Split

by J. B. Salsbury

  “Were you in the military?”

  “No.”

  “Butler at some fancy estate?”

  Another tiny smile. “No.”

  “Spend any time around the royal family?”

  “No.” He curls his lips between his teeth to stop his smile.

  “Hmm…slave?”

  His face turns to stone, and I swear it’s like an invisible wall drops between us. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well good, because slavery is illegal. I’d have to report it; people would get arrested. Our small town doesn’t need the scandal.” I grin, but he doesn’t respond as I fight desperately to get through the tension that separates us. “Okay, I just asked a bunch so you get some freebies. Go ’head.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he mumbles, and it takes me a second to figure out whether that was his question or not.

  I grimace. “Really? That’s all you got?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I tuck my hands under my knees to keep from fidgeting. “My dad says I’ve never done well with uncomfortable silence, but my mom would say I never did well with any kind of silence. I guess I just figure rather than sit here we may as well get to know each other. It’s no big deal. Friends do it all the time.”

  “I don’t have friends.”

  I laugh, but the sound is sadder than I intend. “I don’t either.” Another commonality between us.

  The stillness again builds and the air in the cab is alive with an almost tangible energy.

  “Your mom, she’s…” His lips press together and the muscles in his forearms jumps.

  “She died when I was sixteen. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  He nods but doesn’t give me the usual sympathy speech about being sorry and knowing my mom is in a better place, and for that I’m grateful.

  “How about yours?”

  His breath hitches. “How—”

  “I overheard you at the diner.”

  His eyelids flutter, then abruptly squeeze shut in a grimace.

  “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  With his eyes back on the road, his jaw tenses and he shakes his head as if clearing away a memory.

  “One-way street. I get it.” I opened up about myself, but he shuts down when my questions get personal.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Shy. Ann. Shyann. It’s not that hard.”

  “I know…”

  I turn fully to him. “Then why do you keep calling me ma’am?” And why won’t you talk to me?

  Heat builds in my chest, as does frustration at his insistence to keep me at arm’s length. He ignores me at work, goes out of his way to avoid me. It takes a whole hell of a lot of self-control to give someone the cold shoulder and I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’s giving me his.

  “If I did something to upset you—”

  “You didn’t, I’m…I’m not good with”—he waves his hand back and forth between us—“this.”

  “This?”

  “Small talk. Or any kind of talk. I’m not good with people.”

  That’s more than he’s given me so far. Maybe the whole getting-to-know-you thing was too much.

  “Wanna play Would You Rather?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll state two things, and all you have to do is pick which one you’d rather do. Easy enough?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay, so, Lucas, would you rather hike naked through the snow or naked through the desert?”

  He turns to me, his eyebrows dropped low, but there’s humor in his expression. “Why am I naked?”

  “No reason, just pick one.”

  His face twists adorably in disgust. “Gosh, um…guess I’d rather be naked in the desert.”

  “Me too. Okay, your turn.”

  “Oh, um…” His left leg jumps up and down in a nervous rhythm. “Would you rather, uh…get attacked by a shark or…” He’s back to chewing his bottom lip and I try not to stare.

  “A shark or…?”

  “Or a…bear?”

  “Ooooh, that’s a good one. Hmm…” I tap my chin, thinking. “Shark would mean water and the added fear of drowning, which, if you think about it might be a good thing.”

  He peeks over at me.

  “Quick death.”

  “Ah.” He nods.

  “Bear you’d probably be awake for the entire attack. I mean, unless he snapped your neck right away. In that case I’d say bear, but what if he didn’t and you were forced to watch while he ate your insides.” I shiver. “Yeah, I’m gonna go with shark. What about you?”

  “I was gonna say bear, but…you talked me out of it.”

  For the first time since we met, he really smiles. Big, wide, and so bright it’s almost blinding. It’s childlike, the kind of happiness rarely seen in adults who’ve been so jaded by life that they no longer have the capability to experience pure joy. It’s breathtaking. I sit still, taking a mental snapshot, totally captivated.

