“The planter? No one hangs out by planters unless they’re peeing in them.”
“Well, that explains the smell. But no, I wasn’t peeing in them.” She smiled. “You do understand that plants are useful for other things too, right?”
“Are they?”
“Mm-hmm… I mean there’s that whole thing with them oxygenating the planet and keeping us all alive.”
I shrugged, letting her know I wasn’t hugely impressed.
“They feed cows,” she tried again.
Still not impressed.
“They can be rolled up for a good time.”
Now she had me. I smiled. “You don’t strike me as a do-it-yourself joint girl.”
“I’m not. I was simply stating the useful properties of a plant.”
“Ooh. Fancy words. For a fancy girl.”
“If you think I’m fancy, you don’t get out much.”
“I live outside,” I said, my voice tipped in amusement. “How much more ‘out’ can I get?”
She seemed to falter at my words, and I had to remind myself I wasn’t dealing with an anything-goes street girl here. I needed to ease her in.
“So, again, why were you hanging out over there by the planter?”
She dropped her gaze, suddenly timid. “I was hiding.”
“From who?”
“From you, of course.”
That admission came as a surprise. Just the fact that she saw me as an apex predator told me this girl wasn’t from around here.
“Me?” I dismissed with a wave. “I’m a fucking delight.”
“Okay, well, you and I have different definitions then,” she said, raising a brow before clearing her throat and attempting a deeply layered impersonation of me. “Step aside, Louis Vuitton. I don’t plan my gigs around you, Priss in Boots. Get off my stage, American Express.”
“Well, shit,” I said, enthralled by her prickly characterization. “I gotta remember those for next time.”
“Next time? How often do you get freeloaders like me?”
“Freeloaders? All the time. Girls like you? Not very often.”
Her smile grew to epic proportions, completely transforming the concrete jungle around us and letting it be known she wasn’t holding past grudges against me. In fact, my earlier behavior might actually be working in my favor.
“Anyway, I know you’re probably busy, and I don’t want to bother you,” she said. “But I had to come over and tell you what mad skills you have. I mean, that was some straight Nirvana-era drumming there.”
If I could have handpicked the perfect compliment, it would have been that. Praise always hit differently when it came from someone in the know, and the way she delivered it with such conviction convinced me that the girl spoke from a place of authority.
“You think I’m good?”
Any of her earlier uncertainty melted away. “I don’t justthinkyou are. I know you are. I come from a family of musicians.”
“Yeah? Anyone I would know?”
