by Beth Ciotta
“Where are you going?” her dad called as she marched out the front door.
“To confront a jerk!”
* * *
Coffee mug in hand, Joe Savage edged closer to the rickety railing of his sagging front porch and contemplated the absurd remoteness of his new home.
Situated on the outskirts of Tornado Alley and bordering the Twilight Zone, Nowhere, Nebraska lived up to its name.
Thirty-five miles to the next Podunk town.
Hundreds of miles from a major sports stadium.
Wide open spaces. Cattle. Silos. Old-fashioned people with weird-ass ways. Population—town and outskirts combined—one-freaking-thousand.
Breathing in the floral-scented air, he noted the rain soaked grounds and the endless land beyond his fenced-in acreage. The Cartwright’s Lavender Farm. The distant craggy peaks of Eagle Butte. The gravel road that led to a paved road that eventually led to town. The rural homes, farms, and ranches of his closest neighbors—a mile away in every direction. Then there was the silence. Sometimes it was downright deafening.
Every morning for the last month, Joe, a native of Chicago, Illinois—population close to three million—asked himself how he’d ended up in this Godforsaken place. Every morning the answer was the same. His Uncle Mike had willed him this property and since Joe had forsaken God and turned his back on his job, he supposed he belonged here.
For now.
Tomorrow was another story.
Tomorrow could bring…anything.
His stint in law enforcement had resulted in a lifetime of lessons. For one: Expect anything. Anticipate the worst.
He had the first part down, but he hadn’t anticipated inheriting a rundown amusement park. Not a massive, famous theme park, but Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland, a rinky-dink kiddie park—long since condemned by crap luck and the wrath of Mother Nature.
Hoo-freaking-rah.
His inheritance was a blessing and curse combined. The solitude was welcome. The house, welcome. Unfortunately, the park, which lived on the same acreage as the house, was a bust, the grounds polluted with rusty rides and broken dreams. An eye sore plus salt in a recent personal wound, yet he hadn’t channeled the motivation to dismantle the chintzy carnival rides that had brought him childhood joy.
One summer. One visit.
The one family experience branded on his brain that didn’t summon misery. His dad had been a mean bastard, but his Uncle Mike… Mike had been the polar opposite. Mike had been a standup guy. A good guy to the point of being a pushover. Trashing the man’s dream seemed cold. Joe was cynical, but he wasn’t heartless. Although some would argue. So the rusty rides and rotting ticket booths remained.
For now.
Settling on the creaking porch swing with his extra strong coffee, Joe glowered at the scrappy grey cat prowling his way. “Don’t do it.”
Because the tomcat was obstinate or stupid—Joe wasn’t sure which—Killer, as he’d come to call him, leapt into his lap, staining his jeans with mud. At least this time he didn’t cause Joe to spill his coffee. After two weeks, they had this morning routine down.
Joe placated the cat with a head scratch then Killer stepped off, curling up next to him in a tight furry ball. The stray had made Funland home and since he was a topnotch mouser, Joe hadn’t argued. As long as he slept in the barn. Joe wasn’t willing to open his home or heart to anyone. Not even a cat.
To keep his mind from wandering dark paths, Joe focused on the ailing residence under his feet. Mike had kept the interior of the two-story farmhouse in good order. The exterior was another matter. In need of a paintjob and several repairs—splintered eaves, rotting porch, crumbling steps, peeling paint. From the outside, this weather-beaten Victorian resembled the creepy house in Hitchcock’s Psycho.
Taking it a notch below scary would mean an overhaul. Something he’d been putting off while he put his own spit and polish on the interior. He’d also devoted several days to cleaning out the massive pole barn. Mike had used the facility as a storage space—a catchall for junk. Aside from creating a retreat for Killer—box with a blanket, bowls for food and water—Joe had turned the space into his dream studio. He’d always had a hard-on for hot rods and choppers and a flair for art. What had once been a hobby—custom painting murals and flames on anything with wheels—was now his focal point for future income. One perk about this Godforsaken land, country boys loved their toys. From souped-up trucks to tricked-out cycles to classic antique cars.
