Sh*t Out of Luck by Amanda Bentley
Chapter One
February 18th
ability to read until this moment. My eyes squeeze shut, my face scrunching along with them. There’s no way I read that right.
Why would Brad Atkin’s name be on a police report in Santi’s guest bedroom?
Is Lorenzo really stalking me? It seems to be the only explanation. Why the hell else would there be a report for Brad in Santi’s house?
Better yet, why is it in his guest bedroom?
It dawns on me—Santi mentioned having a roommate. Everyone has left except for Lorenzo.
Is this his room?
I force my eyes open and scan the room haphazardly. I need to read the rest of the report. I need to know what it says.
Recovering the paper from the floor, I straighten it and read the narrative.
Dispatch received call from anonymous witness advising that a car was seen crashing into a tree on highway 135 (see page 2 for location details). Arrived at the scene of collision at 2001 hours. Ambulance (requested by dispatch) arrived at approximately 2003. Victim stated unknown V2 was attempting to get in V1’s lane but did not see V1. Victim swerved to avoid collision and hit a tree. V1 is extensively damaged (see detailed report on page 3). Victim described feelings of dizziness and nausea. Victim’s hands showed lacerations over knuckles and fingers. Victim advised he did not see the license plate of V2 but described it as a black coupe. Victim is unsure of V2 make and model. Victim could not make out features of V2 driver. Paramedics dictated that medical assistance should be utilized and Victim accepted.
The door knob turns as I finish reading. I choose not to hide the paper. I choose not to shut the bottom drawer of the nightstand. If he’s stalking me, I’m allowed to snoop.
“Where do you live?” I demand the second Lorenzo shuts the door behind him.
Still in just his boxers, I watch his muscles tense as his eyes flick to the paper in my hands then back to my face. His eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. I wave the report for emphasis.
“Why were you digging through my shit?”
“Why do you have a police report with Brad’s name on it?” I counter, my low and lethal voice unfamiliar to me.
He doesn’t answer and he doesn't move, his wary eyes analyzing.
“You are stalking me, aren’t you?” I ask, recalling the night he stormed in on my date with Brad. A range of emotions flicker deep in his irises, settling on reservation.
“Stalking is extreme.”
“Extreme? I’ll tell you what’s extreme. Finding out that you have a police report for a guy I went on one date with! How? Why? I—”
I’ve started babbling because I’m at a loss, trying to wrap my head around the facts here. Why in the hell would he be so obsessed that he’s stalking me, yet not want to be more than friends with benefits?
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to see a crazy man.”
“What, so this was for protection?” I scoff and toss the paper. “This was some heroic gesture? How can you expect me to believe that?”
He takes a hesitant step towards me, as though I’m a growling dog that’s prepared to bite. “I care about you, Kate.”
“You care about me?” I laugh mirthlessly. “This feels like way more than caring. This is creepy. This is—” I glance at the fallen piece of paper. “How did you even get this report? Why is there only one page?”
The questions are coming to me faster than I can spew them. This feels dirty, disgusting, out of control. Out. Of. Control. It’s too much. This is too much. Too much for so little.
“Kate.” He’s in front of me now, though I’m not sure when he moved. I’m sinking into the depths of this chaos like quicksand.
“Hey.” His tone is soft. He pulls my trembling chin up with a finger. I stare into his eyes but I’m not seeing anything; the ringing in my ears is too loud. The pounding of my heart is too distracting.
“Why?” I whisper. I zero in, staring deep into his eyes. I see desperation, I see yearning, I see… pain.
“I was trying to protect you,” he whispers, a crack in his voice. He places his hands on my waist tentatively, and for a moment, I let him.
But his touch doesn't provide the comfort I need.
I take a step back, his hands sliding off. I shake my head. “You make no sense to me.”
“Let me try,” he says. He looks so earnest, so sincere, it confuses me more.
“Why are you so desperate to protect me yet you don’t want anything more?”
“You said you weren’t looking for a boyfriend.”
“What, so this is my fault now?” The shock is melting into puddles at my feet.
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”
“Tell me. What did you mean?”
“I thought this was a mutual agreement!”
“It is!” I let out a grunt of frustration. “But I wouldn’t call stalking me on a date ‘casual’.”
He looks away and his jaw ticks, but he turns back and bores his eyes into mine. “I ca—don’t—want anything serious. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
He starts to shake his head but stops, looking down.
I laugh humorlessly. “I’m her, aren’t I? I’m that stupid, idiot girl who gets strung along, hoping she’s different. That she can be enough.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Don’t say that. Of course you’re enough.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” My voice is getting louder.
“Just because I don’t want anything serious doesn’t mean I don’t care about you!”
