“Dahlia,” my mother shrieks as she enters the small kitchen space. My ma lives with us. “You shouldn’t say such a thing.” Emma Rae Ryder is a force despite her four eleven stature and heavy accent.
“I didn’t say bitch, Gramm. I said witch.” So much for manners. My mother’s brows rise, and she swipes a hand at my daughter.
“Good girls don’t talk with trash mouths.” I don’t need to see Dahlia’s face to know she is rolling her eyes at her grandmother. Ma loves the girls and I can’t thank her enough for taking on children again, but some days …
“Nathan, when you going to bring home good girl? Stop hooking up with the riff-raff.”
Hooking up? Riff-raff? I shake my head, knowing I’ll be meeting up with Charlese the next night. She isn’t riff-raff, and we aren’t hooking up, but my chest tightens with thoughts of what exactly we are doing. My conscience gives me a little poke when I remember our last meeting, after my stop at the Piggly Wiggly. We weren’t as good as we had been, and I pause to consider what that means. An image of someone else under me flits into my head, and I wonder for the briefest moment if the lackluster night was because a certain someone was tapping at my subconscious. I shake my head.
Those thoughts are only my mother’s words messing with me.
When you going to bring home good girl? My heart repeats. If only I knew one. But you did …
Ignoring Ma, I step out of the kitchen to clean up for dinner.
Chapter Five
Dewey Decimal Classification: 304 Factors Affecting Social Behaviors
[Naomi]
“Expelly your anus,” a male voice mocks from behind me as I slip the bills to Amir, the night manager of this establishment, according to the sign next to the register. The Stop-and-Pump is just outside of Green Valley and has the cheapest gas prices. My eyes meet Amir’s, black and wide, and I expect him to say something to the teens behind me making derogatory comments and roughhousing in his store. I don’t realize the suggestion is directed at me until the second one speaks.
“Broom, broom, broom, I’d love to take a ride on you.” My body ripples in disgust at the thought. They can’t be more than sixteen, seventeen at the most. I momentarily close my eyes and take a deep breath. My heart races, but I will myself not to overreact.
It will never happen again.
Amir’s eyes widen when I open mine to speak up, to tell those boys they can’t talk to me like that, but I notice Amir staring over my shoulder. A scuffle happens behind me, and I risk a glance. My entire body shifts completely when I see Nathan, draped in leather and looking fierce, holding one boy by the scruff of his neck.
“Your daddy know you’re talking like that?” he asks, hissing at the boy’s ear.
“My pop don’t care how I talk,” he snaps. The lanky male is almost as tall as Nathan but three times thinner. He’s a child in a near-man’s body, and there’s something familiar about him with his spiky hair and smirky grin.
“Let’s just give Dwight a call and see if that’s true?” Nathan gives the kid a little shake and pulls his cell phone from his back pocket. He dramatically holds it out before the teenage boy, his thumb hovering over the home button. I can’t say I recognize the boys although I’m acquainted with many children in Green Valley. If a child doesn’t frequent the library, though, I’m not likely to know them as is the case with these two teenagers. However, this dark-haired one … I can’t put my finger on it.
“I can’t get in no trouble,” the first boy warns his friend as he slowly backs toward the door. His ripped jeans show he’s just as gangly as the boy under Nathan’s grip. Long, blond bangs cover his eyes.
“Seems trouble is exactly what you wanted. Now apologize.” Nathan jiggles the teen he’s holding by the neck.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, wincing a little.
“Say it like the man you should have been,” Nathan demands.
“I’m sorry,” he says louder, his voice cracking like the boy he is.
“It’s okay,” I offer, waving a hand, attempting to defuse the tension, but sharp silver eyes meet mine.
“It is not okay.” Nathan’s smoky voice remains gruff as he releases the boy with an easy shove. “Get out of here. And don’t think I won’t be telling your daddy about this.” The teen tips his chin at Nathan with one final look of defiance and then they both shuffle out the door. With Nathan watching them, I turn back to Amir.
It will never happen again.