Even his neighbor, Archie Mooney—a former postal worker, from what he’d learned—owned a sweet ride. A cherry red 1951 Chevrolet pickup. A classic body complimented by a new engine and upgraded radiator. Joe had looked under the hood last night after sending Mooney home in a cab. The man had been sloppy drunk and over his head in a poker game. Joe had seen Mooney in sad conditions before, but nothing like last night. Usually one of his buds was around and sober enough to give him a lift. That hadn’t been the case last night, so Joe had been the one to take away Mooney’s keys—albeit it in a different fashion. Hopefully one that would teach him a lesson.
As if on cue, the puttering of an engine caught Joe’s ears. He knew it wasn’t the Chevy. He’d taken the keys, but he’d left the truck parked at Desperado’s Den. And the sound wasn’t coming from his garage or his drive or the road…it was coming from the east. From the acreage that separated Joe’s property from Mooney’s.
Curious, he abandoned his coffee. Ignoring Killer’s irritated yowl, he moved to the left corner of the porch and squinted against the morning sun. “What the hell?”
The puttering engine belonged to a red riding mower. It rolled toward Funland, cutting through a field of purple flowers, kicking up clods of soggy ground. A strange vision in itself, made even odder by the driver who looked to be wearing some sort of voluminous ball gown. Layers of yellow fabric billowed in the breeze as the small red tractor chugged closer.
Joe crossed his arms over his bare chest and absorbed the ridiculous scene. The mower drew closer and he was pretty sure, no definitely sure he recognized the driver. Nowhere’s cute as hell, obnoxiously sweet children’s librarian. “Looks like Bella Mooney’s coming to pay a visit.”
He hadn’t expected that. Damn well hadn’t expected her to cut across a massive field on a freaking lawn mower. Then again, oh, yeah. Tank Marlow, Nowhere’s number one mechanic—a fellow bike enthusiast and poker player—had mentioned something about the truck being Mooney’s only transportation—right after he’d busted Joe’s hump for claiming said truck instead of an IOU. Joe knew Bella lived with her dad, but did that mean they shared the truck, too?
“Hell.”
He stood there, torn between returning to the house to throw on a shirt and crossing the expanse of the overgrown lawn to unlock the front gate. The last thing he wanted was to deal with a teary female who’d probably come begging for the return of her dad’s wheels. Not that Joe intended to keep the truck, but she didn’t know that. Mooney didn’t know that. No one knew, except for Tank who’d guessed Joe’s true intent five seconds after Joe poured Mooney into a cab and covered the fare.
Except for making a professional connection with Tank, Joe had gone out of his way to deter sociable exchanges. Including refusing a basket Bella had left hanging on his fence post his first week in residence. She’d packed the napkin-lined basket with a mason jar of homemade lemonade, a tin of oatmeal cookies, and a handwritten note welcoming him to the neighborhood on behalf of her and her dad. Joe had been raw then, too raw to deal with the thoughtful gift that invited neighborly interaction. Instead of contacting her later with a simple thank you, he’d left the basket on the Mooneys’ porch—the contents untouched.
A cold response to her kind gesture, but it sent a message. Stay away.
A message she’d honored. Until now.
Rather than continuing around to the southern front gate, Bella parked the lawn mower alongside the eastern fence and cut the engine. Apparently, they were going to ha
ve this conversation with a barrier between them. Fine by him.
Joe turned for the house. Too late to jog upstairs for a shirt, but his shoes were just inside the door. No way was he walking barefoot through mud to greet Bella. As for his shirtless state, she’d have to deal.
“Don’t you run away from me, you insensitive jerk!”
Joe glanced over his shoulder. She thought he was running? From her? He’d been a detective with the CPD for fourteen years. The last third of that run with the Bureau of Organized Crime. He’d tangled with gangs, mobsters, and drug lords. Running from a creampuff in a ball gown was not in his DNA or training. Rather than address her idiotic statement, Joe moved inside—barring Killer who tried to follow. Lacing up his boots, he glanced out the screen door and saw Miss Sunshine climbing over his four-foot fence in that puffy long-ass dress and were those…? Yeah. Red gym shoes. She threw one leg over, the skirt flew up, and Joe got a flash of creamy legs and purple panties.
