Page 63 of Bend
I shrug. “I think it fits.”
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I hedge my bets and turn away from her to finish breaking down the sail. I’m watching, though. She doesn’t run—not yet, anyway. By the time the sail is secured, I’m sweating like a hog over a pit, so I unbutton the top of my shirt and lean against one of the boat’s wood benches.
“Come see the place, Rojo. I have some poems for you, and pictures.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at the dock. “How long did you work for Gertrude?” she asks pointedly.
I can tell from her intense stare that my answer is important, so I don’t say ‘four years.’ It sounds insubstantial, which it’s not.
“We met in Madrid, at an art exhibit. Have you ever heard of ‘W?’”
I know she has. I’ve done my homework.
“He’s one of my favorites,” she confirms.
“I met Trudie at one of his first café shows.”
Her face transforms—a look of wonder; maybe even envy—and I’m irrationally pleased she appreciates my work.
“We both liked nature, and being by ourselves. I moved here to help her keep the island up.”
She bites her lip again, inspecting me from beneath her long eyelashes. “Tell me something about my mother. Anything you know. And you will know something if you really knew Gertrude.”
“Her middle name was Anna, and she liked butterflies and worked as a professor.”
She juts her chin up. “Where did she work?”
“University of Alabama at Birmingham.”
Again, with her teeth on that tasty little lip. My dick, which had been settling down, is all the way up again, and I want to groan.
“Okay, so you really worked for my grandmother. That doesn’t mean you’re not a manipulative asshole. I’m afraid I have no interest in helping you. I’d rather take my money-grubbing self and starve.” She grabs her bags and starts to climb out of the boat, and I’m on her; my hand on her elbow, fingers closing around her smooth skin.
“C’mon, Rojo. Just come see it with me. All I’m asking for is one night. How about this? If you come with me, I’ll pay you ten thousand. Either way. I promise.” I put my heart and soul into the word, because what’s left of them is anchored to that damn island. I can’t exist anywhere else. I jerk my gaze around the docks, suddenly terrified someone will recognize me and I’ll lose my chance with her.
Her mouth puckers. “I want to see your photo ID or I won’t even consider your ridiculous request.”
Fuck!
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Really. ’Cause that’s not strange or anything…”
“I don’t often leave the island.”
“Also strange,” she says. “Why is that?”
“I’m uncomfortable around people.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth, which reads more like I hate everyone.
That’ll win her, James.
As if she hears my thoughts, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Race,” I tell her. It’s my college nickname.
“Race what?” She’s frowning at me like she thinks I’m stupid.
