Don't Bet On It (2 page)

I was also extremely disappointed in myself for allowing a mundane emergency to cloud my judgment. And I was totally furious at my teeny bladder!

All that lost sleep, all those wasted hours… and still no new laptop. Maybe I could borrow Joan's old one, an obsolete model that she'd inherited from a brother who'd bought it used when I was in junior high. Oh yeah, that would
surely
meet my writing needs.

Bummed and gloomy — plus hungry but nothing to eat at home except a PB&J sandwich with stiff bread — I began some serious plotting.

Could I duck Mr. Pizza? Well, possibly. I mean, he had my name, but there could be lots of folks in Verdeville named Chloe Watson. Didn't have my phone number… but could he find it? Maybe he worked for the CIA and had one of those super databases that knew the last time I gassed up. Ha! I bet he had a whiz-bang laptop!

Could I cancel? Yeah, maybe I could come down with something contagious in the next eight hours. I coughed a few times. Nope, didn't sound convincing. Plus, I'd given my word. How had he tricked me into that? Additionally, I had no way to notify him.

But I had to talk to somebody, so I decided to walk to Joan's apartment later that afternoon — in part, to check on her old laptop.
She lived only two blocks from my house.

****

About 6 p.m.

“Are you out of your mind?” demanded Joan Kyler for the third time, with long pauses in between to stare at me incredulously. “He's probably a serial killer and you're Victim Eleven.”

“The lady behind me named Christine seemed to think he was safe enough.”

“I don't care if each of the four hundred people in that stupid line all vouched for him, you're nuts to go on a date with this maniac.”

“He's probably not a maniac. And it's not a date, it's supper.”

She gave me the look.

“Okay, supper is a
booking
of sorts, but that doesn't necessarily constitute an official date.”

Joan just shook her head. “You've got to promise me you'll take precautions.”

I knew she'd explain so I didn't even ask.

“Take your pepper spray and that key chain noise thing I got you for Christmas last year. And, let's see… what's the most concealable gun you have?”

“Joan, I can't waltz into the pizza place with a loaded firearm. Besides, all I have is a shotgun my dad loaned me.”

“That'll work.”

“They'd think I was holding up the place… I'd be arrested.”

“At least in jail you'd be safe from that serial killer.”

I just slumped onto her recliner with the broken handle which wouldn't let it recline. “I've got to go through with this. I gave him my word.”

“That doesn't count with murderers. You're allowed to lie to their face if it helps you get away from their clutches.”

I groaned and shut my eyes. “I'm going, Joan.”

She reached over and placed a consoling hand on my knee. “Did you at least get that laptop you've been lathering about?”

“Nope. The only ones left by the time I got inside were the mega-priced industrial grade models like NASA uses to launch space shuttles.”

“Figures. No laptop, plus you'll be dead in about an hour.”

“Look, Joan, if you had come with me like you'd promised, you could've done all your mother hen stuff on the front end when I first saw this guy. It's a bit late now to insist you're saving me from some dire fate.”

She just sputtered.

I was extremely glad I'd decided to consult my good friend because now I felt
so-o-o
much better.

At least I had her ancient, forty pound laptop in my arms. Did it even have a word processing program loaded?

****

Later that evening

Mr. Pizza must have deliberately planned my punishment — I refused to consider it a
date
— so quickly, knowing it gave me too little time to worm my way out of the deal.

Well, I needn't get all dressed up, since the normal warm weather dining attire for Verdeville females was tank tops, cut-offs, and flip flops. I seriously considered making myself a little extra unappealing so this guy would lose the scent and hunt elsewhere. But that notion lasted only two seconds. Though nowhere near a beauty queen, I had good skin, noticeable curves, and nice legs — and I couldn't let myself appear in public as ratty as some of the women I'd spotted at the Laundry-Mat.

However, I wasn't likely to see anyone I knew at the pizza place, so I figured to go unadorned — neat and presentable but bland. My hair was clean but pulled back to a plain pony tail; I removed my contacts and wore glasses. Figured I'd cover up as much as possible for May weather, so I selected a long-sleeved Henley and my fat jeans that were a full size too big since I'd slimmed down again.

If that outfit didn't scare him off, nothing would.

It only took about fifteen minutes to reach the mall. When I arrived at the restaurant, Mr. Pizza was leaning on the front of his Chevy pickup, which showed several years, numerous dents, and obviously lots of miles.

Great, he's a pauper too
. Why hadn't I found a rich guy to take my place in line? He was in boots and clean jeans, with a blue denim shirt… long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not sure why tanned and hairy forearms turned me on, but they did — even on presumed serial killers.

I could tell he'd noticed my deliberately bland appearance but he offered no comment, just some blah-blah that he was glad I showed up.
Right
. It threw me that he had no reaction, however, because if he'd said anything about my clothes or hair, I could've unloaded on him. But all he did was look into my eyes… and every time he made that contact, I thought he was sucking information directly from my brain.
Spooky
.

We were seated quickly and our meal arrived within about five minutes of our order. But everything felt awkward because I resented being there and wanted to be certain he knew it. He tried to initiate small talk a few times, but my replies were terse and chilly. Wondering when it would be acceptable for me to leave, I picked at my pizza slices and wished I'd remembered my watch. Checking my cell phone for the time would be too obvious. Finally, I deliberately dropped a napkin so I could lean way over and examine his fancy runner's timepiece. It was a bit after 7:30 p.m.

