by Grace Conley
“I hear you need rescuing, Bubbles,” he drawled, his easy demeanor not reaching his eyes.
“Well, not by you,” she shot back. She needed to keep him away from her, for his sake.
With Marine stoicism, Luke shook his head. “I’m not leaving you in here, Pres.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, picked up the bottle of champagne, and took a slow sip. She closed her hand around the neck of the bottle.
“If you come anywhere near me, I’ll deck you with Ryo’s new vintage.”
“A chance I’ll have to take,” he said, all alpha male surety. “Because you and I need to talk.”
Chapter Two
The first thing Luke saw as he emerged from the building with Presley thrown over his shoulder was three little old ladies, one of whom was seated in a wheel chair, brandishing cell phones at him like spears. He nodded and smiled at Priscilla Moreau, Clovis Owens, and one of his own family, old Lucinda Baudouin, who was clutching her cat, Mr. Puffins with one hand while managing a cane and wildly punching at her cell with the other.
“Nice sword!” croaked Clovis, gesturing at his Marine Corps dress uniform. “Can you turn a little as you come forward, so we get that in the picture?”
Knowing that Presley’s fine bottom was on full display encased in her tight-fitting blue jeans, he made a show of hoisting her higher on his shoulder and grinning and waving to the ladies, full-on hometown hero grin firmly on his face.
Bubbles.
Social media and Presley’s ass. It would make a fine photo op for the town’s Instagram, which he’d heard Lucinda was maintaining these days, since his visit had apparently popped up on it several times.
He plopped her down politely in front of them, then straightened to full regulation hero height with an ‘I defend the country for a living and I’m wearing my cape stance.’
“Have you seen Dawg?” he politely asked old Lucinda Baudouin, who, having posted her photo first, brandished Eastward with the sequined cane.
“I came to find you. Mr. Puffins says he’s over by the park, heading out of Dodge. Welcome back to town, Lucas.”
He wondered how Lucinda came to know where he was headed as he ran out of the wedding reception to help Presley. Secret girl network confirmed, he thought. Even the Senior Girls were in on it.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Nice to see you ladies, but I’m afraid I’ve got to run.” And—directed to Presley. “Come on, we need to hurry.”
Presley balked. “If that building could come down, I need to go get my wallet.”
He leveled his ex-girlfriend a look.
“And I need to go catch my pet, before he ends up in the next County.”
The little old ladies craned their heads back and forth in unison, watching them like a ping pong tournament.
“We’re headed back over toward Community Park, Luke, we’ll head Dawg off at the pass!” croaked out Clovis as she maneuvered her wheel chair.
“You go and help this nice young lady. Good to see you, Presley, my Lexi tells me great things about what you and Chiara are planning for Coupe,” said Priscilla.
“Don’t worry about Dawg, Mr. Puffins will help suss him out!” assured Loucinda.
And like a bolt of lightning, the Senior Ladies Brigade veered off one way, calling out sweetly for Dawg.
Luke turned his attention back to the crazy cutie who had haunted his dreams for the past year, who was currently hightailing it off the other way, headed back towards her peril into what he was pretty sure would be a condemned building.
“Shit,” he said, to no one in particular, as the gaggle of difficult women of a variety of ages had all gone off in different directions.
He shook his head, trying to catch up and figure out how he got here.
Just a few minutes ago, Luke was minding his own business getting ready to make his way over from the Presbyterian Church to the Napa Grand for his friend’s wedding reception, when the quake hit.
His cat, Dawg, who put out a series of distressed yowls during the ceremonial Marine arch of swords at the end of the ceremony, kicked up with a whip and flourish on her leash and broke away from the distraught flower girl that he’d given him over to hold onto during the ceremony. The damned animal bolted out of the church like a cat out of hell, wreaking havoc as he streaked through the guests towards freedom.
Next moment his cousin Frankie Baudouin DeLuca called, asking if he was near downtown and able to help the new girl over at Coupe, who was stuck in the building.
Being a Baudouin and a male, Luke knew there were more machinations behind that call than in the engine of a Formula One race car. He knew that in the background of everyday life, there existed some complicated crazy-as-shit girl network of texts and tweets that kept the world spinning on its axis. This, he felt sure, brought Frankie to the conclusion to call him in to go play hero for some girl. Men were born chumps, and he wasn’t turning in his man card anytime soon. In shock, Luke bit instantly the moment the girl’s name came out of Frankie’s mouth.
“Her name is Presley. Presley Trask. She just texted Chiara DeLuca that she’s stuck in there. She has really pretty red hair, and she works for Ryo Wines. They’re opening a new champagne bar in the old Goodwin bar, you know the one? Further down Pope Street, past the Veteran’s Hall,” Frankie’s words came out in a jumble.
So like a woman. Why on earth the fact that she had pretty red hair should matter, what mattered was that she was trapped in that old rattletrap of a building that could cave in on her at any moment.
“I have this,” he barked, hanging up on Frankie.
Luke took off down Main Street at a run. He knew the building all right. He saw it on his way over the the Vet’s just yesterday, where he was interviewing possible applicants for a new tiny house special that was going to feature U.S. vets building tiny homes in order to be able to retire in Northern California. He was also gathering support among friends and family for his non-profit that was name after the show, A Home on the Range.
