by Brenda Novak
“It’s fortunate that he’s backing off,” she told herself. “You don’t want to be the kind of friend who’d sneak around on Eve.” No one had come through for her like Eve and the Harmons.
She checked her phone. Afraid she might accidentally dial one of her friends, who would then be able to overhear her and Joe, she’d turned it off when she left the house earlier. But, hoping for some contact from Eve to bolster her resolve, she powered it up again.
As she’d expected, Eve had sent her a series of text messages.
Layover in Minneapolis two hours long. Argh! Going to grab a bite with the gang.
Ted is in rare form. Kept us entertained on the plane. Baxter is sulking—who knows why. Callie and Kyle are sitting together—another clue that things between them might be more serious than they’re letting on. Noah spent the flight completely zonked out. Can’t believe I chose him for my seat partner. Sure feels strange leaving you behind. Everyone says so. We should have done more to get you on this trip!
How’s your mom?
Fine, Cheyenne texted back. We’re both fine. But she wasn’t entirely sure. Anita wasn’t long for this earth. And being the object of Joe’s attention, even for such a short period, had made the yearning she felt for him that much more poignant.
What would it be like to feel his bare skin against hers? She’d never experienced that kind of sensation, but she’d dreamed of it often enough. And he was always the man in her dreams.
Gently banging her head against the steering wheel, she groaned, then forced herself to sit up and act like an adult. She’d get through this the way she survived everything else—by taking it one day at a time.
She started to drive home but when she reached Whiskey Creek and the road leading to the dilapidated string of homes tucked away by the river, she couldn’t make herself turn. If she went back, Presley would come up with some excuse to take off, and Cheyenne would once again be left alone with Anita.
She needed a longer break. So she crept down Sutter Street at ten miles per hour, trying to enjoy the Christmas decorations strung on the historic buildings and converted Victorians. As in so many other gold-mining towns of the 1800s, the storefronts of Whiskey Creek had a quaint charm, with multipaned windows, antique lettering, old-fashioned streetlights hung with wreaths—at least in December—and Western boardwalks.
When she passed the huge, decorated tree in the park, where the city council had recently erected a giant statue of a man panning for gold, she stopped and got out.
She was staring up at the angel poised at the very top, her thoughts a million miles away—on Eve and Joe, on the P.I. Presley had mentioned to her mother, on the renovations that were to begin tomorrow—when a voice intruded.
“Enjoying the fresh air?”
The question came from behind her and had a sardonic edge.
When she turned, she saw a man leaning up against the cinder-block building that housed the public restrooms. With his face cast in the shadow of the overhang, she couldn’t immediately tell who he was. It took her a second to identify the voice, but her memory eventually came up with a name.
She was looking at one of the Amos boys. Dylan, the oldest. “It’s a bit chilly.” She assumed the conversation would end there. Presley knew the Amoses; she didn’t. But he spoke again.
“Who let you out of the house?”
“Excuse me?”
Propping one foot against the wall behind him, he lit a cigarette, which illuminated his face. “Presley said you never go anywhere.”
“That’s not true.”
He paused before taking another drag. “She also said you’re too uptight to have any fun.”
“Why would she tell you that?” Cheyenne couldn’t imagine the Amoses talking about her at all. She was as different from them as night from day, and that was apparent long before any conversation.
“I promised her that if she’d bring you along someday, I’d show you a good time. But she said you wouldn’t let me, that you’ll probably remain a virgin till you die.”
Rumors about her lack of sexual experience had circulated through town before, along with plenty of speculation on whether it could be true. But she was surprised he’d confront her like this. “My personal life is none of your business.”
He blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Doesn’t stop me from being curious.”
“You can’t believe everything you hear. Presley must’ve been high when she said that. Which doesn’t make her particularly reliable.” She wasn’t sure why she’d dignified his remark with a response, except that she didn’t want him poking fun at her innocence.
“I gotta take what I can get.”
She shot him a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s the only person we have in common,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, she’s always high when she’s at our place. That’s why she comes over. She’s looking for a party. And my brothers are more than happy to give her one.”
Cheyenne continued to grimace. It didn’t help to have her worst fears confirmed. “As I thought.”
“You blame us for your sister’s addiction?”
He’d obviously picked up on her tone.
“You could be a better influence.”
“It’s not my job to set her straight. She makes her own choices.”
“I’m not happy about the drug use.”
“Duly noted.” A laugh rumbled from deep in his throat. “Your lack of approval changes everything.”
Stung by his flippant remark, she reacted angrily. “I hope no one’s taking advantage of her while she’s there. Because if I find out that’s the case—”
“You’ll what?” He shoved away from the wall to move closer. He wasn’t bad-looking, but he wasn’t particularly good-looking, either. He had a wiry build with broad shoulders and plenty of muscle, apparent even beneath his denim jacket and jeans. She couldn’t find fault with his body. It was his face that bothered her. With an abundance of angles, cruel, dark eyes and a jagged scar on one temple, he looked…dangerous. The fact that he was reckless and had a history of getting picked up by the police only added to her sense that it was smarter to keep her distance.
