by Kelly, Diane
Two inches. I didn’t dare get any closer. I couldn’t trust myself not to bite into the back of Clint’s neck. I mean, it was right there in front of me, looking soft and fleshy and delicious.
“You sure are a nervous Nellie.” He played with my hand, forcing it out of the fist I’d involuntarily made, and pressing my palm up against his rock-hard belly. “Nice six-pack. Wouldn’t you say?”
Hell, yeah! Seth had a nice six-pack himself. Great shoulders, too, from all that swimming. Still, no sense giving Clint a bigger head than he already had. “I’ve seen better.”
Clint made a tsk-tsk sound. “Megan Luz, you’re a filly who hasn’t been broke yet.” He tucked his chin and eyed me over his shoulder. “I just may have to see about that.”
With that, he made a clucking noise and squeezed Jack with his muscular thighs. The horse started forward, his enormous buttocks moving up and down behind me.
Brigit walked along next to the horse as we rode out of the stable and onto the rodeo grounds. The dog picked up speed as Clint brought the horse to a slow trot along the street. A few seconds later, he reined the horse in, bringing Jack to a quick stop. Momentum carried me forward on the horse’s back, my chest bouncing off Clint’s back, the two inches that I’d maintained between our nether regions reduced to zero.
“Gotcha,” Clint said, his tone tinged with both humor and seduction as he glanced back at me again.
I narrowed my gaze at him. “You’re a sneaky snake, Clint McCutcheon.”
“Hell, yeah.” He tossed me that dark-eyed look again. “You best be careful how you handle me.”
* * *
My alarm beeped at six A.M, yanking me out of a deep sleep. After the late night we’d had working the stock show and rodeo, even Brigit, who was usually bouncing off the walls by this time, wasn’t ready to get up. She opened one eye for a moment, then closed it without moving.
“Ugh,” I said to myself and the universe in general. “Why did I agree to this breakfast?”
I knew why. Because Seth had agreed to answer some questions about his family. Because maybe, finally, whatever was going on between the two of us would make some progress. I knew I’d said I wanted to keep things casual, but I had since realized that if a relationship wasn’t moving forward it would either regress or stagnate, turning frothy and green and stinky like a pool of still water. I didn’t want Seth and me to become green and stinky.
I climbed out of bed only to find myself barely able to walk. Though I’d been on Jack’s back for only twenty minutes the preceding night, my thigh muscles felt as if I’d performed a thousand squats or more. Talk about saddle sore. I found myself wondering how my thighs would feel after twenty minutes of riding Clint. Then I found myself blushing for thinking such a naughty thought, even though I was the only one who knew I’d thought it. Or at least I thought I was the only one. Brigit looked up at me with a disgusted expression, as if she’d read my mind. More likely she was annoyed I’d disturbed her sleep.
I made my way to the bathroom, pivoting my hips to move my legs along in a bowlegged waddle. It was less painful that way. That afternoon I’d have to soak in a warm bath.
An hour later, I was fully dressed, though still only half awake, when a single soft knock sounded at my door. Seth stood on the walkway, dressed in tennis shoes, jeans, and a striped green button-down covered by a black wool vest. It appeared to be another of the vests his now-deceased grandmother had sewn long ago for his grandfather. A pocket watch was tucked into the vest pocket. Although Seth had never come out and said so, I’d read between the lines and surmised that his wearing the vests was a subconscious way for him to maintain a connection to his dead grandmother. She must have meant a lot to him. I wanted to know more about her. I wondered how much Seth would tell me.
“Hey,” he said in greeting.
I stifled a yawn. “Those cinnamon rolls better be as good as you promised.”
“They will be. Just you wait and see.”
I left Brigit with a nylon bone to chew on, a pat on the head, and a vague threat. “If you touch any of my shoes,” I warned, pointing a finger in her face, “there will be consequences.”
She wagged her tail in an up-down motion, her trademark gesture of sarcasm. Yeah, yeah, the tail said. We both know you’re full of crap.
