Into the Storm

by Susan Fanetti

  “I told you—I’m interested. More than that. Friday night…opened something back up in me. But I’ve been shut down a long time. There’s shit I have to re-learn, I s’pose. I’m asking if you’re still interested, enough to give me a chance to figure my shit out.”

  Now she shifted uncomfortably under his hand. “I don’t want a project, Show. I’m not interested in fixing you.”

  Jesus, did he not want that. Not again. “I don’t want to be fixed. Not by anybody but me. Just asking if you can see your way to hang around a spell while I do it.”

  He’d said his piece, not about to go into any greater detail about Daisy, or Holly, or his marriage, not yet, not so soon. He was still figuring out his changing feelings about most of that himself. So he sat and watched her face, trying to understand whether she was swayed at all. She was staring at the floor, her eyes moving almost as if she were reading something on the hardwood or the plush rug on it.

  He was starting to think she wasn’t going to say anything. “Shannon.”

  She flinched again at her name. That bothered him; he didn’t understand it. But she finally looked him in the eye. “What does hanging around a spell look like? Because I won’t be your fuck buddy.”

  “Jesus! No!” The thought of her being treated like that made him want to punch somebody. Himself, come to think of it. He wanted her naked again—he wanted her naked now—but he could wait. He’d had some practice. “No. I just…want to spend some time with you. Take you to supper, maybe. Talk some. Get to know each other a little.”

  “Supper, huh?” She stood up, and this time he didn’t stop her. Standing over him as he sat where he was, she considered him for several seconds, then said, “Okay. We can try that. You should go now, though. I have things to do before the nightcap.”

  Relieved and disappointed all at once, he stood. When she started to step away and make some room between them, he caught her hand. “Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Then he pulled her close and put his free hand on her face, running his thumb over her cheek. Her skin was so damn soft. She didn’t fight him; instead, she softened and leaned in a little, and he bent down and kissed her. Gently, letting his mouth learn hers, savoring the silken glide of her lips on his, the warmth of her tongue against his. His blood humming, his cock hard and straining, he groaned and dropped her hand so he could frame her face.

  She backed off, her cheeks flushed. “Show?”

  “Yeah, hon?”

  “Say my name.”

  He got it—that flinch every time he’d spoken her name. Now he understood. With a grin, he murmured, “Shannon.”

  “Oh, shit.” She came up high on her tiptoes, hooking her arms tight around his neck, and kissed him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Hollywood contingent was turning out to be one of Shannon’s greater challenges in her career. In her high-end Tulsa hotel, nothing they’d requested (or demanded; Austin Montroy, the photographer and ass-fondler, was turning out to be a diva) would have caused her even to blink. What was reasonable in Tulsa, however, was often downright exotic in Signal Bend. Isaac had sent Omen over from the clubhouse to be, in Isaac’s word, Shannon’s “bitch” until further notice, and she’d made good use of him, sending him as far as St. Louis on hunting-gathering errands. So far, though, she’d managed everything.

  She’d even gotten Beth to make vegan sushi. That conversation would stay with Shannon for the rest of her days.

  As it turned out, a week had been an extremely conservative estimate, and now, the writers feeling particularly inspired by their surroundings, they were planning to stay put for two weeks longer. Shannon had had to do some fancy rescheduling, because the weekends in that span had already been booked, but she’d managed it, offering a free night to couples who would reschedule. Now, the inn was booked weekends right up to Christmas. The new year was looking quiet, but Shannon hadn’t started to fret about that yet; they’d had a very good run, considerably better than projected, so they could have some downtime in the bleak midwinter and not feel it much. She was looking forward to the break, honestly.

  Just more than a week had passed since Show had asked her to “hang around a spell,” and she’d seen him almost daily. He always met her eyes now, always had a smile for her, but he’d only come twice specifically to see her. She’d decided that he would have to come to her, while she was “hanging around”—she would not be seeking him out. She’d done enough of that already, and she’d ended up naked and alone because of it.

  She was having some trouble letting that go.