“I’ll do whatever I can to protect her,” she said, folding her arms to appear more resolute.
“Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to Presley at my place,” he told her. “But, like I said, she makes her own decisions. And there isn’t anything either of us can do about that.”
When he continued to advance on her, she glanced around. It was three o’clock on a Sunday. She could reasonably expect to find other people in the park, even on a cold afternoon, like this one. A few dog walkers, if nothing else. But they were alone and being alone with Dylan Amos made her uncomfortable. He had a powerful presence that encouraged others to give him a wide berth. No one wanted to cross the Amos boys, especially the biggest and baddest.
But Cheyenne was in no mood to skitter away. “Are you the one she sleeps with when she’s there?”
He stopped a foot or so shy of her. “Me? No. I’ve never been interested in Presley.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with her?”
With a laugh at how quickly she’d grown defensive, he shook his head. “You can say what you want about her but I can’t? Is that it?”
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s also a lost soul. Deep down, I think you agree with me.”
“And you’re not?”
He gazed at the end of his cigarette. “We aren’t talking about me,” he said.
“Maybe we should be. Who are you to point a finger at anyone else?”
He took a long drag before flicking away the ashes. He looked like such a badass with that scar and slightly crooked nose. “You’re the one making judgments. But it’s nice to see you’ve got some spunk. After what you’ve been through, that surprises me. I’m impressed.”
She hadn’t been trying to impress him. She
’d rather he gave her a target. She had to play nice with everyone else—her friends, her sister, her dying mother. It wasn’t fair to behave any other way. But there were moments when the rage and frustration she’d known all these years threatened to consume her, made her want to rant and rave and throw whatever she could lay her hands on. She felt that way now, as if she was on the brink of letting all that negative emotion spew out.
He seemed braced for the worst, like someone poking a rattlesnake with a stick to see if it would strike. Of all the people in Whiskey Creek, she thought he could take it if she unleashed her rage. But she didn’t. They were virtually strangers. She had no right to go after him any more than anyone else.
“No comment?” he prompted.
“You don’t what to hear what I have to say,” she said, turning away.
He tilted his head to be able to look her in the face. “Why not?”
“It’s not polite.”
“Far as I’m concerned, polite is boring.”
“Fine.” She met his gaze. “I want to slug somebody, okay?”
Dylan didn’t draw back in horror. He didn’t laugh at her, either. “It’s a wonder you haven’t done that by now. I doubt anyone would blame you.” He leaned in to tweak her chin and lowered his voice at the same time. “But take it from me, sweet pea. There are better ways of working off frustration.”
She knew she should let it go at that, but spoke before she could stop herself. “Such as…”
He grinned. “You ever want me to show you what it’s like to have a man in your bed, you know where to find me.”
Taken aback, Cheyenne blinked. She’d never spoken directly to Dylan Amos before, not more than a hello when they passed at school over a decade ago—or maybe a nod of acknowledgment when they bumped into each other on the street. She resented him and his family for adding to the problems of her already confused sister and did whatever she could to avoid them. So this was essentially their first conversation. Had he really just propositioned her out of nowhere? “You don’t actually think—”
“That you’d give me a chance?” Smoke curled from his nostrils. “Why not? Joe certainly isn’t stepping up.”
Cheyenne felt her jaw drop. How did he know she cared for Gail’s brother? “What makes you think I want anything from Joe?” She’d quickly masked her surprise in an effort to keep up the charade, but he wasn’t buying her act.
He squinted through the smoke drifting lazily up from his cigarette. “It’s hard to miss, for anyone who’s really looking.”
Why was he looking? “I don’t understand.”
Suddenly, the intensity on his face disappeared behind a mask of indifference—his usual expression. “Forget I said anything.”
Tossing his cigarette on the cold, icy grass, he stubbed it out with his boot and strode away. But she couldn’t let what he’d said go at that. She jogged after him, catching him before he could reach the parking lot. “Wait! How did you know? Did Presley tell you about Joe? Has she guessed?”
When he turned, those cruel eyes swept over her—except, up close, they weren’t all that cruel. They actually held enough blatant appreciation to send a tingle down her spine, and for the first time she understood why Dylan Amos appealed to so many women. It wasn’t necessarily his looks; it was his raw sexuality, excess energy and fierce pride, combined with a certain amount of unpredictability.
“Well?” she said.
“I would guess she doesn’t, since she’s never mentioned it,” he said. “Does that make you feel less exposed?”
