by Oliver, Tess
Wingman
Just a Guy and His Dog
Tess Oliver
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Sneak Peek at Brothers
Cover
Chapter 1
About the Author
WINGMAN
Copyright © 2017 by Tess Oliver
Cover model: Levi Stocke
Representation: LA Models
Cover photographer: Lane Dorsey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
Fynn
I honestly had no idea why I decided to stop. Or maybe that wasn't being honest at all. Maybe, deep down, I knew exactly why I had stopped in Butterfield.
Physically, it was like any other small town. One main street ran through the heart of town where buildings, set on different blocks, looked as if they had sprung up in different eras. Some tall, with weathered brick facades and shallow pitched roofs and some stout, with cracked plaster walls and faded striped awnings. There was even a village green, a town center, perfect for carnivals, concerts and picnics. Only the grass had long since been replaced by weeds.
Emotionally, it was like no other small town I'd seen. As my feet tromped along the weed riddled sidewalk, it seemed sadness and loss puffed up around my shoes as if there was so much despair it had soaked into everything, the buildings, the roads, the sidewalks. Even the trees looked colorless and depressed.
Turn back. Don't bother with this place, I told myself a hundred times. But my feet kept moving. Boone trotted along next to me on his stumpy legs, his tail still twirling with the promise of new adventure.
The first time I saw her, she stepped out from behind a pyramid of Twinkie boxes. I couldn't look away. It wasn't just the obvious—the hourglass shape tucked nicely in denim cutoffs, or the blue eyes that took up half her face, or the lush pink lips that looked as if they knew their way around a kiss. There was something else about her. She looked as out of place in the sad little town as a star would look on a cloudy night. At the same time, she looked as if she was the heartbeat of the town, the one sparkle of light keeping the whole fucking place alive.
I didn't know exactly why I'd decided to stop in Butterfield, but I knew exactly why I decided to stay.
Chapter Two
Ella
"Did you see it?" Patty asked excitedly as she stepped into the market. She stopped to rearrange three bottles of aspirin on the shelf that didn't need rearranging, but in Patty's mind, life as we knew it would have ended if she'd left the bottles in their original places. And if she hadn't stopped to perform the meaningless task, it would have bothered her for the rest of the day.
After assuring that the aspirin was in perfect order, she strode through the main aisle and stopped to assess the pyramid of boxes I had spent the last fifteen minutes arranging on the display table.
She squinted at my tower of Twinkies. Her chin did the side to side slide it did whenever she saw something that wasn't quite right. She reached for a bottom corner box and moved it the slightest bit. "There. Perfect," she said in a self-congratulatory tone.
I didn't roll my eyes. I never rolled them when it came to her obsessive compulsive disorder. It was something she couldn't help, something that had started because of her sister Sheila. Butterfield Angel #8. A national paper had called them the Twelve Butterfield Angels, and they'd numbered each one. I had memorized every detail of that news article. It helped me remember them all. Not that I'd ever forget.
Angel #8 Sheila Harrold. Twelve years old. Daughter to Carl and Cynthia Harrold. Sister to Patricia. Sheila, known to her dad as Nutterbutter, loved Disney princess movies, sewing dresses for the family cats, and dunking her cookies into milk. Those were the details listed in the paper, but in my head, I amended each entry with my own details. Sheila had a laugh that reminded me of sleigh bells. In first grade, Sheila wore a purple and blue butterfly costume to the Halloween parade. She fluttered around all day in her pretty wings while I was stuck wearing the ugly scarecrow costume my mom had picked for me. The straw itched my neck all morning. By the time we got to recess, I was beyond grumpy and I told Sheila that her costume was stupid. She cried and I felt terrible for being a mean, jealous scarecrow. We made up that night while we were trick or treating, but I never forgot the horrid feeling of making my friend cry. So that was Sheila, Angel #8. She was the reason why I never rolled my eyes when Patty moved boxes and bottles.
"What did you see?" I asked, deciding to pull Patty's scrutiny away from the display before she rebuilt the whole thing.
"Oh, right." She reached up and smoothed down the flyway hairs on her head, a ritual she performed a thousand times a day, to the point that her blonde hair always looked greasy. I couldn't really blame her. She had the type of baby fine hair that always looked as if someone had rubbed a balloon over it. "You mean you didn't see it on your bike ride into town?"
"See what?"
She grunted in disbelief. "Lucky Thirteen or not, Ella, you should be far more aware of your surroundings when you're riding on a bicycle. It's like you pedal through town with blinders on. You could get hit by a car or worse," she added with dramatic flair and then lowered her voice as if the walls had ears. "There was a strange van parked just around the corner from Graham's Hardware store. You might have ridden right past a serial killer who is in town looking for his next victim."
