The Right Kind of Wrong Page 2

  "I haven't."

  His lips form a pitiful smile, "Okay, well almost everyone."

  "Fine, we'll do something else then."

  "Just hold on a minute—" He closes his eyes again and sways with some internal rhythm I'm not privy to.

  God, he's so weird.

  His eyelids pop open. "I lied. This could be the perfect topic. What if we presented this as a documentary? You can be in charge of the interviews, and I'll be in charge of the filming, editing and production."

  Where did that come from? "I thought you didn't care about this project."

  He grins. "I don't. But I do like making documentaries."

  "Oh, well in that case, absolutely not."

  "Come on, give me a chance."

  "I think being in the same room as you without stabbing you is already your second chance. Why should I give you another one?"

  He stands up and offers his hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

  "I don't think so."

  He sighs but his lips turn upward in a smile. "What's your stance on popcorn?"

  "I'm pro popcorn. Why?"

  "Then you'll definitely want to follow me." He pulls me up from the desk, but I shake my hand away. His face falls into a frown.

  "You're trying to bribe me with popcorn?"

  He shrugs. "If that's what it's going to take."

  He is trying so hard it's almost laughable. "Ugh, fine. This better be worth it, Vince."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Where're we going?" Vince and I cut through the parking lot of The Bee.

  "You'll see."

  "This isn't funny, Vince." I follow him across the train tracks and through an alley that is entirely too dark for my liking. "I don't want you to murder and me and cut me up in little bits."

  His laughter cuts through the silence. "You've been watching too many true crime shows."

  "Well, you're leading me down all these dark alleys. What am I supposed to think?"

  "Don't worry, we're almost there."

  As we round the corner, I see a large detached garage with no cars inside. Oh shit. I was right. He's going to saran wrap me and then stab me in the heart like that guy on HBO.

  A huge canvas stretches across the back wall of the garage. Dozens of couches, chairs and seats fill the space. A rickety old popcorn machine sits in one corner. The glass is tinged yellow and several of the light bulbs at the top are missing. A makeshift movie theater in a garage? "What the—"

  Vince gestures around us. "Welcome to Monroe Theater. This is where my buddy and I screen all of our documentaries."

  "And people actually come to watch them?" I blurt out. "I just meant, there are people who want to watch movies in a garage like this?"

  "If you're into filmmaking, then yes, you're willing to go wherever the films are showing. Plus, my movies are worth it. In fact, that's why I brought you here. You're a lucky girl. You're going to get an advanced screening of my new documentary."

  He walks over to the popcorn machine and plugs it in. It springs to life. The yellow and red lights cast a glow against the ceiling, which is now a patchwork of tangerine and fire. A sharp wheezing noise comes from inside the machine as Vince pulls a canister from a shelf and pours golden liquid into the metal bowl.

  He moves to his film projector and then looks at me, pointing to the row of chairs. "Take a seat. I prefer the egg chair."

  I walk over to the row of chairs, finding the one that looks most like an egg. I drop into it, and the fabric molds to my body. It is pretty comfortable. The garage is quiet until the kernels start to pop. It takes another minute before the smell catches up; buttery aroma fills the room. I had no idea Vince was into this stuff. I mean, he always carries his stupid video camera around, but I didn't know he actually made movies.

  Vince scurries around the garage, plugging in little things here and there until he seems satisfied. He pulls a bowl from the cabinet above the popcorn machine and scoops out the fluffy kernels. He dims the lights and flops down on the florescent green beanbag next to me. And then all at once, I'm anxious. What if I hate it? Worse—what if I actually like it? His voice slices through my fears.

  "Here we go. Get ready to be impressed."

  I snort and hold out my hand. "You didn't even offer me popcorn and a beverage. What kind of movie theatre is this?"

  He hands me the bowl and puts his finger to his lips. "Shh. It's about to start."