The crappy old Goodwin bar needed help, and looked like it was getting it by way of Tanner Construction, a well-regarded local company that got the job about ten years too late, in Luke’s estimation. There was historical renovation, and there was foolhardy. He wasn’t sure which was which is this case at just a glance. But the gaping hole in the upper story as he ran up led him to believe the latter was the case.
The fact that it was Presley rattled his normal take-no-prisoners I’m-a-Marine emergency mode. As he sprinted around rubble, he ignored the shouts and calls of business owners and patrons that were spilling out onto the streets.
He indulged in a quick fantasy, since it was the first time in a year that he’d see her. She’d be trapped (not injured, just not able to run anywhere) in the building and he would bust in and find her, bosoms heaving in a ripped white t-shirt and having somehow lost her jeans. She’d be wearing his favorite peek-a-boo lace bra and a matching bikini, and be ready to express her undying gratitude, preferably through exotic uses of her tongue.
An aftershock shook the downtown area, putting the kibosh on Luke’s further exploration of fantasies about his ex-girlfriend.
Flash to current, the fact was his ex-girlfriend who’d run off and disappeared was standing right in front of him. Luke didn’t know if he wanted to go punch the side of the old building and watch it go down like one of those stop-motion films of buildings being demolished or if he wanted to haul off and cry. He’d rather do the latter, but it would show up on the town Instagram account for first the whole of the town, then eventually, the whole of the country, to see.
He was not reacting well to being a national celebrity.
Classic Presley. Smiling like a beauty queen and blowing shit up at the same time.
“Whoa,” he told her. “Who told you that you could go back in there?”
“I need me phone and my planner. And my purse is upstairs in the apartment.”
“The apartment that has a new skylig
ht in it,” he said sarcastically, pointing at the hole in the roof.
“Well, I need my stuff. And you fixed the door for me.”
“You need your stuff,” he mocked back. “No. I can help you, but you are not going back in there.”
“Since when do you use a planner?” he yelled at her retreating back. He’d enjoy getting under her skin, if not for the fact that what she was doing was outright dangerous.
After he’d left to tour the country, he kept hoping he’d run into her, make things right. He’d found a purpose and a meaning since his show got picked up, helping identify veterans in need of housing, and using a combination of grants and network TV budget to build them their own tiny houses.
He’d wanted things to be right for her. Back when they’d dated, he’d only recently left the military. His head was screwed on wrong then, and she helped him get to the point where he was able to make it right. Luke didn’t want things to get messy again. He was proud of what he’d been able to accomplish so far in helping people, wanted her to know things had changed for him.
In a huge way.
He did the unthinkable, because it’s what he used to do for a living. He walked into a building that he figured should be condemned.
“Bubbles, you need to get yourself back out here,” he commanded.
Zip. Silence.
He found her tucking her things in the giant front pocket of her sweatshirt, and was sad when she pulled it over her head, covering up the silly slogan emblazoned across the chest of her tight t-shirt.
“Come on,” he commanded again. “A cell phone’s not that important.”
“Okay. But the planner is.”
He rolled his eyes at that, and gestured for her to go back out first.
She was standing her, her normal sweet and sassy self, as if nothing had happened and there wasn’t disaster ensuing around her. She’d run out on him last year without a word. He got hurt, and finally he just got mad.
She turned around and smiled at him. Just smiled, beatifically, like she was happy to see him.
His heart caught for second at the upward tilt of her lips. The sassy lips that just demanded to be tamed.
But not by him.
No. Way.
“I need to go find Dawg,” he said, worrying.
“Go and find your dog then,” she said back.
“No, because you’ll decide you need to pack three suitcases, and the truth is, you didn’t even need to go back in there for your phone and your PLANNER book.” He was needing to go, to find Dawg, but stood there, unable to tell her that he was needing her, too.
To know she was safe. Finally, to just know where she was.
“Presley, we’ll come back here, okay? Just come help me find him.”
She looked up at the building, and back at him.
“Well, if it’s for your dog,” she said finally, and stomped along next to him.
Chapter Three
“You can’t be serious. You named a cat Dawg?” Presley squinted at the cat, who was turned circles, rubbing against the park bench that some kind soul had tied his leash to for them to find. No old ladies were to be seen, but she figured it was the work of Lucinda Baudouin and the rest of the Senior Center Posse.
“Yup,” said Luke, with one of his characteristic one-word answers.
She stared up at him, admiring his tall good looks in the dress uniform. He’d had to wear it once during the year they dated, for a funeral she’d accompanied him to. He was so yummy that they’d driven out to the beach and had wild sex in the back of his Jeep afterward, careless of who might see him ripping the prim black jacket and blouse she’d gotten for the occasion off. Luke always made Presley feel extra alive, and she knew she did the same for him.
Presley felt a sharp pang, knowing how much he’d survived. Including her.
He looks good, said a little voice in the back of her head.
But he’s just not for you, snarked a competing little voice. That was the voice of the Trask Curse. The voice of doom for any lasting loving relationship she might want to get in with a man.