This time an eye roll was not only appropriate but unavoidable. "First of all, Patty, you know how much I hate to be referred to as Lucky Thirteen. Secondly, I would have to work very hard to get hit by a car in a town where three cars on Main Street is a traffic jam. And lastly, not every stranger who rolls into town is a serial killer. In fact, I'll bet with the few strangers we get driving through Butterfield, that none of them are serial killers."
"I'm sure you're right. My gosh, I'm sounding more and more like my mom. I need to find a man and blow out of this town for good before I lose my mind."
"You're not losing your mind, and you'll find someone soon." I worked hard to sound confident, but the truth was, Patty's OCD kept her from any real social life. That and the fact that we lived in a town with only eight hundred people. Boyfriend prospects were severely limited.
Patty shuffled on her sandals to the backroom to put away her purse. She'd been thrust rather unexpectedly into the role of store manager when her dad injured his back trying to dig
up a tree stump in his yard. I'd been working for the Harrolds for three years, after deciding that I would stay in Butterfield. It wasn't much of a job but then exciting career choices didn't really abound for someone who barely graduated high school and who lived in a small town where the closest thing to big business was the hardware store that took up not one but two whole blocks on the corner of Jackson Road. My teachers had all insisted that my art talent would make me famous one day, but my mom was always quick to remind me that only a few people earned a living 'making pretty pictures'.
I stepped back to view my newest masterpiece, my Twinkie tower, when the cowbell hanging on the front door clanged. I circled around the display.
It was hard to pinpoint what struck me the most, the almost unearthly amber eyes, the extra wide, intimidating shoulder span, the mosaic of black ink running up and down his arms and legs, or the fact that he was wearing a charming smile that was in complete contrast to all the aforementioned details. Or maybe it was because he seemed to have the same profound reaction to me.
"Can I help you?" As I asked the question a movement behind him brought my attention to the glass door. A fawn colored dog, complete with rolls of chub and a smashed in nose, sat in front of the shop, his tail spinning in anticipation.
The guy pointed back over his shoulder. "That's Boone. I promised him a treat if he sat out there nicely and didn't bark."
"Then you'll want aisle eight, pet food. We've got a few boxes of bones there, but I'd avoid the rawhide ones. I think they've been there long enough to be classified as fossils." A smidgen of sound from the backroom assured me Patty was watching our exchange from a safe distance. Not because the stranger seemed the slightest bit serial killerish, especially with a chubby, happy dog waiting for him at the door, but because Patty was, for lack of a better phrase, boy crazy. And this was a crazy cute boy. Although, aside from a mischievous glint in his eyes, he was much more man than boy. I knew Patty well enough to know she was ogling our new customer from the backroom and at the same time kicking herself for being too shy to come out and talk to him.
The guy nodded approvingly at my display. "Guess the people in this town really like Twinkies."
"An apple can be too sour or a banana too mushy but you can always count on a Twinkie being just right."
His laugh was short, but I heard enough to like the sound of it. "Never thought of it like that. Aisle eight?" I nodded as he pointed toward aisle eight, exposing the treacherous looking sword drawn on the underside of his forearm. Maybe the cute pudgy dog was just a front, I thought wryly. But somehow I was sure a creepy ax murderer wouldn't have a disarming smile or a likeable laugh.
I walked to the counter while the new customer picked out a treat for his dog. I could see just a flutter of movement at the rear of the store. Patty was peeking around the backroom door, watching the man in the mirrors her dad had set up in each corner, his idea of high tech security.
I straightened up the candy bars at the front counter while the customer picked a ready-made sandwich out of the refrigerator. "Chicken salad?" he called across the store.
"Nope. Tuna salad is better unless you don't like tuna, then I'd go for the roast beef."
"Roast beef it is," he proclaimed triumphantly. He walked up to the counter with the sandwich, a bottle of soda and a bag of dried chicken jerky for his dog. He smiled at me as he pulled out his wallet.
I rang up his items. "Where are you headed?"
"Headed?" He dropped a twenty onto the counter. The unusual amber color of his eyes darkened to deep gold topaz in the sunlight coming through the window.
"Yes, I mean once you get back in your vehicle and head out of town. Are you going on a vacation?"
"Something like that. But I haven't decided on a destination." He gazed at me almost like he knew me. "All I know is that after seeing those blue eyes of yours, all of the world's wonders are going to be disappointing."
I pushed down a smile as I took his change from the drawer.
"I guess you've heard that before." He held out his large hand for the change. Inadvertently, my fingertips grazed the skin on his palm. It was a casual touch, something that happened almost any time I put change in someone's hand, only this time it felt different. It was just because he was a stranger, and we rarely had new people in the store, I told myself.
Even though the transaction was over, he lingered at the counter. He was a big guy, who looked as if his version of fun always included danger, a guy who would certainly make some of the more suspicious and less welcoming Butterfield citizens nervous.
