by Bijou Hunter
Chuckling at her casual demeanor on a topic most women play coy or sexy, I ask, “This guy you had sex with, is he still around?”
“You mean, like did I kill him?” she asks, giving me a little wink.
“No, I mean, is he still in your life?”
“Sure. He works at the movie theater. There was another one too, but I don’t talk to them much, but I nodded at the movie theater guy a few weeks ago.”
“Sounds all kinds of romantic.”
“I wanted to have sex but didn’t want the person bothering me afterward. I knew both of them from high school. I chose them because they were clean and smart enough not to brag. Nothing romantic about it.”
“Is it possible that’s why the sex wasn’t any good?”
“Nope. Colton said he enjoyed it with people he didn’t even like.”
“Men are different.”
“No,” she says instantly.
“They are.”
“I’ve never met a man any different than me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Miranda stands and lifts her cheap plastic cup. “I want more soda. Do you need anything?”
Shaking my head, I watch her walk across the room. Her long, tanned bare legs shine in the ugly fluorescent lights. I catch an old-timer in the corner enjoying the view too. If he were a few decades younger, I might poke out his ogling eyes.
Miranda returns to the table, looking constipated. She settles into her seat and shakes her shoulders.
“Did River tell you anything about the Ellsberg Hatfield and McCoy people?” she asks and then lifts her face up and sniffs the air. “Did you eat candy?”
“Is there candy in this food?”
“I wish,” she says, standing up and leaning over to sniff me. I remain very still while she does her sexy little bloodhound routine. “You smell like black licorice.”
“It’s my cologne.”
“Why?”
“My almost-wife bought me a bottle some years ago, and I never cared enough to find anything different.”
“How come you didn’t get married?” she asks, sitting down.
“That’s a story for another time. What was crawling under your skin when you came back over here?”
“Huh?”
“The Hatfield and McCoy thing.”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, peeling her gaze from my face to glance at the front door. “Our Hatfields sell meth, and our McCoys make moonshine and grow pot. They both do business with the Reapers, but they hate each other, and Pop always told me to stay away from them. People like them are born with giant dangerous chips on their shoulders.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“They’re poor mainly. Probably stupid too. Their kind grows up in shacks, living on the edges of society, feeling left out of the community. Then they raise their kids to do and feel the same things. Uncle Judd calls it a generational dumpster fire.”
As one of the enforcers for the local chapter, Judd has visited Shasta on a few occasions since I joined. Likely in his sixties, he didn’t say much during the visits. Though he did punch a guy in the back of the head for snapping his gum too loudly. I respect when a man his age is willing to throw down over something so small.
“Why did you bring them up now?” I ask while she sips her drink through a straw.
Miranda doesn’t answer immediately. She holds my gaze as if something terrible might happen if she looks away. Finally, she stops drinking and rests her drink on the table. “I saw a few of the Hatfield trash outside. I hope they don’t come in here and stink up the place.”
Like clockwork, the front door’s bell alerts the restaurant to new guests. Miranda’s gaze leaves me and flashes toward the three men. I spot recognition on their faces, but she looks away without giving any kind of friendly gesture.
“My pop-pop used to eat black licorice,” Miranda says, again staring at me as if I’m all that exists in the world. “Gram let me finish the package he was eating when he died.”
“He died while eating licorice?”
“No. It’s licorice,” she grumbles, shaking her head with disapproval. “People eat a few and then put the package away for later. How do you not know that?”
“I do, but I want you focused on me rather than the trio of dirty drawers heading toward our table.”
“Don’t cause trouble or my pop will hear about it and you’ll get found out.”
I can’t help smiling at the protective edge to her monotone voice. “These guys are noise. You’re the prize.”
Before she can smile, the three men move closer. They aren’t walking as much as wandering around the room, sniffing people’s food, and intimidating the few other patrons. When the head dipshit reaches a table from ours, he sighs dramatically.
