Miss Adventure (3 page)

As the trees thin, I see the wooden bridge that crosses the stream between the trailhead and the parking lot. And since I’m about to put this all behind me, I take my parting shot. In self-defense, really. “By the way, Mr. Know-It-All, I don’t know why you think I got ten million. I got barely half of that.” I lick my lips and swallow. “You don’t know anything about my money.”

Jack doesn’t even look at me. “I know you’re going to have to use some of it to buy a new car.”

“What? Why?” I put my hands on my hips. “What’s wrong with Sugar?”

Jack looks toward the parking lot. “She’s not here.”

I run onto the pavement, seeing nothing but Jack’s junky blue pick-up truck.

Sure enough, no red and black Mini. Sugar is gone.

“I’m telling you, I read about it.”

“Even if he
can
drive,” Jack argues, “Bigfoot did not steal your car.”

I sit and sulk in the front seat of Jack’s truck. Ha! I knew he was a beastly man. He’s killing the environment with his big old diesel monstrosity. This thought comforts me as I sit stiffly, trying to keep the brunt of my mortification from penetrating too deeply into my psyche. But it’s almost impossible. On top of losing my chance to become brave and respected, I’ve lost Sugar as well. The mature-looking Mini that replaced my crushed butter-yellow Bug is gone. First Chaka, now Sugar. Sugar is gone. Gone! Plus my wallet, cell phone, and keys. I left them on Sugar’s roof in my haste to chase down Jack. That is my best recollection, anyway. Still, I’m a victim. And so is poor Sugar.

“I’m not making this up,” I insist through clenched teeth.

“I know,” Jack says in a world-weary voice. “Ron Carlson made it up. It’s called ‘Bigfoot Stole My Wife,’ and it’s fiction.”

Okay, maybe Bigfoot didn’t steal my car. After all, doesn’t Bigfoot live in Washington? The outskirts of L.A. flash by, and I sigh. A Bigfoot mystery would have been interesting, though. A nice river of denial leading away from the tortuous tale of how badly I’ve regressed. Despite all my working out and my new size eight body, I’ve had it made mercilessly clear to me today that I still have huge thighs. My demure Dolce and Gabbana business suit is toast. My apartment keys and all my identification are in the hands of some reprobate. My plan to get brave has been trashed by yours truly. I've left Jack in no doubt of what a loser I am. And I’m freezing. I’d pull up my other stocking if it hadn’t been torn off during the stampede down the mountain.

I could tell Jack I’m cold except I’m sure that heating this mammoth truck would take so much fuel that I’d have a hole in the ozone named after me. Jack probably never gets cold. What a jerk.

“You know,” I say, “this truck is a disgrace. You’re killing the environment. Not so friendly to those woods you love tromping through so much.”

“Number One,” he says almost as soon as I close my mouth, “you don’t know me or what I’m friendly to. Number Two, you have no idea what I love. Number Three, this truck has been converted to run on vegetable oil, most of which is recycled, and I know that’s a pet concern of yours. And finally, I’m not killing anyone—yet.”

“Jeez,” I say, ignoring his words and choosing instead to react to his bristly harshness, “you don’t have to get so mad. What is it with guys and their cars? You’d think I insulted your—”

“Maybe I just think you’re going off half-cocked,
again
, without knowing what on earth you’re doing or saying. God, you’re annoying.”

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“You’ve got a point,” he concedes. “But then, I don’t think we have the same definition of ‘rude.’ Which exit?”

“Take the 405 North, exit Santa Monica, and turn left.”

At last! In a matter of minutes, Jack Hawkins will be out of my life. Except for my seeing him in classes three days a week. Damn. Every time I look at him I’ll remember that we have this one humiliating day between us. And I’ve got the lion’s share of the humiliation. Actually, I don’t think Jack has any of it. Sure, he was hanging from a rock in his boxers, but they were nice boxers, and
his
legs don’t have a spec of cellulite.

“Turn left here.”

He does.

“This is it,” I say, pointing as we approach my building.

“Where?”

“Here.”

He peers through the windshield and crinkles his forehead. “You live
here
?”

“Yes,
here
.”

Jack pulls up to the curb and kills the ignition. Without waiting for me, he gets out of the truck and walks onto the small patch of lawn to get a better look. Dusk has fallen, but the street lights, ground lights, and lights above each apartment door illuminate the place pretty well. I climb out of the truck and he turns on me.

“You live
here
?”