  The picture on the screen starts off pixelated and shaky, but once the lens focuses, a larger-than-life-sized Vince appears on the screen. "My name is Vince Gage and I think it's time to save our humanity. I'm not talking about the Green Revolution or PETA. I'm talking about the kind of humanity that starts in your community. There are over 633,782 homeless individuals in the world. With the dissolution of the Homelessness Prevention and Rapid Re-housing Program, we're going to see that number increase. Today, I’d like you to get to know a few of Sacramento's homeless men and women."

  The picture fades to black but is quickly replaced by a silhouetted woman in a chair.

  Vince begins the interview. "How do you feel when you wake up at the Woodbridge Shelter?"

  "I feel grateful." Her voice is so gritty it hurts my throat.

  "Why are you grateful, Sandy?"

  "Because I shouldn't be alive right now."

  "Why?" Vince's voice on camera is different from the voice he uses with me. It's soft and sensitive, inquisitive and caring. In person, it's everything but those things.

  Sandy coughs, deep and raspy. All it takes is a pause in her dialogue and I'm hooked. She has me at the edge of my seat and I want to know everything about her. "I burnt down my house. Didn't want no cops finding out what I was doing."

  "What were you doing that you wanted to hide?"

  "Meth."

  "What happened after you set your house on fire?"

  "There was an explosion. Couple people died."

  "Anyone you knew?"

  "My baby."

  There's a quiet moment. I'm not sure if Vince knew that was coming. "Then what happened. "His voice shakes with uncertainty.

  "I went to prison for a couple years. Just got out. That's why I ain't got a house or job."

  "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

  The screen flashes with photographs of a baby, a towheaded little girl, a teenager and finally, a beautiful young woman. The camera pans away from Vince and onto a woman. Dirty blonde hair, greasy and matted, hangs in clumped strands around her face. Her eye sockets and cheekbones are sunk in and her face is full of pockmarks. There's a resemblance to the pretty, young woman in the pictures, but that girl is long gone. A broken, damaged woman sits in her place.

  Sandy rocks back and forth, her cries turning into wailing sobs. Her body shakes and the tears stream down her cheeks. "I miss my baby. I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't want to hurt her. Please believe me. I loved her. I wasn't right in the head. Wasn't right. And now, now I got nothing. I got no one."

  An arm reaches out, taking her hand. Vince's soft voice whispers, "It's okay, Sandy. Thank you for sharing your story."

  The rest of the documentary follows several homeless people, each getting a turn in the spotlight, each of their stories equally appalling. I find myself enthralled with the way their words etch themselves into my brain and I hold onto the edges of my chair as the film moves through the participants. With every minute that passes, I try to push down the realization that Vince is more talented than I want to admit.

  The credits roll and the garage is lit only by light from the popcorn machine. I turn away so Vince can't see my glassy eyes.

  He flicks on the lights. "What did you think?"

  I can't find the words to describe the respect I have discovered for his ability, not without giving him an unneeded ego boost. "It was horrifying... and beautiful. I had no idea you could do something like that. It was really good."

  "Thanks," he says, and I believe he means it. "So, does thi
s mean we're doing the project my way?"

  I sigh. I hope I won't regret this. "No. It means we're doing it our way. Which means we better start getting along otherwise this is gonna be a long semester."

  "I'm going to win this thing for us."

  "Seriously, Vince, we. As in plural. As in you and me. Not just you. And, I mean it. If this turns into a repeat of our last project, I will find a way to make you pay for it. Don't think I won't."

  "Okay, okay. I got it. Let it go. What's done is done."

  I look at the time on my cell phone. Shit. I still have to fact check Kyle's piece before tomorrow's deadline.

  Getting out of the egg chair is more difficult than getting in it.

  "Hey! Where're you going, we were going to work on the project."

  "It's getting late and some of us have to work in the morning. We'll have to meet tomorrow," I say.

  "Fine, but you thought I was going to chop you up in little pieces, and now you're about to walk home in the dark in this neighborhood? Not gonna happen."

