Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(58)

He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes—lined with dark circles—widening with surprise. A drip of water runs down his cheek. I inhale the smell of soap, so masculine and clean. He just had a shower. “Ah . . . Water, what are you doing here?”

My cheeks are on fire. “Sorry, I was just here . . . I mean, I wanted to say thank you for the truck . . . for fixing it, I mean.” I’m suddenly stammering and I don’t know why. “It runs great now.”

He steps out of the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him. Though I know I should, I don’t step back. I hold my breath as he passes me, the smell of him stirring something deep in my belly.

There’s no point denying the fact that I’m attracted to Jesse. The heat that’s crawling up my thighs has confirmed that. But, what would it be like, being with a guy again after being raped? Would I enjoy it? Would it feel at all familiar? Would it trigger memories of what I don’t want to remember? How can something that intimate not?

And then I think of the unsightly thin line running down my face and I almost laugh. Besides, Jesse obviously has problems right now. Some of those problems may involve that girl he broke up with, but there must be more. The fight between him and his father last night was about something more serious than a bad breakup.

“How much do I owe you for the parts?” I ask, trailing him out of the garage.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, Jesse.”

He stops with a hand on the handle of his driver’s-side door, his back to me, his head dipped forward. “Seriously, Water. It was nothing. A few cheap parts from the wreckers. I’ve gotta head out now, though.” He adds a soft, “Okay?”

“Sure, of course.” I hesitate and then ask, “Why blueberries?”

A long pause hangs between us and then he shrugs. “Because they’re my favorite.”

I watch until the back of the car disappears around the house and then I head back to the yellow truck. Ginny’s standing beside it, narrow eyes on me. “Did I just see you over next door with that boy?”

“I went to thank him for fixing the truck. I’ve gotta go, Ginny. I’ll be late for work.” I’m in no mood to appease Ginny’s foul temper.

The little container of blueberries still sits in the middle of the seat. With a shrug, I open it and pop one into my mouth, puckering against the pleasant tangy flavor. Pulling out my word association journal, I scribble down the word and say out loud, “Blueberry,” as if I’m quizzing myself. My pen curls around the letters of his name as I write down my one-word response. And then I shake my head and strike it out. I toss the book back into my purse.

On my way in to work, I devour the entire container. And I decide that blueberries are my favorite fruit, too.

TWENTY-THREE

Jesse

then

“Welles!” Miller’s booming voice pulls me from my brake job.

“Uh-oh . . . Teacher’s pet’s in trouble,” Zeke mumbles from beneath a hood.

I’d believe it, the way Miller is lumbering toward me. But for what, I have no idea. I’ve been here on time every day, even with the late nights over at Viktor’s. “Here.” He shoves a slip of paper at me. “You’re needed here before heading over to Mr. Petrova’s house.”

I frown at the address on the paper. “For what?”

“Do I look like your f**king secretary?” Miller snaps, turning around. “Boone. You’re busy with your thumb up your ass. Go finish up this car for him.”

Normally Boone would shoot a finger to Miller’s back, but right now he’s more interested in what I have in my hand, snatching it out of my grasp. “NoPo? What’s over there?”

“The hell if I know . . .” I mutter.

“All right, well . . .” He hands it back and then slaps my hand. “Call me later.”

I can safely say that I’ve never been to this part of Portland.

Checking the address one last time, I pull in next to a row of old model cars with bright pink numbers scrawled across their windshields. A couple of new Ford trucks line the opposite corner, but I’d say the sign on the white brick storefront that reads “Boris’s Used Cars” is aptly named.

I climb out of my Corolla and walk through the double doors into a clinical reception area with cheap industrial floor tile, chalky walls, and a cheesy poster of a blue Porsche racing down a road pinned to the wall with tacks. A gumball machine sits in the corner, and I’ll bet the colorful balls came with it when it was bought twenty years ago. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air. Not the kind that clings to someone who just came in from a smoke. The fresh kind, where someone said “f*ck you” to the state laws and lit up. Like Viktor did, that night at The Cellar.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and trim beard sitting behind a desk lifts his bored gaze to meet me. “Yeah?” He loves his job, I can tell.

I hold up the scrap of paper between two fingers, as if that tells him something. “I was told to come here.”

“And who told you to come here?”

“Miller, from Rust’s Garage.”

The guy’s flat stare tells me that means nothing.

I try another name. “Viktor Petrova?”

Recognition flashes in his eyes. He picks up an old-school phone, hits a few buttons, and then holds the receiver, mumbling something in what I now easily identify as Russian. Hanging up, he slides off his chair and instructs, “This way.”