Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book)

by Reinhardt, Liz

  Behind her old lady glasses, Schwenzer's eyes are bright with glee. She must come from an ancient line of executioners who really enjoyed the profession.

  "It was an accident because I never meant the trees any harm, ma'am. I was only trying to burn some personal items."

  That damn voice is hot and husky in my ears. I know I should leave now, but, again, I hold back, just for one more minute.

  "Burn some personal items? On someone else's property? You're lucky you didn't light the entire house on fire, Ms. Lennox." She raises her eyebrows and scans the charges. "I have half a mind to let you spend a week or two in a correctional facility."

  The girl lets out this soft little gasp, but I know Schwenzer's bluffing out her ass. "But I won't. This time. Your record has been clean so far, and I imagine this was the result of a night of carelessness. But you caused serious damage, and you have to accept punishment for that. You will pay the owners of the property for the damages, you will pay your court fines, and you will be spending your free time for the next few weeks in community service. Don't let me see you here again."

  Judge Schwenzer waves a hand to dismiss her, and the girl takes the papers, looking like she'd rather die than begin the long walk of shame from the bench to the doors. Those cold eyes don't even flurry in my direction when I hold the door open for her.

  I follow the sweet curve of her ass as she races to the outer doors, her red heels clicking on the tiles so fast, I'm sure she's about to trip and face-plant any second.

  Every cell in my brain tells me that the smartest thing I can do is get my paperwork in order, pay my fine, figure out what community service I'll have to wrestle through this time, and get the hell away from this girl and this whole crazy day.

  But I'm not really thinking with my brain when I get to the outer doors. She's already across the parking lot, about to key the paint around the door lock of a silver Lexus because her hands are shaking so hard.

  I stand a few feet away so I don't spook her more.

  "Evan?"

  Her name feels good in my mouth, and I like the shocked and pleased look in her eyes when she hears me say it.

  "Oh. Hi. I have to...uh, I have to get home now." Her voice is thick, and I keep my eyes on hers, waiting for the tears.

  They don't come.

  "You have to visit your parole officer. Schwenzer went light on you. Don't piss her off."

  The words are technically a warning, but I don't say them that way. It’s just information, just something for this pretty girl to think about before she blows her own foot off with a shotgun by leaving in this sleek little ride without finishing her paperwork.

  And, maybe, part of me hopes I'll get a few more minutes with her before I head back home and force myself to forget her forever.

  She lifts one foot a couple inches off the ground and lets her shoe slide off her heel and just hang there, half off, half on.

  "Does it take long?" Her voice is sweet and rough at once, like sugar would be if you rubbed it hard on your skin.

  For some reason, that shoe hanging off her foot makes my brain cloud over and I want...I want a thing I definitely can't have with this girl. I stuff my hands in my pockets, a reminder to my stupid body that this is a hands-off situation.

  "Not too long. Follow me."

  I smile at her, at first just to show her she has nothing to be freaked out over, but when she rolls this tiny, shy smile my way, I can't hold back the weird surge of something deep and fucking good that spills through me. I feel like whistling. And I also feel like I should run in the opposite direction.

  Fast.

  Instead I stay by her side, catching the scent of cotton candy and magnolia, and just a little undercurrent of ash.

  "You looked so relaxed." Her voice is jittery and she jangles her keys in her hands in a quick, nervous rhythm. "In the courtroom, in front of the judge, you looked like you didn't care what happened to you."

  She flicks her eyes in my direction and twists those classy pearls at her throat.

  I have this second where I wonder what she'd look like in just that necklace and nothing else, but I rein in my perverted mind so I can answer her.

  "I'm used to being here. And I was a little nervous. I'm trying not to get any jail time on my record. But I've been in front of Schwenzer three times this year, so she's about done with my ass. I have no clue why we got off so light."

  I'm about to joke that maybe old Schwenzer got lucky last night, but I'm not going to push it with this girl. We're already closer than I meant to get, and I'm not sure how we got where we are.

