The Romeo Arrangement: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  I chuckle, enjoying how the banter lightens the mood.

  “I look good in black. Did you ever see Vampires of New York? I was seventeen and my producer had to get a restraining order against six crazy chicks trying to break in and kidnap me. They never would’ve taken me alive, but still...I think I did the whole creature of the night vibe well, thank you very much.”

  She laughs, a light, carefree giggle that floats on the air.

  “Whatever, batboy. Do you even know how to check the air pressure in tires?”

  “I’ve had grease on these hands a few times, believe it or not.”

  The way she looks up at me is half humor, half doubt.

  I shrug, resisting the urge to show her what else these hands can do.

  “We left in a rush so the back of the truck’s kind of a mess. But I’ll show you where the jack is. I loaded it myself.”

  I don’t doubt that for a moment. Trouble is, when she mentions 'rush,' all I can think about is the gaping hole in their story. Everything I still don’t know about what we’re truly up against.

  Goddamn.

  I need her to throw me the bone her father won’t.

  “On second thought, it’d be dumb to get our hands messy before we handle that paperwork. C’mon.” I veer back toward the house, watching for her to follow. “We’ll go to my office first, type up some sort of fake bill of sale.”

  “I can get their papers from the glovebox. We kept them handy in case we got pulled over. You typically need to have their records in order to bring horses across state lines.”

  “We won’t need any papers for Nelson. Just something realistic enough to fake him out.” I open the door, hold it for her to enter, and then escort her through the kitchen, through the living room, and down into my office.

  Closing the door, even though Tobin is the only other person in the house, I take off my jacket and toss it on the leather couch against the wall.

  Although I hate to ruin the lightheartedness that was there while we’d been walking to the house, it’s time to get serious.

  “Now that you’re here and we can talk in private...I’ve got a few questions I want answered first. What’s really going on? Bottom line with the hyenas looking to eat you alive?” I ask.

  Her hands pause as she’s removing her coat. She glances up, a blue-eyed mess of surprise.

  “I’m not stupid, Grace. I know scum when I see it. The men in that alley wanted to take you, kicking and screaming if they had to. That’s a pretty fucking brazen thing to do in broad daylight. Whatever it is they want, they must want it bad.” I lean against the edge of my desk. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me what they’re after and where they wanted to take you.”

  She finishes removing her coat, drapes it over the back of a chair, and lifts her chin, looking at me with fresh fortitude. “You think I don’t know that? I knew they’d get me in their vehicle any way they could, but I don’t know where they would’ve taken me. Probably back to Milwaukee, or wherever hole in the wall that creep hides in. I never knew and Dad never told me.”

  “Define that creep. Something tells me you don’t mean Jackknife, darlin’.” I level a dense stare at her, waiting for more.

  She glares right back, without backing down.

  Damn. Knowing she’s part wildcat just makes this harder.

  Despite it all, I like her backbone. Respect it.

  I also know a way around it.

  “I’m not here to badger your father. He’s old. He’s tired. He’s sick. That’s why I’m coming to you, asking for something more I can go on to help besides just screwing around with a truck that won’t get you anywhere but Trouble, USA.”

  She looks away, blinks, pinching her lips together until they turn white.

  “Grace. I’m not asking for the moon. Don’t I deserve a few answers?”

  “No argument about that,” she says, lifting her chin again as if that gives her potency. “But the thing is, I don’t have them.”

  “Bull. I can’t believe that. The creep you’re talking about is some kind of head honcho back home, isn’t he?” My fingers stretch, pushing against my desk.

  Her eyes are full of hopelessness as she shakes her head, shrugs, and looks away again.

  She’s already admitted that her father had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, and I know for damn sure that someone in that crowd wants her. Today was more proof.

  Anger roils my stomach.

  The worst part is, it’s hard to stay mad when she looks as innocent as she does. This fiery slip of a woman breathing up a storm as she glares at me, defiant as ever, making my dick ache to take her over my knee.

  And yeah, I’m conscious of how fucked up that is to think when I’m busy trying to save her life.

  Sighing, I push off the desk and walk around it, then tap the mouse to wake up the computer screen and see if Faulk sent anything new. Something I can use to ease the truth out of her.

  No new messages. It only increases my frustration.

  “Dammit, Grace, what is it? What do they want? Drugs? Guns? Money? Diamonds?” Fuck, I don’t know, I’m grasping at straws. “Are you hauling shit for them? Playing mule?”

  Her head snaps up at the word mule and genuine fear whips across her face.

  “No,” she snaps. “We’re just trying to get away.”

  I study her flashing blue eyes, sense that she’s telling me the truth through her hot anger. Which just makes this more baffling than ever.

  “Who are you running from? Give me a name.”

  She bows her head, the spark in her eyes fading as she presses a hand over her mouth.

  Now I’ve done it.

  The tiny, strangled sob she chokes out makes me feel like absolute shit.

  Sure, I want my answers, but not by grinding her down to a pulp for them.

  She’s had enough of that. It’s been obvious from the beginning.

