Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
And never once do I worry that this stranger could possibly hurt me.
Chapter Three
FELIX
I knew who she was the second I saw her little green SUV parked beside the dumpster. The hatch was open, the lights off, and I could clearly envision her turning them off in order to stay incognito, stealthy in her mind, as if the streetlights shining down on her vehicle weren’t as bright as a damn spotlight.
Well, no, that’s not exactly the truth. I don’t know who she is, but I do recognize her. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about her doing the same.
I’ve also seen her out here before, several times, even took on as many Tuesday and Friday night shifts as I could to make sure no one fucked with her while she climbs inside and digs for all the plants the vendors threw away on those scheduled days. How she figured out those were the best days to come, I could only guess. She must’ve done some serious recon, because she didn’t come nearly as often the rest of the week like she used to. She probably discovered a pattern, that there weren’t many plants to unearth on those other days.
Most of the time, I thwarted anyone going to bitch at her, saying I’d take care of it myself but instead secretly standing guard while she did her thing. She talks to herself a lot. Out loud. And I hear her murmuring and cussing like a sailor, the harsh words floating out of the dumpster in such a sweetly feminine voice it made me hard the first time I heard it. But through these adorable gripes, I learned she’s careful while she’s diving.
“You have to leave, ma’am. If you get hurt, you could sue us, ma’am,” she had bitched in a mocking tone that first night, following it up with “As if I’d embarrass myself like that. Who do they think I am? Those crazy people who sued McDonald’s for making them fat!”
I immediately liked her, the way she thought. It was refreshing after being around not-so-bright people every day.
Not being a dick—just speaking the truth. A symptom of my high-functioning autism that’s gotten me called colorful names throughout my half-century of life.
But now, we have a new night manager who is entirely too gung-ho about “whipping this store into shape,” and he made it clear that he would call the cops on her if he discovered her dumpster diving again. And while she’s right, it’s not illegal in our state, I was also speaking the truth when I told her she’s technically trespassing on private property. Thankfully, she knew I wasn’t just being an asshole making shit up, and she didn’t try to argue.
But then chaos ensued.
As I stride toward my truck, pulling my keys out of my pocket, I fight the urge to adjust my cock, feeling her eyes on me from where I left her at the top of the rolling stairs. I ignore the erection, knowing it’s at least not tenting my pants and she can’t see it behind the apron tied at my neck and the back of my waist.
Almost fifty fucking years old, and just having her sit on my lap made me spring a boner like an adolescent with their mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalog.
I pull open the back hatch, keeping my back angled toward her so she can’t see much around my width, especially from across the parking lot, and I grab one of the black leather bags of tools and things I keep in the trunk.
Like I always say, keep a bag packed like you’re never coming back.
I could literally survive out of my truck for years with everything I’ve got stored within its hidden depths.
I snag the small personal care kit and a couple of the medical supplies, then shut the trunk, clicking the remote to lock it back up. After sliding my key back into my pocket, I start my way toward the much younger woman with the personality I haven’t been able to figure out just yet. She seems different each night I hear her talking to herself—and to her “dumpster babies,” I’ve heard her call the plants—her mood changing several times throughout the minutes or hours she spends searching for “buried treasure.” And being who I am, even though I haven’t quite nailed down the person she is, I had her diagnosed—at least a little—within that first encounter she was never made aware of.
I was unable to keep the smile off my lips as I listened to her bitch about the injustice of this big corporation throwing away perfectly good plants, then the next sentence out of her mouth was her cooing at how “murdery” a coleus looked and deciding to name him Edmond after her “favorite serial killer.” I quietly leaned up against the back side of the dumpster, opposite of where she got in and out of it to take the plants and things she found to her car, more entertained than I felt in ages.