Pretty Reckless (Entangled Ignite)

by Jodi Linton

  I spun around to catch Skinny pacing skittishly, his veiny, bare feet crackling across strewn newspapers. He gave me a huge smile filled with years of meth decay. Black, rotting teeth receded into the roof of his mouth, and the ones still hanging on had turned yellow. He took a long stretch of his neck, revealing the spider web inked in a faded purple outline on his papery, opaque skin. He looked malnourished, from his rail-thin arms and concave stomach outline against his T-shirt to the sharp protrusion of his shoulders.

  “They want to kill me,” he said.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.

  He coughed and spat out a wad of meth head phlegm. “The guys dealing the Special K. I think that fucker you’re with is one of them,” he stammered—referring, I assumed to Gunner, though I didn’t know why.

  I also had never been able to tag Skinny as a reliable source of information. His brains had been fried worse than those burritos Elroy ate from the Filler-Up station since junior high.

  “Skinny,” I sighed, placing my hands on my hips, “that guy out there is Gunner Wilson.”

  “Well, hot damn. I didn’t know that fella was back in town.” Skinny sat down in his recliner, his tweaked-out fingers twitching.

  I leaned up against the far wall of the trailer, making myself as comfortable as possible until Skinny got to whatever point he needed to make. “And before you say anything, we’re not back together.”

  “Wasn’t thinking it.” He snickered. “A man must really be hankering for some pussy to go crawling back to a woman who blew his ass open.”

  “It’s a tiny scar!”

  “Whatever,” he shrugged.

  This was going nowhere fast. The conversation had detoured onto a road that always ends up with me looking crazy, instead of the direction it needed to go, which was what the hell was I doing in here?

  The lock jimmied. It would only be a matter of seconds before Gunner just kicked the damn thing in.

  “So what do you know about the Special K?” I asked Skinny to get the conversation going where it needed to. “I thought you only dealt in the meth business these days.”

  Skinny’s knees started to twist, his legs began to shake. “It’s real bad. These guys, the ones dealing the Special K, mean to kill me if I don’t help get their K out.” His entire body juddered nervously. “Not to mention I have all my regulars wanting to beat down my damn door. I ain’t had time for meth. Those bastards won’t let me. I bet that motherfucker Seth Moore is the one who called me in. He’s been banging on my door all week, and told me if I didn’t get him what he wanted, he’d turn me into Sheriff Dobbs.” Skinny looked at me. “Seth knows things. I sort of spilled my guts at last week’s poker game.”

  “It wasn’t Seth Moore who turned you in,” I told him. “Besides, Wyatt already told me all about your new deal.”

  “Well, your cousin sucks as a friend,” Skinny said.

  “Why do these men want your help?” I asked, suspiciously eyeing him down.

  “The Special K.” He gnawed on his cracked lip. “They want me to distribute the damn stuff, since I have connections and all, but my clients won’t touch that shit.”

  “Did you see the guys’ faces?”

  Looking slightly confused, Skinny said, “No.” He gnawed at his thumb nail. “They were wearing black ski masks.”

  “So where’s the ketamine?” I asked.

  Skinny panicked and jolted his eyes about the trailer, looking for God knew what. I grabbed his pointy shoulders and gave a good shake. “Skinny,” I said, concerned.

  He blinked and dove at me, latching his hands firmly around my neck. I fell flat on my back, struggling under his fidgety hands. I was pinned down, looking up at those blood-shot eyes surrounded by veins bulging at his temples.

  “Who told you about the Special K?” he demanded, bashing my head into the dingy carpet.

  “Uh…uh…uh.” I coughed, choking on my own spit.

  He shook my head and forced my face up to his. “Who, damn it,” he yelled furiously.

  “You,” I managed to spit out.

  Just like that, his fingers loosened on my throat, and his face slackened. “Aw…fuck me.”

  At that moment, the door of the trailer burst open. Skinny went flying into the wall with a loud thud. I caught my breath as he bounced up and tackled Gunner. I watched the two of them roll around, toppling over a side table. Then Gunner raised a fist and socked Skinny between the eyes. The drug dealer fell back on his ass, barely able to keep his head up.

