by JB Salsbury
I tingle all over and try to remain upright. My limbs shake with adrenaline and with the distance between us I take my first full breath.
He casually leans against the counter as if nothing happened. Seemingly unaffected, he kicks his feet out and crosses them at the ankles. “You’re scared, run.” He motions to the door with a big sweeping stroke of his hand. “No one’s keeping you here.”
“What’s wrong with you?” The words fall out on a whisper as my mind tries to make sense of I’m seeing.
His gaze turns predatory and his casualness dissolves. “Leave.”
“But…” I struggle to find the right words. I was about to kiss him and he completely turned on me. “I thought…”
“Shy. Ann. Not so shy, Shyann.” He chuckles. His voice sounds different, darker and teasing in a way I don’t like at all. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as he mocks my emotions. “Not so shy, Shy. Ann.” He continues to roll my name around in his mouth as if he’s tried it and doesn’t like the taste. “You thought you could flash those baby blues, shove your tits in my face, rub your pussy against me, and get what you want.” He tsks and grins. “Shy. Ann?”
“Stop it!” God, who is this guy? One minute I can barely get him to speak and now he’s being downright cruel.
He scowls and his jaw goes rock hard. “No! You stop it!”
“I’m leaving.” I don’t need this crap. One minute he’s caring, then indifferent, and finally flat-out mean. I go to move past him, feeling like a total ass for thinking Lucas was different, that we had a connection, but I stop and look him in the eye. “You could’ve just told me you weren’t interested.”
He tilts his head and his eyes blaze a trail from my lips to my chest to…between my legs? I shiver from the visual assault and he must notice as he rubs his upper lip, grinning. “Oh no, Shy. Ann. He’s interested. That’s the problem.”
What is this? It’s like he’s been injected with sex and crazy. He’s the total opposite of the Lucas I’ve come to know. Disappointment washes over me and tightens my chest.
“G’night, Lucas.” I trudge through the living room with my eyes to the floor.
Embarrassment and shame carry my feet faster and as I pass through the front door, he mumbles, “Call me Gage.”
Gage
I roll my head on my shoulders—his shoulders—what-the-fuck-ever. Same thing.
It’s been a while since I’ve come forward, which says a lot about Luke. He’s managed to avoid people that’ll hurt him.
’Bout time. Only took twenty years to figure that out.
But then he had to go and fuck it all up by getting close to this chick. He tried to hold himself back, keep his shit together, but the little pussy fell dick, heart, and balls for a girl.
A woman.
Makes me sick to think he could actually enjoy the company of a female after what that bitch-whore of a mother put us through.
I’m not saying he should be gay—hell, I’m just as turned on by big tits and a tight little pussy as he is—but beyond what they can offer sexually, women are disgusting, evil, wretched creatures.
Even now that I buried him in the dark I can still feel the effect she has on him stirring his insides. I rub my chest in an attempt to push back that tingly shit left lingering behind my ribs. Fuck a woman, yeah. But this shit Luke feels is not okay.
The sickness of lust mixes with an airy sensation that, I’m not gonna lie, feels really fucking good.
But so does heroin.
Just because something feels good doesn’t make it safe.
Bitches get off on causing pain, especially to Luke. And falling in love with a woman has the potential to be disastrous.
They’re straight from the pit of hell, all of them except Alexis, but she was seven and was dead before the infection of womanhood could disease and ruin her.
I won’t allow him to be hurt again. Ever.
My entire existence revolves around keeping him safe. And the things I’ve done, the unimaginable lengths I’ve gone to in order to protect him, are what nightmares are made of.
Luke doesn’t need to be daydreaming about a woman who will only rip out his heart and destroy whatever good is left in him. Best to keep women in one category, and the only dreamin’ they’re good for is the wet kind.