After about half an hour of being awful to the man who'd trapped me into eating with him, I started feeling guilty and decided to act half-way civilized. He noticed the change immediately.

During the next half hour, while I was about fifty percent civilized, I allowed conversation, though it remained superficial. He revealed very little about himself except his name,
Brett Hardy
, that he'd entered the military after college, and he was presently in graduate school at
Tennessee State University
in Nashville.

“What on earth are you doing in Verdeville? We're at least thirty-five miles from that campus.”

“I didn't want to live in the big city and I only have to commute three mornings a week. My other courses are online.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Not taking a full load, because I also work part time.” He didn't say where, so I figured he probably flipped burgers or delivered pizzas… possibly from the same place where we were dining.

“What are you studying?”

“MBA.”

That was a good vague degree. “What line of work are you aiming for?”

He didn't answer, just acted like there'd been no question. Then he shifted. “So, you've pumped me for intel… what are
you
doing in Verdeville?”

I explained I'd gone to school in Chattanooga and also didn't want the big city life. “Moved here five years ago. I teach at Verdeville Elementary.”

He didn't ask about my love life and I wouldn't have told him anyway. Besides, not much to tell. Leaving the large city had also left behind a considerable proportion of the potential dating pool. My social life in Verdeville could be characterized by about one date per semester… and approximately half of those had been blind dates arranged by meddlesome friends or colleagues at school.

I had already decided to decline dessert, but he never even offered.

He obviously had something else in mind, but what?

Brett
gave me the eyes again — extremely disconcerting. Then he spoke slowly as though each word had been rehearsed. “I understand that you came here grudgingly… and I can appreciate the likely reasons why. I can also imagine this meal has been less than pleasant for you since anyone in your, uh, position would suspect that I might behave inappropriately…”

The thought had definitely crossed Joan's mind — and mine.

“…or otherwise take advantage of your reluctant presence.”

I realized I'd started to tune out his words because I was waiting for him to pull out a knife and haul me off to a corner like they'd do on TV crime shows. He didn't.

“But I'd still like to have a pleasant meal with the
regular
Chloe Watson…”

So what did he think I was… chopped liver?

“…so I have another proposition.”

Okay, here we go
. “Don't bet on it, buddy. I'm not jumping through any hoops for you, whether I have fifteen minutes or fifteen hours.” I'd been loaded for bear all evening and was about to let him have it.

Brett
held up both hands, flat. “Whoa, you haven't heard my proposition yet.” His hands returned to the plastic table's stained surface. “And this does not involve a bet.”

It took my adrenaline a moment to settle. Meanwhile, I sat back in my chair with my arms folded tightly across my chest. “Explain.”

He smiled… not a big smile, but one which suggested he knew he had me again. I couldn't see how, but I wasn't able to peer into his brain like he could apparently read mine with those bright blue eyes. “I know most schools are always raising funds for supplies and other supplemental programming which regular institutional budgets don't usually allow for.”

I nodded without realizing it.

“And being a civic-minded supporter of public education, I want to make a donation to your classroom for whatever materials you and your students need.”

By pure practiced reflex, I extended my hand to accept his check.

Another smile. “But I don't have it on me, so we'd need to arrange another meeting…”

“Oh no, you don't. Just mail it to the school board or drop it off at the principal's office—”

“Hang on, you're jumping the gun. Donations at those levels always evaporate before they reach the classroom — I know all about this because my mom was a teacher. So I'm just trying to get this supplemental funding directly into your hands, for the students who need it.”

He was right, of course. And if he'd picked any other of a hundred poorly funded programs, I could have just tossed my paper napkin into his face and stalked away. But he'd deliberately chosen the single cause he knew I couldn't sidestep. “How generous of a donation?”

His eyes bored blue holes into my psyche — obviously to discern a number I'd find impressive enough to jump for. “One hundred.”

My own eyes widened — couldn't help myself. It would take at least a full week of cookie sales to generate anywhere near that much net cash.

“How extensive of a meeting would be involved for me to acquire this generous donation?”

During his initial pause I figured he might be brassy enough to expect he could jump my bones for that much money, and I was braced to tell him off — loud and proper.

“Dinner again… tomorrow evening.”

He'd aimed much lower than I'd expected but I was still indignant. “You think you can
buy
a date with me?” When I sputtered, it was louder than normal and nearby diners turned their heads — no doubt to see what kind of transaction was underway. “If you have to purchase a date for tomorrow night, just dangle your cash at a hooker.” My terminal word didn't even faze him, even though I'd hissed it with appropriate disgust.

“If that's what I wanted, I could easily find one for that amount in Nashville.” His blue eyes didn't blink. “I'm not purchasing you and I don't have cash anyway. It's a gift card to the local hobby and craft store that I don't need, but I know you could put it to good use for your students. To generate that much money selling popcorn or whatever, you'd waste a lot more time and effort than it requires to simply enjoy a pleasant meal with me.”

He was right, absolutely correct. But it still seemed tawdry somehow. “Show me the gift card.”

That made him blink. “Uh, I don't carry it around with me, but I assure you I'll figure out where I left it and bring it tomorrow for supper.”