Becoming Rain
Page 10
“Fair enough. So?”
I’m more than ready for these kinds of questions, though. “Originally from out east, but I decided to try the West Coast for a while.”
“Why not farther south? California’s nice.”
Valid question. One I can answer with a half-truth. “Would you believe me if I told you I love the rain?”
“You moved across country because you love the rain.” I glance up in time to see his smirk. “I guess you’re well suited to your name then.”
That’s the reason I chose it, I want to say. As part of the cover design, I get to pick my own name—something that would roll off my tongue, that I’d answer to without hesitation. Normally you go with your real first name and your mother’s maiden name, but I’ve used it so many times, I chose my mother’s nickname for me instead. She used to call me Rainy when I was little, because I’d be the kid who threw on her pink rubber boots and grabbed her umbrella at the first sign of showers. I’d spend hours outside, fascinated by the feel of cold drops splattering against my skin as I stomped and splashed through mud, much to my mother’s bafflement. It made the hot bath and curling up under a blanket afterward all the more rewarding.
“So you just decided to move across country and try something new because you love the rain, Rain.”
When he says it like that, in that tone, it sounds suspicious. “And because I needed to get away.” I pause before adding, “Bad breakup.” That confirms that I’m single. Check.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, sounding like he understands a bad breakup. I wonder if he does. “How are you liking Portland so far?”
“It’s nice, but . . . you know, new city. It’s hard to meet people and make friends.” Another seed planted. That’s the guise. Become “friends” with the target. It’s a deceptive term because we all know what that truly means. I’m supposed to entice Luke, make him want more but not give him too much. Therein lies the ethical dilemma that so many undercover operations face. Where do I draw the line? If my target places his hand on my knee, do I let him? Or do I push his hand away? If he tries to kiss me, how do I refuse him? How many times can I refuse him before he loses interest? How far do I let it go? There was no official rulebook of “can” and “can’t” handed to me when I took this case on.
I have only my gut.
And my moral integrity.
And the respect of my colleagues.
And concern for my safety.
And the reputability of my testimony for this case.
“I’m sure it won’t take you long. Portland’s full of nice people.”
“Well, I met one today, didn’t I?” It’s as close to me handing him a “will you be my friend?” card as I can get without sounding desperate.
Luke merely grins.
We continue on, my heels clicking against the concrete as we weave our way around other pedestrians, most of them also on a lunch-hour mission. A woman ahead juggles a bag of groceries in one hand and a toddler throwing a proper fit in the other, who’s kicking and screaming until she loses her grip on her bag and some of its contents spill out the top. People all around pass by without any offers of help. There’s no way they missed the debacle.
But Luke doesn’t. I watch him as he crouches down and quickly gathers up the contents before offering them to the frazzled mom, who smooths her stray hair behind her ears while blushing. “Stop giving your mom a hard time,” he scolds the little boy with a smile, who in turn sticks a thumb in his mouth and tucks himself next to the woman’s thigh.
And the entire time, I’m watching Luke from three steps behind, expecting to see his hand slide into her pocket or purse and make off with her valuables. Because that’s what thieves do—seize opportunities. Not until he glances over his shoulder at me and then keeps walking do I accept that he was just being a nice guy.
The surveillance reports never mentioned him being a nice guy.
My thoughts are distracted by the scent of deep-fried food as we round the corner. A strip of colorful sheds extends out in front of us, each one covered in menu boards.
“Have you ever eaten here?” Another downward glance tells me he believes what I’ve led him to believe so far—that I’m too good to patronize a garden shack turned burrito buffet.
“No, can’t say I have.” The truth is, I’ve been to these Portland food carts three times already, mainly because he comes here for lunch almost every day. More of my failed attempts to grab his attention. Once, I had my camera out and trained on him, waiting for him to look up, to notice me so I’d have an excuse to apologize and assure him that it was just for my latest photography class project—capturing candids of attractive men. Another time, I even sat at the table next to him. But his attention was on his sandwich and his phone screen. He didn’t notice me.
Luke juts his chin toward a burgundy cart with a black wrought-iron sign. “They make really good meatball sandwiches.”
“No they don’t,” I throw out before I can stop myself.
Luke’s brow spikes.
“No one makes better meatball sandwiches than a born-and-bred Italian. That guy in there, with his Carrot-Top orange hair and freckles, is not Italian. So, by default, the sandwiches must be terrible.”