I headed down the stairs in silence, Seth following. I stopped next to his Nova. He opened my door and even held out a hand to help me in. Once I was seated, he closed my door and rounded the front of the car to climb in on the driver’s side. After starting the engine, he turned on the heater, the blast of air fluffing my hair, which I’d left loose. For him.
“How’s that?” he asked, putting a palm in front of the vent to test the heat.
“Perfect.”
The climate now controlled, he jabbed the radio button, tuning it to 90.1, the local NPR affiliate.
My eyes cut his way. Seth normally listened to classic rock. The radio selection this morning was entirely for me. It was a thoughtful gesture.
The Humankind show was under way, featuring an Israeli music conductor who had formed an Arab-Israeli orchestra with the help of a close Palestinian friend. If these two men could bring people together, maybe there was hope for the world. Feeling more awake and upbeat now, I clicked my seat belt into place.
Seth backed out of the space and drove out of the apartment lot, turning to head north. “How have things been going at the rodeo? Any problems?”
Other than me getting hot and bothered over a dark-eyed, dark-haired deputy? “We arrested a drunk redneck who threw a can of Skoal at protestors.”
Seth grunted. “There’s one in every crowd, huh?”
Luckily there’d been only the one last night. Drunken assholes sometimes traveled in packs, like wild dogs. “There was also a purse snatching in one of the women’s restrooms. The thief reached right over the top of the stall and grabbed the purse off the hook. Can you believe anyone would be that ballsy?”
“Wait. You mean the thief grabbed it while the victim was using the toilet?”
I nodded.
Seth cringed. “Talk about being caught with your pants down.”
“No kidding. I poked around in some of the trash cans but there was no sign of it.”
He turned onto the freeway entrance ramp. “Sounds like you did what you could.”
True. Without hard facts or a description of the alleged purse snatcher, we had nothing to go on. Still, I figured I’d keep a closer eye on the ladies’ bathrooms the next few nights in case the purse snatcher returned.
Seth headed north on I-35, then west on I-30, exiting onto Camp Bowie Boulevard and continuing on until he reached the Weatherford traffic circle. He pulled into the parking lot at the Busy B Bakery and parked between a black car that looked like something Bonnie and Clyde would have driven to escape law enforcement and a fifties-era powder-blue bubble-windowed car that looked like it had driven off the set of Grease. Several other cars pulled into the lot. An ancient brown pickup truck that sported whitewall tires and sat only an inch or two off the ground. A black-and-gold roadster. A classic ’65 Ford Mustang.
I wasn’t sure what, if anything, distinguished a hot rod from a muscle car, but it didn’t much seem to matter. Everyone here was a classic car enthusiast and that was enough to draw them together.
Seth and I went inside the bakery. The scents of vanilla, yeast, cinnamon, and sugar welcomed us. We stepped into line behind half a dozen other people eager to sink their teeth into something sweet.
Finally, it was our turn at the counter.
“Two coffees and two cinnamon rolls,” Seth told the clerk.
“And a bag of sausage rolls,” I added. “To go.”
We emerged a few minutes later with cinnamon rolls in one hand, coffee in the other, and a bag of sausage rolls tucked into my purse to give to our dogs later. While Seth talked cars with the mostly male crowd, who bragged about the size and power of their motors—gee, no symbolism there!
—I wandered among the vehicles, admiring them primarily for their aesthetic qualities. The Mustang’s cherry-red paint job. The quaint appeal of the low-slung pickup. The heavily padded seats of the Bel-Air, which looked comfortable enough to lie down and take a nap on. Looked like my coffee hadn’t quite kicked in yet.
“Ain’t she a beauty?” asked the owner of the Bel-Air, a white-haired man of about sixty. “My dad says I was conceived in one just like her.”
I nearly choked on my roll but forced a smile. “Yeah, she’s a beauty, all right.”
I meandered back to where Seth stood alongside a purplish-black car.
Seth glanced my way. “This is a thirty-five Chevy Standard. Nice, isn’t it?”
“Very nice,” I agreed, though given the size of the engine and the primitive engineering, it probably only got five miles to the gallon.