We’re back to screaming, just like Valentine’s Day. My head is spinning. This doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right. I take a few deep breaths, my eyes fluttering shut. Thankfully, Lorenzo stays silent, allowing me a moment.
“You haven’t answered the first question,” I say evenly.
“Which?” he replies coolly. I’m certain he knows exactly which I’m referring to, but I humor him anyway.
“Where do you live?”
He hesitates. His shoulders sink, his chest deflates. “Here.”
“This house?”
He nods and tosses his hands out. “This room.”
“Why?” My voice is a broken whisper.
“Because,” he answers, not feigning ignorance this time. “I don’t like to show people where I live. I don’t like others knowing about my personal life.”
“Are you telling me all your friends tonight don’t know you live here?”
His silence cracks my slowly freezing heart.
“I’m leaving.” Fuck not running away; I should have left earlier.
But then you wouldn’t have found the report.
“Kate, please,” he says, wrapping a hand around my wrist. There’s a deep rooted plea to the way he says it, like his heart will replicate mine if I walk out that door.
Like all my choices surrounding this man, I make the wrong one. I don’t move.
“I’ve known them all for years. Santi and I both. It’s different. I haven’t known you that long, I haven’t… I wanted to keep this as casual as possible.”
“So you achieve that by lying to me? By stalking me?”
“I fucked up,” he says. His eyes belong to a traitor. Yet I want to believe that the remorse I see in them is genuine.
“Look, I get that people lie. But you have to understand that this is all so fucking weird. We’re hooking up in a room I thought was your friend's guest room, only to find out it’s actually your room. Then, you have an incident report for a guy I went on one date with in your drawer.”
I see his dark depths shift, like the bricks for the wall are being cemented as we speak. Call me a dumbass, but I still hold hope that some explanation he provides will change this, will reverse the damage.
“You’re not just some chick. I invited you to the New Year’s party for a reason.”
He’s trying to convince me, to make it seem like his intentions were pure.
“You’re driving me insane.”
“You’ve been driving me insane for months! Join the fucking club!” He has the nerve to actually look irritated by that fact, and I’m not sure why, but it’s what makes me believe him.
I inhale deeply, trying to clear my thoughts. He doesn’t reach for me again, despite the pulsing need to feel him.
“How can you not care if I date Brad again?” If I’m going to get any answers, now’s the time.
“Of course I care, Kate. I want you to be mine.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But I know that’s not fair. It’s not fair of me to ask you to be with me at arm’s length and expect you not to date.”
He’s giving me serious whiplash.
“I’m so confused…” Trying to calm my racing thoughts is like trying to douse a fire with oil. It only causes it to burn brighter. “You keep me at a distance yet stalk me. You stormed in on my date yet tell me to let you know if I do continue to date him.”
“Fuck!” He claws at his chest. “You think I want to feel like this? You think I want to think about you constantly? To feel possessive over a person for the first time in my life? To feel like I need you?”
My stomach drops, tingles spreading down my arms. I’m not sure if I should be enamored or afraid.
I settle somewhere in the middle. “This is only confusing me more.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be clearer.”
“What does that even mean? Just be clearer.”
I’ve never felt so pathetic. I’m basically begging him for answers. Basically putting my entire emotional self on the line for someone who’s only filling me with doubt. I hate being so pushy, so nosy, but I can’t help it.
I made my peace with being friends with benefits, with this never being more. But he keeps making these strange, cryptic confessions that rattle my brain and have me thinking about more when I know I shouldn’t.
“Answer me this first, princess.” The use of my pet name doesn’t make me feel any better. “Why don’t you want a boyfriend?”
“I—” The vulnerability of the truth feels too painful. “I don’t want to get hurt.”
His brows pinch together as he searches my eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll walk away right here, right now, if I’m hurting you.”
“I’m not hurting. I meant what I said—I’m down for friends with benefits. But at this point, you’re making no sense to me. I feel like I’ve been clear on what I want. I haven’t lied.”
He bows his head for a moment before meeting my eyes again. “I know.”
“I know that I’m annoying with my constant questions, demanding answers. But it’s for a reason—I don’t want to leave room for misunderstanding. And at this point, I don’t understand you at all.”
He nods, his eyes volleying between mine.
“Honestly, you’ve never told me once why you don’t want to be my boyfriend. Why you only want to keep things casual.”
He sighs and looks out the window. Time passes slowly and all too quickly. “Because I’m not capable of loving you properly.”
I literally bite my tongue to refrain from asking why. My eyelids feel so heavy. This is exhausting.
I nod. “We can figure this all out. We can just see where things go, like you said.”
He slowly turns back to me, his steely eyes full of resolve. “There is no we. There is you. There is me. This is fun.”