  But he was different with her now, and she could feel him, well, wanting her. It felt good. The first time he’d come by—the very next day after their talk—it had been late afternoon and warm, and they’d sat on the porch for a couple of hours, in the rocking chairs. They’d simply chatted. Show had talked about Signal Bend, the way it had been when he was young, how it had changed, the suffering the people here had been through over the course of decades. It was a somber story, but Show had told it with a wry kind of humor that had surprised her. He could be funny. She wouldn’t have believed it.

  When she’d said she needed to get back to work, he’d stood, held out his huge hand, and helped her out of the rocking chair, pulling her close. Then he’d kissed her, a long, slow, deep kiss that made her knees feel buzzy. Then he’d kissed her hand and left.

  Being close to Show, kissing him, feeling those big, rough hands on her, that beard, the brick wall that was his chest—it did things to Shannon that she hadn’t fully come to terms with yet. Like an electrical charge in her blood. It was a new feeling.

  He’d come yesterday morning, too, and had joined her in the kitchen for breakfast. Beth’s eyebrow had gone up when Show followed Shannon in, but she’d pulled down a plate and laid out his breakfast on it, saying not a word. The Hollywood guests would get buckwheat pancakes with apple compote (which sounded pretty delicious to Shannon), but the people who “ate normal,” in Beth’s view, got her locally-renowned thick-slab French toast, with sausage links on the side. Show hadn’t stayed long after breakfast, because he had work of his own, but they’d had a companionable meal and an easy conversation, and then he’d kissed her again, on the porch again, before he’d left.

  Still feeling the sting of the morning after Badger’s party, she didn’t want to rush. She had some trust to build up again. But those kisses were killing her a little, working her into a lather. She spent a lot of time thinking about them. A lot of time.

  She was thinking about them right now, in fact, squatting behind the front desk, restocking and organizing the backstock of area maps and sightseeing brochures, singing quietly to herself. On this midweek day, David Gordon and Harrie Beck, the writers, had taken over the dining room, with its lovely view of the front grounds, for their interviews. They’d started out interviewing people in their homes and businesses, but something must not have been working with that plan, because this week, they were asking people to come to them. Austin Montroy had gone out, with Omen as his guide, to take pictures of the town and surrounding areas. It was late, though, past dark, and Shannon figured they’d be wrapping up for the day soon.

  “You have a beautiful voice.”

  Shannon jumped and whacked herself a good one on the underside of the desk, right across the top of her head. The blow almost sent her to her ass, which would have been especially embarrassing, considering she was wearing a skirt. But she kept her feet and stood, feeling a bit wobbly and rubbing her head, to face David Gordon, speaker of the fateful compliment.

  He dashed around the desk and put his arm around her. “Oh, hey—I’m sorry! You okay?”

  Shannon smiled, but she was seeing pretty little birdies, definitely. “Yes, I’m fine. Just startled me—no worries, really.” He wanted to lead her to one of the armchairs in front of the desk, and Shannon couldn’t figure out how to extricate herself from his care without being rude, so she let him. When she was sitting, he squatted next
to the chair and brushed her hair back from her face.

  Okay, things were getting awkward. He was very much what she would have described as her type—handsome, fit, successful, perfectly groomed—but, even if she and Show weren’t possibly trying to get something off the ground, she didn’t like a near stranger thinking he could put his hand on her face. A stranger whose attention had noticeably drifted downward.

  She liked the way she looked. She often enjoyed the attention she got; she was not above admitting to some vanity. But sometimes men forgot there was a head attached to the boobs. And sometimes men thought that the fact of her shape meant that she wanted whatever they had to offer. She did not.

  She pulled away, hoping she was subtle enough not to offend but clear enough that he’d back off.

  “I’m fine, really. Was there something I could help you with?”

  He didn’t back off. Instead, he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “You are really gorgeous, you know that?” He put his other hand on her bare leg, letting his fingers slide a bit under the hem of her skirt.

