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And now… the heat of his leg against hers, his hands shifting and… and was he covering his crotch because… because…?
Polly wriggled, but the wriggle brought her thigh into more contact with Solo’s and she registered the immediate reflexive twitch in his quads, as if he wanted to come closer and shift away all at once; except there really was nowhere else to go with Carts jammed on the other side of him.
Her body screamed its response, heat flooding and pooling low in the crotch of jeans that had only just dried out from the prosecco incident.
Head averted, she stared at the city bars and restaurants gradually turning into houses. Told herself to focus on anything but his body. Instead, she homed in on Carts’ conversation with the guy in the front seat, who happened to be an accountant at a firm that Carts had tried to get a job in. She hadn’t a clue how they had got onto that, but that was Perth for you. Big enough to lose yourself in, small enough to know someone who knew someone.
Always.
Which was how people’s secrets eventually came to light. Because Solo Jakoby sure as hell had one. Was he running from a relationship break-up? She recalled the way he’d looked at her just before he left the hotel room on Saturday night, the sorrow in the depths of his eyes, darkening them to the colour of storm clouds.
Yes. She was certain of it. He was running from something. Or someone.
Outside Carts’ place, Carts wrestled his arms and legs out of the door with difficulty. As Solo scooted across the seat with a quick “see you at work”, his warmth and scent disappearing was almost a physical wrench. It would look wrong not to wave goodbye, so Polly gave a cheery little flap through the passenger door. All she caught of Solo was his hands dug deep into his jeans pockets and the crotch of his jeans and oh,shit-on-a-stick, the sooner he was gone the better.
As the car drove away, Polly let out a huge sigh and spread herself out on the seat. Her hand caught on something bulky and cool. A leather wallet. Holding it up to the light from a passing streetlamp, she opened it gingerly and peered at the driver’s licence. Her heart pattered against her ribs. Of course. Solomon Jakoby. Who else?
She was just about to close it and tell the driver to turn around when her eye caught on a photograph set into the clear plastic inner sleeve. Two kids, boys around the age of nine or ten, she guessed, and an old guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and an arm flung loosely around both their shoulders. As she peered, she could detect Solo’s grin in the smaller boy, that unmistakable hitch to his lips that was so appealing. The other boy looked about the same age but blonde. A handsome, wholesome-looking kid, with a bigger build than Solo.
Polly chewed at her lower lip, thinking. Was the old guy Solo’s pop? She guessed so. But who was the other kid? Solo hadn’t mentioned a brother. Maybe it was a cousin? Or a friend? And what was the significance of this photo? Why save this one?
And somehow, in amongst all this, she just couldn’t bring herself to get the Uber driver to turn around. It was wrong, so wrong. She wasn’t a snoop, she didn’t go through people’s belongings, but the little she’d learned about Solo Jakoby intrigued her beyond reason.
Glancing around as if there were some invisible special agent in the back seat with her, Polly popped the wallet into her bag.
She’d text him when she got home, tell him she’d found it and then give it back to him at work first thing tomorrow.
And of course, she’d leave it in her bag. She wouldn’t dream of rifling through it.
Absolutelywouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.
