Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Read online

  The guest house was the least of my concerns. The whole estate needed work, but if this was Derek's way of helping out, I wanted no part of it.

  I imagined myself in the stranger's shoes. He'd been called out here to do a job, only to be treated like trash and ridiculed for the misunderstanding – a misunderstanding that wasn't even his fault.

  What a disaster.

  And in front of me, there sat Derek, looking like he'd just had the time of his life. He flashed me a grin. "So, anyway." His tone grew sarcastic. "Surprise."

  Oh, I was surprised alright. I gave Derek a hard look. "What did you do? Put his name on the list?"

  "What list?"

  As if he didn't know. "The list of candidates. Number twenty-two." My jaw clenched. "Remember?"

  Derek only shrugged. "Hey, you had to meet him sometime, right? I figured, why not add him to the list, have some fun with it."

  "Fun?" I sputtered. "For who?"

  Derek laughed. "Well, I enjoyed it."

  Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, I looked down, only to feel myself pause. There it was, that folded slip of paper, the one the stranger had tossed down earlier.

  Still clutching Derek's phone, I bent down and snagged the paper with my free hand. It looked like a business check, folded into a neat little square.

  Derek held out his hand. "I'll take that."

  "Why? What are you planning to do with it?"

  "Rip it up, obviously."

  I frowned. Well, that was convenient. So the stranger wouldn't even be compensated for his trouble?

  Distracted, I said, "You want something? Take this." I dropped Derek's phone into his outstretched hand, and then unfolded the paper for a better look. Sure enough, it was an official business check, made out from the law firm of Derek's dad.

  I zoomed in on the amount. "Only fifty dollars?"

  Granted, this wasn't pocket change. But even in my own limited experience, fifty dollars didn't buy a whole lot of anything when it came to home-maintenance.

  Derek said, "It's called a down payment."

  "Oh." I didn't bother asking what the full amount would be, or who, exactly, was supposed to pay for it. Given my finances, I didn't want to know.

  The check was made out to someone named Joel Bishop. I let that name drift around in my brain. I liked it. Or maybe, I just liked the thought of somehow, making things right.

  Feeling suddenly inspired, I told Derek, "You can't rip it up."

  "Why not?"

  I squared my shoulders. "Because I'm going to give it back to him."

  "You're not serious?"

  But I was, which is why, a few hours later, I'd changed into casual clothes, and was standing in a campground of all places, staring down at a narrow, Earth-colored tent.

  Yes, a tent.

  Chapter 6

  It was nearly nightfall, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. I glanced around, taking in the neighboring campsites. On them, I saw pop-up campers, oversized recreational vehicles, and colorful tents, many that were large enough to sleep eight people.

  It was a Friday night, which no doubt explained the fact that the beachfront campground was utterly packed. I'd actually camped here before, exactly one time, thanks to a friend in junior high, whose parents were, as she'd put it, the outdoorsy type.

  At the memory, I felt myself smile. Back then, I didn't have a worry in the world. I'd had two parents, loads of security, and a house that was every kid's dream.

  My smile faded as a sad fact hit home. At the time, I'd been way too naïve to appreciate any of it. Just three years afterward, both of my parents were gone, along with any real security.

  Pushing that depressing thought aside, I zoomed in on the small tent in front of me. Driving through the campground to get here, I'd seen cheerful-looking campfires, surrounded by families and retirees, all enjoying the final remnants of what had been a mild summer.

  But at the painter's campsite, there was no campfire, no friends gathered to roast marshmallows, and no happy chatter or kids laughing.

  There was nothing at all.

  Except the tent.

  I stared down at the thing, wondering if the painter – the guy named Joel Bishop – was inside right now. And if he was, what then?

  Should I knock, or…?

  Behind me, a male voice said, "You looking for someone?"

  Startled, I whirled around, and there he was – the painter, standing within arm's reach. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was tight. I craned my neck to look up at him. He was wearing the same clothes as before – tattered jeans and a dark T-shirt.

