Feeling deflated, I walked with Chet to the Scout. He opened my door, even though I wished he hadn't. The gesture felt more than polite--it felt intimate. Like I was his date. I suddenly feared he might try to walk me to Carmina's door and get me alone on her porch. Whatever happened, I couldn't let him do that.
As we settled into our seats, I decided the best course of action was to keep things chummy--be one of the guys.
I kicked my heels up on the dash, smiling mischievously. "Sydney likes you." Halfway through the game, she'd cinched her jersey in a knot at her waist, showing off her curvy midriff. She'd also spent every free minute chatting off Chet's ear. Whether you lived in the city or the country, some signals were universal.
Chet glanced bemusedly at me. "What, Sydney?" He shook his head. "No way. She's got a boyfriend. Some bull rider from Hershey. They've been together awhile."
"She had her eye on you all night, lover boy."
"You're imagining things."
"Did you smell how much perfume she was wearing? At first whiff I thought it was Juicy Couture, but now I'm almost positive it was Pheromones to Attract Chet Falconer."
He groaned. "Stop."
"I've got a point and you know it."
"I know no such thing."
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked him directly.
He thumbed his nose some more and cleared his throat. "What?"
"You heard me."
"What would make you think I have a girlfriend?"
"Do you?"
"No, I don't," he said, sounding slightly offended that I even had to ask. "Why?"
With that one question our conversation took a sudden serious, and personal, turn, and I didn't like it. So I changed the subject. "When are you taking me out for that celebratory dinner?"
"Whenever you want."
"I was hoping you'd say that," I said, smiling triumphantly and wickedly in equal measure. "I want to go now."
Chet sighed and gave me a reprehensible look. "I promised Carmina I'd have you home by eleven thirty."
"Not even coffee?" I pleaded, batting my lashes persuasively.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the dash: 11:20. "A&W is still open. Drive-through root beer floats, final offer."
I frowned. "You drive a hard bargain."
"Me? You kidding? Mirror's right there," he said, gesturing at the fold-down visor. "You in or out?"
"In," I said, but I made sure to affect a sulky tone.
Chet drove across town, pulled through A&W's drive-through, and paid for two floats. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a root beer float. They used soft-serve vanilla ice milk, not the real stuff, but it was still surprisingly good. Chet drove to a nearby park, and we sat in the empty lot with the windows down. The air felt warm and sticky, but with a cold dessert in my hand, I didn't mind.
"Do you have a job?" I asked. "Besides mowing lawns."
He snorted. "You say that like mowing lawns is a lame job."
"You don't have to talk to anyone. You don't even have to shower or dress up," I pointed out.
"I only mow two lawns: Carmina's and my own. During the day, I work at Milton Swope's Ranch. I cut hay, maintain the pasture, and look after the cattle."
"Go on."
He gave me a sidelong glance, gauging to see whether I spoke out of genuine interest or to gain fodder I could tease him with. "It's hard work but never boring. I can be riding a tractor one day, mending a fence the next, and chasing down a lost calf the day after that. Best part, come rain or shine, I'm outdoors. Not stuck in some office hunched over a computer."
"The sun will prematurely age your skin," I pointed out practically.
His laughter turned genuine. "My mom worked in her garden most of her adult life. She had smile lines, crow's-feet, and sun wrinkles, and she was the most beautiful woman I've ever known."
"I'm sorry about your mom, Chet. I'm sorry about both your parents."
He shrugged. "I appreciate that. It gets easier over time. Maybe not easier. Just more tolerable. I think it helps knowing they're not completely gone. I don't believe in a God who creates beings only to let them stop existing. Matter isn't created or destroyed--just transferred, right? I can't see my parents, and I can't talk to them, but I feel them. They're out there. Knowing this makes the loss less painful." After a pause, he smiled slightly. "Knowing my mom is keeping an eye on me forces me to reconsider every time I'm tempted to whip the hide off Dusty's back."
"I don't believe in God," I said bluntly. "If there was a God, I don't understand why he'd let horrible things happen. A God who lets people suffer, who lets people behave abominably toward each other? That's not a God. That's a sadist."