  Had she been flattered, only days ago, by the attention of these men? That had been foolish. Hollywood liberals or not, they were both every bit the hounds that any member of the Horde was; they just couched it differently, in this kind of slick chivalry. They were clearly used to women dropping their panties at the mere thought of their attention. So were the Horde, but they were much more direct and honest about it. Shannon was seriously rethinking her “type.”

  In Tulsa, she’d have known exactly how to deal with this. There, the lines between guests and staff were clear. Sure, there were douchebags around. There were always douchebags around. But the atmosphere there had been much less intimate than here in this little inn, and the boundaries more obvious.

  These guests were important to the inn and to Signal Bend, and that made things even more complicated. But Shannon had to draw her boundary, and she made a call. Putting her hands around his and moving them off her, she said, “Thank you. My boyfriend thinks so, too.”

  She kind of hated herself for going there, rather than standing up for herself, but it was the best, easiest thing she could think of to draw the line and make it firm, while still possibly avoiding bad feelings. Plus, her head hurt, and she wasn’t thinking all that clearly. And it worked. He stood up at that and said, “Ah, I see. Sorry. You’re okay, then?”

  Relieved, this time she really smiled up at him. “I am.” She stood. “Did you need something?”

  He looked flustered. “Huh? Oh, right. Yes. Would there be a problem with us setting up lights and a couple of cameras in the dining room tomorrow? We want to get some of these interviews on film.”

  It would be a monumental pain in the ass. But Shannon smiled and said, “During the weekdays, that should be fine. Weekends, we’re booked solid, so we’ll have to set up a camera in one of your rooms.”

  She could see him want to quarrel with that, but he was feeling sufficiently awkward about his pass, she supposed, that he nodded instead. “Yeah. We can make that work, I think. Okay, thanks. I’m gonna go help Harrie pack up in there, then.”

  Another bright, professional smile from Shannon. Her cheeks were beginning to ache. “Sounds good.”

  He went one way, back to the dining room, and Shannon went the other, into her apartment, for some aspirin and to check her hair. Show was due any minute to take her to dinner. She smirked a little at the thought of what would have happened to Mr. Sexy Hollywood if his hand had been up her skirt when Show had arrived.

  Show was standing in the parlor when she went back out. He looked good—a crisp, white shirt and leather jacket under his kutte. And no beanie—his hair was loose and brushed, and he looked amazing, if not quite like himself. But he’d dressed to take her out to dinner, and the simple sweetness of that made her smile.

  She was wearing her good black pencil skirt, a cobalt blue sweater with a wide, drape collar that came almost off her shoulders, and high-heeled, tall black boots. She hadn’t had many opportunities in Signal Bend to dress up—and, truly, what she was wearing wouldn’t have been dressed up in Tulsa—but she was taking the opportunity she had.

  As he took her in, from her face to her boots and back up, slowly, his eyes widened a bit, and he grinned. “You look…good, hon. Real damn good.” He took a step toward her and stopped. “But, uh, I have the bike.”

  That seemed like a non sequitur, and she wrinkled her brow, but then she got it. Oh. Her skirt. Damn. “Oh—well, I could drive.”

  He walked to her, laughing. “Don’t think so.”

  “Is this some macho thing?,” she huffed. “Because—”

  “Easy, now.” He put up his hand. “No, I don’t like ridin’ bitch, but it’s not that. I won’t fit in that bitty cage of yours. I could wear that thing like a shoe.”

  She drove a pale blue, late-model Beetle. He had a point. But then what? She huffed again and crossed her arms, frustrated. She looked good. He thought she looked good. She didn’t want to change.

  “I’ll go back and get my truck. Take me twenty minutes.”

  She didn’t want that, either. Well, at least he’d seen her in the skirt. “No, no. I’ll change. I’ll just run back and put some jeans on instead.”

  “Sure?”

  She nodded, and he mirrored the gesture. But when she started to turn back toward her office and the apartment beyond it, he caught her hand. She loved the feeling of his huge hand enfolding her much smaller one.

