Page 24 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
Jackie continues walking toward an unlit stairwell, like she didn’t just have a pleasant conversation with ex-convicts and possible gang members.
“You tutor, huh?” This girl. The more I find out, the more questions I have. I want to understand her, pop her hood and figure out what makes her run. I was so sure she’d be like all the other assembly-line women I’ve met in the past. Yet at every turn, Jackie proves what a unique model she is. And I’ve always had a thing for unique models.
She shrugs. “A bunch of kids live here. Sometimes they need help.”
“You tutor more than one kid? In what?”
“Alex needs help with science. Diego and I like to talk about astronomy, but he’s hopeless in math, so we’re working on that. And sometimes Amy needs help with her history. That’s Jorge’s girlfriend. She’s taking all her prerequisites at San Jacinto College, and the history classes throw her with all those dates.” She delves into the shadows by the stairwell and stops. “They have quite a tight-knit group of friends and family that live here. I came across Alex and a few of his friends outside one day, struggling with a science project. They had to create a carrier that would hold and protect an egg when dropped from fifteen feet. When I asked if he needed help they laughed at me.” Jackie smiles. “So I went to my apartment, made my own and ten minutes later snuck onto the roof and dropped it right next to Alex and his friends. All twelve of the eggs I dropped from over thirty feet were intact.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “They didn’t laugh so much after that,” she says with a chuckle.
We both stand in silence for a moment before she shakes herself and steps back. “Okay, well, my apartment is up there, so no need to walk any further,” she says, pointing up.
The dim lighting makes everything a bit more intimate, a bit more real. Her ponytail has swung around over her shoulder, the end resting on her chest where, no joke, an image of the periodic table is printed on her T-shirt. She slides her glasses up her nose and something inside me shifts. What started as me trying to prove I’m not an asshole has morphed into something else entirely.
Beautiful women in the past have always meant high society— expensive and social climbing. But Jackie is a different kind of beauty. She helps drunk college girls get home safe, works with astronauts and genuinely likes helping kids with their homework.
“Listen, I don’t want to be pushy, but the broken lights above the stairwell have me feeling twitchy.” Once again she looks up, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. “The least I can do is make sure you get home safely, after I basically threw you out of my house last night.”
Her brows draw together, shifting her glasses. “Okay, but it’s on the third floor.”
She says that like it’s a negative, but I’m happy about it. Third floors are usually the last to be broken into because criminals have to carry stolen goods down two flights before they can make a getaway. I guess it might be cumbersome dragging groceries up three flights, especially as I’m sure this dump doesn’t have an elevator. But safety first.
Waving her forward, I let Jackie lead the way. Either she works out, or she’s been walking a hell of a lot due to her rundown car, ‘cause the girl doesn’t walk up the stairs, she bounces. It does such wonderful things to her ass while her ponytail swings like a pendulum that I don’t even mind the burn in my thighs from jogging up the stairs in my heavy work boots. But I can’t fully appreciate it, as my mind is stuck on something.
“You let Paulie work on your car?”
“Yeah. I would’ve had him repair the dent, but Rose was pretty adamant she pay for it and I take it to your shop.”
Something I’ll have to thank Rose for later.
“Plus, I’m not sure Paulie has the equipment for body work.” She pauses at the first landing, head tilted, like she’s thinking this revelation over more fully. “Maybe he does. Hmmm… I should ask—”
“What shop does he work in?” I cut in, not wanting her to take her car to someone else. Least of all someone who may have done time.
“Huh?” She blinks, looking back at me. “Oh. Nowhere at the moment. He has trouble getting a job because of his record.”
That confirms it.
“Listen,” I say, leaning on the railing below her. “I’d be happy to fix your car whenever you need. You don’t need to take it to an ex-con.”
“He isn’t just an ex-con. He’s my friend.” She doesn’t look angry, just perplexed.
Which makes me feel like the judgmental asshole I used to be. The one I thought I’d left behind.
“Well, still,” I mumble, “the offer is open, if you ever have car trouble.”
She nods once, her glasses again shifting down her nose. “Thank you.” She pushes her glasses back in place with her index finger, then continues walking up the next set of stairs.
“Also, if you ever want to take me up on the offer to learn manual transmission”—I use both thumbs to gesture to myself—“I’m your guy.”
She laughs and some of the tension lifts. “Good to know.” Jackie crests the top landing. “And thank you for the hotwire lesson and driving me home. I appreciate it.” She walks over to her door, keys in hand. “Good night.” She unlocks her one lone bolt and opens the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
I lean in and kiss her cheek, which immediately blushes.
“Anytime, darling.”
Eyes wide behind her glasses, Jackie keeps eye contact until the door is shut. I wait until I hear the bolt lock before turning and bounding my way down the steps.
Six