An amused smirk settles on his face. “That’s a little prejudicial, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
I’m more than ready for these kinds of questions, though. “Originally from out east, but I decided to try the West Coast for a while.”
“Why not farther south? California’s nice.”
Valid question. One I can answer with a half-truth. “Would you believe me if I told you I love the rain?”
“You moved across country because you love the rain.” I glance up in time to see his smirk. “I guess you’re well suited to your name then.”
That’s the reason I chose it, I want to say. As part of the cover design, I get to pick my own name—something that would roll off my tongue, that I’d answer to without hesitation. Normally you go with your real first name and your mother’s maiden name, but I’ve used it so many times, I chose my mother’s nickname for me instead. She used to call me Rainy when I was little, because I’d be the kid who threw on her pink rubber boots and grabbed her umbrella at the first sign of showers. I’d spend hours outside, fascinated by the feel of cold drops splattering against my skin as I stomped and splashed through mud, much to my mother’s bafflement. It made the hot bath and curling up under a blanket afterward all the more rewarding.
“So you just decided to move across country and try something new because you love the rain, Rain.”
When he says it like that, in that tone, it sounds suspicious. “And because I needed to get away.” I pause before adding, “Bad breakup.” That confirms that I’m single. Check.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, sounding like he understands a bad breakup. I wonder if he does. “How are you liking Portland so far?”
“It’s nice, but . . . you know, new city. It’s hard to meet people and make friends.” Another seed planted. That’s the guise. Become “friends” with the target. It’s a deceptive term because we all know what that truly means. I’m supposed to entice Luke, make him want more but not give him too much. Therein lies the ethical dilemma that so many undercover operations face. Where do I draw the line? If my target places his hand on my knee, do I let him? Or do I push his hand away? If he tries to kiss me, how do I refuse him? How many times can I refuse him before he loses interest? How far do I let it go? There was no official rulebook of “can” and “can’t” handed to me when I took this case on.
I have only my gut.
And my moral integrity.
And the respect of my colleagues.
And concern for my safety.
And the reputability of my testimony for this case.
“I’m sure it won’t take you long. Portland’s full of nice people.”
“Well, I met one today, didn’t I?” It’s as close to me handing him a “will you be my friend?” card as I can get without sounding desperate.
Luke merely grins.
We continue on, my heels clicking against the concrete as we weave our way around other pedestrians, most of them also on a lunch-hour mission. A woman ahead juggles a bag of groceries in one hand and a toddler throwing a proper fit in the other, who’s kicking and screaming until she loses her grip on her bag and some of its contents spill out the top. People all around pass by without any offers of help. There’s no way they missed the debacle.
But Luke doesn’t. I watch him as he crouches down and quickly gathers up the contents before offering them to the frazzled mom, who smooths her stray hair behind her ears while blushing. “Stop giving your mom a hard time,” he scolds the little boy with a smile, who in turn sticks a thumb in his mouth and tucks himself next to the woman’s thigh.
And the entire time, I’m watching Luke from three steps behind, expecting to see his hand slide into her pocket or purse and make off with her valuables. Because that’s what thieves do—seize opportunities. Not until he glances over his shoulder at me and then keeps walking do I accept that he was just being a nice guy.
The surveillance reports never mentioned him being a nice guy.
My thoughts are distracted by the scent of deep-fried food as we round the corner. A strip of colorful sheds extends out in front of us, each one covered in menu boards.
“Have you ever eaten here?” Another downward glance tells me he believes what I’ve led him to believe so far—that I’m too good to patronize a garden shack turned burrito buffet.
“No, can’t say I have.” The truth is, I’ve been to these Portland food carts three times already, mainly because he comes here for lunch almost every day. More of my failed attempts to grab his attention. Once, I had my camera out and trained on him, waiting for him to look up, to notice me so I’d have an excuse to apologize and assure him that it was just for my latest photography class project—capturing candids of attractive men. Another time, I even sat at the table next to him. But his attention was on his sandwich and his phone screen. He didn’t notice me.
Luke juts his chin toward a burgundy cart with a black wrought-iron sign. “They make really good meatball sandwiches.”
“No they don’t,” I throw out before I can stop myself.
Luke’s brow spikes.
“No one makes better meatball sandwiches than a born-and-bred Italian. That guy in there, with his Carrot-Top orange hair and freckles, is not Italian. So, by default, the sandwiches must be terrible.”
An amused smirk settles on his face. “That’s a little prejudicial, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