  I tried for a friendly smile. "Uh, hi. Remember me?"

  He didn't smile back. "What are you doing here?"

  My own smile faltered. "I guess I'll take that as a 'yes'?"

  "Take it any way you want."

  Okay, I knew that our last encounter had been totally awful, and I also realized that he had every reason to be angry. But for some reason, this wasn't what I'd expected.

  "Just so you know," I said, "that whole painting thing, I had nothing to do with it."

  He still wasn't smiling. "Right."

  "You think I did?"

  "I think you're not answering my question."

  As I stared up at him, I considered everything that I'd gone through, just to make it out here. I'd postponed birthday plans. I'd made half-a-dozen phone calls to find out where he was staying. And then, on my way out the door, I'd gotten into a final, raging argument with Derek, who'd lingered at my place just long enough to tell me how stupid I was being.

  On top of all that, there had been the sticky issue of the check itself, which was now safely tucked into the front pocket of my jeans. During my final argument with Derek, he'd flat-out demanded that I return it. Not to the painter. To Derek himself.

  And then, when I'd refused to hand it over? He'd threatened to put a stop-payment on it, to make it absolutely worthless no matter what I did.

  In the end, I'd actually gone over his head to keep that from happening. Yes, I'd called his dad, which was especially awkward, considering that Derek's dad had known nothing about the check, or what it was supposed to be paying for.

  The whole thing had stunk to high heaven, and now, I was dealing with this guy's attitude on top of all that? It's not that I blamed the guy for being angry. It's just that, well, in my happy thoughts of making things right, I hadn't considered that I'd be dealing with his hostility, too.

  I gave him a pleading look. "Look, I know that you're mad, but just listen. I'm here to make things right."

  He looked unimpressed. "Is that so?"

  "Definitely." I reached into the front of my pocket of my jeans and pulled out the check, folded along its original creases. I held it out between us. "Here."

  He gave it a long look, but didn't take it.

  I hesitated. "It's the check you dropped earlier."

  "I didn't drop it. I tossed it."

  "Uh, yeah. I just mean, it's that same check. You know?"

  He said nothing, but from the look on his face, he did know, and he wasn't thrilled.

  Worse, he still wasn't taking it. The check weighed next-to-nothing, but for some reason, it was feeling heavier with every passing second.

  I nudged it a fraction closer. "Don't you want it?"

  "If I had, I wouldn’t have tossed it."

  I stared up at him. Wow. This was so not what I'd expected. What did the guy think? That I was trying to hire him back?

  I bit my lip. I couldn't hire anyone, even if I wanted to, and not only because I couldn’t afford the labor. I couldn’t afford the supplies.

  I considered the check's amount. Fifty dollars. It wasn't a fortune, but it was more than I had in my own purse. Surely, the guy could be at least a little happy to get it back.

  From the look on his face, apparently not.

  Beyond eager to get this over with, I said, "It's not for the job. It's for your trouble." Again, I nudged the check closer. Again, he didn't
take it. I looked down. One more nudge, and I'd be poking him in the stomach.

  His shirt was loose around his waist, but a stomach had to be down there somewhere. Right?

  From the looks of him, it was probably a flat stomach, with all kinds of interesting ridges and valleys, but that wasn't terribly relevant, was it?

  Still, an image of his shirtless torso flashed in my brain, and I felt a rush of heat rise to my face. I looked up and blurted out, "Will you please just take it?"

  He looked at me for a long moment before saying, "Alright." And then, with cool deliberation, he took the check from my outstretched hand.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally.

  Suddenly eager to make my escape, I turned toward my car, an ancient import that I'd inherited from my mom. It was parked a few paces away, just off the narrow dirt road that snaked its way through the large campground.

  I'd taken only a few steps toward it when I heard a sound – a ripping sound that yanked my attention back to the painter. I turned just in time to see him scatter bits of paper onto the darkened fire pit.

  My jaw dropped. "Was that the check?"

  It was a stupid question. Of course, it was the check. I could see it for myself, scattered among the dusty ashes.

