Page 4 of Savage Beauty

He slips behind the wheel and starts the ignition as I turn onto the street. He catches up to me with his window down.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re just now thinking of asking my name?” He chuckles, like it’s funny.

“You don’t know my name either.”

I lift the bottle from the holder on my bike and chug a swallow of the tepid water. The sun is bright, and after putting the bottle back into the holder, I shield my eyes from the sun.

Why did I agree to go to the marina? It’s not like we’re going to bonk in public. And I won’t invite a stranger to my place. William and I had been together for at least two months before I brought him back to my place.

Of course, if he tries anything, I’m not defenseless. No, if he behaves badly, I will make him regret it. Thanks to my brother’s training, I do not fear men.

“Oh, but I do know your name.”

The tips of my sneakers graze the sidewalk as I slow to a stop. He’s driving slowly to keep pace with me, and a hotel van honks before speeding past him.

“You’re Sloane Watson.”

Maybe he was with the investors on Friday. Facial recognition is a weakness of mine. My mouth feels parched. I chug more water and use the back of my hand to dry my lips. The tap water he used to refill this plastic bottle is unexpectedly crisp, with a slight citrus zest. I drink more.

I hop off the bike and walk it in the direction of the marina. A sailing mast protrudes above the low, curly trees.

He’s beside me, watching me, matching my slow speed.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Anton. What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Spare time. I assess the deeply tanned man driving beside me. He’s not dressed for beach activities, but he possesses spare time. You don’t get a tan like that unless you have spare time or you work outside. “What do you do?”

We’re getting closer to the marina. There’s a small parking lot without a bike rack, but I can always find a place to park my bike. He said we’d get a drink here, but I don’t remember there being a bar. I’m not sure I want to drink alcohol. I haven’t eaten today. A veil of exhaustion falls over me.

“I’m getting tired.”

“No wonder. You work all the time.”

He’s right. I do. I slept little this weekend. The sun warms my skin, and the breeze cools it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get in the car?”

My feet are heavy, as if my sneakers are weighted. We’re so close to the parking lot. There are people milling around.

He stops the car, gets out, and guides me to the passenger side of the vehicle. I lean against him.

“You’re being nice.” It’s true. He is. But I suspect he may not be trustworthy. Why is he being nice? He’s not drunk, and I haven’t showered.

“So are you.”

“I’m not sure I want that drink. I’m sorry. I think I need to go home.” Why am I so tired? The seat in his car is warm, heated from the sun.

“Close your eyes. Rest. We’ll be there in a little while.”

“We’re right here.” I point into the parking lot. There is an abundance of empty parking spots.

“But you said you want to go home. Right?”

Right. That’s right. I do. I want to wash my face. Brush my teeth. Crawl between the cool sheets on my bed and sleep.

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