“The lovely Missy Johansson. You sure look fine in your short shorts. Did you perhaps wear them hoping you might run into me?”
Sipping her soda again, Miranda refuses to look at him. A hint of what I think is amusement flashes across her dark eyes. Ignoring him, she stares at me as if we’re having a contest she plans to win.
“I know you aren’t pulling that cold shoulder shit with me, Rando,” the asshole says, sounding more annoyed than angry.
“I’m not doing anything with you, Rudy,” she says, refusing to look at the tall, scrawny idiot. “Why are you shitting on my day when I never so much looked twice at you?”
“You Johansson bitches always think you’re better than everyone else in this town.”
Miranda still won’t look at him. Her dark eyes hold mine, and I sense she hopes I will focus on her rather than the flip-flop-wearing blond asshole fidgeting next to us. Her attempt at distraction might work on a younger man, but I’ve lived too long not to know what needs to happen next. I’d bet dollars to donuts Miranda knows too, but she still hopes her pretty eyes alone can change the momentum of this moment.
When I stand in a smooth movement, Rudy jumps back as if I’ve shocked him. I’d guess he’s six feet tall since I’m a few inches taller. I no doubt have fifty pounds on the skinny bastard.
“Fuck off,” Rudy says immediately.
“I need you to do two things. The first is refraining from referring to Miranda in foul ways such as bitch. The second is I’d like you to leave this establishment.”
“You aren’t the police,” Rudy says, puffing out his prepubescent chest for my benefit. “I have a right to be anywhere I want.”
“Now that you know what I want, will you force me to take what I want?”
“What the fuck—?”
My fist makes quick contact with his gut before he can finish his sentence. Gasping, Rudy goes down hard, and I hear his knees crack against the concrete floor. Who’d think a redneck meth dealer couldn’t handle a little pounding without giving up so quickly?
Once he hits the ground, I focus on his two friends. One of them is a tubby, hairy fucker with huge pit stains on his Pac-Man shirt. The other is a bald, tattooed wannabe musclehead. They spread out, moving to my right and left, flanking me as if they’ve got a shot in hell of winning.
“Quaid,” Miranda says, beginning to stand.
Shaking my head very slowly, I don’t look at her while spelling out what I need from her in three words, “Drink your soda.”
Miranda returns to her seat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s readying her weapon. These assholes might not be inbred cannibals, but I suspect she’ll still shoot them.
Glancing between the two approaching men, I fight a smile. “Which one wants it first?”
Pit Stains isn’t sure how he feels about pain. I see him shuffle his feet, moving without erasing the distance between us. Musclehead clearly has something to prove, likely newer to the Hatfield organization.
Rushing at me, he throws his meaty fist at my head. I slide right and dodge the strike. My hand grips his thick neck as I curve my foot to take out the back of his knee. He goes down where I hold him to the ground by his throat. I crouch on one knee, r
eady to push off my back foot and return to the fight if Rudy or Pit Stains decides to help out their friend.
“Do you really want to die on this dirty floor?” I whisper, forcing Musclehead to choose this very moment how long he wants to live.
Rather than give in, the asshole on the ground reaches for my face. I’d rather not have my back to the other two, so I hurry along Musclehead’s education. My free fist pounds his ugly face. Once, twice, three times, I punch the muscled loser before he mumbles the word “enough” well enough for me to believe him.
Upright quickly, I look over Rudy and Pit Stains. The first asshole is still on his feet, but he’s lost his taste for violence. I don’t think Pit Stains ever had an ounce of interest in this battle. They back off, barely waiting for their friend to join them before disappearing out the door.
“Well, that happened,” Tipsy Tara says from behind the counter. “Thanks for not breaking anything I’d have to clean up.”
“Might need to mop up the blood,” I say, returning to my seat.
Tara waves off the idea. The floor isn’t dirty by accident after all.
Having assumed Miranda wouldn’t mind a little-spilled blood, I’m surprised to find her staring disgusted at me.
