What a Girl Wants (29 page)
He drives me by my car and I nearly cry as we pass my baby. No wonder I feel so strongly about my car. My life blows other-wise.
“Officer, look! There’s my car—see how nice? This is a mistake, a travesty of justice. This is the only crime here. My stuff has been stolen in San Jose. Oh wait, that’s two crimes. But they’re not
my
crimes. I’m innocent. I’m just lacking caffeine; that’s no crime, but it’s giving me a terrible headache.” I rub my head, but I can still see his eyes in the rearview mirror.
He just looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re under arrest for drunk-and-disorderly conduct, loitering, and assaulting a police officer.” He starts to rattle off my Miranda rights.
“I’m a lawyer; I know my rights! You can’t arrest me for drunken behavior without a test.”
“You’ll get your test. At the station.”
I groan. “You’re going to make me pee in a cup, aren’t you?”
But he just keeps counting off my Miranda rights. I have the right to remain silent. I can have a lawyer, blah blah blah. I lay down on the backseat of the car and take a little nap.
When I wake up, I’m sitting in a jail cell. A jail cell! There’s no one else in the cell with me, but it’s danker than the Taiwanese jet. And the smell! Well, I won’t even go there. There’s a little toilet in the middle of the room. Now I ask you, who would use a toilet with a guard behind a desk nearby? Is there a beast on earth who couldn’t hold it for an eternity rather than demean themselves on a public—and I do mean public—toilet? It leaves me longing for my rat-infested apartment.
I have to get out of here.
There’s a female officer behind a long, torturous-looking counter. “This is all a mistake. I need to get to work.”
She looks up at me, rolls her eyes, and goes back to stamping whatever important piece of filing she’s working on.
“No, really. I want out of here.”
She walks around the counter. She’s big and scary and looks down at me like I’m a crumb on her table. “You get a phone call. You ready to make it?”
“I’ve got my cell phone—” but I look around and I don’t have a cell phone. “Where’s my Prada bag?”
“It’s in the designer section with your gourmet meal. Do you want a phone call or not?”
“Yes!” I shout. I scratch my head trying to figure out who to call. “If they’re not home do I get to call someone else?”
“Yes,” she says.
I can’t call my mother. Dave would never let me live it down. The family must never know of this day. I can’t call Purvi; I’m supposed to be at work.
Brea, I can call Brea
. Since the hulk won’t give me my Prada or PDA, I’m doubly glad I know Brea’s numbers by heart. Dialing her cellular, just in case, I’m mortified when voice mail comes on. I hang up immediately. I don’t want it to count as my call! “Can I use a phone book?”
I page through it, thinking of one friend and then the other. I refuse to call Kay Harding, who would never let the clipboard loose long enough to get arrested, and Seth would only think I’d gone off the deep end and blame himself for losing my stuff and pushing me over the edge. Kevin . . . do I dare?
I look up the number for Lucille Salter Children’s Hospital and dial. When they answer, I ask for Dr. Kevin Novak and guiltily explain it’s an emergency. They page him and within three minutes or better, he’s on the phone.
“Dr. Novak.”
“Kevin, it’s Ashley. I need your help. I’m in jail and I need bail posted.”
This is the most humiliating moment of my life.
Kevin’s view of me is now the desperado who kissed him passionately in the dark San Francisco parking garage and a convict in jail. At least his parents won’t try harvesting my eggs at this point.
Kevin is laughing. “Come on, Ashley, what’s the emergency?”
“I’m not kidding. I’m in the Palo Alto Police Department in a holding cell. I need to be bailed out.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re really not joking?”
“I wish I was.”
“I’ll be right there.” He hangs up the phone, and I’m escorted back to my cell.
There’s another woman here now. She’s tall and lanky and she too is wearing great shoes. They look like Cole Haan’s.
“Hi,” I mumble.
“Hey.” She nods. “Shoplifting?”
I’m mortified. “No.” But then my pride quickly diminishes. “Assaulting an officer and loitering.”
“Krista Harchek.” She holds out her hand.
“Ashley Stockingdale.”
“You got a bail bondsman? I know a great one.”
“My friend’s coming,” I explain.
“It’s good to have friends.”
Subconsciously I start singing the song about what a friend we have in Jesus, and Krista points at me. “I know that song. Heard it at rehab once.”