  I cross the room, rubbing my hands softly up her arms.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I went too far. I’m just trying to figure out what we’re up against, how I can make it fuck off and leave you alone. Those idiots aren’t going away. Today proved it.”

  “I-I know,” she whispers.

  She sniffs, trying to hide the fact that she’s crying.

  That I made her cry.

  Fuck.

  Apparently, I’m no good at this hero shit in real life.

  All the boy wonder superhero roles ever written can’t prepare you for the grim reality of trying to clean up a mess like this without making a girl’s heart collateral damage.

  Or maybe I’ve just always been a bit of a moose in a furniture store when it comes to handling emotions.

  That’s why I was an actor. Let a script dictate what I’m supposed to think, feel, or do next.

  What I say. How I act. How the story ends.

  Sounds a hell of a lot easier than trying to come up with a solution on my own and accidentally pushing her down a dark hole in the process.

  I rub her shoulder and then pull her closer, giving her a hug, fitting her head neatly under my chin.

  It feels good, having her in my arms. The warmth of her body. The clean, fresh, flowery scent of her hair.

  And I don’t deserve a single damn bit of it.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I promise you, I want to help. I can’t stand seeing you suffer. Grace, if I could find out—”

  “No!” She stiffens. “No one can help us. Nobody ever could. We need to go, pull our things together and get out of—”

  “You need to stay here,” I rumble firmly, holding her tighter. “Go on. Hate me if you want. Just don’t put yourself in danger again. Nelson’s sick; you barely got away after being roughed up, and...”

  I pause, amazed I’m able to bring myself to say the next words.

  “And part of me still likes the thought of you sprucing up this dreary castle. Give me something to look at besides an urn that doubles as a vase for yellow roses.”

  She pushe
s against my chest like I’ve slapped her across the face, breaking the hold I’d had around her shoulders.

  I don’t understand.

  “Urn?” she spits out.

  Head cocked, I nod.

  There’s a different form of distress in her eyes, something I can’t pin down.

  It’s not that odd, is it?

  Plenty of people keep urns of loved ones around. Maybe the custom vase thing is a little out of most people’s budgets, but hell, it’s tasteful and it gives Mom’s ashes some kind of life until I can figure out what to do with them.

  I shrug, plenty confused now. “I wasn’t sure what to do with my mom. It was sudden and so were the arrangements. Tobin did most of the stuff with the funeral director, if I recall...I was too fucked up at the time. We wound up having her ashes sealed up in the core of that vase. The flower chamber, they crafted separately, so the two would never mingle. Never cared to understand the process but...she loved yellow roses.”

  In my mind’s eye, I can still see her beaming after she came home from this big promo shoot for this film where she played a florist in love. She got to lay down in the flowers, laughing, and she brought big bundles of yellow roses home. I swear, Tobin smelled like perfume for the next week after unloading them and struggling to find enough vases to hold them all.

  It’s the best I could do to honor her.

  All I could bring myself to do, not counting the night I lost my mind.

  Half of Hollywood wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone after her “suicide.” Then I tried taking justice into my own hands, and that botched attempt made me a recluse...

  “What?” I snap, more harshly than I intend. “Why’re you looking at me like I’m some kind of freak? I’m not clinging to her forever like some mama’s boy. Hell, I’m planning to inter her, when I can find the right time, the right place, and—”

  “Ridge, I...no. It’s not that. I’m sorry. We all grieve in our own ways and I just...” She spins around, plucking her coat off the chair like it’s about to burn. “I have to go check on Dad.”

  I’m frozen, watching as she bolts out of the room.

  What the hell just happened?

  I think about stopping her because she just left the cabin twenty minutes ago, but I can tell she’s in flight mode. Freaked out over the ashes for some bizarre reason.

  I’m fucking stumped.

  She’s so down-to-earth, I wouldn’t think keeping ashes around respectfully would bother her.

  I walk to the mirror, staring at my grave reflection.

  Am I that ruined without even knowing it?

  Some kind of morbid vampire in the flesh?

  Have I isolated myself for too long, eaten up by acid guilt, to the point where I scare people like her?

  My head flops against the glass, banging it with a thud.

  I can’t believe I’m that far gone.

  Tobin isn’t exactly winning awards for charisma and socializing, but he’d tell me if he thought I was mental. If it was that bad, he’d probably drug me and drive me to a shrink.

  What’s the deal?

  I dragged her here like a barking idiot looking for answers.

  Instead, all I’ve got from Grace Sellers is a hard-on for more questions.

  The way she reacted sticks with me all afternoon while I check out her truck and the horse trailer.

  It feels good to put my hands to work since I can’t shut my brain off.

  I go over their vehicle with a fine-toothed comb, checking everything.

  Not just the fluids, the oil, and tire pressure, but every nook and cranny, anywhere something might be hidden.

  I come up empty-handed, or close enough.

  Besides a pistol with ammunition in the glovebox, I find the envelopes with old vet records on the horses and a worn, dog-eared owner’s manual for the truck.

  Neither she nor Nelson come to the house for dinner.

  Tobin brings them food anyway, without me suggesting it, and when he returns after delivering their dinner, he says Nelson slept most of the day.