“Don’t worry about your pop finding out,” I say and reach for my drink.
Slapping my hand, she nearly growls. “Are you insane?”
“I beat on assholes. If that’s a problem, then maybe you and I don’t work.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks and reaches into her bag. “You touched those gross men and the floor, and now you want to eat. If you’re the kind of man who doesn't keep his hands clean, you and I don’t work.”
With that, Miranda tosses me a mini-bottle of hand sanitizer. Her gaze holds mine, and I realize this is a test. If I’ve changed my mind about us, all I need to do is refuse the bottle, and we part ways without getting too deeply into the why.
Of course, even if I wanted to ditch Miranda and Ellsberg, no way could I refuse a woman who makes rage looks so fucking glorious.
THE ODDBALL
Violence doesn’t bother me like it probably should. I grew up watching my pop and uncle pound on each other for fun. The club guys often break into violent squabbles especially when booze is involved. I’ve even embraced my ferocious side a time or two—as Colton can confirm. Yet watching Quaid beat on Rudy, Tully, and Boy Jody riles something fierce inside me.
I feel genuine fear at the sight of his easy takedown of the three men. I don’t care about their safety, of course. I’ve known them most of my life. They’re mere gnats, annoying people but relatively harmless, especially Rudy. He’s the baby of his family, having gotten his ass beat so often by so many people that I don’t think he even knows how to fight back. The only reason he gives me trouble is that I remind him of Lily who he crushed on hard in school. Most guys in the area did. Unlike her coach, the males of Ellsberg were avid fans of the junk in her truck.
Local boys never paid attention to me. I wasn’t as pretty or friendly as Lily. I might also be cracked in the head. Plus Colton wasn’t much younger, and he likes punching people who messed with his sisters.
Violence is nothing, and these men are nothing, but Quaid is definitely something. However, I’m less concerned about him getting hurt—he clearly knows how to kick ass—than Pop finding out about Quaid having dinner with me. My father rarely embraces change even if he’s the one to instigate it.
Pop won’t want Quaid in Ellsberg, and he has the power to make him leave. I figured I had a few days, a week maybe before Pop caught onto my sneaky dates. Thanks to the meth-dealing Hatfield losers, my secret will soon be out, and Pop’s reaction will be swift.
“I don’t know why you had to go and do all that,” I say once Quaid cleans his hands. “Rudy is all talk.”
“Rudy is no one to me,” he says, and I’m mesmerized by the flicker of rage in his pale blue eyes. “I do what needs to be done when someone crosses a line. You can handle it differently, but I’m not you.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t think I’d want to date me. I’m sneaky and selfish. You should remember that.”
“You had my back, didn’t you?” he asks, smirking behind the pretzel he eats.
“I wasn’t sure who I should shoot, you or your helpless victims.”
I stare at Quaid whose smile grows wider. He refuses to fall for my blank look. Relenting, I grin too.
“My pop will know about you and me by the time I get home.”
“I suspect he will.”
“Do you trust me to handle the problem or will you want to take the lead like with Rudy?”
“I trust you just fine, Miranda.”
Rolling my eyes, I ask, “Why can’t you stop calling me that?”
“What’s wrong with your name?”
“I went to school with a girl named Miranda, and she ruined it for me.”
“Well, I refuse to call you Rando. It’s an ugly man’s name.”
“You can just say, ‘Hey, you,’ and I’ll know you’re talking to me. I mean who else would you be talking to around Ellsberg?”
“If your father doesn’t send me back to Shasta tomorrow, I want to see you again,” he says in his casually rough voice.
“We could have a picnic by the river. Go swimming too if you want.”
Quaid gives me a lazy grin, and I find myself memorizing the way his lips curve. I notice lighter hairs in his beard, blond maybe or even gray. Pop’s had gray in his beard since I was a kid. I used to comb his beard to make him pretty before he’d go somewhere important. I don’t know if I’d find a clean-shaven man very attractive, and my pop is the reason why. He’s the only man I trust entirely. He can’t hurt me. Family is his strength and weakness. I wonder if I could ever feel such trust with Quaid.