"I know people who feel the way you do. Dusty is one of them. He doesn't understand why God would let my parents die. He thinks if God cared about us, he would have saved our parents. It's a valid viewpoint. I've asked myself the same questions, had the same doubts. But my parents' death has made me a better person. I care more about Dusty now than I ever did before. I don't think God took my parents from us to force me to be a good brother. I don't think he forces any of us--that's my point. He lets bad things happen because he doesn't control us. He lets us run our own lives, and our actions have consequences, good and bad. The drunk driver who killed my parents made a bad decision. If God had saved my parents, one person's bad decision--to drive intoxicated--wouldn't have had a natural and negative consequence. We all have to make mistakes, because it's the only way we learn." He exhaled slowly, pensively. "Some lessons are harder than others."
"That's a noble perspective, but I disagree," I said. "People drive drunk all the time and no one gets killed. If God really wanted to save your parents, he could have."
"Do you wish God had saved your mom?" Chet asked gently.
His question caught me completely off guard. For a moment, I didn't know what to say. He was baring his soul to me, and all I had to give him in return was a carefully crafted lie. My mom wasn't dead. I had nothing in common with Chet, and the fact that I was pretending like I did only made me feel more shallow and deceitful. I hated feeling this way. But what really bothered me, what hurt the most, was knowing Chet thought I was someone I wasn't. Was this how the rest of my life would be? Lying to people and never letting them get close enough to know the real me? I hated Stella Gordon. I hated her more than I'd ever hated anyone.
Except, perhaps, my mother.
"I don't believe in God, remember?" was all I said. Ready to switch the topic, I asked Chet, "Do you know Inny Foxhall?"
He'd taken a pull of root beer, and now he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I think so. Short with dark hair?"
"Yeah. Did you know she's pregnant?"
"I did not."
"C'mon. Small town. News travels."
"It does. Toward people who tune their ear to it."
I made a face like he was being too superior. "Any idea who the father might be?"
"She's in Dusty's grade, I think. He might know."
"Do you know Trigger McClure?"
"Sure."
"Do you think he could be the father?" I didn't have any evidence to back up my suspicion, other than the depressed way Inny had reacted when I suggested Trigger might be leaving town soon to play in the majors. Well, that and the way Trigger seemed to prefer Inny over every other carhop when he came to the Sundown. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more between them than a routine customer-carhop interaction.
Chet frowned. "Trigger and Inny? Instinct tells me no. But I could be wrong."
"What makes you say no?"
He thought about it, shrugged. "I guess she doesn't seem his type. Again, I could be wrong."
"What's his type?"
The look in his eyes changed from conversational to speculative. "You're not . . . ?"
"Asking for myself? Ew. No. Definitely no." I gave a dramatic shudder, proving my point. I was not interested in Trigger.
Chet seemed to relax in his seat.
"If you believe the rumors, Trigger likes older women."
"How much older?"
"Old enough to be experienced." He looked uncomfortable talking about this, fidgeting with the keys dangling from the ignition. "There were rumors about him and a female teacher. Far as I know, they were just rumors."
"Oh, stop looking for the good in people," I said. "I wouldn't put fooling around with a teacher past him. What happened to the teacher?"
"She was moved to a different school mid-semester," he admitted reluctantly. "He was already eighteen when the alleged relationship happened, so the story didn't catch wind."
"See?" I said knowingly, then added with disgust, "Of course she took the fall for it." Just like it had been my fault when Trigger's Mountain Dew found its way onto my face. Every female who crossed paths with Trigger seemed to be at fault. Funny how that kept happening.
"He has a reputation for a nasty temper." There was a muted quality to Chet's voice. Part discomfort, part warning. "And he's physical."
"With girls?"
"With everyone. Maybe with that teacher. I don't know the facts. Just watch yourself with him." He eyed the clock. "I should get you home. Carmina's going to be pacing the doorway with a shotgun."
I made a pouty face, but he obviously had great self-control, because seemingly immune to my charms, he drove us back to Carmina's, parking in the drive at eleven-forty-five on the dot. The downstairs lights were on, but I didn't see Carmina's prowling silhouette through the curtains.