Even now, as I watch that hot piece of ass storm down the dirt road, my cock stiffens. I coulda fucked her. She wanted it bad enough. I would’ve made her beg for it, just like all the rest. But I know her feelings for Luke run deeper than a quick fuck and there’s no way I’ll be able to keep him safe if I chum the waters with my dick.
Once Shyann disappears around the bend, I do a slow scan of my surroundings. I haven’t been needed this badly since we were run out of a little town in Nevada, but I’ve been keeping tabs. Luke got himself a place to live, nice and quiet, perfect for him.
I notice his sketch pad on the table, those three stupid toys he drags with him everywhere he goes, and in the corner there’s a large piece of wood that he’s in the process of carving, wood shavings littering the floor.
“Busy, busy, boy. Mother would’ve beaten me silly if she’d seen that mess.” I grin, slow and deliberate. “Good thing she’s worm food.”
I saunter over to the table and flip through pages of his drawings. I can’t draw worth shit. Luke’s always been the artist. I tilt my head and study the countless pleasant forest scenes, individual renderings of different trees, animals, leaves, and— “A fucking bunny, Luke?” I shake my head and flip through more when I come upon a page of different parts of a human face. A female face with… “Well fuck me runnin’, if it isn’t our little Shyann. You’re in deeper than I thought, brother.” I turn the page to find more sketches of her, her profile, jawline, lips, and—nice, her naked. “When your memory is working, it serves you well. Nice tits.”
I pick up a pencil and scribble my other half a note, then slam the book closed and move outside. Surveying the area, I drop to the top step of the porch. A whine sounds from just under my right foot.
“Good, dog. You stay hidden. Nothing can hurt you if you stay in the dark.” I lean back and my jeans pull tight between my legs. “Fuck, bitch left five minutes ago and I’m still hard.” A growl of frustration gurgles up from my chest.
That won’t do.
Looks like I’ll have to stick around for a while, take care of some of Luke’s basic needs while putting an end to this Shyann bullshit. When my work here is done, he won’t be thinking with his dick and I’ll have this Shyann bitch flushed out of his system. For good.
Thirteen
Shyann
It’s after nine in the morning when I finally pull my truck—with, thanks to my dad, four brand-new tires, an oil change, and new air filter—into the lot at Jennings.
After my fight with Lucas, I had over an hour walk home to think about all that happened. I may have pushed too hard. He didn’t want to talk on the drive to Phoenix—I pushed. He didn’t feel comfortable eating tacos—I pushed. And Dead Man’s Drop…I shouldn’t have pushed him. After kicking through the water with a near-naked Lucas, then breaking down at my mom’s house, the way he held me…I suppose I let my hormones take the lead to my logic.
I spooked him, backed him into a corner until he was forced to push back.
But still. How quickly he swung from being almost mouselike to viper was scary. I shut off my truck and try not to think about how pathetic I looked in his arms, gazing up at him and begging that his lips find mine. Pushing him again.
I saw the look in his eyes when our lips were just a breath apart. He was scared. I pushed. His rejection stung, but it’s what I needed.
I have better, more important things to focus on. Spending the day with Lucas and seeing Mom’s old place totally derailed my plans. I didn’t think about moving or my mental to-do list once. Typical girl easily swayed by an impressive chest and a pretty face. I give myself an internal shake.
Back on track.
Sav
e money. Move the hell out of Payson, this time for good.
“Mornin’, Dad!” I drop my purse off at my desk and hear the ruffle of his newspaper.
“Guess you slept in?”
I pour myself a cup of black coffee and dump in a ton of sugar to make it high octane. “Yeah. Didn’t sleep well last night.” Replaying every second of my day with Lucas trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong makes for a lousy sleep aid.
Dammit! So much for my self-imposed ban of all things Lucas.
“I’ll be out most of the day. Things should be pretty slow around here, so if you want to forward the calls, I can find something for you to do at the job site.”
No thank you. “Oh, um…I’m sure I’ll be able to keep myself busy here.”