“A picnic sounds just up my alley,” he says, still half-grinning.
“I’ll bring the food.”
“What should I bring?”
“Something to swim in because you can’t go naked. Well, not if you want to keep your family jewels. Our dogs roam the property, and they have a weird obsession with men’s junk. Colton nearly lost a ball when he was streaking as a teenager.”
“Good to know,” he says, chuckling.
As soon as the last bite enters Quaid’s tempting lips, I stand. “I better go home and get ahead of the gossip.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
I barely wait for him before I head for the door. I ought to move slower and possibly do the flirty hair-twisty thing girls do when they like boys. I’m in a hurry, though. Besides, Quaid isn’t a boy, and I couldn’t flirt even when I was a girl.
Once at my moped, I’m ready to ditch him and race home to stop Pop from throwing around his weight as the Reapers’ president. A light wind returns Quaid’s scent to me, and I shiver at the licorice aroma mixed with the hint of sweaty flesh. I glance back at him and wonder how hot his skin must feel right now in the summer heat.
Without thinking, I reach out and run my fingers through his wavy, auburn hair. I inhale deeply, craving his unique scent.
“What made this happen?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow while I run my fingers through his hair before sliding them forward across his beard.
“You smell so good.”
“If you keep touching me, I won’t be able to keep my lips off of yours.”
“Your threat isn’t at all scary.”
Quaid takes a single step and steals the space between us. His left arm casually wraps around my waist as his lips cover mine. I expect him to taste like licorice, but that’s just because my wires are jacked up from a tsunami of womanly hormones.
Rather than tasting like candy, Quaid’s flavor is a mix of the delicious meal I just enjoyed. I realize he tastes like me, and I really like me especially the version of me that smells this good and sports a rough beard and a headful of wavy hair.
“I’m glad you didn’t wear your hat,” I mumble when his lips
leave mine.
Quaid only grins, giving me a glimpse of his white teeth as he steps back. “You are something special, Miss Johansson.”
“I know, but I have to go.”
“Are you sure you can drive with your head swimming?”
I have no clue what he means until I realize I’m holding onto my moped to keep from crashing down to the ground. Did a single kiss really make me weak in the fucking knees? How old am I anyway?
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, climbing on my moped. “The kiss was partially great because of me too.”
Laughing, Quaid nods and shoves his hands into the pockets of his camo pants. “Drive slow and safe.”
“If I were you, I’d worry more about me selling my pop on the idea of you staying in Ellsberg.”
“I have no doubt he’ll buy whatever you tell him.”
His trust in my skills makes me smile, but I need to hurry if I want to outrun the news of Quaid and my date. We’re not even in Ellsberg, but saucy gossip flies fast around these parts.
I leave behind one big, tattooed man, speed home as fast as my not-so-fast moped can go, and arrive to find a big, tattooed man waiting for me.
Pop stands in the doorway with his tanned buff arms crossed tightly. He frowns at me in the way he often does with Colton. I skate by so much that I’m surprised to see such anger directed at me. Heart beating faster, I do what I always do and pull a Rando move on my poor pop.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say before he can speak.
“I have a question for you too.”
“Can I go first, so I don’t forget mine?”
Sighing, he gestures for me to join him in the living room of the sizeable two-story home. He’s planning to grill me for information. While I can’t stop him from asking his questions, I do plan to make him work for those answers.
“What’s ketchup made from?” I ask once I sit on one end of the black leather couch where he now frowns at me.
Pop blinks wildly as if I’ve broken his brain. This reaction bodes well for giving me more time before his questions come about.
“Tomatoes and vinegar along with some other shit. Why?”
“And is tomato a vegetable or a fruit? I heard it was a fruit. Is that true?”