  "Since when did you start caring about what happens to me?"

  "I'm a concerned citizen. That's all. I'll walk you to The Bee."

  I shake my head. "I didn't take my car to work today—"

  "Then I'll walk you wherever you're going. I don't trust this neighborhood."

  I cross my arms over my chest. I'm not a fragile little girl, but he's not going to back down. "Whatever. Let's go then."

  We walk away from the traffic on the interstate behind us. We can talk about our project, the weather, anything. Instead, we stay quiet until Vince clears his throat.

  "I like your tattoo. I meant to tell you that earlier."

  I look at my arm and trace over the inked skin. "Thanks."

  "Did it hurt?"

  "Not as much as burying him did."

  "You two were close?"

  "You could say that."

  Vince looks at his feet. I can tell he wants to say something comforting.

  All that comes out is, "I'm sorry."

  "I don't really want to talk about it if that's okay." I clear my throat. "I've been wondering about something."

  He raises his eyebrows. "What's that?"

  "How are you still a student, Vince?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  When he answers, his voice holds a sliver of shame. "Everything was cleared from my record. It's like it never happened. It didn’t, as far as my record is concerned."

  I stop walking. "You've got to be kidding me."

  Vince turns around and walks backwards. "Now isn't the time, Kara. When we get through this thing, I'll explain everything."

  "No. You're not getting out of things that easily. What about me?"

  "Your name was cleared, too. And it's not like you were totally innocent. I don't know why you're still holding a grudge."

  I throw up my hands, exasperated. "One, that's not the point. Two, I shouldn't have been put in that position to begin with. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't cheat."

  "You didn't cheat, but you certainly didn't do anything to stop me. You put the entire project on me, or did you conveniently forget that?"

  "You offered to take it all!"

  He doesn't answer. I walk faster to get away from him. His footsteps quicken until he falls in line beside me, and we walk in tandem for a while. Neither of us knows how to navigate the ebb and flow of the tension between us. The air is thick with heat but a breeze tickles my skin and I shiver.

  What if we had a completely different history? Would he wrap his arms around me to ease the chill? Would he come up the stairs to my apartment and break the tension with his lips? I stop those thoughts. What-ifs are useless.

  We arrive at my apartment complex. The dingy brown and red bricks make the building look dumpy and some of the lamps are out. I face Vince, thankful he can't see the inside of the building. "Thanks for walking me home."

  "Yeah." He doesn't look at me.

  I unlock the lobby door. "So, I'll call you—" When I turn around, he's jogging down the street, already a speck of white in the black night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Interning under Kyle means I have to get my ass up before most everyone my age goes to bed. All-night drinking binges? Not for me. I stare inside my closet at the bland palette hung in monochrome order. Black, grey, white, cream and tan are my options. Slimming colors.

  After noticing the time on my bedside clock, I yank a pair of khakis and a black sweater from the hangers and dress quickly. Why am I always running late?

  I swipe my cell phone off the counter and text Kyle. You want me to grab coffee?

  The phone vibrates in my hand seconds later. The usual. Hurry up.

  He's so damn serious. But then again, so am I. How did I get so lucky? I shake my head. He's one of the best investigative reporters in California and even though I earned an internship under him, I still think it was some colossal mistake. Some other girl should be in my shoes. At first, Kyle had me doing grunt work. Coffee, filing, but now he has me fact checking his stories before they go to Roderick. Working hard does pay off.

  The first time we stayed late to finish his story, we ordered lo mein and fried rice and laughed at each other in our tired-drunk state. That was the night his eyes fixated on me in a different way and his hand found ways to brush against my skin.

  It's too early to think about those things so I shut off my bedroom lights, grab my purse and make the mile walk to Starbucks.

  The line stretches to the back of the building. I stand behind a woman wearing a fitted navy suit. Her stiletto heels tap her impatience against the tiles. I tap her on the shoulder and she turns around with a scowl.