My fingers shake as I reach for the change he offers. Turning for the door, my entire body trembles.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice shaky, as I try to pass Nathan, but he grips my forearm and stops me. He’s dressed similar to the night I first saw him—black jeans and a leather vest. A white T-shirt accentuates his broad shoulders, solid waist, and low-slung pants. He wears a few silver rings on his fingers and a bandana around his forehead. He looks sinister and sexy, and totally forbidden.
He spins to stand at my side, and his hand slips to my wrist. Gently leading me, he walks us out the door. As we take a few steps into the lot, my skin tingles under his thick fingers, a puzzling reaction to his tender touch. The sensation reminds me of his hand over mine on the stack of books he checked out, and I try to tug free of his hold, but he doesn’t release me.
“I’m okay,” I lie. In my head, I know I’m fine, but the message escapes my body. The boy’s voice has triggered a memory—but my recollection fogs in Nathan’s presence.
It will never happen again.
“You’re shaking like a leaf, sweetheart.” He stops us and looks around the lot. Then his eyes narrow at my car, the only other vehicle at the station.
“A convertible,” he snorts. “Not very practical.” I own a lime green VW Bug with a soft top. It isn’t practical for the mountains, frivolous even, but it was second-hand, and Cletus Winston gave me a deal when my Corolla died.
“Neither is a motorcycle,” I retort, which is ridiculous as many locals in the area own bikes. “At least, my ride came with a flower.” A little vase suctioned to the dash holds a single Gerbera daisy in deep red. Nathan’s face turns to mine and his eyes fall to the corner of my lips which I’m chewing. Slowly, his mouth curves and the stern edge of his expression softens.
“A little sass, huh? You’re making a joke.” His eyes twinkle, shifting from cold dawn to midnight.
“It’s the best medicine.” I strive to believe what I say. A little laughter and my nerves will settle, but for the moment, I’m still trembling. I can’t decide if it’s the boys’ mockery, Nathan’s surprise appearance, or the fact he just played a hero. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, and I reach for the black tourmaline hanging at my chest.
“Let me give you a ride home.” My gaze shoots to his bike—monstrous, metal, and mean.
“I don’t ride,” I tell him. It’s true. I’ll never put my body on a bike again.
Give me a ride I’ll never forget, I’d flirted with him. That was then.
“What are you doing here?” I glance around the Stop-and-Pump which sits at a crossroads. Head south and the next stop is Cedar Gap, my hometown and a place I never intend to pass through again. His hesitation tells me he has plans for the night. He’s headed out—out of Green Valley—to any number of biker bars nearby. The Iron Wraiths own the main ones but heading south and over the mountain is the Fugitive, a place I visited once. Where I met a man. Who I gave my …
Another thought occurs.
“Needed another pit stop, perhaps,” I snark, remembering the large box of condoms from the Piggly Wiggly.
Sweet Goddess, does he already need more?
“I’m here for gas,” he states, tweaking up an eyebrow and looking around us as if it should be obvious. “Now, about that ride—”
“I’m all set.” I tilt my head toward my car.
“How about a drink then?”
“I don’t drink.” It’s true, too. I gave it up, along with dancing and cavorting, as my parents calle
d it.
I gave it all up.
This is all your fault, Naomi. God is punishing you for your behavior. Punishing us.
“Not even coffee?” he asks, not missing a beat like that’s what he intended in the first place. Actually, I drink tea, and I’d love a good cup of chamomile. “Daisy’s Nut House,” he suggests. “I could follow you.”
Daisy’s place is famous for doughnuts and a bit more, and it’s also located in the opposite direction. Sugary treats and I have a love-hate relationship. I love them—they hate me—but a sweet tooth was something I couldn’t part with no matter how hard I tried to suppress everything else, and a doughnut does sound good. I must be allowed one guilty pleasure in my life.
“I’m sure you have other plans this evening,” I note, looking him up and down in his dark clothes. He tugs at my wrist, reminding me of his hold on me, and I stumble toward him, my feet tangling. My chest collides with his, and I scoff at the awkwardness. My hand flattens against soft cotton and hard pecs to break my fall. He’s firm—very firm—and his free hand slips into the hair on the side of my head, holding my face close to his.
