Shiloh

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  I put my hands to my chest and laughed, ignoring the pain it caused me. It was easy to forget what she did for a living because until that moment I didn’t know she had an assertive bone in her body.

  “You’ve never had to throw anyone to the ground at work?”

  Shiloh lay down beside me. “No,” she replied, looking at the sky. “Bouncers at nightclubs would see more action than me. My job involves a lot of standing around and looking important.”

  Shiloh Jenson suddenly made a whole lot more sense to me. Despite her vocation, the majority of her bravado was on paper. The company transfer hadn’t altered her job description – she was still spending her days standing around trying to look important. The difference was, it was playing out in a third world country where crooks are brazenly crooked – and it was fair to assume that a few of them were working at the mine.

  Her résumé probably implied she had the experience to handle it, but nothing could be further from the truth. A lack of street smarts is a difficult shortcoming to hide, and Shiloh was clearly struggling.

  “Are you worried that you can’t do your job?” I asked gently.

  “Every single day.” Her voice was quiet and serious. “I’m a fraud, and sooner or later, the powers that be will notice.”

  Mechanic

  SHILOH

  The most convincing lies are always laced with an element of truth. That’s what makes them believable. The trick is knowing when to stop talking. The minute I felt in danger of giving Mitchell too much information, I put an end to the conversation.

  I levered myself up and grabbed his hands, trying to pull him to his feet. “If we stay here much longer we’re going to cook.”

  The day was brutally hot. I was uncomfortable, sweaty and now covered in sand, but I didn’t dare complain. It felt a lot like karma.

  Mitchell’s jeep was stranded in the car park of the Crown and Pav because I broke it. The least I could do was make the trip down there with him to fix it. Mitchell stood and brushed the sand off his clothes. “When we get there, I’ll buy you a beer,” he offered.

  I put my hand to my heart. “So bloody generous.”

  “If you’re a really good girl, I’ll make it a cold one.”

  I was probably going to need it. The temperature seemed to rise a few degrees as we left the beach. By the time my feet hit the gravel road I felt ready to drop at any second.

  The jeep was right where he’d left it, looking as lonely and abandoned as a car could. Mitchell wasted no time. While I stood idly by, he popped the hood and set about diagnosing the problem.

  All he had to do to get the car started was push a fuse back into place. In theory, we could’ve been sipping beer on the beach ten seconds after that. But it soon occurred to me that it might not be that simple.

  “How much do you know about cars, Mitchell?” I asked curiously.

  He gave the battery cable a wiggle. “Enough,” he replied. “It’s probably the battery.”

  He was clueless, which killed me.

  I pointed to a large rock near the edge of the trail. “I’m just going to sit over there,” I muttered. “It’s hot.”

  Mitchell took off his T-shirt and draped it over my head, gifting me a tiny bit of shade. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

  It was a promise he couldn’t keep. As enjoyable as it was watching a shirtless Mitchell hunched over and tinkering with an engine, aggravation soon set in. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that he was getting nowhere with it, even after half an hour of trying. When he started talking about pulling the engine apart, I knew I had to intervene.

  Shiloh Jenson’s knowledge of cars was non-existent, but Shiloh Brannan was at the end of her rope. I jumped to my feet and made my way to him, gearing up to point out the fuse box he’d so far managed to ignore.

  Then his phone rang.

  It wasn’t difficult to work out who his caller was. Mimi’s bark echoed around the car park. Holding his phone to his ear, Mitchell absently wandered away, occasionally grunting into the phone in reply.

  As soon his back was turned I made my move, pushing the fuel pump fuse back into place and snapping the box shut. I was sitting in the driver’s seat when Mitchell returned. Now he looked pissed off, but it had nothing to do with the car. “Mimi’s called in sick,” he told me. “I’m going to have to work tonight.”

  Clearly she was punishing him for the telling off he’d given her the night before, but I wasn’t willing to say it out loud.

  “I’ll still help you move,” he offered, ducking back under the hood. “This shouldn’t take much longer.”

  Before he had a chance to inflict any more damage on the engine, I turned the key. The old jeep rumbled to life as if there had never been a problem.

  Mitchell straightened up, staring at me through the dirty windscreen, looking shocked and bewildered.

  “You fixed it!” I said excitedly. “What was the problem?”

  He shook his head, frowning. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  I turned off the ignition, got out of the car and slammed the door. “Good juju, Mitchell.” I tossed his shirt at him as I passed. “Now you owe me a beer.”

  ***

  Our leisurely beers on the beach outside the closed pub were limited to one. Mitchell was determined to leave enough time to help me move before work.

  It was a thoughtful gesture that my mind managed to twist. Was he desperate to be rid of me or just trying to be helpful? I didn’t know, and it was ridiculously juvenile to even ponder the question.

  ***

  The amount of luggage I had to move wasn’t what made it a two-person job; I only had one suitcase. The problem was, there was no way I could get it up there by myself. Mitchell made it look easy, carving a line in the sand as he dragged it up the steep hill.

  “I really appreciate your help,” I said, trudging along behind him.