  Lucas

  She needs to stop staring at me. As if her eyes aren’t hard enough to avoid, magnetic and curious all at the same time, there’s also her scent. Out in the fresh air it’s assaulting, stuck in the cab of the truck it’s penetrating. It reminds me of clean sheets and fresh flowers. Pure, yet complex. Comforting and intoxicating. I resist the impulse to relax in her presence, determined to get through the day without the blackout I feel shading my mind.

  We’re almost to the warehouse to pick up the tile, and we can’t get there soon enough. Her get-to-know-me games and light laughter had me more at ease than is safe.

  Maybe it’s her no-BS way of communicating. Her ability to come right out and say whatever she’s thinking, damn the consequences. She is who she is, lays herself out there, and makes no apologies for it. She’s brave, and regardless of her gender, I can’t help but admire that. It’s when her curiosities are aimed at me, when she looks at me like I’m a puzzle to solve, my fear instincts flare and the darkness closes in.

  We round the corner of a large brick building.

  “If you can back up there.” Shyann points to the loading dock of the warehouse. “I’ll run up and ring the bell.”

  I back in easily and she hops out, but rather than sit in the truck I follow her up to the door. She lifts her hand to ring the bell and jumps a little when she notices me behind her, but smiles.

  My chest throbs with the force of her small show of affection. God, I’m pathetic.

  The door swings open to reveal Jim, the warehouse manager I’ve met a couple times before. “Afternoon, sir. We’re here for the travertine Mr. Jennings ordered?”

  “Oh, sure thing, Lucas.” He waves us inside. “Come on in. I’ll get it on the forklift.”

  She aims an annoyed glare over her shoulder at me, and just like when we were playing Would You Rather, that strange tingly feeling in my face has me grinning so wide my teeth get cold.

  Then something amazing happens. I watch as her gaze slides to my mouth and the irritation in her expression softens and turns into a brilliant smile. A tiny flush hits her cheeks, a kiss of pink against her olive skin. The myriad of emotions that play so openly across her face is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Staying neutral around this woman is proving harder than I thought.

  “If you want to check this out…” The man’s voice jerks my gaze from Shyann, and he motions to the pallets stacked on top of each other, piled high with beige and dark brown marbled travertine tile. “Make sure this fulfills the order.”

  Shyann heads over with her purchase order and makes quick work of counting and referencing the slip. “It’s all here.”

  Jim slaps the stack. “’Kay, let’s get ’er loaded.”

  Thirty minutes later we’re pulling away with several hundred pounds of tile strapped tightly to the flatbed.

  “I don’t get it,” Shyann mumbles.

  “What?”

  “Why my dad insisted I come along. I mean, you had it totally handled out
there.”

  I shrug but don’t offer any opinions on the issue. I was equally shocked when I realized Mr. Jennings was sending her with me. I mean, he knows nothing about me, my past, what I’ve done. If he did, he’d never trust me around his daughter. Most likely he’d gather the townspeople and run me out with pitchforks. Which is why I need to keep my mouth shut and my head down in order to keep what little I’ve managed to attain.

  “I’d kill for a green chili fry bread taco.” She turns those piercing blue eyes toward me so quickly it sends a lock of her shining black hair over her eye. “You hungry?”

  My stomach twists, a combination of hunger and fear, but I nod.

  “Do you like Native American food?”

  “Never had it.”

  “You wanna try some?” Her expression lights with excitement.

  I tend to stay away from food that’s prepared for me and stick to what’s bland and safe, but I fear saying no will wipe that look off her face, and I kinda like it there.

  I nod.

  “There’s a great place we can stop on our way out of town. I used to go every chance I could, which was only when Trevor and I were covering stories in the Valley. They make the best—”

  “Who’s Trevor?” The question flies from my lips before I can think better of it.

  She purses her lips. “Eh…he’s no one really. Coworker. Ex coworker.”

