Page 17 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail
Heads up—doing this article research with your sister. You can beat me up if I somehow break her heart.
The only response I receive is a middle finger emoji, which is frankly better than I expected, so I don’t respond. Best not to poke that bear.
It’s nearing six o’clock when I pull into my parking spot. There aren’t a lot of apartment complexes in Lucky, which initially made it hard to find a place to live. I don’t know if I’m settling here for the long haul, and I’m not too stressed about nailing down that part of my future, but Idoknow I’m not ready for a house. I could probably swing it, financially speaking, but it’s more trouble than I want, and if I might move again in ten years, it doesn’t seem worth it to me.
So I’m grateful for the rental I found—not an apartment or a house but a townhome. It’s a duplex, and my neighbor is an old woman named Shirley who has three cats and keeps her flowerbed meticulously beautiful at all times. This little two-bedroom is my sanctuary, my safe space, free from worries or cares. I don’t have people over, not even my friends, and definitely no women. This is where I exist without worrying about what anyone else will think—that’s sacred to me, something to be protected from outside influences.
I change quickly out of my office clothes, because India was right; casual is much more comfortable. Then I grab the spiral notebook I’ve been using to keep notes about this project. I take a couple minutes and jot down a few ideas, paying only minimal attention.
Because the rest of my brain is trying to figure out what India meant when she said she had a list of things she wants to accomplish. Somehow it didn’t seem like she was talking about chores or errands. Is she referring to life goals or something like that?
I call her after popping three pieces of leftover pizza in the microwave—a true gourmet dinner.
“You here?” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’ll head over in a minute. I just want to know if you’re going to tell me about this project of yours. It’s bugging me that I don’t know more.”
“In the words of a conniving, blackmailingcadI recently spoke to,” she says, her voice dry, “‘that’s for me to know and you not to know.’”
I do not let myself laugh.
“Come get me soon,” she says. “It might take a bit to get Betsy in your car, and the repair place closes at eight.”
Then she hangs up.
“That’s about right,” I mutter under my breath. I pull my pizza out of the microwave and almost drop it because the plate is so hot. I wolf down the mouth-scalding food and then return to the car.
India staresinto the back of my SUV for a solid two minutes before saying anything.
“All right,” she says finally, nodding. “With your seats folded down, I think this will work.”
I follow her up the driveway, watching as she goes.
“This her?” I say when we come to a stop in front of a small silver-and-black motorcycle. It’s a good size for India, shorter than most bikes I’ve seen, but it’s got a few dings. “What happened?”
“Ah.” She turns away from the motorcycle and grimaces. “I…crashed,” she says, her freckled nose wrinkling, her voice tentative. “Kind of. I had to swerve out of the way of a car, so I hit the pavement instead.”
I can’t tell if she sounds casual or if she’s justtryingto sound casual. My eyes dart over her exposed arms and legs, but I don’t see any scrapes or cuts.
“I’m fine,” she says, probably noticing my perusal. “I was dressed well. Just some bruising that’s already going down.” She lifts her shirt slightly and tugs at the hem of her jean shorts, revealing a greenish-yellowish hip bone that I have no business looking at.
“Cover that up,” I say, grinning to hide my surprise—and my concern. That’s quite the bruise; it would have hurt. Is she really okay?
But I don’t know how to pry, so I toss in a joke instead. “It’s too early for you to be seducing me. Wait until we’ve visited some of Lucky’s most romantic spots.”
She lets her shirt drop as she snorts derisively. “You’re not my type, Felicia,” she says, shooting me a look that’s half-amused. “And I’m not yours. Remember?”
“I remember,” I say, my grin widening as it begins to feel more natural. “But you walk around flashing bruised hip bones like that, and I might crumble. A man can only take so much.”
She laughs outright at this, a sound that’s quickly gobbled up in the damp clutter of the garage. It lingers in her eyes, though, as she looks at me. “Come on,” she says, gesturing to Betsy the Motorcycle. “I think we’d better remove the mirrors and lower the handlebars to be safe.”
I nod. “Got a tool box around here somewhere?”
She jerks her chin at a dingy metal shelf over to one side of the garage, on which I spot a clunky black box. I hoist it off and bring it to India, settling it as gently as possible on the ground by the motorcycle.
And I don’t know what I’m expecting. It’s stupid that I’m surprised. But when she crouches down, flips the lid of the tool box open, and begins riffling through with practiced fingers, all I can do is stare. She pulls out a wrench, muttering a littleAh-ha!under her breath and setting to work on the mirrors—like she’s done this a million times.
Her hair seems to be bothering her, though, hanging in mesmerizing sheets around her face and down her back; with a noise of frustration, she lets the wrench clatter to the ground and turns back to the tool box, digging around for a second until she pulls out a pencil. She twists her hair into some sort of knot on top of her head and jabs the pencil through before turning her attention back to her bike.
