Burying Water

Chapter 3

Jesse

THEN

There are a lot of things I don't like about Portland.

The rain tops the list.

Scratch that. Driving in the rain tops the list. It's usually just a dreary never-ending drizzle, but once in a while the skies open up for an especially heavy downpour. The shitty old Toyota I bought for five hundred bucks doesn't deal well with that weather, the engine randomly sputtering and cutting out like it's drowning. I don't know how many times I've tried to fix the problem.

September was a heavy month for rain. It looks like October is competing for a record, too, because it's pouring again tonight. It's only a matter of time before the car gives out on me, right here in the middle of this deserted road. Then I'll be just like the poor sucker on the shoulder up ahead, his hazards flashing.

Even though I've already made my mind up to keep moving, when I realize it's a BMW Z8, my foot eases off the gas pedal. I've never seen one in real life before. Probably because there are only a few thousand in the entire country and each one would go for a pretty penny. It's rare and it's fucking gorgeous.

And it has a flat tire.

"Nope." Changing tires in the rain sucks. That rich bastard can wait for roadside assistance to come save him. I'm sold on that plan until my headlights catch long blond hair in the driver's side. Twenty feet past, my conscience takes over and I can't help but brake. "Shit," I mutter, pulling off to the shoulder and slowly backing up.

No one's getting out, but if she's alone, she's probably wary. With a loud groan, I step out into the rain, yanking the hood of my gray sweatshirt up over my head. I jog over to the passenger-side window. Growing up with a sheriff as a father, you learn never to stand on the road, even if there isn't a car in sight. People get clipped all the time.

I knock against the glass.

And wait.

"Come on . . ." I mutter, my head hung low, the rain pounding on my back feeling like a cold hose bath. It can't be more than 40 degrees out here. Another five seconds and I'm leaving her here.

Finally the window cracks open, just enough for me to peer through. She's alone in the car. It's dark, but I'm pretty sure I see tears. I definitely see smeared black makeup. And her eyes . . . They glisten with fear. I don't blame her. She's driving a high-priced car and she's sitting alone out here after eleven at night. And now there's a guy in a hoodie hanging outside her window. I adjust my tone accordingly. "Do you need help?"

I hear her swallow hard before answering, "Yes. I do." She sounds young, but it's hard to tell with some women.

"Have you called Triple-A?"

She hesitates and then shakes her head.

Okay . . . not very talkative. She smells incredible, though, based on the flowery perfume wafting out of her car. Incredible and rich. "Your spare's in the trunk?"

"I . . . think so?"

I sigh. Looks like I'm changing a tire in the pouring rain after all. "Okay. Pop your trunk and I'll see what I can do. Stay in here."

I round the car. Beneath half a dozen shopping bags and under the trunk floor, I find the spare tucked away. Running back to get my jack and flashlight out of my car-I use my own tools whenever I can-I settle down by the back corner of the Z8, happy for the dead roads. Not one vehicle has passed since I stopped.

The BMW is jacked and the lug nuts are off when the driver's door opens. "I'll have this changed in another two minutes!" I holler, gently pulling the rim off. "You should stay inside."