  The guy shrugged. "Hey, I took it. You got what you wanted, right?"

  I stared at him. What a jerk.

  But what could I say? It was, after all, his check. Technically, he could do whatever he wanted with it.

  Still, if he'd been so determined to rip it up, couldn't he have waited? After all, in five minutes, I would've been long gone.

  God, I was such an idiot. Little Miss Do-Gooder strikes again. And, as usual, I hadn't done any good for anyone, especially myself.

  I felt myself swallow. "Well, I guess you showed me, huh?"

  In front of me, the guy said nothing.

  Whatever.

  I blinked long and hard, and then turned away. The guy had made his point. There was no reason for me to stick around for further humiliation.

  In under a minute, I'd be gone, and then, I'd never have to see his face again.

  Or at least, that would've been a perfectly lovely scenario, if only my car had cooperated.

  Chapter 7

  Sitting behind the wheel, I turned the key again. But all I heard was that same click, followed by absolutely nothing.

  I wanted to scream in frustration.

  Already, I'd been sitting in my car for at least five minutes. Technically, it wasn't a long time, but for some reason, it felt like forever. From the corner of my eye, I could still see him, the painter guy, standing in the same spot, watching me.

  Yeah – watching me make a fool of myself.

  Again.

  At least darkness had finally crept over the campground, leaving me sitting in the shadows, rather than on clear display. Happily, the shadows had crept over him too, which saved me the added humiliation of seeing his face.

  I knew exactly what the shadows hid. Scorn. Impatience. And maybe some good old-fashioned boredom, too.

  I could practically hear his thoughts. Why won't this chick leave?

  I'm trying, jerkface.

  Desperately, I tried the key again, only to hear that same dreaded click.

  With a muttered curse, I yanked my purse off the passenger's seat and rummaged around for my cell phone. I pulled it out and turned away from the driver's side window. Away from him. The check-ripper-upper.

  Holding my phone in a death grip, I pulled up Cassie's number and hit the call button. She answered with a raucous, "Hey! Birthday Girl! Where the heck are you?"

  I paused. I heard noise in the background, lots of noise – music, voices, and glasses clinking. "Where are you?" I asked.

  She laughed. "I'm at T.J.'s. Where else?"

  T.J.'s was one of only two local bars that had dancing on the weekends. I'd never been inside, because until today, I'd been too young to get in. Tonight was supposed to be my first time, except the plan had been for me and Cassie to go together.

  Trying not to sound as hurt as I felt, I summoned up a weak laugh. "So, uh, you decided to start the party without me, huh?"

  She was practically yelling. "What?"

  I tried again, talking louder now. "I asked, did you decide to start without me?"

  "Heck no," she said. "We can't start anything without you. But I came in early to snag a booth." She paused. "Didn't you get my message?"

  I winced. "Sorry, I haven't checked."

  "Oh shoot. Hang on a sec, alright?"

  I heard fumbling on the other end, followed by more clinking and a rowdy burst of laughter. A moment later, Cassie was back. "Sorry about that." And then, in a louder voice, she said, "Alright everyone, hush. I'm talking to the birthday girl."

  I felt my brow wrinkle. Everyone? Who was everyone?

  Other than Cassie, I had only a handful of friends, and most of them were hours away at college. Even when it came to relatives, the only good one I had was Aunt Gina, who now lived hours away – and wasn't visiting until tomorrow.

  More curious than ever, I asked, "Who's all there?"

  "Everyone," Cassie repeated. "It's your big twenty-one, remember?"

  In spite of everything, I had to smile. I still didn't know who this mythical "everyone" was, but it sounded like one heck of a party.

  My smile faded with a guilty realization. Already, I'd postponed our plans by a full hour. Now, she was entertaining unknown party guests while I was stuck where? At some ingrate's campsite. That's where.

  "So," Cassie was saying, "are you on your way?"

  "Um, well, here's the thing…"

  A knock on the driver's side window made me jump in my seat. I whirled to see the check ripper-upper, looking down at me through the glass.