“You gotta be kidding.” He pushed through the door just as she slipped and fell on her ass on his side of the property. “Dammit.”
“Dang it!” She bounced up quickly enough, but her gown was covered with mud. “Now look what you did, you heartless monster!”
Joe froze. Out of all the names he’d been called in his lifetime, hard to believe monster could cut to the bone.
Bulls-eye, sweetheart.
A hundred mug shots crossed his mind. A thousand cases gnarled his gut. One investigation, in particular, burned through his blood like acid. He was forever scarred and, because of one moment of insanity, forever changed.
Instead of moving to help the hopped-up woman, not that she needed his help, he crossed his arms and leaned against the post—hoping the damn thing didn’t give way. Killer rubbed against his leg then sat at attention as if guarding the house from an approaching nutball.
Joe watched and waited as said nutball stomped toward him in those bright red shoes, a hot pink bag slung over her glittering yellow gown. And he knew now, underneath it all, royal purple underwear. What, no tiara, Princess Rainbow? Near as Joe could tell, Miss Mooney had a costume fetish. Although yesterday’s get-up had been confined to a goofy stovetop hat. Prompted by a fortune-cookie-like email and just desperate enough to explore the impossible, Joe had visited the small local library on a highly personal and selfish mission. Bella, in all of her bubbly whimsy coupled with memories of butchered innocence, had chased him away.
Watching her now—her long blond hair tangled from the wind, her face mottled with fury—he got a whiff of Jekyll and Hyde. The hot sauce inside the creampuff.
Interesting.
She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps—a tousled, grass and mud-stained, red-faced mess. “Dissing my welcome basket and scowling at my storytelling was rude, but humiliating my dad? What in the world did we do to earn your disdain? I can’t imagine! And I’ve got a honking big imagination, Savage!”
Stunned and amused by her fiery vehemence, Joe raised a brow—which only riled her more.
“Did you or did you not confiscate my dad’s truck last night as winnings in a poker game?”
“I did.”
No tears, just fury. “How could you?” she exploded. “Couldn’t you tell that he’d had too much to drink? That his judgment was impaired? What kind of a monster takes advantage of a despondent, inebriated man?”
There it was again. That friggin’ insult, slicing and dicing his conscience.
His former colleague’s voice rang in his ears, intensifying the sting. “You were like a crazed animal, Savage. Ruthless.”
Joe blocked the past. Focused on now. On Bella and her dad. When confessing his loss to his daughter had Mooney painted Joe as the damned villain? Hell, yeah, he’d known Mooney was shitfaced. Part of the reason he’d taken the truck as payment for the man’s debt. To prevent Mooney from driving and risking vehicular homicide. But instead of explaining his actions, Joe held silent. He’d been doing a lot of that lately.
“I don’t expect you to know this or to care,” Bella railed on, “because you don’t know us—not that I didn’t extend a welcome—but my dad, Archie Mooney, is going through a very rough time.”
“I know.” The man had lost his wife and his job in the space of a few months. Joe had taken to spending random evenings at Desperado’s Den. People talked. He listened.
“You know? And you still… It’s his only… Our only… Do you know how far we live from town?”
Yeah. He knew. Another reason Joe had played the prick card and taken the man’s keys. Maybe losing his truck would force him to take a hard look at his gambling and drinking problem. Joe had expected to have this conversation with Mooney himself. He hadn’t expected the man to send his daughter in his stead. Joe had heard Mooney was a good man. Maybe he’d heard wrong.
“Okay. You know what? Obviously you’re not willing to listen to reason,” Bella blurted.
Joe just stared. She was pacing now. In the overgrown grass. In that billowy gown and her mud-caked gym shoes. He could only assume it was a costume for another one of her storytelling gigs. So what? She’d blown off her kids to give him hell? Her animated indignation stroked him as surely as a lover’s hand. Annoying. Surprising. She wasn’t his type. But by God, the woman was a beauty when riled.
Another thing he’d heard. Bella Mooney was a do-gooder. A head-in-the-clouds dreamer. He’d seen it for himself at the library. The intensity of her cheerful whimsy had given him a headache, heartache, and hard-on all at the same time. In that moment, in that mood, he’d wanted nothing to do with her.
