Kiss and Don't Tell(4)

Shivering, she says, “I’m s-sorry to bother you, but my car got stuck in the mud. I saw the lights from the pool and followed them. Do you have any cell service?” The storm booms behind her, causing her to shrink even smaller.

“We don’t. Sorry.” Taters goes to shut the door, but Hornsby quickly stops him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Confused, Taters says, “Our phones aren’t working, and that’s what she’s looking for. Clearly, we don’t make a match.”

“Ask her if she wants to come inside, you idiot.”

Taters looks from the girl to Hornsby, and back again. “She could be a murderer.” He doesn’t bother keeping his voice down.

“She said she wasn’t,” Posey says while picking at the crumbs in the Chips Ahoy sleeve.

“So we’re just going to take her word for it?” Taters asks.

We all turn to the girl for confirmation. When she realizes we’re waiting, she stumbles out, “I’m not. I don’t do the murdering things. Hell, I don’t even know how to murder.”

Taters rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows how to murder.”

“I don’t know how to murder and get away with it,” she corrects herself.

Once again, Taters scoffs. “Please, everyone knows a woodchipper is a solid bet.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Just let her in.”

“What if she’s a psycho?” Taters asks. “You want a psycho in here?”

Chiming in, the girl says, “I promise I’m not a psycho. I was just hoping I could use your phone.”

“And like I said”—Taters does a dramatic pause as he turns to her again—“they aren’t working. So, sorry for the inconvenience, but you should be on your way.”

“Holy shit, dude, where the hell is your chivalry?” Hornsby asks, pushing Taters out of the way and holding the door open wider. “Excuse our friend. He’s an enneagram six. A stranger in his house is his worst nightmare.”

With understanding in her voice, she says, “My best friend is a six. I totally get it. I got her a Ring camera for her birthday and she told me it was the best gift she ever received.”

“Was it the Ring Doorbell Pro?” Taters asks, perking up. “Did you get her a spotlight as well? You know you can link them together.”

“Ignore him. Come in,” Hornsby says.

The girl doesn’t move. Instead, she scans the space. “I don’t want to bother you. Your phones aren’t working, so there really is no reason for me to be here.”

“Where are you going to go?” Hornsby asks.

“I don’t know, back to my car, I guess, to wait out the storm.”

“You’ll be waiting for a while.” Hornsby nods inside. “Seriously, we don’t mind.”

She glances around again, and when her eyes land on me, taking me in, I have a moment of déjà vu. She looks . . . familiar. “Not to sound rude or anything, but it seems as if you’re a bunch of big guys. I have nothing with me but my backpack, which despite my best friend begging me to fill it with self-defense items, is instead stuffed with snacks. I’m not sure I could trust you not to murder me.”

“You have snacks?” Taters asks, sounding more welcoming.

“I do,” she says skeptically, backing up.

“He’s not going to take them.” Hornsby pushes Taters completely away. “Ignore him. His blood sugar is low. And yes, we might be big and intimidating, but we aren’t murderers. We’re Agitators.”

She backs away again. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“Vancouver,” Hornsby clarifies.

But not an ounce of comprehension crosses her face, just nerves and uncertainty.

“We play professional hockey,” I say, clarifying, because who really understands someone just saying the word Vancouver? Her eyes land on me, dark lashes highlighting concerned pupils, and I swear they feel like heat rays, zooming in on me.

I know her. I swear I fucking do. But from where?

Turning away from me, she says, “I don’t watch hockey.”

All the guys groan together as Taters quickly goes on the defensive. Every time someone says they don’t watch hockey—which isn’t too often, given we all live in Canada—Taters makes it his mission to find out why.

“You don’t watch hockey? Is there a reason for that?” His body language reads that he’s ready to fight.

“Uh, better things to do?” she asks as the wind picks up, shooting some of the rain into the house.

“Better things to do?” Taters asks in disbelief. He shakes his head and thumbs toward her. “I was right about this one, she needs to move on.”

“Cut the shit,” Hornsby says. “Not everyone watches hockey. Are they making poor decisions in their life? Yes, but we’re not here to judge. We’re here to help.” He turns back to the girl. “Seriously, we’re not going to hurt you. It would be stupid on our end. Bad publicity. We’re good guys. I promise.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? That you’re hockey players?”

Hornsby pulls out his phone. “You can look us up.”

“Internet is out,” I say.