  Lifting his wrists in defeat, he said, “I give up. Just fucking cuff me.”

  Gunner obliged, then yanked him up by the cuffs and shoved him into the recliner. I’d scooted away from the brawl and finally managed to stumble to my feet, adjusting my tank top and stuffing my boob back into my bra before Gunner made his way over.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, touching my cheek.

  “I’m fine.” I slapped his hand away, regretting it almost immediately. It was embarrassing enough being taken by a known meth addict, but on top of that, I had been a little shaken from the whole ordeal.

  He shrugged. “Okay then.” Turning, he stalked over to Skinny and jerked him to his feet. Skinny flopped to a full stand. “Time to go,” Gunner snapped and dragged Skinny toward the door.

  Skinny turned dejected puppy-dog-eyes on me. “I’m sorry, Laney. It wasn’t like I was going to kill you, it’s just that I’m not thinking clearly these days,” he whimpered as Gunner led him out of the trailer.

  “No hard feelings,” I shouted back, hearing my voice crack.

  The screen door slammed shut. I dusted off my palms on my jeans and reckoned that a good, thorough search of the trailer wouldn’t hurt anything. Giving it a good scan, I came to the seriously hesitant decision that the kitchen was my best bet.

  Carefully, I checked out the single stainless steel sink, the cheapo microwave, and one cabinet, getting the feeling that Skinny didn’t spend his time tweaked out on his couch watching HGTV. Finding a box of plastic sandwich bags, I shoved two over my hands, then made my way through the room. Mold crept alongside the corners of the dirty, yellow laminate flooring, and old high school yearbooks were stuffed under the kitchen sink.

  Hoping to find prescription bottles of ketamine, I opened the cabinet to find a single, clean, white bowl. I sighed. Nothing was ever that easy where Skinny was concerned. He’d been a known drug dealer for the better part of his twenties, and those many years of experience had taught him to make use of some ingenious hiding places. I pulled open the kitchen drawer and squeezed a hand inside. My arm was up to the elbow before I felt a plastic bottle roll into my palm. I pulled it out and raised the bottle into the dim light over the kitchen sink. Bingo. The prescription bottle was tagged as containing ketamine. I unrolled the sandwich bag from my hand and wrapped it around the bottle, then stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans.

  The screen door kicked back open. Gunner leaned up against the door jamb, gasping for air. He tilted his hat back.

  “That Skinny’s a pain in the ass,” he panted, “The little bastard took off. I had to chase his boney ass about five trailers down.”

  I laughed.

  “What, you’ve never seen a grown man sweat?”

  “Not you.”

  He grinned and strolled on into the filthy trailer. “Kind of a messy son of a bitch.”

  “You think? I was beginning to get all warm and cozy.”

  He laughed and rested his hand on my shoulder. “You all right?” He touched gentle fingers to my neck. “You’ll probably be red for a couple of days, but nothing major.”

  I looked back at him awkwardly. “Thanks for the help.”

  He smiled crookedly at me. “You could have taken Skinny on your own, just figured a little help wouldn’t hurt.”

  A moment of awkwardness passed between us. I broke it by asking, “So where’s Dobbs?”

  “Sitting in the Yukon with Skinny,” Gunner said. “Did you find anything in
teresting?”

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the sandwich bag, dangling the evidence in front of Gunner’s eyes. He took it from me and examined the contents.

  “Jackpot,” he said, handing it back to me. “We better get going before Dobbs sweats through his trousers.”

  I nodded and followed him.

  He’d barely pushed open the screen door when there was a sudden crack and the kitchen window shattered. Gunner shoved me back, throwing me onto the floor. “Stay down,” he ordered.

  He drew his gun as I raised myself to my knees. We’d been shot at. I fumbled for my 9-mm, which was giving me a helluva time getting stuck in my holster. It hurt to say, but I was a little freaked out. I had just gotten to my feet when there was another blast of gun fire.

