by Cassia Leo
I sigh as I watch Colton and his perfect ass walk away toward his cabin. As he disappears through the back door, I beckon Steve to join me by the fire pit. I have to plan my approach for the second half of this “date.”
Colton obviously prepared for today. He bought some fish because he anticipated us not catching any.
What else does he have planned for us?
Nervous energy bubbles up inside me, and I feel like a kid on Christmas morning. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this giddy around a guy, and he hasn’t even kissed me.
Why won’t Colton kiss me?
I let out a deep sigh as I realize he’ll probably never make a move on me. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, so I don’t think he’s married. But he might be separated and still trying to work things out with his wife. Or maybe he took a vow of chastity.
I shake my head as I come to the painful conclusion that this gorgeous man is just not into me.
The sound of feet crunching on dry grass gets my attention, and I turn around to find Colton walking toward me with a tray balanced on one of his large hands and a guitar clutched in the other. But not just any guitar. Even from this distance, I can see he’s holding a shiny new ivory Gibson Hummingbird acoustic-electric guitar.
He sets the tray down on the boulder next to me and holds the guitar out to me. “This is for you,” he says proudly. “When I brought you home the other night, I saw the guitar in your living room. It looked pretty beat up, so I went to a little music shop in town, and the guy at the shop said you’d been in there admiring this thing. Made it easy to pick something out.”
“You… Are you… Are you kidding me?” I stammer. “This is a $4,000 guitar.”
“Are you serious?” he replies, looking surprised. “Well, shit. I didn’t know that. I guess I’d better take it back.” He laughs as I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course I know how much it costs. But you can’t really put a price on something you love. And that old guitar in your house looks like it’s been loved to death. Time for a new one, don’t you think?”
I glance back and forth between Colton’s tentative blue eyes and the beautiful guitar. “Why? What did I do to deserve this?”
His brow furrows in a concerned expression. “You didn’t have to do anything.”
I press my lips together to try to keep from crying, but the emotions are too overwhelming. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, as I wipe tears from my cheeks.
Colton sets the guitar down on the grass a few yards away, then he kneels down on the dirt in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head as I sniff loudly. “It’s just that… Since my dad died, I’ve always had to do something to earn my mother’s love. I had to help her with the bills or the rent, or I had to do all the cleaning and cooking. I had to shut up and put up with her creepy boyfriends. I always had to prove my worth. I never felt like she loved me for me, only for what I could do for her. I guess I just… I didn’t realize that until now. And you giving me that guitar reminds me that… I guess… I forgot what it’s like to be taken care of.”
He lowers his head and seems to stare at my feet for a moment before he finally looks up. “Well, you don’t have to do anything for this guitar,” he says, flashing me a warm smile. “But if you want to play me a song after we eat… Well, I sure would like that.”
I smile despite the tears that continue to fall. “You’re just too good to be true.”
His smile fades as his gaze falls again. “I’m not that good,” he mutters as he stands up. “You want to tune your guitar, or you want to help me cook?”
I wipe the last sticky remnants of tears from my face and stand up straight. “I want to help you.”
He holds my gaze for a long beat before he nods and turns his attention to the fire pit, where he begins tossing in firewood.
Watching the muscles in his forearms move so fluidly sends a thrill coursing through me. I slice up a lemon and chop some herbs, then I hand them to Colton so he can stuff them inside the fish. As he places each fish on a bed of salt on top of a large piece of foil and drizzles it with olive oil, my mouth begins to water.
“I’m so hungry I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk,” I remark, as he packs the top of the fish in a salt crust.
He laughs out loud. “What the fuck?”
I smile. “It’s something my dad used to say.”
He shakes his head. “Have you checked out the subfloor under your kitchen, where you had that leak, to see if there’s any water damage?”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “I kind of forgot. But I do think I have some damage in the bathroom. I think my toilet is sinking. It looks drunk; like it’s tilting a little to one side.”
“A drunk toilet in your bathroom? Why does that not surprise me?”
I roll my eyes as I watch him close up the foil around all three pieces of salt-crusted fish. The fire has burnt out, leaving behind a smoldering pile of charred wood, which sends waves of intense heat wafting in my direction with every slight breeze.
Glowing embers explode into the sultry air as Colton uses a piece of wood to move the burning logs around and create a hole in the center. “Hand me those foil packs,” he says, as he straddles the fire pit.
“Yes, sir,” I say, handing him each packet and taking a step back as I admire his work.
He sets the packs directly on top of the small smoldering pieces of wood in the center, then he covers them with more charred wood. “You want me to take a look at your subfloor?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Subfloor’s not too much trouble,” he replies, poking the outer logs until they catch fire again. “But hanging out with you is a big inconvenience.”
I let out a genuine gasp. “You’re so mean.”
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, his tone oddly serious.
We wrap some herbed potatoes in a separate piece of foil, and Colton places the packet directly on the flames. Steve lays at my feet, chewing on one of her many squeaker balls, as Colton and I watch the flames lick the air in a fiery dance of smoke and light.