  "Maybe she got laid last night." She bats her lashes at me, and hits me with a smile that's as brutal as a sucker punch.

  I want to say more, keep this banter going, ask her what she's doing tonight and for the rest of the weekend and the week after, but I bite my idiotic tongue and pull back.

  That's what I'm good at: staying cool, no matter what. This girl is already loosening everything I worked so hard to tie tight, and I can't afford it, much as it kills me to admit that.

  In the parole office, I make sure that once I tell her what to do and who to talk to, I don't look directly at her again.

  It's not exactly an easy task.

  I can't remember the last time a girl made me sit up and pay attention the way this girl does. Even though I'm trying to keep my eyes on some boring as hell article in Sports Illustrated that I don't give a rat's ass about, I can't help but notice that her skirt is riding up, giving me an eyeful of smooth, tan thigh.

  Some slick-haired jackass across from her is undressing her with his meth-bleary eyes, and I give him the fuck-off snarl that always sends guys with no backbone scampering like little bitches.

  She crosses and uncrosses her legs, and my eyes follow the line of her thigh down to her ankle and along the curve of her arch, watching as her red high heel slides on and off the back of her foot, driving me insane for reasons I can't put my finger on.

  "Evan Lennox."

  Jan calls her name and crooks one finger, the nail painted some crazy bright orange. Jan is good people, and I relax knowing that Evan will get an okay assignment. Maybe she'll get stocking at the food pantry or sorting at Goodwill. Jan won't give a newbie the shit details like road pickup or mortuary cleanup.

  At least I hope she won't.

  I'm starting to sweat it about Evan by the time Kevon calls my name.

  "Man, what're you doing back here?" His voice is too loud and jolly for parole. He should be one of Santa's elves or an aerobics instructor.

  I shake his hand and refuse to wince when he almost takes my arm out of socket. I'm glad to see him, but I wish he'd stop screaming in my ear so I could eavesdrop on Jan and Evan.

  "Drunk and disorderly, eh? Doesn't sound like you, Winch. You sure it was you, now?" His smile is so wide I can see his gold teeth, way in the back, but his dark eyes go serious. "Look, kid, I like you. I really do. But just because Schwenzer has a soft heart when your name comes on the docket doesn't mean you're safe. This is three, man. Strike three. I can't believe you didn't get time. Lucky, that's what you are. But you can only ride that so far."

  He pauses his speech and puts his hands flat on the desk. "Hey. Hey! You listening to me?"

  All I can hear is low murmurings, but Evan sounds upset. It's not my business.

  It's really not my business.

  I know Jan is fair, and it's probably just a case of a rich girl stamping her little designer heel over the fact that she has to rub shoulders with people at a homeless shelter or something.

  Only, I can't really believe Evan would be like that.

  Not that I know her.

  Not that I should even be thinking about it, because she's not mine to think about that way.

  I've got bigger, more important things on my plate.

  I make sure I don't even glance her way, but Kevon is pretty hard to trick. He looks around me, not even bothering to be discreet, and raises his eyebrows.

&n
bsp; "Alright. I'll let you off the hook for being distracted. I can't blame you for wanting to look at her instead of me. Winchester Youngblood, heart-breaker."

  I shoot him an irritated face that I'm hoping communicates my desire for him to shut the hell up before she overhears, but my look only gets him going. "Oh, look at you, my man! Temper, temper. Alright, I'm not made out of stone. Give me a second."

  I think Kevon must have serious family connections to have landed this stint, because this guy is the biggest pain in the ass parole officer ever, and I can't imagine how he got this a legit government job when he's always acting like he’s auditioning for some cheesy comedy sitcom.

  Why can't he just stamp my papers, take my check, and let me go on my way? He has no business meddling in this girl's life, but there he goes, off to Jan's desk to shake hands and probably tell Jan how nice her crazy hair looks or some crap so he can wheedle out the information he wants.

  Funny how when he's around me, he talks like there's a megaphone attached to his mouth, but now that he's over there with Evan, I can't hear a damn thing.

