Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(11)

She stared at me long and hard, like my real intentions were going to seep from my eyes on my next blink. I gawked right back, using every ounce of my self-control not to turn around and walk away. I got it, she had her reasons, but she was goddamn strange. I didn’t do difficult, or different, or weird. I kept things simple on that front. Don’t get me wrong—she was beautiful, but she looked like a dazzling tragedy, specially designed to fuck you up.

“My insurance covers it,” she stumbled over her own words. Like she wasn’t used to talking to strangers. I popped my cinnamon gum loudly.

“They’re also going to take an hour. I can get you going in fifteen minutes, and spare you the paperwork and headache.”

“I’m fine with paperwork and headaches. Leave.”

“Fair enough. Call your insurance company.” I folded my arms over my chest.

She could search for their number online, but it would probably take her twenty minutes. There was close to zero reception in that part of downtown Todos Santos. It was located in a valley so low, we were practically neighbors with hell. She tried searching for the number, squinting at her cell phone, huffing at the scrutiny she was under. Then she stumped her foot.

“What’s in it for you?” Jesse tilted her chin toward me, giving up on her spotty internet. Talk about complete opposite from her stepfather. While they were both anxious, he was passive and weak. She was a spitfire, ready to claw your eyes out if you got anywhere near her.

“A cup of coffee. Black. None of that soy shit,” I said, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows and turning my back to her to grab the toolbox from my truck. I swaggered back to find her rooted to the ground, her expression caked with distrust. I dumped the toolbox on the sidewalk and popped her trunk open, feeling her eyes on my face like the barrel of a gun.

She didn’t want to talk to me.

But she didn’t want to spend the afternoon baking under the SoCal sun and waiting for the tow company to arrive even more.

“Feel free to get me that coffee any minute now.” I didn’t even spare her a look, pretending to feel the tire to see what went wrong. Did I mention I didn’t like coffee? Because that shit was poison, and I was a semi-pro surfer with very clean-eating habits. She shifted, looking around, like I was going to tackle her into an alleyway.

“How do you take your coffee again?” With a shot of vodka. And no coffee.

“Surprise me.”

“Surprise you?”

“Yeah. It’s when you do something shocking and spontaneous. Like, you know, smile.”

“Who are you to judge me?”

“I’m your new best friend. Now, go.”

She shook her head gravely and started toward the Starbucks across the street. Downtown Todos Santos was dead for a Thursday evening. Another blessing for yours truly. I didn’t need people recognizing either of us. Jesse was as uptight as a tampon as it was. I did my thing, pushing to the back of my mind the fact that she was like a siren calling to my desires.

She is also a rape victim.

She is also a lucrative business deal.

Oh, and she is also a fucking teenager, you twenty-five-year-old perv.

Jesse came back with a steaming cup of coffee and held it out to me like it was a dead body.

“Leave it on the hood.”

My greasy hands were busy plucking the scissor jack and placing it under the frame rail. Being an only child to a single mom, I’d learned how to do everything short of performing open-heart surgery by myself. I could change all of Jesse’s tires and make okroshka soup from scratch while she filed her fucking nails. Right now, I needed her to see that she could trust me. She was still staring at me, bewildered, like she, herself, had no idea why she was letting me help her.

Then, as if to confirm my suspicion, she blurted, “Why are you helping me, again?”

“I wanted coffee.”

“You can afford coffee.”

“How do you know that? Do you have laser vision that goes straight through my pocket and into my wallet?” I grunted while lifting her spare tire. Couldn’t she have a little fuck-me-missionary-style Mini Cooper like all the other rich chicks in town?

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

I hope not, because it’s either from being a beach bum or the unofficial town whore.

I looked up at her, wiping my forehead and smearing grease over it in the process. “Do you?”

“You’re Roman Protsenko.” She rubbed her worried forehead, and there it was—the look of sheer fear and disgust.

My heart beat faster, even though it shouldn’t have. I reminded myself that I didn’t care…only I did, because I’d already spent some of Darren’s money. “So you do know who I am. What do you make of that?”

“I make nothing of that. It doesn’t matter if you’re the pope or Justin Timberlake. I don’t date.”

“Me neither, so stop acting like I’m hitting on you,” I said honestly. Her spine relaxed a little, and she gave me a curt nod. I had a feeling that was her version of a smile, and I didn’t hate it. California girls smiled like the whole world was watching. Jesse’s movements were private, quiet.

“And what’s your name?” I asked, because I wasn’t really supposed to know.

“No one. Are you done?” She nodded toward her tire.