “Fancy that.”

“Well, I did mention I was married,” she said, and then added, “Rimshot!”

I didn’t think she was joking all the way, though. There was a serious edge to it, and I took it as another drop in my meager pool of knowledge about Roux. She was married. She’d once lived in my old neighborhood. She didn’t eat carbs. And now this: She’d known violence.

Her hands were lower now, feeling my waist. I sucked my stomach in. I couldn’t help it. It was easier to stand her hands on me when we were talking, so I talked.

“You don’t seem married. Hearing how you talk about men, I don’t think you like them very much.”

She shrugged. “Men are useful. I like useful things.”

She knelt then, running her hands down my right hip, then my leg.

“See, right there, that’s animosity,” I told her, and I wanted to make her uncomfortable. Wanted to invade her space, the same way she was muscling into mine. “Has it occurred to you that you’re raising a man?”

I felt a stillness come into her body, but it happened in her core. Her hands stayed in motion. “Luca is a boy. Boys are sweet.”

“What do you think boys grow up to be?” I pushed.

“Men. Mostly. But at that point don’t they also get the hell out of your house?” She grinned, tossing the remark off, but my dig had landed. She did have a soft spot. Her kid. Now she was checking my sandals. “You’re pretty fit, especially considering how big you used to be. You should dedicate a day to abs, though.”

I’d hit her and she’d hit back, immediately, landing a low blow. I closed my eyes, breathed in, as her hands swept up my other leg. Imagined I was underwater. Imagined her movements were waves and current pushing at me. It worked, too, right up until she put one hand directly between my legs. I cried out and stepped back, my eyes flying open.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Relax, Amy. People always think no one will look there. It’s the first place I think of and the last place I check.”

“Satisfied?” I asked, my voice tight, as she stood and stepped away from me.

“Not yet. But I mean to be.” She gave me a brilliant smile. She looked down at Oliver, snug in the stroller, sleeping in the abandoned way of secure and happy babies, both arms hurled up over his head. He’d kicked the blanket off, as he always did, exposing one perfect, pink foot. “See, now, boys are sweet.”

It was the first time she’d ever acknowledged him as a person existing around her, and she said it in an offhand manner. She reached down, and I thought she was going to fix the blanket. Instead she searched my boy as if he were a handbag, impersonal, her movements brisk and thorough.

I felt my own hands fist at my sides, and this was more an invasion than her groping me had been.

“If you wake him up . . .” I said, a warning whisper, but he was already stirring.

She didn’t know it, but this meet was over. Oliver was a monster baby if anyone pulled him out of a nap. He was beginning his high whine that would become a squall and then a howl. His gummy eyes fought to open.

Roux put her face close to his, then placed one hand on his chest, one lower. She bounced him in little pushes, like a gentle version of baby CPR, making a noise that sounded like a quiet train.

“Chicka-chicka-chicka.”

His eyes focused briefly on her face, then he slow-blinked once, twice. To my surprise he settled, going limp again.

“I’m a baby whisperer,” she said, peeping up at me with a sly smile. “They fucking love me.”

This from a woman who had acted like he was a houseplant every time she’d shared a room with him. She bent lower to check the diaper bag I’d stowed under his stroller. My cell was in it, and she pressed the button and swiped, powering it all the way down. When she was finished, she walked, brisk and businesslike, over to the sofa and sat. “All right, you asked what I want. I want the money from your college trust fund. After you liquidate and pay taxes and fees, you should clear around two hundred and forty thousand. You give it to me, all of it, and I will go away.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. I’d guessed that she was after money, but this was so specific.