Call Me Sugar

by Lacee Hightower

  Not giving myself the opportunity to grow emotional again, I just dig in and start unpacking and arranging. By the time the sun is setting, I’ve got a home. Despite being limited on furniture since I’ve only lived in a small apartment, even without a scrap of anything in two of the three bedrooms, the place still looks damn good.

  In fact, it looks awesome. Jeez, I love Pottery Barn.

  Two steps lead up to the kitchen and the rest of the house, and I place three varying sizes of white wood pillar candleholders to the right then grab a box and start arranging a few more kitchen items. When I set my favorite ceramic pig on the windowsill, I think of Jason, who, according to Keith, lives in the apartment complex over the railroad tracks. Curiosity stabs at me again. Does he still run to keep in shape? Does he still have that incredible charm he once did? Why has he never married?

  Why did he refuse to have sex with me? Why did Keith avoid most every question I asked about him when we talked?

  My core tightens, and I shiver as I remember his warm sensuous kisses, his fingers tugging at my hair, his tongue probing deep into my mouth, the songs he used to make up in his head and strum on his guitar, and last, but damn sure not least, the sexy howling wolf with a skull hanging from its mouth that covered his back. Heat rushes through me, and everything between my legs trembles.

  Jesus, I need to be fucked.

  I place two cookie sheets and a pizza pan in the drawer beneath the shiny stainless-steel oven and remember that I’d promised to call Shane, a once sex partner turned friend, and let him know I made it safely. Shane is years older than me—eleven to be exact—and an excellent criminal defense attorney who moved to the States from Britain and works down the hall from Jackson, Miles, & Smith. The first time I saw him, he reminded me of a young Robert Redford, a man I still believe to be one of the most handsome to ever grace the big screen. Two dates in, I knew the proper British gentleman was one of the most ruthless, sadistic Dominants I’d ever encountered.

  Don’t be fucking daft. Pinch them harder, or you get ten more strikes with the belt. The man radiated respect and politeness, yet fucked like a rabid animal. A shiver shoots up my spine, followed by a heated ache between my thighs as I think of strength, authority, and commanding voices.

  Just as I’ve finished unloading the silverware and Calphalon knife set, I turn toward a dinging cell phone and see an incoming text from none other than my favorite attorney/good friend demanding that I call him. While I almost consider ignoring it for now, I exhale a long jittery breath, wait for the short chime, and then tell Siri to dial Shane.

  After I’ve had a short conversation with Shane, I get my Internet up and working, tend to a few bills, and answer three e-mails. Suddenly, I’m hit with a voracious case of hunger, so I close my laptop and jot down a short grocery list, dreading shopping but also needing something more substantial than trail mix and breath mints. As much as I need to make that trip to the grocery store, which will eventually happen, it will have to wait just a little longer. Right now, there’s something else much more important on my agenda.

  Following a nice visit with Mr. V, who has fresh new batteries, I plan on stopping by the cemetery and driving by the old museum to take a peek at the remodeling.

  Then, I’m going to visit Jason Lee.

  Chapter Five

  Jen

  “Gosh, thanks.” The teenage boy smiles when I tell him to keep the change from a five-dollar bill. I pull out of Sonic with a peach mango Sprite and a soft pretzel.

  “Ah,” I murmur. The cool drink tastes like heaven on earth.

  There’s a peaceful calm that I haven’t felt behind the wheel of a car in years as I drive through town. Zero traffic. No road rage. No nine miles of hellish road construction holding up motorists for as far as the eye can see. People, as few as there are, actually wave when they pass by, instead of honking, mouthing, shooting the bird.

  Maybe I really can grow to welcome and love this small-town way of life.

  Springhill has some cool facts and intriguing history, along with several sights that people travel long miles to visit. More than one famous name has been associated with the West Texas town. An actor from a popular western television series taught high school for a couple of years before pursuing an acting career, and a well-known member of Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch was shot dead in the local feed store after being seen by the sheriff’s posse as he entered to purchase oats for his horse. He’s buried in the town’s cemetery, and if I remember correctly, the grave of the sheriff that shot and killed him is three headstones down from his. It’s funny that, as kids, we never found these facts interesting or appreciated the history that was right under our noses.

