Split

by JB Salsbury

  She steps out of the shadows, and my eyes, lids half-mast and vision lust-fogged, move up to her face—Oh God!

  I stumble backward. Rip my hand from between my legs.

  It’s her.

  The woman from the diner and Mr. Jennings’s house.

  I squint. She’s crying.

  I crouch low and watch. She’s staring at the house and her cheeks are wet with tears. What was once the gentle sound of her humming has turned to quiet sobs.

  Maybe she saw me and she’s upset?

  But she’s still standing there, completely exposed. It’s as if the house itself is making her cry.

  I blink against the strange urge to comfort her. As if women aren’t intimidating enough, emotional women trigger a darkness in me I can’t allow myself to acknowledge.

  Who is she? The night I dropped Cody off, she was terrifying, but today at the diner she was kind. Gentle even. And with that piercing stare that sends my pulse racing, she’s the kind of pretty that makes my chest hurt.

  Without another thought, I turn and scurry back to my room. I crawl beneath my sleeping bag and try to ignore the still heavy weight between my legs and the painful throb that begs for my hand. No. I push away images of the naked woman in the creek.

  The room shrinks around me and I slam my eyes closed, begging for sleep to take me.

  Seven

  Shyann

  “So no one will hire you and now you’re desperate enough to come by and ask for your old job back?” My dad doesn’t look up from his newspaper and takes a sip of black coffee.

  The smell turns my stomach, even though I had four cups and a plate of eggs and bacon in an attempt to cure my hangover. It didn’t work. After last night, I’m never drinking again.

  Had I actually cried? The details are fuzzy, but I remember being naked in the creek. The lights were off in the river house; whoever Dad has living there was sound asleep while I stared and imagined the future my mom had planned to build in it. It was too much. The cold water sobered me up enough that a wave of pain and anger crashed over me.

  But I don’t cry.

  Not since she died.

  So what the hell was that?

  I swear this town is fucking with my head. I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for the ache between my ears to fade. “If you wanna be all technical about it, then…yeah.”

  I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.

  The fact is, I have no choice. I need money now, and the job is available now. Necessity shoves aside my pride. Sooner I make some money, sooner I’ll be gone.

  “Fine.” He folds up his newspaper and smacks it down on his desk, kicking up a flurry of dust that lights up in the sunlight through the window. “But things have changed since you worked here in high school. Job now includes pickin’ up supplies from town when we need ’em. Didn’t want you driving to the city back then, but figure you’re a big-shot career woman now; you can handle it.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Also might need you on job sites. Been spreading myself thin and we’ve been busier than ever.”

  My head throbs. Is he yelling?

  “And the pay, you’ll get twenty an hour to start. If you prove your salt, I’ll raise that.” His eyes go over my shoulder at the sound of the office door opening and he waves in whoever is behind me.

  “Whoa, Native American Barbie.” My brother plucks the shoulder hem of my blouse. “Nice threads.”

  I smack his hand. “Shut up.”

  He chuckles and drops into the seat next to me, propping his work-boot-covered feet on my dad’s desk and dropping a decent amount of dirt off the tread in the process.

  My dad stands and grabs his tool belt from a nearby table that’s in no better shape than his desk. “Get started out there, then in here. Cody and I’ll be out most of the day.”

  “Aw, shit…” Cody’s voice is laced with laughter. “She caved.” He pushes his black hair off his forehead. “Less than twenty-four hours. That’s gotta be a record.”

  “Cody, up.” My dad’s growl erases my brother’s cocky grin. “Got work to do, so does your sister.”

  My brother pushes up to stand. “Hell yeah she does.” He whistles low and his gaze moves around the room. “Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and say it.”

  My dad drops a stack of overstuffed file folders into my lap, spilling their guts to the floor at my feet. “What’s that?” How he’s managed to run a successful company and not know the first thing about organizing paperwork is a damn mystery.

  “You’re a whore.”

  My dad freezes and glares at my brother. “Fuck does that mean?”

  “This.” Cody holds his arms out, motioning to the entire room. “You’re hoarding.”

  “Code, someone who hoards is not a whore.” The rumble of irritation is heavy in my dad’s voice, either from impatience or from my brother’s idiocy.

  “Of course they are.” Cody laughs.

  “No. They’re not, dumbass.” I wrangle the file folders back into my arms and carry them to the reception desk.

  Cody ruffles my hair, pushing it into my eyes, and I’m stuck unable to clear it.

  “You dick!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” Dad snags his keys and pops on a faded baseball hat with the Jennings Contractors logo on it. “Both of you talk like you were raised by bikers.”

  My brother grins. “Crabby ole mountain man’ll give a biker’s mouth a run for its money.”

  Dad mumbles something that makes Cody laugh and they leave without saying goodbye.

  I finally blow the hair out of my eyes and study what is supposed to be a lobby, or it was when I worked here years ago, but now resembles a storage unit. Blueprints scatter every available tabletop, both rolled up and spread open, held down by wrenches, screwdrivers, even a can of WD-40. I plop down at my desk and groan. It’ll take me forever to get this all straightened out.

