Page 2 of Lightness In My Dark

The lack of light and his swift movements made it difficult to see his face. He came back. Eye-level to his chest, he took out his wallet, shuffled through bills, and extended a fifty toward me.

My eyes narrowed at the money. “What are you doing?”

“I’m paying for your services.”

My face puckered in disgust as I stepped back. I turned toward Cole in the car. My feeble voice couldn’t find the depth of anger when I said, “I’m not a prostitute. This isn’t a service. I was helping a guy who needed it. Besides, I’m sure prostitutes get more than fifty.”

He let out a forced laugh. “Depends on what they’re offering.” His shoulders straightened, and I didn’t think anyone could stand any taller. Once more, he extended the money. My neck craned upward, the light behind him blocking out his facial features. “Well, I’m thanking you with money. And I’d appreciate it if you would delete my number.”

I sucked in curse words, appalled by such blatant disrespect, and retrieved the box from the bench. I passed the great smelling guy and bent down to the sprawled-out man on the backseat. “Take care of yourself, Cole.”

When I stood, the woodsy smell was right behind me. Without a backward glance, I walked toward the main road.

The burn of failure, along with being insulted for doing a good deed, had me consider drowning my sorrows in a bottle of vodka.

I ambled, kicking stones and small cracked concrete pieces, and ducking under low hanging maple branches. The toe of my shoe dug into a crack in the sidewalk where vegetation sprouted. Another tear balanced on my lower lid, poised to fall, and did when I turned toward a car radio tuned into a rap station. I shook my head to purge my self-pity.

The bus stop was two blocks down the main road. A woman and a man with a camera came running at me. From their demeanor and appearance, I assumed they were from a gossip magazine, which I often saw in the city peddling for leads. The cameraman’s shirt looked like he stored it under his mattress. The woman’s dark roots protruded through the damaged colored hair—fly-aways and dry ends. Eyeliner smeared across the upper eyelid and bottom, highlighting her crow’s feet. Lipstick congealed in the corners of her mouth. Her ratted bun fell in pieces on the back of her neck and sides.

Huh, she must have had a bad day. Not any worse than yours! You’re carrying a damn cardboard box, for God’s sake!

They both sidled up to me, the woman pushing a handheld recorder in front of my face, the cameraman hurrying in front. I ignored them.

The woman said, “My name is Veronica withWhat We KnowMagazine. May I ask you something?”

I shrugged and continued.

“Who were you helping at the bar?”

I shook my head, realizing it WAS an actual slow gossip day. My feet never stopped. The woman’s heels clicked and skidded while keeping up. The man snapped pictures, so I turned my head or looked down.

“We were doing a story over there,”—as she pointed across the street—“and noticed a car matching Mr. Trevino’s parked near you. Do you know him?”

Since I didn’t respond, the woman fired another question. “Did Mr. Trevino pick someone up?”

I halted, and they both stumbled. She had a strained smile with lipstick sticking from lip to tooth.

The recorder hovered in front. “Look, I had a bad day. I just want to get home and forget about it. I never heard of a Mr. Trevino.”

Okay, I lied. I worked at a financial security firm. Of course, I was familiar with Trevino of Trevino Holdings, along with anyone involved in trading stocks, bonds, or mutual funds.

She gasped. “Mr. Trevino is one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. No, I take that back. He’s one of the state’s most eligible bachelors.” Her annoyed eye roll made me angrier. “He’s someone.”

My arms shook from carrying the box. On the verge of another cry, I had to get away. “Not to me, he isn’t.” My eyes narrowed at the cameraman. “And stop taking pictures of me.” About to leave, she took hold of my arm, and I yanked it away. “Don’t touch me!” I juggled the box to get a better grip on it.

She held her hands up in a surrender. “Sorry. We’re here to do our job. We saw you come from the bar and then Mr. Trevino’s car pulled up.”

I exaggerated my movements by moving one arm under the box and placing my hand in front of my mouth. “Oh my, his car pulled up? Now THAT IS something to talk about.”

She moved the recorder closer, refusing to drop the subject. “Well? Who did he pick up?”

I ignored her, intent on getting to the bus stop.

She refused to back down. She was relentless. “Who were you helping over there? We’ll give you twenty dollars if you tell us.”

With the box in front, I picked up the pace, but both ran in front, walking backwards. “Come on, who were you helping?” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Were you partying with Mr. Trevino?”

Partying with Trevino? I lost my job. I’m carrying a damn box. My situation warrants a smothering in Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, digging out the last scoop of Chunky Monkey, instead of partying with the so-called ‘most eligible bachelor’. Who even reads about these things?

---