  The news is a double-edged sword.

  I want Nelson to get better, of course, but if he does, it’ll be that much harder keeping them here.

  A little while later, my phone pings. I see a new email from Faulk.

  Here’s what I have so far. More to follow.

  Damn, the first line of his email is already disappointing.

  I’d wanted everything by now. Red meat. Solid intel.

  What’s contained in the message is the same old shit: more questions than answers.

  Some financial records that don’t quite add up. Past due bills for the deceased Mrs. Sellers. Massive ones.

  Then they’re suddenly paid off in lump sums that I know didn’t come from some railroad pension.

  The police reports are worse.

  Disasters at the pumpkin farm, mysterious fires, crop destruction, thefts with no probable suspects or active investigations.

  There’s also a medical record for Nelson from a few years back.

  A gunshot wound.

  I hold in a breath and let it out slowly.

  Swiping my email closed, I hit the contacts on my phone.

  I still need more info, but what I’ve read is enough to tell me I can’t wait.

  Ready or not, Grace Sellers, it’s showtime.

  9

  No Rest for the Weary (Grace)

  For the first time since the holidays, Dad slept almost all day, and then through the night.

  I’m not sure if it’s the meds I’ve been shoving at him every time he opens his eyes helping, or if he’s getting worse.

  A miserable part of me worries he’ll just fall asleep one day and won’t ever wake up.

  I push the thought out of my head, refusing to go there.

  It has to be the medications.

  He has to be getting better.

  No, I’m not turning into my mother, and I’m not daring to wish for anything.

  Taking a tall sip of the coffee I’m holding while standing in the doorway of the bedroom, I watch the steady rise and fall of Dad’s chest.

  I fold one hand over the other, clasping the warm mug, trying not to let my fingers shake.

  I remember the last time I was this worried like yesterday.

  My mind goes back in time to the farm, shortly after Mom died.

  Three Years Ago

  My first instinct was to scream.

  Who wouldn’t when you come home from shopping and find your dad in the bathroom, trying to bandage himself with blood everywhere?

  “What...what happened?” I strain out about two seconds before I fly into the bathroom next to him, trying to decipher why he’s streaked with rusty red smudges, thick as paint.

  “Gracie, no. Leave me be. I just need to sit for a little and...and...” He collapses on the toilet, holding his head.

  At first, I thought it was some kind of freak accident. The freshly cut smell of grass outside tells me maybe he’d cut himself with the mower, but he’s not missing any fingers.

  Then I see the raw, ugly hole in his shoulder.

  He’s been shot.

  Oh my God.

  I can’t guess how much blood he’s lost to save my life. But I know we don’t have much time, not with that wound he can’t even keep a stained towel against, still cradling his head in one hand like he’s about to pass out.

  “Dad, come on, this way! If...if you can walk. No, don’t fight me!”

  For once in his life, Dad listens.

  He leans against me, grunting and cursing up a blue streak under his breath as I guide him clumsily down the hall to his room.

  Somehow, I get him on the bed, race to the linen closet, and pull out half the towels to try to stop the bleeding.

  It helps slow it down, I guess. Thank God.

  But the thing that makes my blood run ice-cold is the fact that I don’t need a background in medicine to see this could’ve been so much worse.

  A few
more inches, and it would’ve been right through his heart.

  He doesn’t fight me as I reach for the phone, bawling so frantically to 9-1-1 I’m amazed they can get the gist of what I’m saying.

  “Who did this?” I ask, nostrils flaring, shaking with fury as we wait for the ambulance. “I swear to God, if I find out, I’ll—”

  “Gracie, no,” he hisses weakly. “You can’t.”

  I don’t know why I bothered to ask.

  I knew who did it the second he tried to shrug it off as nothing. Still do.

  The same asshole who’d always called him ‘Slick.’

  The same brutish, bear-faced man who leered at me with every smile, who handwrote give my best to Gracie in a note fixed to the blood red roses he’d sent for Mom’s funeral.

  The monster.

  The man I wish—yes, wish—to utterly destroy.

  But I’ll settle for having him gone.

  Present

  Dad fought tooth and nail that day in the hospital room when I could see him again.

  He begged me to keep my mouth shut, don’t say anything, didn’t I understand it’d be the end of us?

  The way he said it with tears in his dark eyes was scary persuasive.

  But I’d won that day, to a point.

  I did go along with his story that he’d been cleaning his gun and it accidentally discharged. The doctors doubted it, but eventually let it go, because I’d corroborated Dad’s tale.

  I told the police where they could find Dad’s .45, the same caliber as the bullet they dug out of him.

  Thank God they never followed up or asked to see the gun.

  It hadn’t been recently fired.

  I knew that for sure.

  It was on my nightstand. I’d taken permit classes over the past year and kept it in my bedroom because I knew Clay was far from done.

  He still isn’t.

  Never will be.

  It makes me sick.

  Angry-sick at myself, mostly, as I spin around, leaving my cup in the kitchen. I grab my coat and throw the door open.

  The sun is out today in force. God, I wish I could enjoy the warmth.