Age and sore muscles have him groaning as he pushes up from his rolling chair. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I have a lot of…organizing I can do.” I take a sip of the bitter hot coffee, hiding behind the cup.
“Suit yourself. Get bored give me a call.” He shoves his cell into his pocket and snags his keys off the hook I hung on his wall so he’d quit losing them. “Oh, that reminds me…Sam called.”
“Oh.” I wave my cell phone before plugging it into the charger. “My battery died.”
He leans a shoulder to the wall in front of me. “You working at Pistol Pete’s?”
I shrug. “Just picking up some weekend shifts here and there if they’re short staffed.”
Disappointment shadows his eyes, but he nods. “Sounds good. Guess this weekend they need your help.”
I try not to show how happy that little piece of information makes me. After all, every opportunity to work is one step closer to getting out of here.
“See ya.” He scoops his tool belt off another hook I put in for that specific reason and leaves.
More time alone with my thoughts. This is good.
I plop down at my desk and check my phone. Once it’s charged enough to make calls, I’ll get in touch with Sam and take whatever shift she hands me.
I click on the outdated PC at my desk and go to Internet Explorer to pull up a map.
The cursor moves across the map of the United States. “Hmm…where do I want to go from here?” As far away as possible. I close my eyes and skate the cursor around, then stop and open my eyes. “Alabama. What the hell is there to do in Alabama?” I close my eyes and repeat the process. “Oregon.” Yeah, I could do Oregon. Mountains, cool weather. “Put that on the list.” I close my eyes one last time, move the cursor, and…“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Arizona. No. “Okay, Oregon it is.”
Now that’s done. I lean back in my seat and stare at the ceiling.
My phone chimes that it’s powered up followed by the ping of an unread text.
Are you in for the shift tonight? You’re getting first dibs. Loreen seems to like you. ;)
It’s not like I have anything better to do on a Friday night, and after my last trip to Pistol Pete’s, I don’t think it’s smart to engage in any kind of social drinking. Lucas tolerated my skinny-dipping outside the river house before he really knew me. Something tells me if I showed up for a second swim, he’d be less courteous. I punch out a quick text telling her absolutely, I’ll be there tonight.
Perfect! 4:30 don’t be late.
If it’s a busy night, Sam assured me I could make a couple hundred dollars in tips. That’s two hundred steps closer to Oregon.
* * *
“Your good news is you got a job as a bar wench?” Trevor’s condescending laughter crawls across my skin like a rash. “I mean, you’re college educated for crying out loud. Couldn’t you at least snag Head Bar Wench? And who the hell is Sam?”
Why did I think calling him would be a good idea? Because you were hoping he’d say something sweet that would take your mind off Lucas. Gah!
“Sam, short for Samantha, was my best friend growing up. She went out of her way to hook me up with the job. The more money I make, the quicker I can get back to living my life.” I doodle on a piece of scrap paper, stick figures who’re stabbing each other and crying over their bloodied limbs. “And take it easy with the wench stuff.”
“Shy, I’m sorry, but…” He clears his throat, as if it helps him to avoid another fit of laughter. “You’re better than that. I mean, you have a job at your dad’s place. Why belittle yourself at some hillbilly bar with Sam?”
“Figure I’m going to be here, I want to spend every minute I can working toward getting out of here.” It’s not like I have a ton of friends banging down my door for shopping and girls’ night out. What else am I going to do?
“I may have a way to help you do that.”
I sit up tall and stare across the office, my ears perked. “How?” He has my attention.
“I got an inside word that Los Angeles is looking for people. They’re taking reels and going over them at the end of the month.”
Hope explodes in my chest. Trevor thinks I’m good enough for LA? I bite my lip against a high-pitched squeal.
“Trevor, that’s amazing!” I rip a fresh piece of paper from the printer and ready my pen. “Do you have the information? I could send my reel over today!”
“Oh no…That’s not what I meant.”
“What?”