Will he kiss me? It’s the craziest thought I’ve ever had.
“No plans,” he says, his voice turning ashy like it did in the library the other day. His eyes capture mine and the only word I can find to respond is, “Okay.”
The loud rumble of his engine cuts off after he pulls up next to me at Daisy’s Nut House. For the millionth time, I tell myself this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done—next to thinking he’d kiss me—only I know it isn’t true. Ironically, the last crazy thing I did was also with this man.
I puzzle for a moment over the thought of being kissed. Do I want him to kiss me? Why do I want him to kiss me? I know exactly how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed, and maybe the length of time is the reason. Maybe it’s just been so darn long since it last happened. Or maybe the truth lies deeper. It’s him. It’s Nathan. Nathan Ryder. The last man I kissed, and I want a repeat.
He hops off his bike and startles me by opening my door as I struggle with my skirt. My choice in clothing is a bit unconventional, for my age, for the era, but I take comfort in it. I feel safe within it—baggy tops and fuller skirts. While I stand out, it also sets me apart from others. It keeps me separate from those who don’t understand me. If the suit makes the man, as the saying goes, then my long skirts are my armor.
To my surprise, Nathan offers me a hand to help me from my car and he doesn’t let go as we walk to the entrance. Daisy’s Nut House is owned by Daisy Payton, daughter of one of the most prominent families in the area. She’s regal like an African queen with big black eyes and bright red lips. Upon seeing us, she smiles like warm honey. The Nut House had a shoot-out this last summer, but the place is all cleaned up now. Hearing what an officer of the law did was downright frightening. It’s one reason I don’t call the sheriff’s department every time kids taunt me. Who would believe me anyway? Unfortunately, racial prejudice is still a thing and religious misperceptions run a close second. Because of my practices, some people consider me different enough not to bother to understand that my beliefs don’t harm others. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m often misjudged. Sadly, I’m used to it.
“How are you this evening, Ms. Winters?” Daisy addresses me as I step up to the counter. She was Bethany Winston’s best friend and I’ve shared many nights of giggles with both of them. My heart aches a little at the loss of those moments since Bethany’s passing.
“I’m well. How are the girls? How is Adolpho?” Daisy has two gorgeous, intelligent daughters, and a genius son who’s handsome in his own right, and they all regularly frequented the library until that one time Julianne kicked Simone out for watching porn on the computers.
“Simone’s staying busy with Roscoe Winston in D.C. Oh, to be young and in love, right? And Poe is in California, finishing up his fellowship in planetary astrophysics. That boy always did reach for the stars.”
I chuckle with her and don’t miss how she avoids information on Daniella. This summer was a trial for her oldest daughter.
After placing my order for chamomile tea, I reach into my oversized patchwork bag for my wallet.
A few tampons.
A half-eaten protein bar wrapped in a napkin.
My favorite homemade lip balm. I had wondered where that went.
A hand comes to my lower back, and I still. Nathan reaches around me before I can find my way through the bottomless mess and places a bill on the counter. Hyper-focused on his warm palm just above my backside, I hardly hear his order.
“I’ll take a coffee. Black, please.” His voice still sounds rough, and I turn to him.
“Thank you for the tea.”
“I’ll bring you your drinks. Have a seat,” Daisy interjects, giving me a knowing look, although I don’t know what she thinks she knows. Nathan winks at her and leads me to an empty booth in the corner. We pass Deputy Sheriff Jackson James and the new, replacement deputy, Wyatt Monroe. There’s a stereotype about finding law enforcement in a doughnut shop, but looking at these men, it’s evident doughnuts have no effect on their physiques.
“Good evening, Naomi,” Jackson addresses me as we pass. I tip my head and grin, not trusting my voice with Nathan’s hand still on my lower back and Jackson glaring at the connection.
I fold into the final booth and Nathan sits across from me.
