Page 2 of High Roller

I’m tempted to ask him to stay on the phone with me because the smoker is still watching me, but I don’t want him to think I’m scared.

Going back inside means walking past smoker guy, and something about him creeps me out. So I check my locks twice, then hit Play on my audiobook. The narrator’s voice pulls me in, but I can’t quite relax.

When I glance up again, the smoker is gone, and I consider going back inside. But a car pulls up beside me. Two people climb out, laughing too loud, and the club door swings open long enough for the bass to thump through my car.

The club door slams just as a car door thunks closed behind me. I jerk around, but it’s just more club-goers arriving.

Why the hell am I so jumpy tonight?

Finally, a car I recognize pulls up behind me, headlights sweeping across the back of my car just before he shuts the engine off. Victor Serrano steps out, crisp and lethal in his perfectly tailored suit and my breath catches the way it always does when he walks into a room. As if for half a second, my lungs forget what they’re for.

His scowl says he’s not thrilled to be on this particular rescue mission. Before I can open the door, he taps his knuckles on my window, sharp and efficient. I roll it down and try not to stare at his perfectly angry face.

“Always getting into trouble, aren’t you, Butterfly?”

“It’s not my fault the car won’t start.”

He shakes his head, his mouth tugging into something almost resembling affection, an he reaches through the window to tousle my hair.

“Pop the hood.”

I pull the lever as he goes to his car and pulls a small box with cables hanging off of it out of his trunk.

“Portable jump starter,” he says, catching my confused look. “You need one.”

At the front of my car, he opens the hood and props it open then goes to work hooking up the device.

“Try it now,” he calls.

I turn the key. The engine still sputters and coughs, refusing to turn over.

“This battery looks new. It’s definitely dead, but something else is wrong. I’ll check a few things while we let it charge a bit.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me through the window, then rolls up his sleeves. I subtly sniff the jacket before I put it in my front seat. The cologne he wears reminds me of the redwood forests my family used to go camping in.

He disappears behind my raised car hood again for several minutes. I see light from his phone’s flashlight, but otherwise I have no idea what he’s doing.

“Did you have work done on this recently?” He asks after a few minutes.

“I had an oil change earlier today.”

Victor comes out from behind the hood holding a dirty rag that looks like it could have caught fire at some point.

“Have you had any issues with your car since you left the oil change?”

I chew the inside of my cheek as I remember the engine sputtering a few times. “A little? Some weird sputtering when I was driving to work after the oil change. And then again when I was driving here. There was a kind of burning smell.”

Victor looks angry as he balls the rag up, and I cringe when he stuffs it in the pocket of his expensive suit pants.

“Tell me where you had it done. This could have caused major damage to your car. We caught it in time. The rag was interfering with the alternator, keeping it from charging your battery. Try the engine again.”

When I turn the key this time, it starts, and my shoulders relax. I didn’t realize until the relief kicked in just how worried I was about the possibility of a major repair expense setting me back for months. “Follow me, Mariposa. I’ll make sure you get home safe.” As he walks away, I hear him mutter. “I’m also going to have a word with that crazy roommate of yours.”

As Victor pulls away, I back out and ease into the flow of traffic behind him. It’s silly for him to come home with me, but there are times when it’s pointless to argue with him, and I can tell tonight is one of those nights.

At my apartment complex, I pull into my assigned parking place, and Victor parks in an open space a few cars down.

He’s at my door before I can open it, and he offers his hand to help me from the car. My ankle gives out as I stand up on five-inch heels. Another terrible idea Sabrina talked me into.

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