  Only days ago I was at the jumping point of a career-changing event. I chose to drop-kick my own ass right off a cliff rather than do what had to be done and this is my penance. Cleaning up a half decade of crappy bookkeeping and housekeeping for a man who always made me feel like my dreams were too big and my place was in a small pond.

  Nash Jennings might be right about a lot of things, but not that. This is a temporary setback that I will rectify as soon as I figure out how. I’m not giving up. Not without a fight.

  * * *

  Several hours after my dad and Cody left, I’m knees-deep in paperwork and contemplating my shitty situation. My blouse is wrinkled and sticks to my skin, suffocating my body like Saran Wrap, and my gray slacks are probably black on the butt from sitting on the filthy carpet, but it was the only clear space to lay everything out.

  I flex my fingers and paper cuts hatch-mark my aching digits from rolling blueprints and sorting through invoices. Hunger rumbles in my stomach and I’m about to grab the granola bar from my purse when I hear a vehicle pull up out front. I can’t see it from my position on the floor, but I’m hoping it’s my dad with lunch.

  I peek up just as a man comes through the door.

  Not Dad, and sadly he’s not carrying a bag of deli sandwiches, so I hoist my body off the ground. “Sorry, I— Oh…” I blow a loose strand of hair from my eyes. “You.” The guy from the diner. The one who lost his mom. My chest aches.

  He stares, his face unreadable.

  “I’m sorry, I just…” I take a step toward him and have to tilt my head up to see his eyes. “I saw you yesterday.”

  He makes a choking noise and looks away.

  “At the 87 Café? You were grabbing coffee.”

  His baseball hat is pulled low over his eyes—similar to how he was wearing it at the diner—and his chin is dipped to his chest so I can’t get a good look at his face. He shifts on his feet. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Um…” I peer behind me, then back at him. “Is there something I can help you wi
th?”

  “Ma’am.” He pulls his hat off and runs a hand through a thick mass of dark hair, avoiding my eyes. “I’m here to see Mr. Jennings.”

  “Mr. Jennings?” I tilt my head and study him. Faded jeans coated in dirt and sawdust. The scent of mountain air and pinesap wafting off of his solid frame speak of time working manual labor. And I remember his truck. “You work for Jennings?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pops his hat back on and pulls it low. He has to be in his midtwenties, but his body language is more like a teenage boy. None of the bloated confidence like the men I’m used to. His timidity is kind of charming. His hands fidget in front of his thighs. He catches me watching and quickly shoves them into his pockets.

  “Shyann.”

  He lifts his chin, showcasing a square jaw and full lips. He really is beautiful. “Ma’am?”

  “Call me Shyann.” I hold out a hand and swear the movement makes him jump, even if only minutely. “Shyann Jennings.”

  He stills for a second, registers my name, then grabs my hand for a quick, firm shake. His palm is warm, clammy, and calloused, and as soon as he grabs mine, he releases it. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re not from around here.” Growing up in a small town I know everyone there is, including their relatives, but that’s not what gives away his flatlander status. He’s not a natural-born mountain man. His skin is tan, but it’s not from spending his youth working land or maintaining a farm. Kids like me who grow up country spend the majority of our lives outside. This guy’s tan is new, without freckles or the grooves most men get around their mouth and eyes.

  Then there are his manners. He’s overly polite, overly respectful. Hell, he took his hat off when he addressed me. Again, not uncommon in small towns, but the way he does it is more militant than genteel.

  “No, ma’am.” He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Where you from?”

  He shrugs and his eyes dart to the front door. A patch of puckered skin mars the slope of his neck just below his jaw. “Little bit a’everywhere.”

  “Are you a felon?”

  His body jerks back and he tenses. “No, ma’am. No, I… I’m not…”

  I slide a stack of invoices and purchase orders into my arms and hope taking my focus off him will relieve his nervousness. “Most people who wind up in a small town are hiding something. I don’t judge.”

  He’s stock-still, staring, and as I pass him to the file cabinet, I do it close to try to get a glimpse of his eyes, but he steps back to maintain his distance.

  “Would it be all right if I left something for Mr. Jennings on his desk?”

  “Sure.” I motion toward my dad’s office. “Have at it.”

  He nods, then shuffles to the office where he must drop off something small. I didn’t see him with anything in his hands when he got here. Before I know it, he’s passing me, headed for the front door and rubbing the back of his neck.

  Maybe it’s his mysterious demeanor or the fact that we share a common loss, but I’m not ready to see him go.

  “What is it?” I blurt the question, grateful when he stops just shy of the door.

  He turns to me and my heart stupidly thunders in my chest. “What?”

  “What did you drop off? Just, ya know, so I can tell Nash.” Smooth, Shyann.

  He seems taken aback. “A mock-up.”

  “Mock-up for what?”

  His jaw tightens as if my questions are irritating, and I wonder if my irrational desire to know more about him is coming off as annoying and nosy.

  The groan of a truck kicking up dirt filters into the office. I peer out the window just as my dad slides from the driver’s side.

  “Looks like you’ll be able to give it to him yourself.” I turn back to the filing cabinet as the heavy footfalls of my dad’s boots hit the threshold. And for some unexplainable reason, I’m thankful my dad’s presence will force him to stay.

