Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(9)
That’s probably why the question slips out in a whisper. “Did I do something to deserve this?” It’s a rhetorical question. She can’t answer that, any more than she can tell me who attacked me, who raped me, who left me for dead next to an abandoned building. But I ask it anyway.
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe that there is anything you could have done to deserve this, Jane.”
Jane. I don’t like the name. Not at all. That’s not Dr. Alwood’s fault, though. What else are they going to call me?
“Thank you.” I sound so small, so weak. So . . . insignificant. Am I? “Someone must be missing me. Even just one person, right?” I can’t be all alone in this world, can I?
Dr. Alwood’s face crumbles into a sad smile. “Yes, Jane. I’m quite certain that there is someone who misses you dearly.”
FIVE
Jesse
then
“Tell me again why I’m here tonight?”
Outside of sharing an apartment and working together, I make an effort not to spend my time with Boone, for my sanity and the survival of our living arrangement. We’re just too different. Most days I’d take his bulldog, Licks, over him, and that damn dog ate two pairs of my shoes.
The handful of times we’ve gone out together over the years, it’s been with college friends, the destination local pubs and the odd club. But The Cellar isn’t even a club. It’s a “lounge,” in the underground level of a downtown Portland office building, full of pretentious people in dresses and suits holding martini glasses, while sparkle-framed mirrors and black see-through curtains hang where there aren’t any windows. Slow-paced trance music beats in the background, the kind of music that punk kids listen to at raves after they’ve dropped a hit of Ecstasy. Totally out of place here, and yet no one else has clued in and changed the channel.
Boone leans back in the booth, his eyes roaming over the crowd. “Told you already. Because Rust asked.”
Rust, also known as Boone’s Uncle Rust, also known as the owner of Rust’s Garage, where we work as mechanics. And Rust’s Garage is known around Portland as the place to bring your car if you’ve got a problem, you don’t want to pay the inflated prices at the dealership, and you don’t want to get ripped off by some hack with a wrench. It’s not cheap by any means, but Uncle Rust keeps the rates at 10 percent below the dealers’ book price and he keeps highly skilled staff in place.
Except for Boone.
Boone spent the first two months after mechanics school shadowing the others and handing them tools. He’s bitched about it behind closed doors but he bites his tongue around the garage, knowing he has no right to complain. Every other guy there has had to put in at least ten years of legit experience elsewhere and jumped through flaming hoops before being considered. Boone only has a job thanks to nepotism. So do I, technically, because Boone got me in. At least what I lack for in years, I more than make up for in skill.
“He could have just come to the shop,” I mutter, tugging at the wide collar of Boone’s gray dress shirt that he made me wear, along with the only pair of black dress pants that I own, which I’ve worn exactly two times—to both of my grandpas’ funerals. I certainly would have stuck out in the faded T-shirt and jeans I had on earlier. Hell, the bouncers wouldn’t even have let me through the doors. I would have been happy with that.
I’m just not a lounge kind of guy.
A server with long, jet-black hair and tanned skin approaches our table, a round serving platter of empty flutes and wineglasses balanced in her hand. Five minutes in this place proved that all the servers are young, thin females, smoking hot, and full of themselves. This one’s no exception. I’d love to see the hiring process.
“Hey, Luke, what brings you up here tonight?” She reaches out with her free hand to adjust a strand of hair that curls out at the nape of his neck.
He throws his arm over the back of the bench, all relaxed-like. He’s a natural at charming women. I don’t get it. I guess maybe his baby-blue eyes camouflage the fact that he can be a dog. That, or they see it and just don’t care. “Just chillin’ for a bit. How’re things with you?”
Her eyes roll over the customers as she says, “Oh, you know.” She taps his watch. “New?”
He twists his wrist to give everyone a better look at the Rolex his uncle just gave him, a proud smile on his face. “Just got it last weekend.” Gesturing my way, he says, “This is my friend Jesse. Jesse, this is Priscilla.”
I manage to pry my eyes off her fake tits and move to her face a second before crystal-blue eyes lined with heavy black makeup flash to me. She offers me a tepid smile with those bright pink-painted lips. “Nice to meet you, Jesse.” Nothing about that sounded sincere.
I’m surprised I even got that much out of her. Must be the clothes. If she saw me on the street tomorrow, I doubt she’d bat an eye my way. It’s not that I’ve ever had trouble attracting girls. Granted, they lately tend to be of the hood-rat variety. The “classy” ones have outgrown their need to rebel against their parents and the smart ones are just plain nervous around me. And girls like this? She’s not the type to be satisfied with a guy who lives under a hood and comes home with grease under his fingernails.
And I have no plans to change.
“The usual, Luke?”