He blows out a long breath. “I wasn’t talking about you, sweetie.”
Not talking about…His good news is that he’s going to be applying for a job in Los Angeles?
My shoulders slump. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m sending in my reel, and, well, I was thinking that if I get the job, get settled in, I could pull some strings to see if we can get you back into the field.”
Pull some strings. As in, I couldn’t get the job on my own merit. As in, I’m not good enough to overlook one stupid mistake.
He doesn’t believe in me at all.
“Right, yeah, that’s uh…that would be awesome.” One stick figure disembowels another with a big fat smile on its face.
He goes on to say more but I’m dead inside, far removed from whatever he’s squawking about to listen.
My good news is I’m working a shift in a cowboy bar.
His is he’s applying for a job at the second biggest media market in the country. Fuck my life.
“You know, you could send your reel in as well, but Los Angeles knows about the live newscast heard ’round the world.”
I bet they do, and why do I get the feeling Trevor’s the one who told them? God, how could I be so stupid? He probably sold himself by using that incident, probably bragged about how he saved the newscast and got me off the air immediately with his super producer skills.
Selfish prick.
Why am I even surprised?
“…and when I do, and you know I will, I’ll make sure to—”
“I’m sorry, I gotta run.”
I don’t wait for him to reply. Nothing he says will help at this point.
I’m on my own, have been for a very long while now, and that’s exactly the way I like it.
* * *
As I’m standing at the service bar in Pistol Pete’s, I have a whole new respect for cocktail servers. Whereas before I figured they dressed like sluts because they were out to screw the able and willing, I’ve now come to realize clothing choice in this field is a valuable marketing strategy.
I’m not dressed in a miniskirt that the average woman would need a hairnet to wear, nor am I in a tank top that’s cut to my belly button, but Sam is.
I’m wearing skinny jeans, boots, and an old Hank Williams T-shirt I found in my brother’s closet that I cut the neck and sleeves off of so it’ll hang off my shoulder. Not overly sexy, not completely unsexy, but far from slutty.
I’m also not pocketing a twenty-dollar bill every ten minutes like Sam.
Maybe a few hours of slut acting is worth it if it means making double what I’ve made so far, which is still nothing to dismiss.
The Undertow, a rock-country band from Phoenix, has just finished thei
r first of three sets. The room is thick with bodies and trying to negotiate beverage service through the crowd is like trying to get upstream in a mud river while balancing a tray of full glassware.
“You doin’ okay?” Loreen, who is accompanied tonight by two more girls and two guys to lift the heavy stuff, studies me.
Knowing my job would consist of mostly running drinks through thick crowds of people, I pulled my hair back into a sleek, straight ponytail. Not only is it giving me a headache from hell, but also it’s not nearly as sexy as Sam’s “innocent” pigtail braids.
“I’m good.”
She nods and moves back to the bar that’s stacked three deep with patrons half on their way to being hammered, if not there already.
I grab the couple beer bottles she set down, hooking them with my fingers. Someone bumps into me as if on cue, but I manage to keep the beer from spilling. I find Nick Miller and Justin Boathouse, two guys I knew from grade school. One is my brother’s age and the other a year older than me.
“Thanks, Shyann!” Nick slips me a ten. “Keep the change.”
Easy.
Moving around the room, I hardly see Sam or the other two girls working the floor. I met them at the beginning of my shift; they seem nice enough, but I’m not here to make friends or socialize.
I motion to a group of six at one of the high-top tables in my section and hold up one finger, then point to their drinks, international sign language for “Do you want another round?” They all nod and I head off to put in the order.
Loreen pulls and pops the caps off beers and I place them on the tray in a way that ensures ultimate balance. “You see Sam around?”
I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “Last I saw her she was in her section. I’m sure she just got busy.”
She leans to the side to look around me, her bright red hair looking purple under the blue glow of a Bud Light sign. “Don’t see her. Mind finding her and telling her I need a word?”