When the owner stepped away for a moment, Seth locked his gaze on mine and traced his fingers down the hood and over the rounded headlights. The gesture made me wonder what his touch might feel like on my headlights, which I suspected from the grin tugging at his lips was exactly his intention.
He stepped close to me, so close I could smell his shampoo.
His soap.
His warm, soft skin.
He spoke softly, his breath feathering across my cheek like an invisible caress. “How about we renegotiate that ‘no sex’ clause?”
“No.” I paused just a moment before punctuating my words with a coy smile and the words, “Not yet.” Gotta give a guy hope if you want him to stick around, right?
Seth’s green eyes flashed and his lips spread in a roguish smile.
After an hour or so, when Seth had gotten both his cinnamon roll and classic car fix, we returned to his Nova. As soon as he pulled out of the lot and onto the street, I reminded him of our deal. “You said you’d tell me more about your family.”
He released a long, slow breath. “I hope you’re prepared for what you’re going to hear. We’re pretty screwed up.”
“All families are screwed up to some degree in one way or another,” I replied. “The ones that claim they’re not are in denial.”
If I’d learned anything in my time as a cop, it was that human behavior could be odd and unpredictable and that people were prone to conflict. Heck, I supposed I wouldn’t have a job otherwise.
I turned sideways on the seat so that I could watch his reactions and body language, knowing they might tell me even more than his words would. “You said your grandfather has breathing issues. Does he have asthma? COPD?”
Seth gave a single shake of his head. “Emphysema.”
“Was he a smoker?”
Seth cut his eyes my way. “No, he never smoked. The doctors suspect his lung problems were caused by Agent Orange.”
“Was he drafted?”
“Yeah, he was drafted.”
I sat quietly for a moment, processing the information. Though I’d been blindsided to hear Seth’s grandfather call him a dumb bastard, knowing what I knew now it was hard to be too upset with the guy, even if his words were mean and hurtful. He was probably in pain. Lugging a tank of air around behind you couldn’t be much fun. And for all of the pain and inconvenience to have been caused by a war in which he hadn’t voluntarily participated only added insult to injury.
“Have you always lived with your grandparents?” I asked.
Seth kept his eyes locked on the road, but I detected a slight flex in his jaw. “Mostly. I lived with my mother off and on starting when I was six and ending around the time I turned ten.”
“What happened? Why didn’t you continue to live with your mom?”
The flex in his jaw was much greater now. “Because she couldn’t get her shit together.”
I wondered exactly what “shit” it was that she couldn’t get together. Was she addicted to drugs or alcohol? Unable to hold a job for some reason? I wanted to know, but wasn’t sure I should dig that deep just yet.
“What about your father?” I asked.
He issued a derisive grunt. “If you figure out who he is, let me know.”
Whoa. Seth had never known his dad? Why not? Had he run out on Seth’s mother? Abandoned them?
I wanted to ask him these questions and more, but I could sense the tension building in him. I wanted to get to know Seth, to understand him, but I didn’t want to cause him unnecessary stress, either. He’d given me enough for today. There was no rush. I decided to let things go for now.
Seth cut a glance my way. “You scared off yet?”
“Me? Scared?” I cut him a glance right back. “Never.”
SEVENTEEN
DOGGIE BAG
Brigit
The packaging might have promised to provide a dog with months of chewing satisfaction, but it took a mere two hours for Brigit to reduce the nylon bone to smithereens. When she heard a car in the parking lot outside, she stepped to the window and peered out. A young woman backed her small car into a parking space at the back of the lot but didn’t get out. Brigit watched her for a few minutes, but the woman just sat there. Bored now, Brigit set her sights on the shoes inside Megan’s closet.
After Brigit had easily yanked the hook and eye from the closet door a few weeks ago, Megan had added a sliding bolt just above the lever-style door handle. Though the dog’s thoughts came in concepts rather than words, if translated to English they’d read: Megan thinks she can stop me. How cute.
Though she wasn’t sure exactly how the bolt worked, experience told her that if she pawed at it long enough, gave it a nudge or two with her nose and put her teeth into it, she would likely be successful.