  “No worries. I appreciate you giving me my bed back.” There wasn’t a hint of humour in his tone, which stung enough to make me bite back.

  “Just having a bathroom with a door will be a treat,” I told him. “I can’t wait to move in.”

  Of all the lies I’d told him lately, that one felt like the worst. I didn’t want to leave the shack and I didn’t want to leave him – but the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  Mitchell dragged my luggage the last few metres and dumped it at the edge of the road. “I have to get to work,” he muttered. “You can take it from here, right?”

  Both of us looked up at the small row of houses across the street. The only thing uglier than its dull beige facade was the sight of Glen Harris staring us down from his front porch. I suspect the rigid posture, folded arms and scowl were supposed to be intimidating, but I paid him little attention. I was more focused on Mitchell, and his sudden determination to make a quick getaway.

  “You don’t want to see inside?” My voice was pathetically small.

  He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “No,” he replied flatly. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen bathroom doors before.”

  “Wait,” I grabbed his arm as he turned away, “Are you mad at me?”

  “Of course not,” he replied. “Enjoy your time in the fat cat camp, kitty.” He shrugged me away and glanced back at Glen. “But watch out for the lions,” he warned. “I hear they bite.”

  ***

  I had no trouble pulling my suitcase across the tarmac road, but the five steps up to the porch nearly did me in. Glen stood and watched me struggle, uttering his first word when I finally cleared the top step. “Trouble in paradise?”

  I had to be nice to him at work, but we were off the clock now so I replied accordingly. “If you’re going to be a smartarse, first you have to be smart.” I twisted my key in the lock and pushed open the door. “Otherwise you’re just an arse.”

  ***

  No matter how hard I tried over the next few hours, I couldn’t settle. I wandered aimlessly from room to room, growing
more dejected by the second. It was a nice house – if beige is your thing. The walls, furniture and floor tiles were all the same monochromatic, depressing shade. It was functional but uninspiring – and I hated it.

  The only redeeming feature was the bathroom, and the door wasn’t even the best part. It had a bath – something I hadn’t seen in weeks.

  Not much thought went into my plan for whittling away the rest of the afternoon. I grabbed my bottle of Shiraz out of my suitcase, drew a bath, and spent the next two hours pretending I was living a perfectly normal life.

  ***

  It was after midnight when I finally decided that being normal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. After three hours of tossing and turning in my huge beige bed, I concluded that sleep just wasn’t going to happen.

  I lay flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling while I tried reasoning with myself. Mitchell didn’t want me, and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to want him. And that’s exactly what I kept telling myself as I stepped out of my beige house and quietly pulled the door closed. I paused at the edge of the steps for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Common sense was still screaming in my ear, only now its voice sounded a lot like Dan Grace’s.

  My life in Kaimte was built on a foundation of secrets and lies. Staying away from Mitchell would be doing both of us a favour.

  That notion stayed with me as I strolled across the road. But when the warm asphalt under my bare feet turned to the cool sand of the beach, another thought took over, and they were the tough Irish words of Lynette Kelly. “Protect your soul at all costs, my girl,” she’d told me. “It’s the only truth you’ll have for a while.”

  I was finally beginning to realise what that meant. More than my fair share of time was spent doing shady things for people I didn’t trust. I didn’t get to choose who I did business with, but the tiny amount of downtime I was afforded should’ve been spent hanging out with the one person who was good for my soul.

  My plan was vague, but so were my intentions. All I could do was put it all out there and tell Mitchell how I felt. If he told me to take a hike and slammed the door in my face, I would take solace in the fact that I’d finally shown him some honesty.

  And that was the thought that kept me going as I ran down the sandy trail to the ramshackle little house on the beach.

  Torment

  MITCHELL

  No one ever knocked on my door, least of all after midnight. It was such an alien sound that it took me a long moment to realise what it was. It was a few seconds too long for Shiloh. She was almost at the edge of the deck when I opened the door.

  “Hey,” I quietly called. “Where are you going?”

  She slowly turned around, looking one part mortified, one part confused and all parts lovely. “It’s late,” she mumbled. “Were you sleeping?”

  “No, I just got home.” She knew my schedule better than anyone. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really.” She shook her head. “We need to talk before I completely lose my nerve.”

  “Wow. That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I stepped aside and motioned with a swing of my arm. “Be my guest.”

  The trail of her familiar perfume lingered as she passed, and for a moment things were how they were meant to be. I didn’t want to ruin it with words so I waited for her to speak, which seemed to take forever.

  “Why didn’t you ask me to stay?” she finally blurted, her brown eyes challenging mine.

  For such a simple question, it was mighty confusing. I had no idea how to answer her, so like an idiot I said nothing.

  “I would’ve stayed if you’d asked me to,” she elaborated. “Why didn’t you?”

  I slowly shook my head. “Why would I?”

  Shiloh flopped down in the nearest beanbag looking absolutely crushed. “I really did read this all wrong, didn’t I?”

  I crouched in front of her and held her hand. “I’ve spent weeks being tormented by you,” I told her. “You’re not my type.”