It’s Tuesday night in L.A., and since my stretch of street is pretty quiet, Jack’s voice can be heard down the block. “Jack, what is your problem?”

“You got a multi-million dollar settlement a few months ago, and you live in a two-story walk up?”

He’s staring at me with this funny look on his face that I can’t read. But I’m sure he’s judging me and once again finding that I don’t measure up. Not only do I live off my diabolical corporate money, but now I’m also a greedy miser, hording my riches in my little hovel.

“Listen, buster.” I step forward, not caring how un-menacing I must look in filthy business suit dregs and running shoes that don’t match the rest of the outfit. “I only live here because my landlord tripled my rent when I got home from the hospital.”

“So you decided to stay?” His eyes open wider. “Are you and your landlord…?”

“No!” I shout. “Jesus, I’m not actually paying triple! Keith moved out while I was in the hospital, so right there, my share of the rent doubled. And on top of that, I’m going to pay triple? Are you nuts?”

“Am
I
nuts?”

“Don’t try to twist this around to make me sound like a barking lunatic.”

“You need my help for that, do you? Let’s review—”

“Let’s not.” I cut him off before he can start saying stuff that will make me cry. “It’s very simple. Raffi tried to triple my rent. I decided to move. But the price of every house I tried to buy just happened to escalate astronomically as soon as I put in an offer.”

“Oh.” Jack is quiet for a few seconds. “You need a new realtor.”

“I tried three.”

He looks at me. “Is that why you’re in business school?” he asks. “To learn how to handle your money so people don’t take you for a ride? That’s not exactly what an MBA is for.”

“I have big plans for my money,” I tell him. “Important plans.”

Jack walks back to the curb and locks his truck. “We better get Raffi to let us in so we can call the police.”

And yes, Raffi's been mad at me ever since I refused to pay triple. But he takes one look at Jack and lets us in to my apartment. Whatever.

“This apartment's not very secure.” Jack looks around my living room, his brows slammed together. He swipes aside the curtain to check out the sliding glass doors that lead to my matchbox balcony.

“But I’ve got a broomstick in the tracks,” I say, defending my sophisticated home security.

“Anyone who knew what he was doing could pop those doors off in a matter of seconds.” He says this as he moves across the living room toward the bedroom.

The bedroom!

Quicker than a snow hare being chased by a cougar, I race to the bedroom door and block Jack from entering. “You can’t go in there.”

“Why? Is it a mess? You got a man in there? I don’t care. I’m just checking out how safe you are.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I argue. “There’s nothing in there worth stealing.”

“There’s your identity, and with a bank account like yours, it’s an identity worth protecting.”

I still don’t move.

Jack looks right into my eyes, and I have to concentrate so I don’t flinch. “Lisa, someone out there has your keys and your license. With your address. You’re vulnerable, and I’m trying to help.”

My breath hitches. I swallow once, then slide out of his way.

He swings the door open. “What the hell?” He turns to look at me. “You’re certifiable. Completely nuts.” He looks around at my beautiful, wonderful fantasy bedroom. The four poster bed, the snowy white comforter, the mounds of pillows, the billowy curtains, the free standing wardrobe, the ornately carved dressing table with its plush stool. “Why would you care if I came in here?”

“Because I said I wanted to do something important with the money—and I do,” I quickly assure him, “but I spent some of it on me.” I gesture toward the cornucopia of classy comfort. “Obviously.”

Jack looks at the room, then at me, then back at the room. “On this? This is what you squandered your millions on? A bedroom?”

“It’s the room I’ve always dreamed of having, and I really went overboard.” I cringe inside, but decide to be brave and confess. “There are four others. Bed sets, I mean.” I take a deep breath, saying it all as fast as I can, hoping he doesn’t have time to judge me. “Okay. The quilt that reminds me of
Little House on the Prairie
, the orange paisley comforter that reminds me of my bedspread when I was four years old, the tartan plaid down that looks like English Christmas, and the comforter sprigged with wild flowers that makes me think of The Hundred Acre Wood. There. Now you know.” I stop to gulp air. “A total of five different bed sets. I couldn’t help it. I had all this money, and I just went crazy.”

Jack considers me. “It’s okay, Lisa.” His voice is deadpan. “I don’t think you’re going to hell over a dust ruffle.”

I think about that for a second. “Wait. You
know
what a dust ruffle is?”

But he’s not paying attention to me anymore. He’s behind my curtains as he checks out the window. Next, he goes into the bathroom to inspect the small window in the shower. After that, he walks into the living room and just looks at me. “You’re not safe. You need to get a locksmith here first thing tomorrow morning.”

