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“Whatever you want to call it. I can’t figure out how he figured out the connection.”
Colby’s gaze strays again, to the ceiling this time, and he twirls the water bottle in his hands. “How big is he?”
“Excuse me?”
Colby’s voice is pure exasperation. “Describe his build.” After I do, he asks if Randy ever wears black hoodies.
Doesn’t every man? “I-I guess? I don’t know. I haven’t inspected his wardrobe lately,” I deadpan.
The sarcasm doesn’t seem to throw him. “Your brother and I were talking in the parking lot the other day.”
“That’s nice. About what?”
“The usual. Him telling me what a dick I am and how he’ll relieve me of my balls if I ever come near you.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I cry.
“Why bother? It’s old news. Anyway, my point is this: There was a strange dude hanging around, acting like he was polishing the car beside us, like he was some kind of detailer. Thing was, though, he didn’t have any other equipment that I could see. He was quiet, stealthy, moving around the car, wiping and rubbing the same spots over and over. Whenever I caught a glimpse of him, his back was to me or his face was covered by the hoodie. I remember wondering if he had to keep polishing because he couldn’t see anything with the damn hood blocking his vision.”
My mouth drops open. “You think it was Randy?”
“It would explain how he knew your brother and I aren’t pals.” He takes another swallow from the water bottle. “And the person you describe fits this guy’s build.”
Silence stretches between us.
“So how did your brother react?” A look of concern etches his features. It’s the first indication of warmth or care he’s shown since I walked in.
“Not well.”
He tilts his head. “Where did you leave things?”
“With him telling me I have thirty days to move out.”
Colby’s entire frame stiffens, and there might be a hint of distress in his eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“Move to the Gail,” I quip. My joke falls flatter than a pancake.
Colby caps the bottle and tosses it in the air a few times. My chest compresses with foreboding. When he speaks, his voice is low. Quiet. “Jackie, you don’t want to be with me. I’m going to do something someday that will hurt you.”
What the actual …? I beat my fist against my chest. “You’re hurting me now!”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Right now is nothing compared to the damage I’ll do in the future.”
“That’s bullshit!”
He ignores my comment and calmly asks, “What else did your brother say?”
Gathering myself, I relay a cleaned-up version of Donovan’s accusations about Colby’s sexual encounters on the road.
During my delivery, his face grows blanker and blanker, and my heart sinks lower and lower. Finally, I’m done, and he casually finishes the water, crumples the bottle, and tosses it into the recycle bin. He levels me with his gray-eyed gaze, and no lie, his bland expression is … off-putting. “You believe him?”
“Of course not!” Old Jackie and her trust issues might have, but this is the newer, smarter Jackie. Right?
Beats of silence tick by, and my stomach roils as though handfuls of worms rearrange themselves in it. Colby casts his eyes to the side. “Well, maybe you should.”
Panic wells up inside of me. “What the hell does that mean?”
Still looking down, he drums his fingers against the damn countertop. When he returns his gaze to mine, his eyes are dead. “What does it sound like?”