  While I saunter through the streets, slowly, like someone on a Sunday afternoon stroll, I pass by the old jail. Built somewhere around 1891, the building once housed murderers, gangsters, thieves, and illegal immigrants awaiting deportation and was used for a short time as a makeshift hospital.

  It suddenly feels so strange not being caught up in the frenzied transit of persistent drivers, passing emergency vehicles, eighteen-wheelers, and the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic. It’s almost eerie but in a peaceful, slow-paced kind of way. An older-model Chevy truck full of teenagers passes by, and the kids wave—all four of them—and I do the same.

  Have the people of Springhill always been so friendly?

  East Plum Street leads to the Bond Hill Nature Center, and I take a left on it and drive down a couple of blocks where I watch a family of four exit their SUV, load up two toddlers into a double stroller, and head to the entrance. The thirty-something-acre landscape offers miles of hiking trails for all skill levels, a petting zoo for the kids, and a facility with interpretive exhibits that’s operated out of a historic home believed to be over a century old. I can’t even remember the last time I was there, perhaps in my early teens.

  With that strange feeling that I’m here for good this time hitting me again, I drive another couple of miles until I’m at the cemetery. Daddy’s grave is only a few feet from the entrance. I pull a few weeds and place the silk flowers in front of the headstone. After a few words and a few tears, I’m back in my car and only minutes from the museum.

  As I feel a jolt of panic racing down my spine, my stomach buckles as I pull into the side entrance, and I almost wish I’d called Keith to meet me here. Then again, I haven’t heard a word from him, and I just can’t make the call.

  Dubious as I open the front door, when I fully expect a nauseous odor to fill my lungs and dread to turn my blood to ice water, strangely enough, neither of those things happen. There’s only the aroma of freshly painted walls and the faintest trace of glue and cleaning products. Rustic-looking, hand-scraped engineered wood covers the floors and various display cases—some open, others enclosed—fill the room, and above me is a long row of flush-mounted light fixtures on a smooth, unstained ceiling. There are no more revolting smells of dust or mildew and not a single water stain. One day soon, I hope to walk through this door with a smile on my face and excitement in my chest as I open up for the day.

  “Morning, sugar. How did that blow-up mattress work for you?”

  The Route 44 cup nearly plummets to the ground as I spin around and see Keith flashing me a smile that goes all the way through his chocolate-hued gaze. Icy goose bumps race across my skin with just the mere sight of him, along with a precipitous pang of sadness in my chest that things hadn’t worked out between us.

  We could have been good together. Crap, we were good together.

  My gaze narrows in on him, and he looks just like a freaking cowboy sex god in Ariat stonewashed jeans matched with a deep chocolate-brown button-down and paired with alligator-skin Western boots. His chest is solid and strong, his waistline slim, his legs long and muscular. Yet, it’s not just the above-average Western attire or the nice body that makes him exude the perfect example of a sexy cowboy, but the whole package of Keith Ryker. His physique, the expensive boots, and the overpriced jea
ns all come from dedicated hours of hard, physical ranch work. And to me, that’s totally and dangerously hot as fuck.

  Dazed as I stare into another one of his intensely provocative gazes that pulls the oxygen straight from my lungs, I can’t help but fantasize about the soft bite of pain from his calloused hand, the sharp sting of his belt, or the bee-like prick of his teeth. With my body tingling and my pulse off the charts, I can’t fight the sudden urge swimming inside me to drop to my knees and say “please” and “thank you.”

  My God, how am I going to productively work for this man when all I do is think about sex when he’s anywhere near?

  With a shiver from head to toe, I respond, “It wasn’t all that bad,” then quickly change the subject and blink away a tingling of sentiment in the corners of my eyes. “All these years, Keith, and this place still gives me a small case of the creeps, but I gotta tell you, what you’ve done is absolutely beautiful. I just love the contrast of the dark floors with the gray walls and white trim. You’ve done a lovely job. I think I’m almost excited.”