After a long moment of watching me with his unusual amber eyes, he lifted his bag in the air. "Thanks."
His dog spun in circles and barked as he walked out the door. Patty scurried out of her hiding spot and joined me at the front window. We watched with curious interest as the guy and his dog crossed the street to the rundown park in the center of town. His t-shirt hugged his impressive shoulders. Black scrolls of ink seemed to cover every inch of his skin. The dog trotted along beside him, looking a little too cute and fuzzy for the rather wild looking man walking next to him. It was hard not to smile about the unlikely pair.
He sat down on the bottom step of the pavilion, an ornate wood and iron structure that was once the pride of the town but that now looked like some ancient ruin from a former civilization. His dog sat next to him and immediately rested a round paw on his forearm to ask for a treat.
"I wonder how long he'll be here," Patty said with a dreamy hush in her tone.
"I imagine for as long as it takes to eat a roast beef sandwich."
Chapter Three
Fynn
She was right. For a premade sandwich, the roast beef was good. I handed Boone the last piece of meat, wadded up the wrapper and stood up from the step. The wood creaked back into place like a seat cushion reviving on a couch. Smears of white paint still clung to the intricate dome of the massive gazebo, but for the most part the structure was stripped down to splintery wood and rotting iron. It was losing its fight against the elements, and invasive weeds were winding their way through the open spaces.
The town square was a massive rectangle of land that stretched along the entire main street and ended at a road that led past the last block of shops. It was, without a doubt, the saddest park in the world. The fountain was covered in rich teal green patina, but it was hard to see it beneath the layer of slimy algae that oozed out of every carved crevice. A thin trickle of water streamed out of the top tier and then disappeared into the larger bowl beneath. The same relentless weeds that were strangling the pavilion, were choking the life out of the three stone horses springing up from the base of the fountain. It was an elaborately carved fountain, one you'd find on the grounds of some grand estate, but, just like the pavilion, it was giving up the fight and waiting for time and weather to turn it to dust. In the south corner, a rusted jungle gym set and rocket shaped slide had been casually draped with yellow caution tape, warning people to keep off.
I'd done it. I had seen the town of Butterfield. I'd even gone past my original plan and had lunch in the town square. It would have been easy enough to walk back to the van and check this one off the list. Boone and I could climb back inside and get back on the road with the sad little town of Butterfield just a fading memory. Only I knew that would never happen. Butterfield would never fade from memory.
A car rolled into town and parked in front of the market. A woman climbed out and shot an angry, suspicious scowl my direction. With her attention so taken by the stranger and his dog standing in the park, she nearly tripped on the curb. The cowbell on the market door rang as she hurried into the store. It was easy to predict what the first words out of her mouth would be once inside.
The door opened again. The blue eyed girl walked out holding a broom. There was no suspicious scowl like the woman wore, just a sweet smile and a wave. I waved back. She set to work sweeping the walkway in front of the shop. So there was one amazing jewel in a town that oth
erwise seemed as if the color spectrum had just packed up and left. Even the surrounding trees looked chalky gray, as if somehow they'd managed to turn off photosynthesis. I wondered just how the girl fit into the Butterfield story.
Boone's bark pulled my attention away from the girl. In an unusual burst of energy, he ran through the weeds after a lizard. He ignored my yell and continued on his hunt, which took him to the north end of the park.
"Hey, goofball, leave the lizard alone," I called.
Boone disappeared into the tall weeds. Bugs of every shape and size fluttered up as my dog plowed through their hiding places. By the time he reemerged, he was breathing hard and covered with burrs and dead leaves.
A dried up pond with a stone flamingo standing in the center sat still and parched at the northern corner of the park. The benches that lined the pond were caked in bird shit. It seemed no one except pigeons had sat on those benches for years. As my eyes swept around, I saw a patch of color, yellow roses climbing along a black wrought iron fence. It was hard to believe how out of place a simple vine of roses could look, but they were like a bolt of permanent lightning in the otherwise dull town.
Boone, now exhausted from the lizard hunt, shook the dead leaves from his fur and trotted along next to me as I crossed the street. The yellow roses and a good dose of curiosity pulled me along a dirt path, leading away from the shops.
I stopped at the black fence and stared through the yellow blooms. It was a cemetery. Three precisely arranged rows of gravestones, each carved with an angel, filled the square of neatly mowed grass. Each grave had a bouquet of daisies sitting in front of the marker. Just outside, where I stood, weeds popped up from every crack in the road. Flowers were nonexistent and every building was in need of repair and paint. But inside the glossy black wrought iron fence, mounds of pink and yellow petunias spilled over the lush green grass as if spring was eternal in this one small spot on earth. Three benches, one situated in each corner of the cemetery, had been painted with bright green lacquer paint. It was like watching a black and white movie and having one character in full color. Only, in this case, the character was a graveyard.