He turned to go again and she grabbed his arm to stop him. Then she realized she was touching him and released her hand. “So how is it that you, of all people…”
She never finished the question. She didn’t need to.
“Maybe I’ve been watching you a little closer than anyone else.” With that he crossed to his motorcycle, which, she wasn’t surprised to see, he’d parked illegally.
“Why would you bother?” she called out.
“Why do you think?” he replied. Then he pulled on his helmet and started his bike, leaving her staring after him as he turned around and opened the throttle.
10
“What do you know about Dylan Amos?” Cheyenne asked. She and her sister had been watching TV for the past hour. Presley planned to go out later, but it was only ten o’clock—early by her standards. The parties she attended didn’t get started until eleven. Normally she’d be hard-pressed to find one on a Sunday. Even the Amoses had to work during the week. They ran their own collision repair shop just outside town. But it was getting so close to Christmas there was a party almost every night.
“He’s beyond sexy,” Presley responded. “Why?”
Chey pretended to be absorbed in studying her hands. “You have a thing for him?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Maybe he isn’t popular with your crowd. But all the women I know want him.”
Chey refused to speculate on just what type of woman that would be. She preferred not to acknowledge that her sister was one of them. “You’ve slept with him?”
Presley screwed up her mouth, apparently puzzling it out. “I don’t think so.”
Chey felt her eyes widen. “You don’t know?”
“How would I? I don’t always pay attention to everything that’s going on.”
Sometimes Presley was far too honest.... “That really scares me, Pres.”
“Letting go feels good. You should try it sometime.”
Cheyenne wasn’t that self-destructive. She’d just decided to drop the subject—her encounter with Dylan was odd and nothing she needed to spend time thinking about—when her sister spoke again.
“What makes you ask about Dylan? You hate the Amoses.”
“I don’t hate them,” she said. “I don’t even know them.”
“You never want me to go over there.”
“Because their parties are notorious for sex, drugs and alcohol, any one of which could land you in deep trouble. In short, the Amos brothers are thugs.”
“They’re fun. And I can take care of myself.”
That remained to be seen. She hadn’t done such a brilliant job so far. Her inability to make wise decisions kept Cheyenne playing the heavy. “So…which of them have you slept with?” she asked.
Presley grabbed the remote and paused the program. “Why the sudden interest?”
“I ran into Dylan earlier, at the park.”
“And?”
“Nothing, really. He surprised me by saying hello. I didn’t think he even knew my name.”
“He definitely knows your name. He asks about you all the time.”
Cheyenne tucked her hair behind one ear, trying not to stare at Presley. “Why would he do that?”
“You intrigue him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Every other woman he knows would spread her legs for him in a heartbeat. But you’re hard to get, aloof. You treat him like he’s not good enough.”
“That’s how I come off?”
“To the Amoses you do. They don’t understand that you’re just trying to get out of this shit hole, change your life. Anyway, I’ve already told him he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in your pants. You’d think he’d forget about it.”
Cheyenne scowled at her. “That’s a crude way of telling him I wouldn’t be interested.”
Presley rolled her eyes. “You should’ve been born in a different era. Or to a Quaker family. Sometimes I wonder where the hell you came from.”
Her sister had said similar things in the past. Cheyenne had never taken them literally. But the fear that suddenly flickered in Presley’s eyes, as if she’d just said something she wished she could retract, made Cheyenne feel that maybe this wasn’t a throwaway statement.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
Jumping to her feet, Presley threw the remote on the couch. “Nothing. I ha
ve to go.”
“Before we finish Alaska State Troopers?”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“But you love this show.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Pres!”
Her sister must’ve heard the serious note in her voice because she stopped and turned. She’d also hunched in on herself as though she was expecting the worst, which set off another alarm in Cheyenne’s head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What makes you ask that?”
Her behavior. “You haven’t heard from that private investigator again, have you?”
“No.”
“What was his name? Something like Couch…or Crouch?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t even remember.”
“You have his card.”
“I tossed that. No point in keeping it. Mom won’t be around long enough to make right whatever she did wrong—or to be punished for some old mistake.”
They’d had to increase the dosages on Anita’s meds again. She’d been unconscious for the past few hours. “That’s true, but…shouldn’t we at least see what it’s about?”
“We’d be foolish to dig up the past.”
“You’re convinced it’s bad?”
“What else could it be? Has there ever been a surprise like that you thought was good?”
No. Definitely not.
Cheyenne shrugged, effectively ending the conversation, and Presley disappeared into her bedroom. When she returned twenty minutes later, she had on thick eyeliner, deep red lipstick and a low-cut blouse with a pair of tight-fitting jeans that left no detail to the imagination. There’d once been a time when Presley was chubby. But those days were gone. If anything, she bordered on too thin. Cheyenne knew her drug use had a lot to do with that.