“We sing it at church. It just came to my head.”
“Yeah? What church do you go to?”
“The one that meets at Paly,” I say, referring to the high school. She curses. “I know the place.”
I swallow hard. “You should join us when you get out. Those are great shoes by the way.”
She nods. “Cole Haan’s. Picked ’em up at Bloomingdale’s.”
By picking them up, I don’t know if she means purchasing them or stealing them, and now I’m thinking complimenting a thief on her choice of stolen goods is probably not a good course of action. Even if it was for Jesus.
After an hour of chitchat, Kevin is at the desk, asking the great hulk about me
.
Even in this dungy holding area, he’s like a ray of sunshine. The hulk gives him a bunch of papers, and I see him hand over cash to the bailiff. I’m a criminal. A Christian criminal. So weird. The Hulk is coming with the keys, and Doc won’t look me in the eye. How humiliating.
“It was nice to meet you, Krista. Stop by the church on a Sunday morning. The stores are closed then.” I wink. “Besides, you look like you’ve had enough of this life.”
She smiles and points a finger at me. “You got it, Chick. Stay on the sober side of life.”
Kevin is looking at me incredulously.
“I’ll tell you outside.” We get out into the California sun and I’ve never been so happy to see light. I do a little twirl on the side-walk. “I’m free!”
“Not quite. Your hearing is on Tuesday.” He hands me a bunch of papers.
I try to explain my story, but I sound like an idiot and I don’t want to admit to urinating in a cup even if my results did exonerate me. Someone else might not understand that kind of tired, but being a world-traveling resident, Kevin gets it.
“Did you have to look for an apartment in your first hour back? You could have given yourself a break, you know.”
“I didn’t want to miss out on it. It was a great apartment.”
“Are you hungry? Let’s get a late lunch. I haven’t eaten since three this morning,” he says.
“Did you see that toilet in the middle of the cell? Do you think anyone ever uses that?”
“Judging by the smell in there, someone did.”
Ick. Don’t want to discuss this. “Was it hard for you to get out of the hospital?”
“No, you called at a good time. But I have to say your call couldn’t have shocked me more than if you’d put the defibrillator paddles to my chest.” He says he’s shocked, but he’s eating this up. He loves the Knight in Shining Armor role.
I look at Kevin with new eyes. He’s not confident to his innercore like Seth, but there’s something vulnerable in that place. He wants to rescue people, and I just hate that I was the kind who needed rescuing—but somedays, you just have to give up and let ’em rescue. It’s comforting to know Kevin is capable of that—should I ever need it again. It makes me feel safe.
“I can’t thank you enough for getting me. I’m just not myself today and I didn’t know who to call. I knew you were close by. How much do I owe you for bail?”
He waves his hand. “Forget it, Ashley.”
“No, tell me.”
“Let’s get some lunch.” Kevin drives up the street to Revvia, one of my favorite restaurants. It’s a mixture of exciting Greek flavors with the healthy conscience of California and definitely the pricing of Silicon Valley.
“You sure like to eat well,” I comment.
He lets his eyes drift towards my feet. “And you like to dress well.”
I square my shoulders and hike my chest out. Getting rescued from the pokey was worth it to have someone notice my outfit!
“Do you eat this well all the time?” I ask.
“Only when the company’s worth the money. And in the last two years, this is my second time to a good restaurant. The first time was with you at that little French place.”
My heart is thumping. I mean, I can’t even handle the fact he thinks I’m worth anything. What other man would bail me out and buy me a fine meal in the same day? I’m thinking this might be Serious Love now. Seth, who?
“What would your parents think of bailing me out?”
“Let’s just say it’s not something we’ll discuss.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it in his own. I love his hands. They’re masculine and smooth all at once, and when he looks at me with those deep green eyes, I just feel it to my Jimmy Choos. This kind of magnetism could get a girl into trouble.
“Please let me get lunch,” I offer. “It’s the least I can do.”
He turns and looks at me, his chin cast downward, his arm straight over the Porsche steering wheel. He looks like an ad for Porsche, only better.
“Call me old fashioned, but I don’t let women take me out.”
“Not even with a coupon?” I ask.
“Especially not with a coupon.” His voice is steamy. I fan my face.
Is it hot in here?