  He shoots me a small content smile with tiny creases forming between his brows that hadn’t been there when we were teens. “So no feelings of demons lurking in the walls? No ghosts or goblins?”

  “Shut up,” I tease, while looking at his full lips, soaking up the sight of his tanned face, and knowing damn well that I need and want this man for more than a friend.

  He gives me a wink then takes a quick look around. “Looks damn good, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s perfect. It’s beautiful. But you know as well as I do that I don’t know jack diddly shit about running a museum, beautiful or otherwise. How do you even acquire the material? Or have you thought that far? I sure hope you have the capability of getting more interesting artwork than Jigsaw’s House of Crap.”

  “House of Crap,” Keith repeats. “That it was.”

  He stands with confidant poise and studies me for a quick minute then flashes me a grin that’s so provocative and sexual that it sends shivers racing up my back. My body reacts so damned unintentionally to him and his coolness and certainty, which both seem to bleed from his pores. Just thinking about us together ignites a fire in my belly.

  “I’ve been planning and working on this for the last year. I want artwork that depicts the town’s history, items that make past outlaws and lawmen come alive, along with the American cowboy, Native Americans, maybe the Vaquero, and the diverse art that shaped the American West. I want to not only entertain but educate visitors about the area’s ranching in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.”

  “Wow. You’ve put a lot of thought into this. I’m shocked, actually.”

  “I’ve got some great Dan Blocker photos coming in and his name plate that sat on his desk when he taught school, along with a vast collection of local Native American artifacts. I’m also pretty sure I’ve got the actual gun that killed Will Carver. You know how people are here,” he adds with a lustful bend to his lips. “They get off on that kind of outlawsy shit. Come here.” Something sparks in his eyes, and he takes my hand in his, which has instant streaks of electricity that feel like pellets shooting through my torso.

  It’s the same way I felt the day he introduced me to Dominance.

  After a beat, he says, “I’m thinking the little back room, which will not be called the Room of Fucking Relics, is perfect for either the Butch Cassidy memorabilia I’m depending on or maybe the two-headed calf and five-legged goat I’ve found. Especially if we get an old Wells Fargo stagecoach or something to that effect.”

  “My God, Keith, this kind of thing has to cost a pretty penny. How are we going to make a profit? We have to get some return on your investment.” My face heats at asking about money, but my bank account needs answers. I have to earn a somewhat decent salary, and even though he said he would match what I was making, I don’t see how this place can earn enough money to cover my pay, much less anything extra.

  “First of all, sugar, most everything I’ve got lined up is a handout. You’ve got to remember there are a lot of wealthy individuals in and around Springhill and a hell of a lot more in the cattle industry. Donations and grants have covered most everything. And I was thinking we may have a small entry charge, but nothing over four or five bucks for adults and ten and under free. What I’m hoping to do is organize a good-sized gift shop of sorts over here in the corner.” He gestures to the offset that’s almost a room in itself. “We could sell t-shirts, coffee cups, ladies’ jewelry, purses, maybe even Western boots, and get some brochures printed up and offer to host school parties, group tours, after-hour functions, and that kind of thing. Of course, we’ll hire on extra staff for those events and take on a second employee if you decide you need or even just want it.” He squeezes my hand, his eyes warm and sincere. “And a deal’s a deal, Jen. I didn’t get you back to Springhill to cause financial strain.” His tone resonates discipline, his body language reeking of command, almost dictatorial. It sends heat rushing through me.

  My God, I’ve never felt such a strong need to drop to my knees and bow my head.

  With our hands threaded together, my pulse pounding in my ears, we amble toward the little room that always made my stomach roll. When we step inside, the walls are freshly painted in the same gray as the others, the floors the same rustic wood, and more cases are set up against the back wall and on one side.

  Not a full minute passes before my heart begins thundering and a cold wave sweeps over me that peppers my skin with goosebumps and makes my stomach flip from the inside out as the faintest aroma of cinnamon and boundless vivid memories of my best friend hits me like a ton of bricks.

  ****

  We all have emotions. They’re delicate and fragile. They make us human. Happiness, excitement, sadness, hurt … the list is endless. Since I pulled into town, I think I’ve felt a little of each.