  A few minutes later he walks back like he owns this sad little office, his smile smug as a fool's. I try not to look over, but I hear Evan thank Jan and say goodbye, then those sexy heels click on the floor, and I have to punch and jab at my urge to jump up and follow her out, beg for her number, take her on a date…at least take one more look before she's out of my life for good.

  Like he can read my mind, Kevon asks, "You wanna run and get that lady's number? I'll wait."

  "I don't need to get involved with a girl like her, Kevon. Can we get this party started? I have places to be."

  I slide the papers over so he can sign and notarize everything, pissed that he got me to lose my temper and snap at him.

  I never do that. I take a lot of pride in the fact that I can keep things cool. It's my job.

  It's my life.

  It's who I am.

  "You sure do, boy-o." He stamps and staples my paperwork with a grin that I don't trust on instinct and sends me on my way.

  Her silver Lexus is gone when I get to the parking lot, and I tell myself that's a good thing. The last thing I need to involve myself with is an icy-eyed girl named after whiskey with a talent for setting things on fire.

  By the time I pull onto the highway, I accept the fact that Evan Williams Lennox was just a blip on my radar. A sexy ass blip, but a blip I have no choice but to forget.

  Evan 2

  "So you didn't even wait to get his number?"

  My best friend, Brenna, is a love-obsessed romantic down to the pulp of her sweet little heart.

  I expected to be lectured a little bit because I burned down part of an orchard and got a crap-load of fines and weeks’ worth of community service, but all my friend cares about is the specific shade of blue his eyes were and what, exactly, he said to get me off the floor and into the courtroom.

  Sweet, soft, indigo and 'Are you nervous?', for the record, but there is no record, because this guy was just some guy I bumped into at court who is basically an irresponsible drunk brawler.

  Not that I have any room to talk.

  "How do you know he wanted to give me his number?"

  I'm hanging up scores of obnoxiously green plaid skirts and egg-yolk yellow blouses, my daily clothing staples now that I'm enrolled at St. Anne's School for Catholic Girls, the only school that would take a girl with my dubious criminal record and lukewarm grades. I hate the uniform with an intensity that makes me gag, but wearing it is my penance.

  And it hurts so much more than kneeling on dried peas for hours ever could.

  "Did you wear your navy sheath?" Brenna demands.

  I hang the last complexion-destroying blouse and move to my bed. This is an unnatural state of affairs for me. I'm usually a slob and a half. But I can't put Gramma and Granddaddy through anymore bullshit.

  "Sweetie, it doesn't matter what I was wearing. But yes, I was. And he is a criminal. Why can you not grasp that?"

  Brenna laughs in my ear. "No offense, but you're a criminal, too, Evan. That doesn't mean you really did anything so bad. And it definitely doesn't mean you can't flirt a little. Look, I'd try to encourage you to date some respectable geek, but St. Anne's is all girls and you haven't mentioned a single, solitary guy in months. Months! What shoes did you wear?"

  I throw all my makeup in my violet-embellished bag and snap the clasp to close it.

  "The red heels."

  My ears burn.

  The line is quiet for a few seconds as Brenna processes her shock and amazement.

  "Evan? You wore the hot-sweet-magic-sex heels? The ones we got in New York City? The ones you swore you were going to wear on your first date with The One? Do you not see what a sign this is?"

  Brenna is dangerously close to squealing and I'd bet my last tube of my favorite mascara that she's dancing around in her gorgeous little room, hugging herself like she just watched my fairy godmother change me into a princess for the ball.

  "Calm yourself, girl. I wore those shoes because I gave up on all that nonsense. I figured I'd wear them on the one day I knew for sure I wouldn't meet anyone life-changing."

  I step out onto the balcony off my bedroom and listen to the hiss and hum of a million insects busy in the deep green of the garden below.

  "But you met him." Brenna refuses to be thwarted.

  "Okay. I wore the heels and met a guy who was, I'm not gonna lie, hot as hell. But also a criminal. And also did not give me his number or ask for mine, so there is nothing -- listen to me now, Brenna Blixen -- noth-ing going on. At all."