Brigit knew she shouldn’t chew up Megan’s shoes. But she was a smart dog, an energetic dog, one who needed to live in a house with a big yard where she could run around and chase squirrels and dig rather than a tiny studio apartment with iffy plumbing, an outdated electrical system, and a minor mice infestation. If the dog behaved herself, she’d never convince Megan that it was time to move out of this tiny hellhole.
She set to work and in two minutes flat had slid the mechanism up and over, releasing it. A quick paw to the handle and the closet opened, revealing a veritable smorgasbord of shoes. She’d just begun to make her selection process when she heard footsteps outside the front door. She put her nose in the air and twitched it to capture the new scent.
Sausage rolls!
EIGHTEEN
LET’S MAKE A DEAL
Robin Hood
She didn’t personally know any drug dealers. Though she’d been known to get shitfaced now and again (and again and again…), she limited her drug use to alcohol. She’d heard that drug dealers sometimes cut drugs with baking soda or powdered sweeteners and even mixed up batches of drugs in sinks or toilets. Though she enjoyed a good buzz as much as the next party girl, no way would she ingest a product manufactured with such a lack of quality control. She had standards, after all.
Despite her lack of personal contacts in the drug world, a quick Internet search with the key words FORT WORTH, DRUG BUST, and APARTMENT led her to identify three apartment complexes that seemed to house a fair share of potential dealers. She decided to aim for the one farthest away from her place, on the east side of town, a place called Eastside Arms. Just the name of it sounded skanky. She could only imagine the types of low-class losers who lived there.
She slid into a hoodie, a pair of jeans, and sneakers, and pulled her hair back into a low ponytail. Though she normally refused to venture outside without a full face of makeup and her hair meticulously styled, she figured there was no point fixing herself up for whatever assorted scumbag might buy the pills. It would be not only a waste of time, but a waste of her pricey cosmetics. With her Visa card out of commission, she needed her makeup to last as long as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, she was at a standstill in her car, stuck in heavy traffic on the street in front of a megachurch. Looked like most of the congregants chose to attend the late service. She crept forward,
feeling no sense of guilt whatsoever. She knew the Bible said, Thou shall not steal, but it also said that the wealthy should share their worldly riches with the less fortunate, and that a camel could go through the eye of a needle easier than a rich man. Those words didn’t seem to stop the so-called one percent from continuing to amass their wealth. Surely the commandments were not meant to be taken at black-and-white face value. Besides, why should she obey orders from a god she wasn’t even sure existed? Just as Santa had failed to deliver, so had God, leaving her prayers unanswered. Rather than look to the heavens, she’d take her advice from a real flesh-and-blood man, a smart one who’d discovered electricity and whose face graced the hundred-dollar bill. God helps those who help themselves.
So here she was.
Helping myself.
The traffic inched forward. After another minute or two, a police officer tweeted his whistle and raised his hand to wave her through an intersection. Good to know local law enforcement is tied up this morning. Fewer cops on patrol lowered her chances of being caught selling the Vicodin.
Four more turns and she pulled into the complex. A trio of outdated three-story stucco buildings formed a U-shaped perimeter around a small, murky swimming pool. The buildings were painted an odd shade of blue that would have been more appropriate on an ice cream stand, yet the narrow windows and flat roofs gave the place a prisonlike feel. The only saving grace was the bright yellow wicker furniture with sunflower print cushions that sat next to the pool.
Beater cars filled most of the parking spots, oil spots and flattened beer cans and cigarette butts filling the others. Given that it was not yet noon and also cold outside, few people were out and about at the complex. She backed into a spot at the end of the lot, next to one of those goofy-looking Smart Cars that, for some reason, had a pair of rubber truck nuts hanging from the back. Talk about tacky.
She turned off her engine and waited. Surely someone would go out for diapers or a pack of cigarettes or meth at some point.
Movement at a window on the second floor of the middle building caught her eye. A huge, furry shepherd-mix dog stood at the glass, watching her intently. No matter. It wasn’t like the dog could snitch on her. Besides, the dog probably belonged to a dealer who’d gotten the beast to protect his stash.