My mind goes over today’s events, and I begin to wonder if I overreacted a bit when we pulled the jacket out of the lake. I don’t think Colton works for the people I stole the money from. If that were the case, I doubt very much that I would still be alive. But this doesn’t mean he doesn’t have ulterior motives.
He could be related to Urs-Urs, my real estate agent. Maybe she began to suspect me after I paid cash for the house, and now she’s trying to find out where I keep the rest.
But what’s preventing them from waterboarding me to get the location of the suitcase? I guess there’s no guarantee torturing me would work. It seems more prudent to try to find the money without any violence.
At least, I hope that’s the case. Because no matter what Colton says, he is a good person. I just hope he’s not too good to be true.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask while sucking buttery herbs off my fingers.
Steve takes my finger licking as her cue to sit next to my feet and wait for leftovers.
“I did a lot of fishing and hunting as a boy in Tennessee,” Colton replies, placing his clean plate on the tray with the used foil. “My mom took us camping a lot as kids, but she and my sister didn’t like it as much as I did. So I used to go with friends and cousins, and sometimes I’d go alone. Pretty much taught myself how to hunt and cook my own food. Maybe I should take you hunting.”
“Even after seeing what a spectacularly awful fisherman I am, you still want to take me out into the middle of the woods with a loaded gun? Are you suicidal?”
He smiles as he shakes his head. “You’re telling me your dad never took you fishing or hunting?”
I swallow hard as I pass Steve a roasted potato. “My dad wasn’t allowed to own guns. He had pretty severe PTSD from his time in Iraq.”
His smile evaporates. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How woul
d you know?” I counter, then I let out a loud sigh. “Sorry, that was rude. It’s still hard to talk about it, I guess.”
“How old were you when he passed?”
“I was…twenty,” I reply, keeping my attention focused on handing Steve another potato, so I don’t have to look Colton in the eye.
It’s nerve-wracking and exhausting trying to keep up with the adjustments I make to the truth. Now I have to remember that my dad died nine years after he actually did. I have to come up with a method to simplify this. Maybe I should keep a spreadsheet.
A spreadsheet of lies. What would my father think of what I’ve become?
I don’t know the answer to that question, but all I can think — as Colton watches the fire in silence, probably trying to figure out how to respond to the news I lost my father at such a young age — is how much I want to tell him the truth.
Maybe if I tell him my dad died eleven years ago, and it was eleven-year-old me who found his dead body, it will bring Colton and me closer. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone in this new town. Maybe then Colton will understand what brought me here, should I ever decide to tell him about the suitcase.
“Must be tough,” he begins, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “losing a parent at that age.”
I decide not to acknowledge the part about how old I was, instead opting to share one of my favorite memories of my father. “When he was still alive, my dad used to say that when he died, he wanted to have an open casket wake, and he wanted us to put a sign in his cold hand saying: See ya soon!”
Colton smiles, but it seems a bit forced. “Did you honor his wishes?”
“Are you kidding me?” I reply, setting down my empty plate on the dirt next to Steve so she can lick it clean. “My mom was too broken after my dad died. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I saw her smile during the f—the years between my dad’s death and when she started using.”
Shit. I almost said four years. If my dad died when I was twenty, that would mean he died two years ago. I’d have to be a time-traveler for that to make sense.
I definitely need to make a spreadsheet.
I also need to change the subject to shift the focus away from my past.
“So, your dad never took you hunting?” I ask, grabbing the clean plate at my feet and walking it over to the tray, where Colton left his plate.
“My dad was never around,” he replies, making no attempt to hide the way his eyes follow my ass as I walk past him. “My mom and dad divorced when I was pretty young. After that, he was just never around. He moved on.”
“Did you ever want to look for him?” I ask, still standing next to the tray as if Colton’s magnetism is too strong for me to escape.
He looks up at me and shakes his head. “As far as I was concerned, I didn’t have a father to look for.” He breaks eye contact and gazes into the dwindling fire again. “I had a bad attitude as a kid. Got into a lot of trouble. Even got myself cut from the varsity football team when I was counting on a scholarship. Ran my mouth a lot. From what I’ve heard of my dad, I take after him in that regard.”
“So you didn’t go to college?”
“I went, but only for, like, a year and a half before I realized how much of a financial burden I’d become on my mom. That’s when I dropped out and joined the military.”
I wonder if my mom will ever feel that way about me, now that she no longer has a daughter.
“So your dad didn’t take you hunting, and neither did mine,” I remark, heading toward the spot on the grass where Colton set down my new guitar. “But my dad used to hold pretend-concerts in our living room,” I say, picking up the guitar and dusting off the bottom, making a point to keep my mouth shut about how poorly Colton treated this guitar by laying it down on the scratchy dry grass. “My dad would announce me to the crowd and cheer me on during my performance. Sometimes, we would do duets for my mom. I would write these ridiculous songs, and he would compose music for them on the guitar. He loved music.”