His words stab into my heart, cracking the newly formed ice. I wonder if he can see the shards in my eyes. I refuse to cry so I ball my fists tightly at my sides.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Make a choice.” He’s calm, too calm. If he cared so much, if he needed me like he says he does, then why wouldn’t he take all of me? Let me have all of him?
“I need to think about all of this,” I say. My eyes sting from the effort it takes to resist the tears pricking them.
Lorenzo nods his head, then picks up the report. He tosses it back into his drawer and closes it.
It’s symbolic, really, what opening a drawer can result in. This is why I like having boxes mentally shelved. I can pretend they don’t exist.
But this box is wide open and I have to decide what to do with it.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” he asks. He has my clothes in his hand and passes them to me. I take them, holding them close to my chest.
I should take an Uber; being around him is too intoxicating. But every fiber of my being wants to be near him, to share the same air.
I let out a heavy, mangled breath. “Sure.”
He nods, retrieving a pair of black jeans from the dresser tucked in the closet. I tear my eyes from him and we put our clothes on in silence. He sits at the edge of his bed while tugging on a long-sleeved black shirt, keeping his face down. Once I’m redressed, I realize my shoes are still by the pool.
“My shoes…” I can’t form a coherent sentence. My mind is racing a mile a minute.
“I’ll grab them.” He stands up and walks to his closet, quickly opening and closing a drawer. “Here.” He turns around and tosses me a pair of keys. They bounce off my open palm but I catch them when they fall back down.
“I’ll meet you out there.”
I nod and follow him out of the room. He breaks left to the patio and I turn right towards the front door. When I step outside, the cool breeze blows on my exposed skin, and I suddenly feel the weight of my wet hair. My feet absorb the coldness of the brick walkway.
My teeth begin to chatter, so I run to his black Audi, unlocking the doors with the fob. My fingers touch the cold metal of the car, and I rush inside. I look for the key to insert into the starter but I don’t find one. I glance behind the steering wheel and locate a button that says ‘start engine stop’.
I forgot they’d made those.
I drop the fob into the cup holder and press the button, but it doesn’t start. Something flashes on the screen between the speedometer and tachometer. I lean over the center console to look at the words above an image of a foot over a line: Press brake pedal to start engine.
It takes me a moment to comprehend that I need to press the break with the button. I debate waiting for Lorenzo, but my bones are rattling from the cold. I crawl over the center console and sit in the driver’s seat, placing my foot on the break. My shaking becomes more intense from the nerves of having my hands over a steering wheel, even if the vehicle is off. The amount of anxiety I have just from being in the driver’s seat is ridiculous, I know that.
But that’s the thing about fear. Once you let it take control of you, it grows into an insurmountable reality, no matter how false it is.
I take a deep breath, my ribs expanding with the oxygen I force in, and press down on the brake pedal. I uncurl the fingers of my right hand that were gripping the leather wheel and slowly drag my pointer finger to the start button. As my finger touches it, the door opens and I jump in my seat.
“Oh my god!” I yelp, my hand flying to my racing heart.
“Just me, princess.” Lorenzo says with an amused grin, my shoes in one hand. He takes in my leg, still extended with my foot on the brake pedal, before meeting my wide eyes. “You want to drive?”
“God, no. I just wanted to turn the car on!” I release my hold over the car parts and clamber into the passenger seat. Lorenzo drops into the driver’s side as naturally as rain dropping into a body of water. He drops my shoes on the floorboard beneath me and presses his foot into the pedal without a thought, holding down the press to start button and letting the engine purr on.
“Where’s the key?” he asks, tossing his hand onto the gear shift and glancing in his rear view mirror.
“Right here,” I say, pointing to the cup holder. He reverses out of the driveaway, pops the gear into drive, then reaches into the cup holder.
“Cool feature in this car,” he says, placing the fob into a discreet pocket within the cupholder. I meet his eye and my favorite twinkle is there. It’s clear he has a fascination with this damn machine.
“Cool,” I say, but it’s probably the uncoolest thing I’ve ever seen. Cars are purely utilitarian to me, serving the purpose of getting us from point A to point B. I see no pleasure to seek from it.
“You could have driven if you wanted. I don’t mind.” Lorenzo speeds up quickly, and it only just occurs to me that I'm surprised this thing isn't a stick shift.
“Ohhh, no. No, no, no.” I let out a sort of maniacal laugh, and he pegs me with a curious stare. “No, I don’t drive.”
His eyebrows shoot up into his hair. And then, he belts out a full belly laugh.
“What?” I say, frowning. He continues cackling into the enclosed space, the car steadily increasing in speed. I force my eyes to stay on him and not on the speedometer. I grip the car seat to hold in my nerves.
“A control freak that doesn’t drive? You continue to surprise me, Kate,” he finally says when his laughter settles.