I nod.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Seven years, about.”

He looks at me. “Then lots of people know this is your address? It’s on file all over the place?”

“I guess.”

“You really should move.”

“Haven’t we been through this?”

“I don’t get it,” he says. “I know it must be hard, everyone knowing who you are and how much money you got. But you’ve had the time to do this right, to make it work. Find a decent, safe place. You’ve been out of the hospital for months, right? What have you been doing with all your time?”

“Well,” I begin, hating that he wants me to just explain my life to him. “Classes at USC, for one—”

“Classes started three weeks ago. What about before that?”

“Why do you care?” I shoot back.

“You barged into
my
life, remember?”

“Okay, fine,” I snap. “Whatever. I was getting in shape, okay?”

His eyes get wide. “In shape for what?” He makes it sound as though I’m fit for little more than competitive chess.

“Just…in shape. When I got out of the hospital, I was a mess, like a malnourished whale who could barely walk.”

“That’s better than most whales.”

I glare at him, mostly because he accepts so unquestioningly that I was indeed a whale. “Getting in shape and eating right really took a lot of time and concentration.” Seriously. No wonder I was never this fit before. I didn’t have the energy when I had a job. “Plus,” I add, “I had lots of therapy and I had to study for the GMAT.”

I guess the part about therapy is what finally shuts him up. His eyes sweep across the living room and settle on the shabby-chic couch. “All right,” he says after a minute, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m going to go down to the truck to get a change of clothes,” he says. “Then, I’m taking a shower. I’m spending the night here, on the couch.”

Jack Hawkins, spending the night in my apartment? He’s gonna be, like, my bodyguard? Maggie better stay the hell away. She still has my last bodyguard.

“Um,” I say. “What about the cops?”

“It won’t take me that long,” he says. “Call them, and I’ll be out of shower long before they get here.” He looks me up and down. “You’ll have time to clean up, too.”

* * * * *

Did I mention I hate him? Even the cops fell under his spell. They paid more attention to Jack than to me. It makes no sense. I stepped into a totally serious Chanel frock when I got out of the shower, hoping to seem more responsible than my behavior with my wallet and Sugar’s keys would indicate. Jack, on the other hand, put on jeans and a white T-shirt. And no shoes. Or socks. Plus he’s unshaven. But the cops listened to him while making me feel as though I were a pesky interloper. And I’m the one who was robbed!

I could tell myself it’s some sort of sexist guy thing, but I know it’s not. It’s Jack. After all, I was with Keith for five years, and no one ever paid particular attention to him.

I look at Jack’s back as he stands in my doorway watching the police make their way down the outside stairs. I’m so jealous of his comfy clothes that I dart into the bedroom. I return a few minutes later wearing blue cotton pajama pants and a clingy white long-sleeved T-shirt with an equally clingy short-sleeved pink Fanboy and Chum Chum T-shirt over it. And I took off my bra. That’s why I’m wearing two T-shirts. They’re tight enough to hold me up quite decently.

I sit on the couch to put on my thick white socks and notice that Jack still stands by the door. In fact, he’s leaning with his back against it, and he sighs. Not audibly, but I see it. I don’t really think of superheroes as guys who sigh, but I guess this is what I’ve brought him to. I mean, he’s Jack Hawkins— part Batman, part George of the Jungle. But right now, he just looks beat. His stubble doesn’t make him look roguish so much as it makes him look worn out.

He stares at me. He so doesn’t want to be here, I can see it. I can
feel
it, with every pore of my skin. I am an unpleasant duty. Again. Just like Keith and his obligatory coma-watch.

I feel so rotten that my stomach hurts. I need to make this better for both of us. Jack’s rucksack sits on the couch next to me, so I pick it up, a brilliant idea blasting through my bummer of a mood. I look up at him. “Do you mind if I go through this?”

“What?” he asks, pushing off the door. “Why?” He strides over to me and takes back his backpack. Despite his tangible exhaustion, he still moves with cougar-like grace.

Damn. How does he do it?

I reach out and yank the pack back. “I want to get your pants,” I explain.

“My pants?”

“I want to fix your pants. The ones I ripped off—the ones I ripped. I can fix them and wash them. It’s not fair that today cost you a pair of pants.”

“I’ll survive,” he assures me, reaching to take back his bag.

“But they’re fixable,” I argue, holding the rucksack out of his reach, “so I don’t see any reason why—”