Page 11 of Jasper

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Goddammit.

Where the fuck is she?

It’s been five days since I last saw her. I’ve shown up at the café every single day, waiting. Wanting to find out if she truly is homeless. I have no plan if she tells me she is. It doesn’t matter, though. If I find out she’s living on the streets, I’m going to do something about it. Even if she doesn’t like it. And I have a feeling the pink-haired little thief wouldn’t like it one bit. She’s a strong one. Not by choice, though. That I can tell just by looking at her.

I’ve passed on two jobs to my brothers, and I’m starting to get questions about why I’m leaving to get coffee every day all of a sudden, but I ignore my nosy family and show up here to wait for her.

“Haven’t seen her,” one of the baristas calls out when I walk in.

I frown and nod as I toss a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and wait for my steaming black cup of coffee. And even though I know she’s not going to come, I sit in my usual spot.

Bend isn’t that huge of a town. But considering I have no idea what I’m looking for, I keep coming up empty. And yes, I’ve looked. Both physically and on the internet. Unfortunately, nothing came up with just the name Ariana. It’s unlikely she uses her real name anyway, so that was wishful thinking.

I’ve also driven all around town and looked for her. None of the homeless shelters would give me information for privacy reasons, so the only thing I can do is circle the block around them, hoping to catch a glimpse of pink.

That pastel-pink hair. I’ve never seen a woman with that sort of color, but somehow it fits Ariana. The Little girl has a certain kind of vibe about her. One that is refreshing and free-spirited, but could also be dangerous. She’s too friendly to people. And she always seems like the happiest person in the room, but she’s not. I see it in her eyes. Those blue irises tell the truth.

Part of me wants to shake her, tell her to be more careful because one day, she might steal from the wrong person. The other part just wants to wrap her up and get her out of this mess she’s found herself in.

I sip my coffee, the heat burning my tongue, but I barely taste it. The frustration is gnawing at me, making my shoulders tense. I don’t know why I can’t just let this go. I’ve got enough shit to deal with without worrying about some brat who was going to rob me.

But I can’t forget the way she looked at me that morning—the way she tried to act tough even though I could see right through it. I shouldn’t give a damn about her. I don’t know her. I don’t owe her anything.

Still...

I can’t stop picturing her in some dirty alley, huddled up against the cold, trying to make it through the night. And I hate it. The thought claws at me, worse than any nightmare I’ve had.

I’m not good with people. Never have been. But something about her just gets under my skin. I keep telling myself it’s because I hate seeing someone so small and stubborn trying to survive on her own.

Maybe it’s more than that.

I take another sip of coffee, forcing myself to calm down. There’s no use getting pissed off about it. If I keep showing up here, eventually she’ll come back.

Until then, I’ll just keep waiting.

6

ARIANA

Istand on the cracked sidewalk outside the bar, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my worn sweatshirt. The neon sign above the door flickers, buzzing like it’s just as tired as I am. I stare at it, trying to summon the courage to go in. This is definitely not the café.

The wind cuts through my clothes, biting at my skin. It’s colder tonight than it has been recently, and my toes are numb inside my sneakers. I should just go in. It’s warmer in there. I’ll order a hot water, sit in a dark corner, and wait for my fingers to thaw. I haven’t had any problems with anyone since I’ve started coming here. Besides, stealing from drunk people is easier than rich ones.

But my feet stay planted on the sidewalk.

I don’t know why I’m so anxious about it. I’ve been coming here in the evenings for the past few days, trying to avoid the coffee shop. It’s too loud here. Too loud, too dirty, too not my kind of place. But I’m trying to avoidhim. And his charity.

The last time I went to the café, the barista told me a tall, tattooed guy paid for coffee and a pastry for me. I didn’t have to ask any other questions to know it washim. That latte and bagel were the best-tasting things I’ve had in ages. And it made me like him even more.

I didn’t look back the last time I left the shop, leaving him sitting there. But I could still feel his eyes on me, burning right through my skin, and that alone was too much for me to handle. The man is potent, and I’m smart enough to know that while I can handle just about any situation, he might be the exception. Which is why I have to avoid him. Because the more I decide I like him, the worse off I’ll be.

I swallow hard, shifting from foot to foot, trying to psych myself up. This bar isn’t in the safest area of Bend, but the bartender doesn’t care if I only order hot water. She’s nice enough, and she even slips me packets of crackers and honey sometimes.

Finally, I force my feet to move, pushing open the heavy door. The smell of stale beer hits me like a wave, and I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The soles of my shoes stick to the floor, and I have to force myself not to think about how filthy it must be to be that sticky.

There aren’t many people here—there are a few guys hunched over the bar, talking quietly, and a couple at a table by the jukebox. I make a beeline for the far end of the bar, where the bartender—Leigh—gives me a small smile.

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