The following Friday after work, Nicole picked up her backpack and roller bag from home, made sure her neighbor had a key to water the plants, and waited outside her apartment in the heat for Kingston to pick her up in his dark gray M-something BMW rental car.
She’d never seen anything Kingston actually owned. He flew to California and rented a different car every time, running the gantlet from medium gray to black, though they were all BMW M-class models. He stayed in various villas at the Four Seasons for each trip.
Everything Nicole had seen of his was a temporary rental, not even a long-term lease.
His clothes fit well, though. From the beginning, that first night when they’d gotten locked in and played Pebble Beach in the simulator, his clothes had been made of tailored fine cloth, and his shoes and belts had been soft, rich leather.
His credit card was black.
But that wasn’t—solid.
Kingston’s car slid to a stop in front of her, putt-putting from its tailpipe.
As always, he stepped out and trotted around to get her luggage. “I told you not to wait outside. I’ll park and come to your door.”
She dumped her backpack in his backseat and climbed in. “I’m fine. It’s a nice day.”
He laid her roller suitcase in the trunk along with his roller board suitcase and garment bag. “Suit yourself.”
“When we get Back East, are we going to your house first? Maybe for the weekend?”
“We’ll land in White Plains, but a car will take us into the city. I want to get started on showing you the Big Apple.”
“But you’ll need to do laundry.”
He smirked. “I had clothes sent ahead to the hotel. I’ll have the hotel dry clean these suits for the week, too.”
“Oh. Okay.”
A thought kept wriggling around in Nicole’s head: Kingston walked into her life, a visitation, but she never really entered his. He knew her work friends. She’d even taken him to a get-together with a few of her high school friends at a bar, where he was gregarious and curious, asking questions about them and her.
But not answering many questions.
He never answered questions about himself in any real depth.
Other than the fact that he knew a guy or some guys at Last Chance, Inc., and he’d gone to boarding school for junior high and high school, she only knew some biographical data about him.
Even this trip to, supposedly, his home turf wasn’t to his home, whatever that might be.
They were going to a city near where he lived.
A car service would pick them up from the airport and take them to a hotel in New York, where they would do tourist things for a few days, and then she would fly back home.
Connecticut wasn’t a stop on their itinerary.
Was Nicole worried that Kingston Moore had a wife and kids in a big house in Connecticut, and she was an unwitting side piece?
No.
Not a lot, anyway.
But she felt like she was circling his periphery and wasn’t near his heart.
Mulling over what-might-be wasn’t good for anyone.
This trip was supposed to be fun as he showed her around New York, the capital of the world, a place she’d never been.
He held the door for Nicole, and she scooted into the car.
