Ultraviolet by Nancy Bush Page A

I’ll pretend to snap at your hands, not to hurt, just to be a happy idiot. You, in turn, will laugh and pretend to drag me out, but you won’t really, because then I’ll just have to squeeze back in somewhere else and start the game again.

    The game is dumb, but we all play it.

    “I got your text message last night,” I told Dwayne.

    “Took you long enough to respond.”

    “Didn’t know I was on the clock for Slot A and Tab B.”

    “Tab A. Slot B,” he corrected. “Basic human anatomy, Jane. He’s Tab A. She’s Slot B.”

    “I get it.”

    Dwayne always says that everyone has secrets they don’t want someone else to know about. I agree with him. I just wondered why he felt compelled to learn the secrets of the people across the bay.

    He stretched and levered himself out of his deck chair. I leaned forward but resisted the urge to help him. I find myself shying away from physical contact, which really pisses me off at myself, but for the moment it’s how things stand between us. At least how it stands for me.

    I said, “Ogilvy’s selling my cottage.”

    Dwayne tipped his hat back and gave me a penetrating look. “He tell you that?”

    “Kind of announced it. Called me up and dropped the bomb. Looks like I’m going to be hunting for a new abode whether I want to or not.”

    “Why don’t you buy it?”

    “Great idea. With all the money I have.”

    “You have enough for a down payment.”

    “Look who you’re talking to.”

    “I’m looking.”

    We stared at each other for a full ten seconds. By God, I wasn’t going to turn away first. I said firmly, holding his gaze, “Inactivity has addled your brain. I’m Jane Kelly. I have nothing. Half the time my refrigerator’s empty enough to use as an extra room.”

    “You’re cheap. You’re not poor.”

    I narrowed my eyes. “I’m luxury-challenged, not cheap. Since when do you get to call me ‘not poor’?”

    Dwayne smiled in that knowing way that sometimes intrigues me. I gazed over the bay, deciding I’d had enough of this meeting of the eyes. I wasn’t up to this challenge right now, and though I didn’t know where it was going, how it had begun and what it meant, I wanted to step out of it before something altered between us. Sometimes you recognize those moments when you’re in them with just enough time to save yourself; sometimes you don’t.

    “You own a fourplex unit with your mother in Venice. You horde every dollar you make. I’ve heard you barter with Ogilvy on the rent more times than I can count. You have enough for a down payment, and if you don’t, I’ll help you.”

    “I don’t barter with Ogilvy. I don’t even talk to him.”

    “Yes, you do.”

    That stopped me for a moment. “You’re thinking about years ago, when he was trying to jump the rent a hundred dollars a month. A hundred dollars!”

    “I believe you set him straight.”

    “You bet I did,” I harrumphed. I’m not sure what I think of rent control. My mother and I deal with it in our Venice four-unit. In some ways, it sounds great, but when costs spiral upward, repairs start becoming more and more expensive and pretty soon you realize you can’t afford the upkeep with the amount of rent you’re receiving. But I sure as hell didn’t want Ogilvy gouging me. There is no rent control in Oregon, as far as I know. There’s certainly none in Lake Chinook, and I don’t think it generally counts on single-family dwellings anyway. But if he was selling the place, none of it mattered. Any way around it I was screwed.

    “Did you say you’d help me?” I asked, reviewing our conversation.

    “Afraid of what that might mean?” He lifted one brow.

    “Yes.”

    “Tell me how much money you’ve got.”

    “Hell no,” I said. “It isn’t polite to ask, don’t you know that?”

    “Politeness ain’t my strong suit, darlin’.”

    “Oh yes, it is. You can be as polite and charming as a politician stumping for votes. Worse,