He didn’t feel that way this moment, in this mood—which was slightly convoluted.
“We need that truck,” Bella said, sounding less angry and more desperate. “Big Red’s more than our transportation. It’s my dad’s special joy. He fixed it up himself. Plus, as if his spirits weren’t low enough, now his pride is crushed.” She stopped and spun back to face Joe, small fists balled at her sides. “What can I do to get it back? Name your price. I don’t have much in savings. But I could make payments. I’m good for it. Ask any one in town.”
She thought he was that much of a bastard? That he’d take money from her? Money she didn’t have, no less? On the other hand, he hadn’t given her or anyone else in town reason to regard him favorably. “I don’t want your money, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart and I’m serious about squaring my dad’s debt. If not money, then what? Is there something I can do? Like… I don’t know.” She looked around. “Like help you fix up this place? Does it look as awful on the inside as it does out here?”
Actually, it looked damned good on the inside, but Joe didn’t crow. Instead, he gestured to the sagging porch, the crumbling steps, the peeling paint. “Hard work.”
She bolstered her puffy-sleeved shoulders. “I’m stronger than I look.”
He was getting that loud and clear. She was also reckless and naïve. “Renovating the house will take time.”
“I have time. Weeknights and every weekend. Except this Saturday. I’m attending the Arts and Fiddler Festival with my friends. I could bail, but I’d rather not. It’s tradition with us, not that you’d care.”
Jesus.
“Other than that, I’m all yours.”
She was a pretty, young woman. A vibrant, sociable spirit. Surely she had better things to do than to swing a hammer and sand wood in her limited leisure hours alongside a moody SOB. Joe pushed off the post and walked down the stairs, bypassing chunks of broken cement. “Considering I’m a monster, aren’t you afraid to be alone with me. Out here.” He indicated the remoteness. “For extended periods?”
Instead of backing away Bella stood her soggy ground. She glanced at Killer who’d followed Joe off the porch—clinging to his leg like a dryer sheet—then met Joe’s gaze. “I’m thinking your bark’s worse than your bite.”
“You’re wrong.”
She sized him up then cocked her head. “That death glare
needs some work, Savage. I’m not afraid of you.”
He searched her sweet face, those blue-blue eyes and—good God—he believed her. Yes, she’d blasted him in the heat of her fury. But now that she’d calmed down, she was giving him the benefit of the doubt. Joe couldn’t remember what it felt like to believe the best in people—especially strangers. Especially potentially dangerous strangers. Hell, he wouldn’t trust a one-legged beggar on the corner. Joe’s faith in mankind had crashed long ago. His doubt regarding his own virtue was a more recent development.
He flashed on the fortune cookie email that had directed him to the library.
Rediscover what you’re missing at the Nowhere Public Library.
He’d assumed they were directing him to check out the self-help, philosophy, or religious section. “They” being some faceless, nameless data analyst.
One night last week, after too many beers and too many hours of dwelling on his own monsters, Joe had surfed the Internet, scanning various restoration and custom airbrushing sites—dream cars, dream bikes. Out of curiosity, he’d clicked on an advertisement regarding “impossible dreams”. The cop in him, the logical part, pegged the company as a scam, but he’d been a little drunk and a lot depressed. He’d applied for the impossible. To vanquish the darkness that had seeped into his soul, hardening his heart, and twisting his perspective. To cleanse his conscience. To turn back time.
He’d actually typed that sentimental crap into the online application.
He’d been D&D.
Drunk and delusional.
On the other hand, he’d been stone sober when he’d received a response. Why he followed through on the email and actually visited the library, he couldn’t say. Boredom. Curiosity.
Desperation.
Staring into the sky-blue eyes of Princess Rainbow, Joe’s brain fired off another D-word. One he refused to consider. Nor did he give sincere credence to that dream site. The fact that Bella worked at the library, the fact that her dad had screwed up last night and she was here now, this was coincidence. She radiated what he craved, yet his impulse was to douse that sunny optimism. The real world ate creampuffs like her every hour.