  “Can you see anything?” I yelled at Gunner.

  “Damn it, Laney, I told you to stay down.”

  “When have I ever listened to you?”

  “Never comes to mind.”

  Gunner pressed his back up against the wall next to the broken window, poked his head around the curtain, and fired off a shot. I heard some panicked voices, the sound of running feet dashing across the porch. Then silence.

  “Do you think they’re gone?” I asked, resting my finger on the trigger of my gun.

  “I’m not sure, and where the hell is Dobbs.” He sounded cross.

  I shrugged. “Probably asleep.”

  Gunner relaxed his shoulders and bent down next to the window, still holding his gun. “Let’s wait a minute.”

  I propped myself next to him and watched his mouth twitch up into a smile. He lowered his eyes and pushed back the brim of his hat.

  “Laney, you’re a mess.”

  I followed his gaze down the middle of my white tank top. He was right. My boobs were stained orange. I brushed them off and sniffed my fingers. Cheetos. Rolling around on the floor of Skinny’s trailer had all kinds of surprises.

  “That ring is killing me,” he said, staring at my left hand.

  I lifted my hand to admire the massive diamond Nathan had given me. Say what you will about him, but the man had taste. “I think it’s perfect.”

  He frowned. “That’s my problem.” Then he hopped to his feet and offered his hand to me. “I think it’s safe now.”

  We walked to the door. Gunner slowly pushed it open and peeked out the crack before opening it completely. I stepped out and had just turned the corner when the tip of my boot grazed the head of a dead raccoon.

  “Whoa… hold on there.” Gunner said, pulling me back.

  The raccoon’s tongue was sticking out. It had been gutted. Whoever had dumped it on the steps of Skinny’s trailer didn’t find it necessary to take the intestines with them. Gunner stepped in front me and crouched over the lifeless body. He pried out a yellow sticky note wedged in its mouth. I must have been seeing things, because scribbled in fine print were the words Die Bitch.

  Unwilling to consider who hated me this much, I heaved myself over the edge of the railing and threw up what was left from lunch earlier today.

  “It might not be directed at you,” Gunner said, helping me back to my feet.

  I wiped my chin. “Who else would they be referring to as a ‘Bitch’?”

  Lips twitching, he looked me up and down. “You might have a point there.”

  After maneuvering ourselves over the body of the dead varmint, we made our way back to Gunner’s Yukon. Skinny was cuffed and slumped over in the back seat. I could see Sheriff Dobbs’s head bobbing over the steering wheel. As we got closer, his snoring became louder.

  Gunner beat his fist on window. Dobbs’s head jerked to attention. He snorted, wiped the spit from his mouth, and got out of the vehicle.

  “Just where the hell were you?” Gunner shouted.

  Dobbs focused on the ground and wobbled before catching himself on the side mirror. “Right here, where else?” he mumbled, knowing he was busted.

  “We just got shot at,” I said unsteadily, “and to top it all off, there’s a dead raccoon on Skinny’s porch with a note shoved in its mouth saying, ‘Die Bitch’.”

  “Well, I didn’t hear a goddamn thing,” Dobbs muttered. “You want me to take old Skinny back to the station?”

  Gunner grabbed his keys from the sheriff. “No, I’ll do it.”

  Sheriff Dobbs readjusted his trousers, tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, and waddled off to his Jeep. It took a lot of effort, but eventually, he wedged himself behind the wheel. The Jeep’s tires spun before zipping down the dirt path and out of the trailer park.

  Eyes on the dust trail kicked up by the sheriff’s Jeep, Gunner said quietly, “I don’t trust Dobbs.”

  “You’re kidding me. We’ve known him since we were kids.”

  He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Anyone can be bought, Laney.”

  “Well, I won’t believe it,” I said, shrugging his hand off.

  “Just promise me you’ll lock your doors.”

  I gave him an odd look. “I promise,” I said and walked off toward the cruiser. Opening the driver’s side door, I suddenly remembered the pill bottle I’d found. I raised it in the air and shouted, “Do you want me to keep this?”