He flashes me a genuine smile as I retake my seat on the boulder. “Are you finally ready to play?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I cross my legs and position the guitar in my lap. “I don’t have this one down just yet, so go easy on me. I might be a little out of tune.”
“Considering I’m tone deaf, I hardly expect I’ll notice.”
My chest starts to feel tight as my lungs attempt to keep up with my racing heartbeat. In between jobs and gigs, I used to busk on Las Vegas Boulevard for cash. There, under the glow of a billion flashing lights and starry-eyed tourists, I had no problem shutting out the world and my insecurities. But a one-on-one performance, for a man as sexy and of so many talents as Colton, is beyond daunting.
I close my eyes, so I don’t have to see his reaction as I begin to play and sing “Such A Simple Thing” by Ray LaMontagne. As the lyrics spill from my mouth, the meaning of the words — and what they may or may not mean to Colton — weigh heavy on me.
How can I make this man see how he sets my heart on fire?
When I’m done with the song, I open my eyes, and I’m startled to see Colton sitting on the edge of the boulder I’m sitting on.
“Jesus Christ, girl. You can sing,” he says, looking as if it’s the first time he’s ever laid eyes on me. “You should not be hiding in the North Carolina backwaters. You should be in Nashville trying to get a record deal.”
I shake my head and try not to blush as I set the bottom of the guitar down on the top of my sandaled foot. “You just told me you’re tone deaf. How am I supposed to trust what you say?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches as he seems to be experiencing some type of strong emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. “It’s mesmerizing to watch you perform. You go somewhere else when you play.”
I shrug. “It’s the only time I can be myself.”
The words come out faster than I can stop them, but I don’t regret speaking this truth.
He leans toward me, his hand coming up to brush a lock of hair from my cheek. “I hope someday you can be yourself with me.”
I stop breathing as I see him close his eyes. He places a tender kiss on the corner of my mouth. My skin tingles as the tip of his nose brushes against mine. But as soon as his lips fall over mine, I let out a soft sigh into his throat.
I can breathe again.
Colton’s lips are soft, but his kiss is infused with deep longing. It’s slow and fathomless. The kind of kiss I’m certain will leave me delirious and hungover.
He moans when I nip his bottom lip, and I get the impression he’s wanted this as long as I have. I want to let go of my guitar and tangle my fingers in his thick brown hair. I want to climb into his lap and feel him stiff against my center.
But I can’t let a $4,000 gift fall onto the dirt like a piece of trash. So instead, I pull away.
His hand is still on my face as we both attempt to catch our breath. “I should get inside,” he mutters. “I mean, you should get inside. It’ll be dark soon.”
I chuckle as I reach up to lay my free hand over his. “Okay, Dad.”
He lowers his hand from my face and chuckles, but it seems false, like he’s put his guard up again. “I’ll clean up out here. You go on home. I’ll… I’ll head over in the morning to look at your subfloor.”
My stomach tightens into a ball as I realize what I took for longing was probably just a desire to get laid by anyone. “All right. See you in the morning.”
I glance back a few times as Steve and I walk back to my place, and each time Colton is still watching me. When I reach my back porch, I turn back one more time as I hold the door open for Steve. This time, Colton is facing the dying flames in the fire pit with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. And at this rate, I may never know.
I close the door behind me and groan as I realize I forgot to leave the window air conditioner on before I left the house earlier. It’s
stiflingly warm and humid inside.
Immediately, I head for the bathroom to cool off in the shower. But as I enter, the drunken toilet only serves as a cruel reminder of how close I almost got with Colton today. Instead of allowing that to deter me, I head into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I should let this crooked toilet be a reminder of how I need to also play my cards close to the vest. I have to acknowledge I made some mistakes today. I shared too much with Colton.
Looking in the mirror, I can see an eighth of an inch of blonde roots showing near my scalp. I’ll dye those tonight, right before I make my spreadsheet of lies. And later this week, I’m moving that suitcase.
From now on, I’ll be more careful with the truth…and my heart.
14. King
Present Day
As I wait for Agent Stanley to return from the restroom, the interrogation room gets colder and my chair becomes less comfortable. I remind myself that my physical discomfort is partly by design and partly a product of my own anxiety and guilt ratcheting up. My life depends on my ability to maintain my composure.
The door handle turns, and in walks Agent Stanley joined by Detective Sooner. It seems we’ve reached the point in the interview where it’s time for them to double-team me.
Sooner sets down a foam cup filled with water in front of me. “You hungry yet? We’ve got a great taco truck outside,” he offers, and I shake my head. “Okay, just let us know when you get hungry, and we can fix you up.”
I want to ask how long this fucking interview is going to take, but I bite my tongue. I resist the urge to rid myself of some of this nervous energy by tapping my foot, focusing again on taking slow, deep breaths.
Stanley takes the seat across from me, while Sooner takes the one next to him. “I was just in contact with Izzy’s mother, and she won’t be coming out here. She says she can’t afford the flight. Have you met Izzy’s mother yet?”
