Page 26 of Until

As I walk towards my car, I see a teenage boy with jet-black hair in jeans and a bright green puffer jacket leaning against my car. He’s skinny, has AirPods in his ears, and shouldn’t be touching my Maserati. His face is in his phone, but as I approach, he slides the phone into his jacket pocket and grins at me.

“Excuse me,” I say as my car automatically unlocks.

“I know you,” he says with a grin.

“Okay,” I say, opening my car door and hoping that’s the end of the conversation.

“You don’t want to know why I’m here?”

For the past five years, women have been throwing themselves at me because of my inheritance and the stipulation that I need to get married. It’s surprising how little privacy one has nowadays. A teenage boy is a new twist, and while some men my age might quake with fear that this was some long-lost child, I have no concerns about that.

Still, I wonder what this boy is doing here. Was he put up to it by a desperate mother? An aunt? It doesn’t matter; I have no interest in whoever it is. My heart belongs to one woman, even if I don’t know her name.

I ignore the question and pull the car door closed. As I press the button to start the engine, he slaps his hand against the window.

What is his problem?

I turn to look at the kid. He has his phone facing me as he points to it. It’s a picture of me with my princess at the masquerade ball. I lower the window to hear what he has to say.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he asks. When I don’t answer, he chews the inside of his cheek and then nods. “Yeah, that’s you. I thought so.” He turns the phone back to him. “I never understood why no one recognized you under the mask. That’s like some Clark Kent shit, I guess.”

I don’t like this kid. He’s hitting a nerve that tells me all I need to know about him. He’s money-motivated, probably a liar, and he knows how to manipulate people. I know I should get away from him as fast as I can, but seeing that picture from the ball makes me stupid.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.

“No, I got all the help I need. But I think there’s something I can help you with.”

“And that is?”

“Her.”

“What about her?” I ask.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I mean, you didn’t come down here just to rub elbows with us poor people, did you? You tracked her car here and thought you could find out more. But you didn’t, did you? I’m right, right? I know I’m right.”

He’s too cocky, even if he is right.

“And who are you?” I ask.

“Let’s just say I’m a friend.”

“A friend who wants something.” I put the car into drive.

“No, man. You got it all wrong; I don’t want anything, not from you, at least. I don’t double dip. That’s fine, run away. I get paid either way.”

I have no idea what he’s saying, but I know I should leave. While his voice is sincere, there’s something else in his demeanor that tells me he’s not here to be a Boy Scout. I stop the car.

“Then why are you here?” I ask.

“Because someone wants you to find out who she is.” He gives his phone a slight shake. “I don’t usually pay attention to this celebrity kind of stuff, but if someone pays me enough, I will.

“I’m not a celebrity.”

“Out here you are. From plumber to billionaire? That’s enough to make the papers.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” he says, showing a wisdom that only a street kid of his age would know. “Of course, you got lucky with your dad. This is my legacy.” He points to the demolition junkyard next door, and his shoulders slump.

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