  Strutting over to me, Gunner stuck out his hand. “I’ll take it.”

  I dropped it in his hand and opened my car door, pausing with my hand wrapped around the door frame. “By the way, where are you staying?”

  He smiled, flattered, the wrinkles growing at the corners of his eyes. “Pistol Rock Motor Lodge.”

  Hit in the gut by sudden memories, all I could say was, “Oh.”

  “Laney, you wouldn’t be asking for an invitation?”

  “No,” I said and slipped behind the wheel, slamming my door. I wouldn’t accept an invitation to relive that particular moment in our relationship if he stood on his head and begged.

  …

  The dust settled on the gravel drive as I pulled up in front of my house. I could hear the wind clacking against the broken screen door even before turning off the car. The air was chilly, and the sky was intensely black over the barn. Above the silo, the moon was huge and golden. I had gone to the city once, only to be disappointed at how musty and crowded the night sky had been. Out here in Pistol Rock, the moon and stars lit up the sky brighter than a rich man’s Christmas tree.

  I slowly made my way up the steps to a warm welcoming from Hank, bowing his head for a rub between the ears. I bent down and rustled his big, floppy ears. He howled, wagging his tail. The house phone rang, interrupting Hank’s belly scratch.

  “Sorry boy,” I said before unlatching the screen and walking inside.

  The quiet was unnerving. I was still a little jarred from the note I’d received earlier. Laying my revolver on the kitchen counter, I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Wasn’t sure if you were ever going to answer,” Nathan said, disgruntled.

  I was relieved to hear his voice since I was sort of missing him. “How’s everything going in Houston?” I asked.

  “Great.” He sighed. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” I said. “Do you think you might be able to come home early? Things are getting a little weird around here.”

  “Not any sooner than Sunday, babe. Gunner’s not causing you any trouble?”

  “No. I just had to arrest Skinny Picket today.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  My “Yeah” huffed out of me.

  Our meaningless conversation lulled on for another five minutes before Nathan said he needed to go. We said our goodbyes and hung up.

  I opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a glass, dumped in a couple of ice cubes, and poured a shot of whiskey. I tossed it back, soothing my dry throat, and poured another. Scooting out a chair from the kitchen table, I plunked my tired ass down. After debating if it was a wise idea to finish off my second drink, I gave in and slung it back. Confusion swam through my throbbing head. I wasn’t blind to my own emotions, but knew it w
as a bad idea to keep hanging around Gunner Wilson. Problem was, I just couldn’t stop, especially when he was involved in the case I was working. Overwhelmed by more unnerving emotion than I’d had to deal with since Gunner left, I slumped further down into my chair and gave into the heavy weight of my eyelids.

  Chapter Six

  Morning light filtered through the kitchen window and lifted my eyelids. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and felt a wet puddle under my left elbow. I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. The ice in the whiskey had melted, and a water ring puddled under my sprawled arm. I shoved my chair back and made myself get up and go over to the sink where I turned the faucet on and started splashing my face with cold water. I was bent over the counter smelling of hot sleep when I heard a knock at the door. The screen creaked slowly open.

  “I thought I told you to lock this,” Gunner scolded. He could be slightly overprotective. He meant well in his own way, difficult as that was to see sometimes. He’d been dealt a hard knock in life, witnessing both his parents die at the hands of a home invasion gone horribly bad at the tender age of twelve. And even now at thirty, with a Ranger badge in hand, he still held the blame close to his heart, feeling that, even though there was nothing he could have done, he should have done something.

  I shot him a stern look. “I thought I told you to ask before coming in.”

  He cracked a smile. “Hard night?” He glanced at the whiskey glass. “We’re supposed to be at Four Spurs”—he checked his watch—“in ten minutes.”

  “Give me thirty,” I said, darting out of the kitchen.

  “Laney, you have fifteen,” Gunner hollered.

  I stopped on the edge of the stairs and leaned over the banister. “You stay down here,” I ordered, pointing at the couch.

  He winked smugly. “What, you worried?”