Page 136 of Defenders of Jawhara

Mrs. W. caught Trent’s stare, gave a small nod, and stubbed out her cigarette. She came out of her bungalow, letting the screen door slam behind her. Facing Chloe, she asked, “And you are?”

Chloe stuck out her hand. “Chloe Baker. I’m from Wyoming.”

Mrs. W. almost rolled her eyes. Instead, she started shuffling to the back. “Well, come on then, Dorothy, and see the place. Built in the twenties—you don’t get construction like this anymore. Solid lathe and plaster. Good pipes. My Jimmy used to take care of them. Now I’ve got this for a handyman.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Trent. “You staying long?”

“Uh…a few months? A couple of years?”

Mrs. W. glanced at her and swapped another look with Trent that promised he’d be getting a call from her later, asking what the hell was up and if Slade had approved this.

Then Chloe blurted out, “You have beautiful roses. They’re heirlooms, aren’t they; and is that an Empress Josephine?”

That did it. Mrs. W. lit up like a tipsy Christmas tree—the smell of bourbon on her couldn’t be missed—and the girls bonded over flowers. Trent let them. He figured Chloe was already sold on the place, but he let Mrs. W. give her the tour. She set ground rules, too—no male friends overnight.

“It’s only a single bedroom, and if you want to be a hussy, go do it at their place.”

Chloe actually blushed. “Oh, no, ma’am.”

“Good girl.” Mrs. W. patted her wrist. “Parking’s out front. You don’t need a permit on this street, but trash guys come on Thursday, so make sure you don’t block ’em. Utilities are extra, but usually don’t run more than fifty if you’re smart and don’t waste water. Place comes furnished. You can paint if you want. You want to move in tonight, you have this young man here do the heavy lifting. We can do paperwork in the morning. We got a deal?” Mrs. W. stuck out her hand, took Chloe’s, and shook it. “Course we do. Oh, and you can play music as loud as you want.” She knocked on a wall. “Solid lathe and plaster.”

Chloe blinked. Before she could protest, Trent had hold of her arm and was steering her back to his Jeep. “Let’s get your stuff, dude.”

He parked in front of Chloe’s place, left the engine running, and asked for her key to get her stuff. She hesitated and he told her, “You stay here. I’ll pack you up. I did a stint as a moving guy, so I’m like pro at this. Keep an eye on my Jeep, will ya? I leave it here and I’ll be missing my rims and my radio in like five minutes.”

She gave a sigh and handed over her keys. “It’s apartment 101. First one on the left.”

He headed into the place. Half the porch lights were burned out, the pool smelled like a swamp, and the shabby room he walked into offered up an orange shag carpet and polyester on the bed. The old-style tube television had seen better days, and he’d bet a twenty it didn’t work.

He found a suitcase still packed—smart girl—closed it, got her things from the bathroom, and glanced around. A photograph of a guy on a horse sat next to the bed, along with an alarm clock. He grabbed those and that was that.

He headed back outside. Throwing the suitcase into the back, he handed her the photo and the clock. “That it?”

She nodded. “I left most of my stuff in Wyoming.”

Hoping it’ll pull her back someday,Trent thought.Or not wanting the memories that came with the baggage.

“Did you rent by the week or the month? Do you want me to drop off the key with the manager?"

Chloe shook her head and held her hand out for her keys. “It was cheaper to pay by the month and next month’s isn’t due until next week. I can come by during the day to drop off the key.”

“Fine by me. Where’s your car?” he asked.

She bit down on her lower lip—a nice, lush lip that didn’t deserve such abuse. “Uh…I don’t have one. Yet.”

He nodded. “That’s cool. You can ride with me till you find a ride.”

She turned in her seat, the fabric of her clothing brushing against the upholstery. He caught that scent of hers again—that spicy patchouli and a touch of her own smell. It was a heady combination, and one he wouldn’t mind smelling on a regular basis.

“Why are you doing this? Do you just…just go around rescuing people?”

He shifted his mind back to the job. “Yeah, guess you could say that.”

Pulling up in front of the bungalows, he grabbed her suitcase. At the front door, she stopped and faced him. She was shorter than he was—way shorter. With her baggy T-shirt and jeans, she looked more like a teenager. But he could see the swell of pert breasts as she hugged her photo and her clock.

“Thank you. I…well, I’ve been here a month and no one’s been this nice to me or thoughtful, and…well, thank you. Really.”

He put down her suitcase. Now he felt like a heel—he wasn’t doing this to be kind. He was doing this to get her to trust him so he could use her to be his inside man on the job. Damn.

For a moment, he thought about trashing his plan. He’d tell her he was a phony—he wasn’t a surfer, and she was working for the wrong people. But he couldn’t do that. Too many lives were on the line if the sabotage escalated. People were depending on him—including Slade and Travis.

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