“Meow,” trilled the little cat loudly, clearly wanting his freedom. The frumpy feline was a mottled black, grey, and white patchwork, and sported a perverse jaunty look about him due to a large black spot around his right eye shaped like a pirate’s eyepatch.
“You should have given him a pirate name, like Ahoy or Matey or Captain Ahab.”
“Nah, his name is Dawg,” Luke said, bending down to cat-level and petting and comforting the distressed kitty.
“Just like you.” Presley remembered the Marine Devil Dogs t-shirt that Luke liked to work out in, the one that showed off his amazing pecs. The shirt she liked to peel off of him.
“Just like me.”
Presley knelt down, let the cat sniff her hand. She helped comfort him, giving herself goose bumps when she accidentally stroked her hand against Luke’s. Petting the little cat elicited a loud purr that sounded like a car engine.
“He says thank you,” said Luke in a soothing voice. “He doesn’t warm up to most people.” He cradled the little cat like a baby, the sight of which broke Presley’s heart in a million pieces all over again.
“It’s a good thing we got to him,” offered Presley. “I have no idea how he got hooked up here, but yay for not being hurt and yay for not being gone. Animals freak out during earthquakes.”
“They do. And so do people.”
“Yes, they do.
“Where did you go, Presley?” Luke asked the unaskable. The one question she did not want to answer.
“I came here.”
“What? Why? Mind fuck?” his words came out in a staccato torrent, making Presley flinch.
“I came here,” she started again.
“I repeat: WHAT? WHY? Why move to my hometown? What could possibly draw you here?”
She shrugged, pain welling up in her heart but not wanting him to know, because that would be acknowledging the old her. The one who couldn’t handle things.
“I – well – you always mentioned how nice it was, that it was a quiet small town and everybody knew one another.”
“They do! And half of them are named Baudouin, too! You have to know how screwed up that is!”
“It’s not, really,” she said in a small voice.
“Then why?”
“Because it didn’t work out for us, Luke. No matter how much I loved you, it wasn’t going to work out. And I wanted, more than anything on earth, to know that things worked out for you.”
“This is mind blowing,” he chuffed out a breath, reaching out and placing a hand on her arm, as if he couldn’t stop himself.
“Well, it’s true, and now we can go our separate ways. Thank you for helping me get out of there. Really.”
“Really? That’s all you can say, Pres? Really?” he shook his head from side to side.
“I’m going to go see if I can get back in safely, and pack a bag.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“The hell I don’t.”
Presley stood up and backed away slowly, but he was like a magnet drawing her back in. She swallowed, wanting to say how proud she was of him, for making the transition from crazy wild broken man to his personal quest to help PTSD veterans have both the solitude they needed for reflection and a solid roof over their heads.
She thought about his wild side, how he used to get rowdy and then sometime crash, terribly.
Presley bristled. She was trying to keep him alive, after all, and he had the crazy bad luck to show up here.
She ignored him, picked her way through to the stairs to the apartment.
Darn this earthquake. Darn her shattered heart.
The apartment door hung open and a chunk of the wall was gone. She grabbed her large market tote and snatched up a small framed photo of the two of them together before he could come up behind her and see it. She threw the frame in her tote, along with her wa
llet.
Presley groaned. “I guess my clothing is a loss. Take a look at where the dresser ended up.”
“Pres, do you hear something?”
They both paused, went silent.
“Where is the building’s gas shutoff valve,” he asked.
“Down,” she pointed. “Downstairs, we passed it. There’s a small cabinet beneath this set of stairs.”
His eyes were intent on hers. “Hurry.”
He went down, cranked the gas off, and rejoined her within moments. “Okay, Bubbles, let’s move out.”
Presley nodded. She tried to speak, and an odd sound gurgled up from her throat.
She walked fast, kept up with him as they headed to his Jeep, her posture defeated.
She’d thought she was in control of her destiny, and doing the right thing.
Deep in her heart, now, she had the sneaking suspicion that she was wrong.
Chapter Four
“Semper Gumby, sweetheart,” Luke tossed the words out at Presley. Be flexible, you crazy cutie.
An admonition which he probably frickin’ needed more than she did, but he was good and annoyed. “Buckle up, Bubbles.” He threw the Jeep in gear and moved them out, heading slowly out of downtown to go make sure all was well out at Baudouin Vineyards.
Presley agreed to come along, on the basis that her close personal friend Chi Chi Ryo DeLuca Baudouin was at the vineyard with her husband, the Baudouin family scion, old Charles.
Luke was having the damnedest day ever.
This afternoon was supposed to have been one of those days he was always hearing about in his family.
Those days. Magic ones.
Yeah, those. He groaned inwardly.
Being a groomsman in his friend’s wedding, performing the traditional Marine Corps arch of swords for the happy couple. Luke hoped it was magic, for the sake of his friend and his new bride. That part of the day had mostly gone to plan, except for the intrusion of Dawg freaking out and bolting and, well, the major earthquake that followed. Luke shifted and looked at the little cat, who sat placidly in Presley’s lap being cuddled.
Luke realized that he was jealous of his damned cat.