  Regret washes over me like a freezing fog as I remember Rylee’s last day on this earth, wishing I could go back to that day. Wishing I’d changed my plans. Wishing she’d called. Wishing for anything but failing, forsaking, and quitting. Shopping with my mom in San Alba could have waited.

  New jeans hadn’t been important.

  Manicures and pedicures could have been done another day.

  Chocolate taffy was the last thing I needed.

  Rylee was going through something heavy, something desperate, something so awful and dire that she couldn’t deal with it any longer, and her last words still haunt me. I’ve done so many stupid things, Jen. If you only knew.

  God, why hadn’t I put two and two together?

  I failed my best friend. I let her down when she was begging for help.

  And I can’t go back and make things right.

  I can’t be there to talk to her or lend a shoulder or beg her to tell me what she meant by those last words.

  She’s never coming back.

  One then two tears break free, the rest trailing in a solid, endless stream.

  Keith has me in his arms and holds me until my tears dry and my nerves unwind. Rylee’s gone. I know this. I’ve accepted this. But the minute I stepped inside this room, her voice echoed in my head like she was right beside me, telling me everything was okay, encouraging, reassuring, and supporting me like she always had, when she was the one who needed all those things. My mind feels shattered, like I’ve had a big, huge, ugly wake-up call to remind me I’ll never see my best friend again, hear her speak, or know what really happened that day.

  The day Rylee Fisher swallowed two dozen pain pills with a fifth of vodka also killed a little part of me.

  I was in third grade when Mrs. Barker introduced a new student in school. Small schools like Springhill did that kind of thing. If someone new enrolled, they got a proper introduction. When Rylee took the seat directly in front of me, it took only minutes before we were passing notes, talking about boys and which teachers were the strictest. By the end of history class, we were besties, already planning a sleepover. From that d
ay forward, almost every weekend, if we weren’t spending it together, then we were talking by phone.

  She would have made one hell of a fine doctor.

  She would have been an amazing wife and an even more amazing mother.

  Rylee Fisher should have never died.

  Chapter Six

  Jen

  The spicy scent of barbecue wafts through the air while I circle the parking lot of the Deerwood Apartments. With nothing but a snack-sized bag of trail mix, the mouth-watering wizardry of smoke, paprika, brown sugar, oils, and cooked meat has me a drooling fool. Jesus, the aroma is intoxicating.

  Texans do love their barbeque.

  Only minutes after my small emotional breakdown, Keith got a call to go assist a ranch hand with a heifer who was having difficulty giving birth, and after I assured him I was fine, I’d ended up meandering down to the park and sitting in one of the swings for a few minutes thinking about the museum, the house, my parents, my brother, the way bees used to hunt down Jason, and all the hours of laughter that followed. Why the fuck do they always come after me?

  “Why didn’t you talk to me, Rye?” I’m suddenly fighting more tears, procrastinating and nervously circling the small apartment complex a second time, trying to get up my nerve to park and head to the door of apartment 204. “All you had to do is call me back. I would have been there. Like always, I would have been there, dammit!”

  With another bout of emotion draining through me, I pull into one of three visitor parking spaces, wipe my eyes, touch up my lipstick, and get my shit back together. After five, maybe six deep breaths, I step out of the Jeep a nervous wreck and head toward the bottom of the stairs.

  “Holy shit, Jen. Just do it. This is Jason, not the damned President of the United States.”

  I’m standing outside Jason’s apartment on a late August afternoon, shivering like a northern has just blown in, yet it’s a humid ninety-plus degrees. Good God, I haven’t felt this nervous about seeing anyone since … Keith. When the coppery tang of blood stirs my taste buds, I stop chewing my lip, swallow hard, compose myself for another minute, then do what I came here to do—I reach for the door. I’ve spent twelve years dealing with people. All kinds. Wealthy, poor, desperate, criminal, you name it. I’ve dealt with them in all worst-case scenarios, which only makes this even more ridiculous. Emotionally, however, my heart is doing its best to beat a hole straight through my chest.