“Thank you again for stepping in tonight. That wasn’t really necessary.” While I would have gone into librarian mode, effectively using my stern voice of reprimand to put those boys in their place, I am grateful for Nathan’s intercession. They weren’t exactly young school children.
“There’s no reason for Dwight’s son to be speaking to you like that. I’d like to think his daddy would be appalled by his behavior, but unfortunately, knowing his father as I do, I don’t think so. Either way, it was disrespectful and unacceptable.”
I dismiss him with a wave, lowering my eyes to the tabletop. “It happens.” It’s painful to admit the truth. People talk behind my back all the time. The ignorant. The unfamiliar. They’re uncertain what to think of me. It’s a conservative Christian community, and I’m an outlier. I’m a little embarrassed of my acceptance at being an anomaly.
Nathan’s quiet for a moment and when I finally peer up at him, he’s squinting as if he’s searching for something on my face.
“How often?”
“How often what?”
“How often does it happen?”
My head turns for the window. The night is dark. The air is crisp. ‘Tis the season.
“It’s that time of year,” I mutter. Surely, he’s heard the rumors, even if he’s been gone for eighteen years. Eighteen years. Some nights, I think I might have dreamed him up, but then painful memories return. With the recollection, I wish the night had been a dream, instead of the nightmare it turned out to be. But when I glance back at Nathan, and take in his piercing silver eyes, the curve of his lip, and the hint of a dimple, my heart skips a beat, and I curse my thoughts. Nathan might have been a foolish decision, but I don’t wish him away. Instead, I marvel at the fact I’m sitting here with him.
“Fall?” he questions, interrupting my wandering thoughts.
“Pumpkins, pumpkins everywhere. Witches in the air …” My voice falters on the Halloween rhyme. I wave my hands in a spooky manner, but the mocking motions are weak. His eyes narrow further. Assuming I’m a witch isn’t the worst people have thought of me. A long time ago, I accepted the fact that people are going to believe what they will. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, starting with my parents. Jezebel.
“I don’t understand.” But something in his tone tells me he’s heard a thing or two. He continues to watch me like he doesn’t know what to think, and then his head tilts and his brow twitches in question. “But it isn’t true? The witch thing.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Does he believe the rumors? Would it matter to him what
I practice? What I believe? Then I remind myself, Nathan Ryder doesn’t know me, any more than I know him, and his opinion shouldn’t matter. Strangely, it does.
“I’m stating a fact. It doesn’t matter to me.” He leans forward, his clenched hands sliding over the tabletop, stretching forward as if he intends to reach for me. My hands remain under the table, twisting the material of my skirt, sweaty palms gripping at the all-natural fabric.
What would his touch feel like after all these years? Would he be gentle or rough? Would he be smooth or scratchy with that scruff? Would he kiss me like he did, like I was the only girl he ever wanted to kiss?
“If you’re looking to dip your wand into my cauldron, you’ll be sadly disappointed,” I blurt, immediately regretting the words as they leave my mouth.
He sputters as his eyes blink. “My what in your where?”
“Your wand,” I state slowly, twirling my finger as I point at him. “Into my cauldron,” I say, aiming my thumb back at myself. Nathan stares at me like I have two heads.
I’m acting like I have two heads. One for not thinking straight. And the other for sounding like a fool.
I lower my hand to my lap, clutching at my skirt and curling my fingers into fists.
“Witches humor,” I mutter, pausing a beat. “Never mind.”
Could the tile floor please open and swallow me whole?
Thankfully, our warm drinks arrive, distracting us for a mere second.
“Enjoy,” Daisy says, smiling at Nathan before giving me another pleased look I can’t interpret.
“I really should have paid. It’s the least I could do as you played the hero.” I attempt to recover my failing social skills with graciousness.
“I’m definitely no hero,” he snorts, and there’s something cryptic in his tone. His eyes harden, and he focuses on the steaming mug before him. We’re silent for another second, each keeping to our thoughts. Sitting across from Nathan feels a little surreal, and my mind is a jumble, like a scrambled jigsaw puzzle.
Love in Due Time Page 4