  My skin suddenly feels too tight as I consider her spending time with this man Trevor. It’s unjustified and completely ridiculous; a beautiful woman like her probably spends time with a lot of guys. It’s not my concern.

  She gives me directions that take us to a tiny shack of a place just off the highway. Its bright blue paint is chipped in places as the sign on top reads THE FRY HOUSE, but the F is merely an outline of the letter that is no longer there. Its parking lot is nothing more than a flat spot of dirt and there are a few old wooden picnic benches scattered around the simple structure.

  Fragrant spices fill the air along with the hint of fry oil and sweet dough. My mouth waters and not necessarily in a good way.

  “Don’t freak out. It looks shady, but it’s safe. I promise.” Shyann lifts an eyebrow as we make our way to the single window of the building. “Do you trust me?”

  I don’t trust anyone. “Not really.”

  She bursts into laughter and I feel the sound in my bones. “I’ll order lunch. You find us a spot in the shade.” With a flick of her wrist, she shoos me toward a picnic bench that happens to be under the shadow of a large paloverde tree.

  I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to shake off this woman’s effect as I sit on the tabletop with my feet on the bench. The light, tinkling sound of Shyann’s voice carries toward me on the breeze and it does little to calm my nerves. I peruse my surroundings for a diversion.

  Four men dressed in sweat-stained and dirt-covered clothes speak Spanish and eat like they’ve worked a long day in the sun. It looks like they’re eating tacos, but these are bigger than a standard taco, fluffy and wrapped in yellow paper. One of the men catches me looking and studies me.

  I drop my gaze and pull down my hat, my heart thudding in my chest. No matter how much time passes I can’t shake the paranoia of being recognized. Even though I look nothing like the emaciated boy I was ten years ago, and this is a different town, different time, different me.

  “Don’t look so sad. I promise you’re going to love it.” Shyann steps up to me with a paper plate in each hand and a can of soda under each arm. She shoves a plate into my lap and drops down beside me before handing me a Coke.

  I study the yellow paper that cradles a puffy circle of bread and what looks like shredded meat, cheese, sour cream, and lettuce. “What is it?”

  She cracks open her Coke and takes a long swig, smacking her lips. “Fry bread taco.” She motions to my plate. “Try it.”

  With her plate balanced on her knees, her long, slender fingers delicately unwrap the end of her taco and she brings it to her mouth, bites, and moans. “Oh wow, it’s even better than I remember.”

  I stare down at mine, wondering where to start.

  “It won’t bite you,” she says through a mouthful of food.

  “I…I got food poisoning when I was a kid.” A lot.

  She licks sour cream from her finger. “From a taco?”

  “No, but…” There are very few foods that didn’t at one point make me deathly ill. “I don’t eat food I didn’t make myself.”

  She hums and I’m afraid to look at her out of fear that she’ll see me as the freak that I am.

  But then my plate disappears. I watch as she unwraps the end of my taco and takes a bite just like she did hers, chews, and swallows. “There.” She returns my plate to my lap. “Now if we get sick, we do it together.”

  My cheeks ache before I even realize I’m smiling. She risked getting food poisoning for me. As much as the thought of ingesting this food is enough to make me sick, I refuse to disappoint her.

  Imitating her, I peel the paper back and bring it close to my mouth, praying if the poisoning hits, it does it when I’m back home so I can be miserable in private.

  “Go ahead. It’s fine, I promise.” She presses her fingertips to my hand, guiding the food toward my lips, and the heat of her touch has me squirming in my seat.

  Slowly I place the taco into my mouth, bite, and chew. The flavors explode against my tongue. “Good.”

  “Right? My mom used to say that Mexico stole tacos from her people. She said the Navajos owned all things made of corn, and that included tacos, although”—she holds up her food and studies it—“pretty sure this is all flour.”

  Her mother was Navajo. That explains her complexion compared to her father. “You and Cody, you guys look like her.”