  I lean over the balcony and pull a magnolia flower close, rubbing the waxy petals with the tip of my fingers.

  "You're going to see him again. I know it. I can feel it. Those shoes are hot-sweet-magic-sex shoes. They work."

  Her laugh is gleeful and happy on my behalf, so I don't roll my eyes at her.

  But it's hard to resist the temptation.

  I steer the conversation on to other things, like Brenna's sexy-sweet boyfriend, her crazy, over-loaded, over-achiever school schedule, and her design business, which has expanded to include bumper stickers and pins.

  I love listening to her chatter. Gramma said that one of her biggest disappointments is that I didn't meet someone like Brenna sooner.

  Someone who could have helped give me direction.

  Someone who could have kept me from doing what I do best: crash and burn.

  I'm sad to let the lone ray of sunshine in my otherwise cloudy world go, but I have to say goodbye to Bren and start getting ready for day one of community service. I have such a towering pile of days to complete, I'm not even going to count.

  I pull on jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, and pull my hair into a ponytail.

  Simple.

  Okay, maybe the jeans are perfectly butt-hugging and low-riding enough to still be sexy, and the t-shirt is gauzy and cut in just a deep enough v to give me a sultry feel, and the boots have a tiny heel and are gorgeous, dark leather. But I wear a uniform every single day to school. There's no way I can throw on any old thing, even to do community service. This outfit is the plainest I can manage.

  Gramma and Granddaddy are at one of the dozens of golf tournaments they spend all year attending, so there's no one to say goodbye to as I hop into my car and drive to the site.

  I'm not exactly sure what I'll be doing, but they told me to dress for potentially dirty work. Which I half listened to.

  Sweat slicks my palms and makes my hands slide over the steering wheel as I drive past favorite restaurants, stores, and salons. My weekends won't be spent indulging in my wild material girl side or driving to the beach house to polish off a bottle of something sweet and numbing, and then sleep it off with the sound of the crashing waves in the background.

  I will be servicing my community each Saturday for all the hours of my morning and most of my afternoon, too, and by the time I'm done, everyone else will be in the middle of their weekend b
enders.

  Anyway, I can't get involved with that stuff anymore even if I wanted to. Since I broke up with my disgusting pig of an ex-boyfriend, I moved across town from my old neighborhood, changed schools in my senior year, and dabbled in reckless criminal mischief, so I’ve blown any chances for local friends.

  The only person who loves and accepts me is Brenna, and she lives in godforsaken New Jersey and is deaf to my pleas to move to the more hospitable and sunny South.

  I'm alone here. But, given my record for going apeshit when I have an audience, that's probably a good thing for me.

  I pull up to a little office in the backwoods of nowhere and grab my paperwork. I have to have it signed by the foreman, or whatever they call the officer in charge of watching all of us criminals. When I get inside, there's a little desk where a woman in uniform is checking off names and giving out tasks. I give her my name and she squints at the paper for a minute.

  "Even Lennox?" she double-checks.

  "That's me." I clutch at the paper in my hands nervously and chew my lip. Did I somehow manage to screw things up already?

  "You'll be painting today." She eyes my outfit. "We have smocks you can change into."

  My cheekbones feel singed. "It's okay. These are work clothes."

  It's not a lie. My work clothes just happen to be very fashion-forward.

  "Suit yourself. You'll start in the station room, around the corner to the left. You've painted before, I assume?"

  I nod, and this time my answer is a complete lie I pray won't bite me in the ass.

  "Good. There are several guards who will be patrolling the premises regularly. Stay on task or your service card won't be signed, and you'll have to make today up. If you need help, come to this office or give a holler."

  She shoos me away with a wave of her unmanicured, jewelry-less hand, and I go around the corner and to the left.

  The door is open and there's a radio blaring. I can hear the rhythmic sweep and clack of a paint roller. I guess I'll be working with someone else.

  I walk in the doorway and a huge drip of light blue paint blobs on the dropcloth at my feet. I step over it and almost crash into...him.