"Thanks for the root beer float," I said.
"Any time."
A notable pause followed.
Chet's eyes found mine, and the hot look in them made me wish I hadn't allowed myself to be alone with him. It was dark in the cab of the Scout, and while the bench seat had seemed roomy every other time I'd ridden beside him, it now felt just the opposite. He sat so close, I could feel heat radiating off his body. I could hear his slow, deep breathing. He rested his arm on the seat back, his hand draped inches from my shoulder. I was hypersensitive to the sweet, spicy scent of him, and even though he wasn't touching me, for one whirlwind moment I thought he might. I felt tipsy and nervous, my nerve endings electrified with anticipation.
And then I saw Reed's face. It popped into the back of my mind, and the image was so real, I almost believed he could see me.
I shoved out of the Scout, practically jumping onto the drive, feeling spooked.
Smiling as naturally as I could under the circumstances, I told Chet, "I'd better get the rest of this float in the freezer before it melts."
I didn't look at his face. I didn't want to see that slow heat again, and be forced to speculate what it meant. I already knew, but I wasn't going to give it another moment's thought. I had to remember I wasn't Stella Gordon, and I wasn't a foster kid who had a future in Thunder Basin or with Chet. I was Estella Goodwinn, and Reed Winslow was my boyfriend.
I dashed up the porch steps, thinking Carmina had better not be on the other side of the door, ready to have words with me. I couldn't handle it tonight. I wanted to clear my head of Chet and focus on what was important: my next trip to the library. Reed was out there somewhere, and he was trying to contact me.
I was inside the house, with my back pressed to the door, before I heard Chet reverse down the drive. An image of his blue eyes, deep with yearning, drifted into my mind. He'd been easy on the eyes from the first moment I'd seen him, but I'd never found him as attractive as I had in the cab of the Scout tonight. I didn't want this complicated attraction. I didn't know what to do with it.
I wasn't the kind of girl who let a guy slip easily under my skin. I was in control here, dammit.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel shaken by Chet.
12
"THERE'S A FUND-RAISER AT THE CHURCH TONIGHT, if that sort of thing interests you." It was the following afternoon, Saturday, and Carmina stood at the kitchen sink, plunging her hands into soapy water as she scrubbed barbeque off our lunch dishes.
"What kind of fund-raiser?" I purposefully kept my tone bland, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of believing she'd piqued my interest when she hadn't.
"To aid the women's shelter."
"More details? Is it a car wash? Are they selling popcorn? Overpriced candy bars?" In past summers, my basketball team had held weekend car washes when we needed to raise money. It was the first thing I thought of when I heard "fund-raiser."
"Oh, I suppose you'd call it a carnival," she said, using her forearm to nudge a few white hairs that had strayed from her headband off her face. "There'll be a ring toss, cake walk, corn-shucking contest, and that game where you throw darts at balloons."
"Will I know anyone?" I half wondered aloud.
"Reckon you will. Pastor Lykins asked several of the youth to help run booths. Plenty of them play in the softball league." She eyed me over her shoulder. "I imagine Chet Falconer will be there, if that's what you're getting at."
"I'm not getting at anything." And I wasn't. I had mixed feelings about seeing Chet again so soon. Last night before bed, I'd put him out of my mind, determined to end whatever complicated feelings I was developing for him. I wanted to keep our relationship simple. Friend-simple. Everything was fine until I woke in the dark, my body hot and clammy. And aching. I knew I couldn't control my dreams, but this particular one, involving Chet, the bed of his Scout, and his strong, very capable hands, seemed like a betrayal of Reed, and my resolve, just the same.
Frowning, Carmina said, "Don't think it slipped my attention he brought you home after curfew last night."
"I don't have a curfew. And are you seriously going to have a heart attack over fifteen minutes?"
Ignoring me, she said, "Fund-raiser starts at seven. I promised Pastor Lykins I'd get there early to help set up. I'm sure he'd appreciate an extra hand, if you decide to come."