  She smiles sadly. “Mom said Navajo genes are always dominant. Said my eyes are a fluke.”

  As if responding to being called, the clear blue orbs light with acknowledgment.

  “They’re pretty.” I suck in a breath and drop my gaze to the dirt ground. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I mean, as far as color…goes?”

  “Thank you.” There’s a smile in her voice, but I don’t dare look because the way she stares at me sometimes I’d think she knows how often I’ve thought of those eyes. How many times I’ve mimicked the curves of her body into my drawings. The gentle dips and feminine flares of her form are masterpieces, like a playground for the eye. I’ve considered carving her into wood, dreamt of using her bare body as a canvas. I’ve fantasized about more than I’d ever be willing to admit.

  My stomach tumbles with that same uneasy feeling I had when we first met. Flutters mixed with something dark, a need that makes my toes curl and my skin electrify. No, this can’t be good.

  If this is me being uninterested, I’m in so much trouble.

  Ten

  Shyann

  Every bite of taco Lucas takes is like watching a kid discover ice cream for the first time. He was nervous at first, then tentative but willing, and now ecstasy. He chews each bite, and it’s hard not to stare at the fierce muscle of his jaw as it contracts and releases beneath smooth, tanned skin. I study the tips of his hair that stick out around his hat, straight mostly but with a slight curl at the nape of his neck. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks.

  His chewing slows and his gaze moves to mine. “What?”

  “Huh? Nothing.” I swig from my Coke, hoping to hide my face behind it.

  His eyebrows pinch together but he goes back to his food and I know he won’t press me.

  In the few hours we’ve spent together, I’ve come to know Lucas never pushes or instigates. He’s content to roll with the punches, more of a follower than a leader, prefers to be told what to do, and if my attempt at conversation on the ride up was any indication, Lucas probably wouldn’t even speak unless spoken to.

  I never thought that would be an attractive quality in a man. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by bossy men who think they can make all my decisions for
me. Hell, I dated my producer for crying out loud. All he ever did was tell me what to do, both at work and in our relationship. I don’t remember a time when I was able to be with a man without needing to be on guard or preparing to go to battle over something. My dukes raised, so to speak.

  That’s why Lucas is so refreshing.

  He places his empty paper plate in the space between us. It’s stupid, but a twinge of irritation flares in my gut at him separating us with garbage.

  “That was good. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.” I grab our empty plates and fold them into a detritus taco, walking it to the nearby garbage.

  The woman who served us says something to me in Spanish—most people confuse my half Navajo, half Caucasian blood for Mexican—and holds up a white plastic bag filled with the food I ordered to go.

  “Thank you.” I snag the bag and nearly trip over a little girl who darts past me, running away from a young boy as an older woman scolds them in Spanish.

  Turning toward the truck, I find Lucas checking the ratchet straps and securing the pallets of tile for the trek up the hill. His shoulders and back muscles flex beneath his shirt, and my eyes are drawn to a strip of tan skin where his jeans sag just below his hip. His clothes are worn thin but in a way that is more nonchalant than unkempt. He sees me coming and I motion to the bag in my hand, hoping it’ll distract him from my blatant gawking.

  “Dinner. Figure my dad, Cody, and you could use a good meal tonight.”

  His eyebrows pinch together and he blinks. “Me?” He looks genuinely shocked.

  I lightly smack his upper arm. He jerks and his gaze darts to where I’d hit him. “Yes, you.”

  Still studying his arm, he mutters, “Why?”

  I prop my hands on my hips and tilt my head. “You liked the taco, right?”

  His charcoal eyes finally slide up to meet mine, but the relaxed and elated glow from earlier has been replaced by something different. He seems guarded but curious. “Yes, ma’a—um…Shyann.”

  “So let me treat you to dinner.” Buying extra tacos seemed like an innocent gesture at the time, but judging by the intense way his eyes are locked on mine, I’m thinking something heavy just happened between us.