  “Hold up. It’s a good skirt. Can I…?” He put his other hand on her hip and met her eyes.

  Not quite sure what he planned, she cocked her head but didn’t deny him. His face gone suddenly serious, Show gripped her hips, then slid his hands back and over her ass. He hadn’t touched her so intimately since the night of Badger’s party, and the muscles between her legs got tight and hot. She swayed a little, closing her eyes, and he leaned in. “It’s a real good skirt. I’ve seen you in it before.” His voice was low, barely more than a rumble.

  She blinked, surprised, and looked up to see him staring at her. Then she remembered—back in the summer, the day she’d helped him get the boxes. Oh, she liked that he remembered that. She put her hands on his chest, feeling the swell of his pecs even through his kutte, jacket, and shirt.

  His eyes were serious and intent. She thought he was going to bend down and kiss her, but then he stepped back. “You should get changed.”

  Derailed and breathless, Shannon took a second to get her feet under her again. She cleared her throat and nodded. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay. Hey—no high heels, either. And a warm jacket.”

  It was a damn shame to change into jeans and low-heeled boots, but she made the best of it. She’d just done laundry, at least, so she had her best-fitting jeans available. Jeans were a tough fit for a woman with hips and a narrow waist, but this pair worked. She grabbed her brown leather jacket.

  When she got back out to the parlor, Show was standing at the window, looking out. He didn’t seem to hear her coming, so she went to stand next to him. “Okay, ready.”

  He turned and smiled. “That works, too.” With one finger, he traced the wide neckline of her sweater. “You are somethin’ to see.”

  Shannon took a step back and pulled her jacket on. He was being extra sweet and romantic tonight. Maybe this was his way of being on a date. She liked it, but it made her nervous. He wasn’t staying over. They weren’t going there again until he’d done whatever he needed to do to “figure his shit out.” She’d forgone shaving to make sure of it.

  “I’m hungry. Wine and dine me.”

  He took her hand and ushered her out of the inn.

  ~oOo~

  Shannon had never been on a motorcycle before. Show handed her a helmet, told her what to do, and swung his leg over. She got on behind him and wrapped her arms around him. She definitely liked that. In fact, once she got over her nerves—she thought she’d made his first cou
ple of turns harder, because she forgot to move with him and might have freaked out just a little—she liked it a great deal. Wrapped around him, feeling his big, muscular body against her chest and arms and legs, feeling the engine rumble through the seat…yeah, that was nice. It was quite cold, but his warm body provided a wonderful wind break, and she tipped her head against his back when the wind was too brisk on her face.

  When they got to the Chop House, he stayed on and held out his arm, helping her off. After he got off and took her helmet, he took off his leather gloves and brushed her hair from her face. The parking lot was dark, but she could feel the intensity of his expression. He bent down and touched a quick kiss to her lips.

  She was very glad she had not shaved. Foolproof.

  The Chop House was pretty quiet; only three other tables were seated when Show and Shannon came in. Mac Evans, the realtor, with a woman Shannon had never seen before, had a booth near the door. Mayor Fosse and his wife, Margery, had a table. And Hollywood. All three of them—David, Austin, and Harrie—sitting in the one large, round, corner booth. David was facing directly out from the corner and saw Show and Shannon being led to a table. He met Shannon’s eyes and held them, long enough to feel creepy. Show must have picked up on it, too, somehow, because he stepped to her side, between her and David, and put his arm around her shoulders.

  When they were seated at a booth out of sight of the Hollywood group, and Wendy, their waitress, had taken their drink orders (Shannon ordered a beer; the first time she’d been to the Chop House, she’d tried to order wine, and then a whiskey sour. It hadn’t gone well.), Show asked, “You havin’ a problem with the writer? He movin’ on you, too?”

  Straight to the point. Show didn’t dance around with words. It had taken a long time to get him to talk to her, and they still weren’t talking, either of them, about anything deeply personal, but if he had a question, he asked it. If he had an observation, he made it. If he had a complaint, he lodged it. Shannon liked that.