Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,83
lead the way around the corner.
A few minutes later we’re sliding into a booth with a street view. I order myself a fancy gin fizz and tell Kayla to try an Italian crème soda. The server brings bread, and Kayla grabs a slice as if she’s afraid he’ll return to take it back.
Chewing, she watches me with a cool stare.
“Warming up yet?” I ask.
She ignores that and lifts her chin. “So are you going to explain what all this is about or not?”
I tilt my head and study her for a moment. “Do you like your nice clothes?”
“Sure.”
“Your new hair, new nails?”
“Obviously.”
“You can tell when people have money, right? You can see that they look different and carry themselves differently?”
She shrugs.
“They pay for that look. The shiny hair, gorgeous nails, perfectly hemmed and tailored slacks. They look good because they can afford to pay for those things. They can afford suites at the Skirvin and massages to help them rest and relax. They get vacations. Time off to lie on the beach. Skin care. Personal trainers.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You can have that too. You don’t have to scramble every damn day of your life. But you have to be willing to work for that money.”
“I already—”
I hold up a hand. “Not that way. Not if you want real money, Kayla. Sex has its place in ambition, but it’s not the only tool.”
“Whatever,” she growls.
“I came from the same place you did, and look at me.” She doesn’t. “I mean it. Look at me. Look at my hair, my skin, my boots. I own a gorgeous downtown condo. I drive a nice car. I go out to dinner anytime I want. Travel overseas. Shop without a budget. And I do it all on my terms, not by negotiating with some wrinkly-sacked sugar daddy who’ll throw me a coin now and then. It’s mine, Kayla. You get that?”
She turns her eyes resentfully in my direction.
“I earned this life. I’m not rich, not by one percent standards, but I sure as hell will never again in my life need to hitch a ride with a pervie truck driver so I can get out of some shit town. Never.”
“Good for you. So . . . what? You’re going to write me into your will or something?”
“Boy, that would be a huge mistake, wouldn’t it?” I grin until she finally grants a tiny smile before ducking her head to hide it. Not out of shyness, but because she can’t conceal the hard amusement of picturing me dead and passing on my belongings to her.
“Thankfully,” I say, “I’m smarter than that. No, what I’m saying is you need to work hard in school and learn to control yourself if you want a better life.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she moans, eyes rolling so hard, I wonder if she strained them.
“This isn’t a pep talk, so shut the hell up, little girl.”
The server was sliding up along my side to take our order, but I watch him freeze and hesitate now.
“We’ll need a minute,” I say, then wave at Kayla to look at her menu. “Decide what you want.” Picking mine up, I spy lobster ravioli, but I’m sure it won’t be the lobster ravioli I like, so I take a few minutes to study the food. “Osso buco,” I say aloud.
Kayla frowns. “What’s that?”
“It’s sort of like the best pot roast you’ve ever had in your life. But don’t ever explain it that way to anyone. They’ll think you’re hopelessly ignorant.”
“So it’s fancy?”
“Sure.”
She keeps frowning at the menu.
“If you want to try it, we can order meatballs as an appetizer. Then you’ll have the meatballs you wanted and you’ll get to experience something new.”
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that. I want to try it.”
“Good choice.” I shoot a look at the server and he darts over as if he’s been anxiously waiting. I order the food and remind him about my gin fizz. He’s back within thirty seconds with our drinks. Kayla eats more bread.
“You and I are the same,” I say. Her eyes rise and watch me impassively, waiting for more. “Or close enough to the same. I called you a sociopath before. Do you know what that means?”
“I looked it up.”
“What do you think? Does it fit?”
She only gives me a shrug and takes a sip of her soda, still waiting. Still assessing. She doesn’t have the self-consciousness other people have. She can stand the quiet.
“I’m not a doctor, of course. I’ve never even been to a shrink