  I was a publican, not a scholar. Perhaps that’s why I’d just thumped her in the chest with a bungled run of words that came out sounding awful.

  Her free hand flew over my mouth. “Stop talking now,” she demanded. “You’re just not good at it.”

  I muffled my next words against her palm. “Let me finish, please.”

  After a long moment, she withdrew her hand.

  “I like you, Shiloh. I do.”

  “But?”

  “But, the girls in my past are shady as heck,” I explained. It wasn’t exactly the winning formula for a long lasting relationship, but it had always worked for me. “I’m not sure I deserve a good girl.”

  She huffed out a sharp breath, widening her eyes in surprise. “You think I’m good?”

  I half smiled. “You iron your clothes for fun.”

  “I like things neat,” she defended in a tiny voice.

  I steadied myself by putting both hands on her knees. “And there’s nothing wrong with that,” I replied. “But it confuses me.”

  The next words out of my mouth were going to determine everything. The bottom line was, I felt guilty for being attracted to her. Never before had I been so fascinated by someone so naïve and green. I wasn’t the bloke who enjoyed playing the part of protector. I liked girls who start fires and raise a little hell. Shiloh couldn’t start a fire with a box of matches and a set of instructions, and yet I still fought the urge to kiss her half to death whenever she was in reach. I also felt a driving need to stand up for her and look after her when she needed it, which was often. It was downright confusing and I had no idea how to deal with it.

  “I think you’re too good for me.” It wasn’t exactly a full confession, but it was the best I could come up with. “I didn’t ask you to stay because you don’t belong in a shabby old shack.” I glanced around the pitiful room. “And this is all I have.”

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds as if trying to make sense of my words. “You’re scared,” she said finally.

  I wasn’t sure if it was a question or an accusation. Either way, I agreed with her. “Terrified,” I admitted. “I’m scared of disappointing you, hurting you and messing up your ironing routine.”

  She finally let her amusement show. Both of her hands moved to my face. “Maybe you should get out of your comfort zone and try something new.”

  My something new came in the form of a compliment – something she couldn’t put down to flirty innuendo or a joke. “I think you’re beautiful.” My eyes were focused entirely on her mouth. “And I want you to stay.”

  “Really?” The uncharacteristically high pitch in her voice made me smile.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to kiss me,” she murmured. “And make it good. Then I’ll decide whether I’m staying or not.”

  Her smartarse comment threw us right back to a place I was comfortable with. The beanbag crunched beneath her as I lurched forward, urgently pressing my lips against hers as if there was a chance she’d come to her senses and change her mind.

  She didn’t. And within three seconds, I knew I was hers to keep.

  Good Girls

  SHILOH

  Mitchell was under the impression that Shiloh Jenson was good. That meant I was playing the role well, but the performance wasn’t flawless. Good, meek girls weren’t his type – and yet here I was, pinned beneath him on a beanbag, lip-locked and breathless.

  The reason for his confusion was simple, but not one I could ever share with him. Underneath the cover of lies, he’d managed to find a glimpse of Shiloh Brannan – and she was exactly his type.

  I turned my head, momentarily breaking our embrace. “I want to stay,” I whispered, “for a really long time.”

  I felt his smile against the skin of my throat. “That’s fortunate,” he replied. “Because I wasn’t going to let you go.”

  ***

  I’d slept
beside Mitchell every night for weeks. His bed felt like the safest place in Kaimte, but tonight was different. After spending twenty-two nights deflecting the sparks that came with accidental touches, I was finally able to give in to them.

  I refused to think about what might happen after that night, and when he peeled off his T-shirt, lay beside me and pulled me close, I lost the ability to think of anything. My breath hitched as his hand wrapped around the curve of my calf.

  “You have the most gorgeous legs,” he whispered in my ear.

  “You have gorgeous everything,” I softly replied.

  It was impossible to be more specific. There was a reason his neighbours had nicknamed him Adonis. His perfect body was a hard combination of ridges and hollows, but his touch was sublimely gentle. Mitchell slowly trailed a long line from my shin to my hip that left me tingling from head to toe.

  Be it by chance or design, it was pure artistry.

  “Do that again,” I whimpered, barely holding myself together. “Please do that again.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Far from regretful, his whole face lit as he smiled. “I’ve already moved on.”

  And he had.

  My eyes fluttered closed, reacting as his hands deftly changed course. The tingling suddenly turned to surging volts that pinned me to the bed. I couldn’t have moved if the room was on fire, and at that moment I was almost certain that it was.

  My whole body burned in the best possible way, and I had to know if he felt it too. In a move that took huge effort, I shifted my hand to his chest, flattening my palm over his heart.

  “It’s there, Shiloh,” he assured me, breathing the words against my shoulder. “Every part of me is here.”

  Even Witches Need To Eat

  MITCHELL

  If Shiloh had woken with a single ounce of regret that morning, everything would’ve gone to hell, which probably explained why I woke at the crack of dawn feeling weighed down by a sense of impending doom.