  Lucas

  She’s Nash’s daughter.

  And I’ve seen her naked!

  Even imagined myself with her naked.

  This is so wrong.

  I clear my throat and force myself to breathe through my desire to run. The office isn’t small, but this girl seems to take up all the air in the room. Her presence has me edgy, her shocking blue eyes are impossible to hold, and the way she tilts her head to study me feels like she can see through to my soul. She’s pushy and forward, a complete contrast to the girl I saw last night. That girl had been vulnerable both physically and emotionally, and the strength I see in her now makes my skin prickle. If I were a stronger man, I’d confess what I saw, apologize for intruding on her private moment. But I’m not.

  “Lucas.” Mr. Jennings’s gaze moves around the space and I realize his daughter has his exact same eyes, but whereas his are intimidating, hers are probing. “Wow, look at this place.” He studies the brunette with a knowing grin and she rolls her eyes. “Can see the desk again.”

  “Four years of college and I’m pushing paper.” She huffs and shoves a file into a drawer with enough force to crinkle the pages.

  His lips twitch as he swings his gaze to me. “I assume you met my daughter, Shy.”

  Interesting name for a girl who is anything but.

  I pull my hat off and nod. “Sir, yes, we met.”

  “Shy, this is Lucas.” Mr. Jennings motions to me and her eyes follow.

  “Lucas.” She says my name as if she’s tasting it on her tongue.

  My pulse pounds in my neck. I need to get away from her, from the feelings her presence evokes.

  I take a step toward the door. “I dropped the mock-up on your desk.”

  “No shit.” His eyebrows rise. “Done already?” He doesn’t wait for my response but heads the few yards back to his office and returns with my sketch in his hand. He unfolds and studies the page. “Sheezus, son…this is good.”

  Pride swells in my chest and I force my eyes to the floor to avoid them seeing my smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “What is it?” Shyann’s light steps move across the room. “Holy shit…”

  “Shy, can you go a day without cussin’?” The disappointment I hear in his voice calls my eyes to her, expecting to see the familiar expression of dejection that every child feels when scorned by a parent, but she appears calm. Confident even.

  “All I’m saying is this is some good shit, Dad.” She curls her full lips between her teeth as if fighting a smile while her dad ignores her.

  Brave. I’d be terrified to talk back to a man like Mr. Jennings.

  “Good work, Lucas.” He shakes out the loose-leaf page. “This’ll look great in wood.”

  His daughter’s probing glare comes to me and my chest tightens. “Wood? You carve this into wood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Shyann.”

  “Shyann.” Heat warms my neck. I attempt to drop my gaze, but it’s as if it’s drawn to hers by some magnetic force.

  The walls seem to close in on us, the surrounding air becoming almost too thick to breathe. The same need from last night stirs deep in my gut. It’s new and so forbidden it makes me nauseous and excited in equal parts.

  Her cheeks take on a pink that stands out against her olive skin, and again I wonder what it would feel like against my hand, my chest, my lips. The thought evokes images that I feel in the front of my jeans.

  I blink, breaking our bond, and with a full, deep breath I step back. “Better go,” I whisper, and nod before turning away.

  My stomach roils with the tinge of regret for rudely running off, but unnerved, I have to get some space. More air. Clear my head.

  In the couple months I’ve been here, I’ve managed to keep my emotions in check and Shyann Jennings is threating to take down everything I’ve worked so hard to build. This stability and assuredness she projects doesn’t match the woman in the creek last night. I push her out of my mind and resolve to keep her there. But my head struggles wit
h a single question I can’t seem to let go.

  What would make a woman that strong cry, naked in a creek, alone in the middle of the night? I’m pulled in two different directions.

  Half wanting to bolt.

  Half risking to know more.

  Shyann

  I watch Lucas’s retreating frame as he practically runs to his truck. “Is it something I said?”

  My dad pulls his eyes from the mock-up and follows my gaze. “Nah. Don’t worry about him. He keeps to himself. Think it’s an artist thing. Don’t take it personally.”

  My mind flickers back to the patch of scarred skin on his neck that should make him unattractive but instead adds a dangerous edge to his good looks. “What’s his story?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t ask. He showed up at a job site ’bout two months ago, offered a hand, did good work, could tell it wasn’t his first time on a job site. Kept showin’ up, so I hired him.”

  “Hmm.” I take another peek at the pencil sketch in my dad’s hands.

  The scene is of the mountains, Payson mountains. Douglas fir and blue spruce trees peppering the edge of a creek where elk graze, some drinking from the stream while others stand at attention, as if on lookout for predators. The different shades of gray cast shadows and give the sketch a three-dimensional quality that will become two-dimensional in wood.

  “How’d you know he could draw?”

  “Didn’t. One day while he was on a break he just picked up a piece of scrap wood and starting whittling away. Next thing we knew, he was holding a wooden bear. Got my attention, so I asked if he could do more. He did a mantel.”

  The man barely speaks, seems close to terrified in benign situations, and he creates masterpieces with his hands.

  It’s official. I’m intrigued.

  Eight

  Shyann