"Not really my thing," I said, yawning widely, which was rude, but I needed to make my point.
"Suit yourself."
And that was that.
But when six thirty rolled around and Carmina was backing down the driveway, I had a what the hell moment, grabbed my purse, and dashed down the porch steps. I felt like an idiot chasing her partway down the road before she thought to look in the rearview mirror. She braked, and I hoisted myself into the truck, heaving breath.
"What?" I panted in response to her arched eyebrows. "Maybe I'll die from boredom and be out of your hair for good."
"Or maybe you'll have yourself a good time," she said sweetly.
I gave her a cynical look. She smiled, self-satisfied.
The church parking lot was full. Carmina parked on a side street, and I helped her unload boxes of lollipops, gumballs, balloons, and air pumps, and a couple of bottles of drugstore wine for the wine pull. As we carted the boxes across the church's back lawn, we passed booths advertising pie throwing, face painting, and a myriad of carnival games. There was even a dunk tank. The sun blazed above the trees, the heat broiling my scalp. Sweat trickled down my spine.
I closed my eyes. It felt like summer . . . it just didn't feel like summer. Right now I should have been sunbathing at Tory's pool. Or helping her plan her guest list for her birthday party. She turned eighteen next Wednesday. I wondered if she still thought about me. Of course she did. We'd been best friends for years. Even if she believed I was dead, I would linger in the back of her mind, making her cry at random moments.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose, which was starting to tingle painfully. I couldn't do this. I couldn't keep going back. I was beginning to understand why Deputy Price had told me to start fresh in Thunder Basin. It hurt too much to keep one foot planted in the past. I wanted to hold on to it, but the only thing Philly had to offer me was danger or, worse, death. Keeping it close, pretending it was still an option, was a fantasy. A dangerous fantasy.
I grabbed Carmina's wine bottles and took them to Pastor Lykins, who bustled around the wine pull table, adding tags to the bottles already lined up in ne
at rows.
"Hello there, Stella," he said, bumping his sunglasses up his nose. He was one of those men who didn't have the face for sunglasses--his was blandly cherubic, and sunglasses looked out of place. They made him look like he was trying too hard. But the rest of his attire was exactly what I would have expected. Dockers, a white shirt, and scuffed loafers. His face shone with perspiration, and the underarms of his shirt bore damp circles. He shook my hand, but his eyes went past me, locking on Carmina. "Carmina sent you to give these to me? I'll have to seek her out as soon as I finish these tags and thank her."
I turned to go, thinking I'd browse the games before the carnival got under way, when I saw several girls my age clustered around a booth I hadn't noticed before. The booth was wrapped in red paper and decorated with large, heart-shaped cutouts. A boom box set on the window's ledge blared a female voice singing enthusiastically, "This kiss, this kiss! Unstoppable. This kiss, this kiss!"
"Who sings this song?" I asked one of the girls at the back of the group.
She stared at me like I couldn't be serious. "Uhh, Faith Hill. It's the song 'This Kiss.'" She watched me like she was waiting for something to click, but I'd never heard of the song. "Get it? 'This Kiss.' It's a kissing booth," she finished impatiently.
Before I could ask if she was serious, a wave of squeals rose up from the girls closest to the booth. A woman was writing names on a poster tacked to the booth's window.
"Trigger McClure!" one girl read aloud as the woman printed his name, followed by the seven o'clock time slot.
"Chet Falconer!" another said giddily.
I nudged the girl beside me a second time. "So this is, like, a real kissing booth. With actual kissing." It was more a declaration of incredulity than a question. Was this politically correct? Judging by the donations jar, the church was actually condoning the idea of buying, well, kisses. There were so many things messed up about this, I couldn't even start to list them.
"Uhh, yeah, obviously," the girl said. "The guy who raises the most money at the end of the night is crowned Mr. Hot Lips. He gets a tiara and a sash and everything. It's really funny. Chet or Trigger will win. Obviously. I mean, look at the other guys who volunteered," she said as the woman added the final two names to the poster. "Donovan Pippin and Theodore LeMahieu?" The girl wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Dangerous Lies Page 10
