Page 2 of Ordinary Secrets

“Want me to take a look at it?” I ask.

Her friend arches an eyebrow. “Do you know how to bring tires back from the dead?”

“How ’bout I assess the damage, then we can go from there?”

The friend gestures a pink-nail-polished hand out the window. “Be our guest.”

Both women climb out of the car and meet me at the back right tire. I’ve seen these two together before. Since they hang out pretty often, I’m assuming they’re good friends. I don’t know the Black woman’s name or anything about her. She looks around the same age as the brunette—twenty-two-ish, only four years younger than me.

I kneel and pretend to inspect the blown rubber. What I’m actually doing is trying to process the strange sensation ofknowingthere are two women behind me yet sensing only one.

Excitement radiates off the Black woman in waves, colliding into my head. I wish I knew what was lighting her up so much. That’s the downfall of my gift—it only tells mehowa person feels, never why.

“What happened?” I ask, even though I know damn well what happened. Still kneeling, I twist around to face the ladies. The sun almost blinds me, so I cup my hands above my forehead and squint. Within seconds, my Zordi eyes adjust and the women become crystal clear in my vision.

“We don’t know.” The one I can’t take my focus away from moves all of her long waves to rest over one shoulder. “We heard a loud pop, then the car swerved a little.”

I don’t have to pretend to sound concerned. “Did you hit anything?”

“Thankfully, no. I pulled over right away, and we were about to call for a service when you showed up.”

Thank fuck.The device I planted into her tire last night was supposed to leak the air outslowlyandsafely, not pop it. Some gadget that was. The point of my mission is to get information. I can’t do that if this woman gets hurt. From now on, I’ll make sure all my mission plans put her safety first.

With a hand against her car, I stand and lightly kick the blown tire. “Bad news, ladies. Doesn’t look like you’ll make it anywhere with this.” I know the answer but ask anyway. “You got a spare?”

They shake their heads.

“I could take you to get a new tire. I’ll even help you put it on.”

“That’s very nice of you, but”—the brunette hooks a thumb toward her curly-haired friend—“her brother’s a mechanic. We’ll be okay.”

My hopes deflate like a thumbtacked balloon as I rub a hand over my stubble. What are the odds that she’d have a friend in the car with a brother who’s a mechanic?

“He hasn’t responded to my calls or texts yet,” the friend says. “Maybe we should accept the help from...” She circles a hand in the air.

I thrust my palm out. “Trey Grant.”

With a sharp gasp, the friend’s mouth pops open. Her excitement from earlier that merely waved through my head now smacks me in the face. “See? I knew it! I freaking knew it! I told you it was him! You’re in that pop rock band that plays at the Soul House, right?”

I try not to show how thrilled I am that she’s recognized me. Not because I like the attention, but because this could work in my favor. I flash her a giant grin. “Yep, that’s me. And your name?”

“Javina Abrams.” Finally, she shakes my hand, which has been outstretched and waiting. “I went to one of your shows a few months ago. I bought your band’s album that night, and I’ve been watching all your music videos on YouTube ever since.” More elation comes from her. It’s so strong, it’s drowning out the emotions of all the people driving by.

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.” And I mean it. I get compliments on my band often, but when it comes from someone who seems as genuine as Javina, the words carry more weight. I offer my palm to the woman I came to meet. “And your name?”

“Ari,” she says, lightly returning my handshake.

This isn’t the first time I’ve touched her. The first time was two weeks ago when I “accidentally” bumped into her at a restaurant. I made sure our bare arms brushed as much as possible while keeping it brief. I don’t normally need to touch someone to sense their emotions, but since I can’t sense this woman at all, I thought maybe the physical contact would help. It didn’t then, and it’s not now either.How is she doing that?

As if my hand is scorching hers, she tugs her arm back, then her gaze falls to the grass.Whoops.I definitely didn’t mean to hold on to her for longer than socially acceptable.

Finally, her name registers in my brain.Ari? That’s not right.“What’s that short for?”

“Arella, but everyone just calls me Ari.”

“Arella is a beautiful name. It suits you.”

She smiles bashfully, and I can’t tell if it’s because she liked the compliment or because she hated it and is simply being nice. I’ve never had to guess how people feel before—ever.

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