  On the phone, Cassie said, "What was that? Are you okay?"

  I turned away from the window and said, "What was what?"

  "You sort of screamed."

  "I did not." I hesitated. "Did I?"

  "Well, it wasn't a big scream or anything." Her tone brightened. "It was more of a yelp."

  Oh great, so now I was yelping? Like a dog? Reluctantly, I looked toward my car window. The painter was still there.

  I gave him an annoyed look. Yeah. That's me. The yelper. Deal with it.

  Deliberately, I clutched the phone tighter and turned away. On Cassie's end, the music and clinking had faded to nearly nothing. "Why is it so quiet?" I asked. "You didn't leave, did you?"

  "Heck no," she said. "The party hasn't even started." She laughed. "Since you're not here and all."

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I'd been planning to ask Cassie to come out here and get me. Now, I wasn't so sure. She didn't sound drunk, but she didn't sound fully sober either.

  On the phone, she was saying, "I just ducked into the bathroom." Right on cue, I heard a distinct flushing noise. Cassie said, "That wasn't me, by the way. I'm only in here, so I can hear what you're saying."

  I gave an awkward laugh. "Well, that's a relief."

  Still, I hated the idea of her hunkering near some toilet on my account. I was just about to tell her that when I heard another tap on the car window.

  This time, I didn't jump. And I didn't bother looking.

  I already knew who the tapper was, and I knew exactly what he wanted – for me to just leave already.

  Terrific. We had something in common. I wanted to leave, too.

  If only I could.

  "So," Cassie said, "are you on your way?"

  I hesitated. "Hey, a question…By any chance, is anyone there still sober?"

  "Yeah." Cassie laughed. "The bartenders."

  I tried to laugh, too. "Oh c'mon, they aren't the only ones, are they?"

  "Do the bouncers count?"

  My shoulders sagged. "Not really."

  "But don't worry," Cassie said. "I'm not getting sloppy 'til you show up." She paused. "Although I can't speak for the others." She lowered her voice. "Dorothy? S
he's on like her third fuzzy navel."

  Dorothy? As in the local librarian?

  Wow. The way it sounded, Cassie had invited everyone.

  And they were all waiting. Why? Because I'd tried to do something nice for some jerk who didn't even appreciate it.

  Soon, Derek would be saying, "I told you so."

  As usual.

  Dreading it already, I asked, "By any chance, is Derek there?"

  "Um. No. Actually, he isn't." She hesitated. "I invited him to stop by, but, uh…"

  "That's okay," I assured her. "We're kind of on the outs, anyway."

  "Oh. I guess that explains it."

  Explains what? I was dying to ask, but the birthday clock was ticking. So all I said was, "I'll see you in a little bit, okay?"

  I only prayed I was telling the truth.

  When the call ended, I turned my reluctant gaze to the car window. The painter was still there, looking mildly irritated. I rolled down my window and forced an awkward smile. "By any chance, do you know anything about cars?"

  Chapter 8

  With the window's glass no longer between us, I could see his face more clearly now. Of course, it was annoyingly beautiful, which just made everything worse when he said, "You mean your car?"

  What other car would I mean? Still, overly conscious that I was about to ask him for a favor, I tried to sound more polite than I felt. "Yes, actually." I winced. "It, uh, won't start."

  His voice was deadpan. "I noticed."

  God, did he have to be so awful?

  Screw politeness.

  "You know," I said, "I'm only out here because I thought I was doing you a favor."

  His expression didn't change. "You mean the check?"

  "Of course, I mean the check." I glanced toward the darkened fire pit. "Not that it's worth anything now." Under my breath, I muttered, "Well, except as firewood."

  His mouth twitched at the corners. "Be a pretty small fire."

  Oh, so he was making fun of me now? "Fine," I said. "I'll just check the engine myself."

  I opened the driver's side door and pushed it outward until it bumped against his legs. When he made no move to get out of my way, I said, "Are you going to let me out or what?"