She’s a connection I can’t have, can’t risk.
Her chest deflates with a sigh of defeat. “I really was trying to give you a compliment. About your knowing all about the art stuff.” She waves her hand around the gallery we’re in. “I didn’t mean to start a fight. Or whatever this is.”
“A conversation,” I tell her sadly, though now that I’ve won, I try to soften her loss with a small dose of humor. “The truth. A fight is fists and blood. And so far, neither of us is bleeding.” I hold my hands out to show that they’re clean despite knowing that invisible stains mar my entire soul.
“Yet,” she threatens with a sly smirk, though I can tell she’s forcing herself to play along. “You never know.”
She moves on to the next painting, and for some reason, I feel like as hard as I was, as hurtful as I was . . . it’s somehow made her resolve even stronger.
What do I have to do to convince this woman that I’m the worst thing to ever happen to her life?
A few minutes later, I see JP in the next room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he’s aware that I’m here.
“Poppy,” I tell her quietly, “hit the bathroom for a minute. Down this hall, second door. Give me five.”
She looks at me in surprise. “What?”
“Don’t argue. Do what I say, remember?” I growl. “For your own damn good.”
She wants to argue, I know she does. I can see the words on her tongue, but at the serious look on my face, she thinks better of it and struts down the hall. I don’t have time to enjoy the show of her hips swaying this time. I’ve got work to do.
I enter the next room, part of the university’s permanent collection, the highlight of which is a collection of landscapes by an artist who grew up in the area. It’s a bit of a lens back in time to years when cows roamed in fields that now support an airport.
JP’s studying a piece, sitting down on a bench as he looks at a picture of an old church picnic during the Great Depression. “It’s a lovely piece,” he says. “Nice color,” he adds dryly. Given that it’s a black and white photo on canvas, I think it’s his version of a joke.
“Sunday Spring,” I offer. “One of my favorites in this collection.”
“You called this meeting. Supposedly something important? I don’t believe it's this.” He points at the large canvas in front of us, already dismissing it.
“The last job, the laptop I gave you. I need it back.”
JP scoffs, side-eyeing me. “No laptop. Gave it to my son. He took it to work.”
“Shit. Are you serious?”
JP nods. “Why do you need it?”
“There’s something important on it that I didn’t realize was there.”
JP, ever the financially focused criminal, hums in interest. “Valuable?”
“Not quite, but it definitely has high sentimental value to a certain party,” I tell him, shading the truth a little. If JP thinks he can get money out of this, he will. I’d prefer not to do that if I can avoid it. “Look, I’ll buy your kid a replacement, an upgrade even, whatever. I just need it back.”
JP eyes me for a long moment, trying to figure out how much I’m lying to him. Oh, I know he’s assuming some lie. That’s the way people like us operate. But it’s in the levels of deceit that we build our trust, ironically. After a moment, figuring he doesn’t have anything to lose, he nods. “You know Pupusa?”
“Salvadoran restaurant,” I reply, knowing the name.
“He just got started there, trying to do it legit,” JP says. “He works in the kitchen, name’s Manuel. Don’t fuck around with my kid.”
Or else doesn’t need to be said. Instead, I nod evenly. “I won’t. This isn’t about that. Just the laptop. I know it’s a big leap of faith to share that info with me.”
“Very much so.”
I give him a second nod. “A sign of our friendship.”
He nods back, but the truth is unspoken. JP and I aren’t friends.
Colleagues?
Maybe.
Accomplices? Definitely.
But I really won’t hurt his kid. That’s not who I am. Or at least, I try to not be that guy, and in this instance, I can fulfill this promise to JP while fulfilling the one I made to Poppy.
“I’ll let my son know you’re coming.” JP gets up, rubbing his hands together and leaving without offering a handshake. A minute later, Poppy comes back, finding me sitting alone and still studying the landscape.
“Let’s eat.”
She turns her head, looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. I’ve intentionally pushed her away, treated her like crap . . . and now I want food?
“Seriously?”
Chapter 12
Poppy
He doesn’t say much on the drive across town, but that’s okay. Because despite all his harshness, all his mean words, the fact that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his truck says a lot.