He finds a parking spot easily. He lives a charmed life. Kevin comes around and opens my door and lifts me up out of the Porsche. Of course, all my weight is really on my right foot. I’m not totally naive. Let him think I weigh what Arin does.
“So did you get enough sleep in the slammer?” he jokes.
“I did. I’ll be all caught up by tomorrow morning. Then I’ll just go in and explain to my boss I needed a personal day.”
“Isn’t it amazing how they send you to another world, time-zone-wise, and expect you to work like you had your full eight hours?”
“They expect you to be a robot.”
“Aren’t you?” Kevin shakes his head and grabs my hand as we run across the street. Pedestrians have the right of way in California, but being right and being dead can be the same thing. People think we’re so healthy out here. We’re not healthy; we’re jogging to get out of the way of speeding BMWs.
“I’m quickly becoming a robot,” I sigh.
Kevin does that thing where he lets his eyes scan my figure and dart away. “I agree that you are a well-made machine, but not a robot.” He winks at me.
I slap his arm. “Cut that out.”
He starts to laugh and it’s contagious. Have I mentioned he just emits sensuality?
Down girl.
I’m sounding like Dianna, Administrative Warrior Princess.
“That’s hardly reputable behavior for a Christian boy.”
He’s still laughing. “I-I’m not a Christian.”
My smile disappears. “What do you mean you’re not a Christian? I saw you at church. Arin said—”
“I went there a couple times to meet Arin for brunch. I’m afraid my beliefs fall into the agnostic range. I just don’t know.” He shrugs. “But I’m very tolerant of your beliefs. Is that an issue for you? I mean, if I can be tolerant, can’t you?”
A
fter lunch, the tramp back to my car is excruciating. These shoes may be great, but stilettos are not meant for walking—other than that little jaunt-and-turn on a fashion runway. I have blisters the size of Epcot and it’s only been two blocks. But I didn’t want another ride in Kevin’s Porsche and I told him I had some shopping to do—which wasn’t a total lie. I picked up Hawaii brochures at a travel agency and I’m dreaming of when work will give me a break and I can take a vacation. I can wear flip-flops and Lilly resort wear.
Back to Kevin. You know how I kept worrying he was too good to be true? Well, he was. Granted, not gay like I was thinking, but not a Christian and not someone who moves in the same cultural circles I do. He does the Opera. We do the Melodramas in San Jose. But he has such manners!
Lord, why on earth can’t a
Christian guy treat me that way?
If I ever get married and raise boys, I’m going to teach them chivalry. When Kevin opened my car door, it should have been a dead giveaway something wasn’t right. When I think of the countless clues that were before me, I feel stupider than a cut of sushi.
Then there’s the whole “tolerance” argument. Can’t I be tolerant of his beliefs? When I believe someone is going to hell for their failure to acknowledge Jesus Christ, how is one capable of being tolerant of that? I mean, let’s say I fall in love with this man. What’s next?
Oh, I have this little harem of women on the side, you don’t
mind, do you? Why can’t you be more tolerant?
Granted, I feel a burden for those around me who don’t acknowledge the Truth, but that’s a far cry from raising children with that person.
Peeling off my shoes, I carry them in my hands for the last half-block. I can see my car from here. It’s missing its top. This is the second time it’s been stolen, but you know, I figure with all that’s going on today, it’s the least of my troubles, and I just laugh at the concept. I’ll head to Brea’s and call the police from home. I wonder if they’ll respond to an excon.
There’s a man watering his lawn. He’s watching me like I have no business in his neighborhood and I suppose I don’t. But still being warned off with body language only makes me more confident. And I shake my little Bebe outfit and swing my shoes.
Once in my car, I’m glad I live in California—since it is winter and there’s no top on my convertible. Is it still a convertible now that it doesn’t convert? I turn the car on and blast the heater, and life’s not bad. It’s enjoyable, in fact. Loosening my Burberry scarf, I see the radio is still intact, and the CD changer resides in the trunk so that’s safe. I blast my favorite David Crowder CD and rev up to third gear. I feel free again and with the January sun on my face, I drive to my favorite road: Foothill Expressway. It has the effect of a spa on me. It’s surrounded by greenery and the distant rolling, golden hills spotted with oaks, like something out of a serene painting. Taking it in, it makes me relish life. This is success: enjoying your moment. Whatever moment God happens to gift you with.