“Excuse me? A control freak?” His eyes leave the road yet again, cutting me with a look that screams, "Don’t kid yourself”. I can’t help it, my eyes shift to the speedometer and my jaw drops.
“Slow down!” One hand flies over my chest while the other claws at his upper arm. He immediately lets off the gas, but he doesn’t hit the brakes. My eyes are still glued to the dash and my breathing slows when the arrow drops from ninety to sixty miles per hour, which is still over the speed limit.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, putting his eyes back on the road. He flexes his muscles, reminding me that I still have him in a vice grip. I don’t release him immediately, liking the physical connection. He seems to like it, too, because he doesn’t move at all, even though his hand dangles awkwardly near his thigh.
But I do eventually release my grip, slowly but surely. He adjusts his arm, placing his hand over the gear shift knob.
“Why don’t you drive?” he says conversationally. I pull on my flats as I ponder how to answer him.
“I can admit that it’s a bit of an irrational fear,” I start. He hardly slows down near a stop sign before blowing past it. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and tell myself to calm down. “When my parents were teaching me to drive, I backed into my dad’s car in the driveway.”
He waits for me to continue, but I don’t. There’s really nothing more to tell.
“That’s it? You hit your pops’s car and called it quits?”
“I had a full blown panic attack, it was a whole thing. My dad swore up and down that it was fine, which I know it was. But I asked to stop for the day. The next few times my mom or dad asked if I wanted to practice again, I’d say no.” The shame seeps into my tone, embarrassed from the amount of power I’ve given to this silly fear. “I just kept thinking, what if that had been a person? Or an animal? I could have hurt someone. I did hurt that car.”
I expect Lorenzo to laugh at me, or call me something insulting, but it never comes. He slowly nods his head as he turns onto the main road. “Yeah, okay. I can understand that.”
My jaw drops but I close it quickly. “You understand?”
“I get not wanting to hurt people, even if the fear behind it is irrational.”
“What, so you’re some sort of hero?”
“I told you once, and I’ll tell you again, Kate. I’m not going to save you.”
This time, his words force goosebumps to erupt over my skin. I meant what I said, that I don’t need saving. What does that really even mean, anyway? But it’s his tone, filled with regret and sorrow, that has me reacting.
It forces the memory of everything I discovered not even an hour ago to seep to the forefront of my mind. Not that it’s forgettable, but it’s so easy—too easy—for me to get lost in him.
As though he senses where my thoughts have gone, Lorenzo asks, “You’ve never wanted to learn?”
It takes me a moment to remember what he’s referring to. “I mean, I feel pathetic not driving. Letting this thing have power over me.” He grins at that, mumbling, “Control freak.” I ignore him. “But it’s been so many years at this point. You know Azalea Pines doesn’t require you to have a car. And I’ve placed myself in a position where I won’t need one.”
He nods pensively, turning down the street towards my apartment. It’s quite impressive that he remembers where I live so well. He’s a mental map.
“What do your parents do?” he asks.
I’m a bit surprised that he’s asking about my family. “Um, my dad’s actually a cargo truck driver. My mom studied finance but she stayed home when I was born. Then when my dad made enough money, she decided not to rejoin the workforce. She does a lot of side stuff though, helps in the community and such. She’ll bookkeep temporarily during tax season, too.”
“And your dad never forced you to learn to drive?”
“He’s not the pushy type, really. He kept asking, but I kept saying no. He never pushed further than that.”
Lorenzo pulls up to my complex, directly in front of a parallel parking spot that he could have easily slid into. My eyes shift from my building to him, his eyes already on me.
There’s no twinkle, there’s no amusement. There’s no malice, either. He looks more resolute than I’ve ever seen him.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say quietly. The emotions of earlier have returned with the realization that once I leave this car, I don’t know what will happen.
“Of course.” Fire begins to burn behind his pupils, but the rest of him remains stoic. He doesn’t want it to show.
I decide not to engage. It won’t help either of us.
“See you at work?” I try to be light-hearted, though I’m anything but.
“See ya at work.”
I put my hand on the door handle and pull, but he calls my attention when the door opens swiftly.
“Promise me something.”
His voice is croaky, like when you’re about to start crying. But his eyes are dry and I know his heart is stone cold.
“You demand a lot of promises for a man who doesn’t give any.”
He’s undeterred, the fire turning into an inferno before me.
“Whatever you do, whatever you think. Please know that I do care about you, Kate.”
My lips part with the rush of electric shocks. That’s not what I was expecting. My heart picks up speed with the implication of his words.
I nod while blinking furiously, then shut his door and turn on my heel.
Staring into his eyes with the aftermath of his proclamation would make me stupid again.
But it’s time to get smart.