“Yeah. You buy this new?”
I snort. “I got it at a school auction, so it’s had about thirty previous users.”
His expression clears. “Right. That makes sense. If they’re lending them out, they often put tracking programs on the hard drive.”
“It’s gone now, though?”
“Yeah.” He pats it like a lap dog. “Clean as a whistle.”
I give him my credit card, head tilting as I add the charges into the mix and come up with another impetus to book a new client. Or two. Or three.
“You’ve got a thirty-day guarantee,” he adds, passing back my card and receipt. “Anything goes wrong in that time, bring it back here and we’ll take another look, free of charge.”
“Thanks.”
Once I leave, I dawdle in town for a bit, checking out the new stores and window shopping for things I can’t afford. A few years ago, I would have stayed for hours but now I crave the peace of going home, sitting down, and vegging out for the rest of the night.
Lily’s going to her senior dance, which means I get Finley to myself for the evening. A lovely treat. Unless she’s going out on the prowl, but even being on my lonesome has a siren call to it.
I snort as I get on the bus, pulling my cardigan close around my shoulders and a keeping a firm grip on my bag. Just call me a nana at eighteen and be done with it.
To take full advantage of uni, I should mingle with the other design students more. Some of my fellow classmates could become future employers. Others could be good for networking, keeping my hat in the ring so personal referrals—the lifeblood of any creative industry—will come my way.
At the very least I should attend a few more parties.
But my experience at the last one has jaded me for a while. Everything worked out okay but there were a dozen other ways it could have ended, none of them good for me.
Deep in thought, I turn the corner, getting halfway to the flat before I notice there’s a strange car parked by the curb opposite. The glass is tinted, not darkly but enough to make it difficult to tell if there’s someone inside.
It looks far too expensive to be driven around this area. I hope whoever parked it there had the good sense to fit a strident alarm.
Probably joyriders.
I fumble my keys as I get towards the front door, opening it, nearly dropping the newly repaired laptop as I juggle it and my bag. Luckily, the table’s just through the door and I heap everything on it, then turn back to retrieve my keys.
And pull up short, heart pounding.
A man stands there, dangling my keys from his fingers.
I react to the blocking-the-door bits of him before my brain puts his hulking form through my internal image recognition software, providing a match.
The blond boy from the party.
The blond boyI likedfrom the party.
A whole raft of new chemicals flood my bloodstream. Remembering his strength and size in a far glossier light. Remember the smashing-the-skulls-of-my-enemies with fondness.
“Hey, Trent, isn’t it?”
He nods, adding, “Trent Weybourne.”
I hold out my hand for the keys, which he drops into my palm. “And how can I help you, Mr Weybourne?”
Into bed, I add inside my head, though having come from work that’s probably not the soundest idea.
“You’re Rosa, yeah?”
“Sure.” I toss my keys into my bag, wipe my palms on my jeans, then reach out my hand. “Let’s try that again. I’m Rosa Fenn, nice to meet you. Thank you for saving my arse at the party the other night. Your bourbon was very much appreciated.”