  "Yes?"

  "What's going on?"

  She points to the front of line. A man wearing a flannel shirt is gesturing wildly to the barista. "That idiot in the front can't make up his mind or something. He's been holding us up for twenty minutes now. I've already had it up to here with people and…" She looks at her watch, "…it's only five thirty." She turns around and her heels tap with even more impressive force.

  "Uh, thanks," I mumble.

  From the back, the man in front of the line looks familiar. My gaze runs the length of his back and comes to rest on his ass. It's fantastic, though the jeans aren't anything spectacular. He turns enough and I see his face.

  It's Vince. And I just called his ass fantastic. Why can't I go anywhere now without seeing him? I pull my cell from my purse.

  You're holding up the line, you know.

  A smattering of beeps comes from the front of the line. He pulls it out and looks up, his eyes searching the line. He finds me and waves.

  I shrink back and avoid meeting his eyes. People are pissed at him. I don't want the stink eyes, too. When I look back up, Vince is heading right for me and I cringe.

  "Don't act like you don't know me. Whatcha doing?"

  Idiot. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

  "Not getting coffee, like the rest of these chumps in line."

  "Because of you."

  "Incorrect." He laughs. "That barista up there overcharged me and then made my drink all wrong."

  "So you make a huge scene? For a couple dollars and a crappy drink?"

  He widens his eyes and looks at me as if I'm in the wrong. "I'm lactose intolerant. All she had to do was put the right kind of milk in it. What are you doing here, anyways?"

  "I have to work. But I'm going to be late if I don't leave now. Thanks for that. I didn't figure you for a morning person."

  "Haven't been to sleep yet. I was up editing one of my films last night."

  Sandy-colored stubble covers his face and the skin beneath his eyes looks bruised.

  "Will you sleep at all today?"

  Vince shrugs. "Why? Interested in napping together?"

  I scrunch my nose in disgust. "Did you really just ask me that?" I get out of the line and walk toward the door. "I have to get to
work."

  Vince grabs my arm. "I was kidding. You're the last person I'd want to sleep with."

  I take the sting from his comment with a smile and push the door open. "Noted." I don’t look back at him.

  The Bee parking lot can be creepy in the early morning. The street lamps cast a yellowish-orange glow over the pavement and it's so quiet, like the world wants to stand still for just a fraction of a second. A chill sits in the air and the goosebumps spring to life up my arms. When I enter The Bee front doors, a wave of heat falls over me.

  "You're late." Kyle says from the stairs. "I was about to check the parking lot for your car. Where's my coffee?"

  "Sorry. There was some dumbass at Starbucks holding up the line. If I would have stayed, it would've been another twenty minutes." Kyle's eyes linger on my sweater, more accurately, my breasts. He doesn't try to hide it, either. I smile and move past him to walk into his office. "What can I do this morning? I already checked and prepped your feature piece."

  I'm barely inside Kyle’s office before he shuts the door and yanks me toward him. He leans down until his breath is on my neck. "I know what you can do this morning." His smoky voice is pure lust. It's annoyingly sexy.

  I never intended to sleep with Kyle. It just sort of... happened. One minute I was bringing him coffee, doing all of his shit work and the next thing I knew, I was under his smoking hot six-pack in my bed. I know it's not ethical. I know it's not the way things should be, but part of me doesn't care. He makes me think about the things I'm not supposed to be doing with him.

  Like this.

  I put my finger to his lips. "Not here, Kyle."

  My body tenses as he catches my hand and places it on his chest. His lips travel the length of my neck to my mouth. I groan. His musky cologne mingles with his cinnamon toothpaste.

  "C'mon, Kara. No one else gets here until seven thirty." He looks at his watch. "We have a solid hour before someone shows up. Plenty of time…"

  I don't want to be caught—even if his naked body is all I can think about now.

  "Shit, I forgot I didn't fact check the Obama story yet."