Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “University of Washington. Engineering. A&A. That’s Step One.”

  “Aeronautics and astronautics? Seriously?” He laughed. Not in a mocking way. In a delighted way.

  “You know what it is,” she said. “Nobody knows what it is.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Mechanical engineering here. University of Texas.”

  “Wow.” It was a breath, and then she shoved up the sleeve of her slim-fitting tee and showed him her bicep.

  He grinned. Enormously. And laughed. “Man, I never thought I’d meet somebody this cute who had Bernoulli’s Equation tattooed on her arm. What are the odds?” And Dyma sparkled and shone and smiled and put a hand into her hair, Owen looked at her edgy haircut and her piercings and clearly wondered how many more she had and where they might be and exactly how much fun she enjoyed having and how reckless she’d be doing it, and Jennifer thought, This is so dangerous..

  She didn’t know what to say or do here, in this moment, so she told Kris, “If you have a degree in astrophysics and are about to lecture me on the dynamics of flight, just don’t.”

  He laughed. “Nope. Mine’s in business. It seemed easier, and I’m pretty sure it was. Ask me what I know about it.”

  “All right. What do you know about it?”

  “Just enough to know I should’ve paid more attention,” he said, and this time, she laughed. He added more seriously, keeping his voice low, “Don’t worry. Well, maybe worry, because she’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. You know how they say, ‘Cute as a bug?’ I think that’s what you made there. But the guy you’re worried about isn’t going to be Owen.”

  She glanced at the two of them. Dyma had both elbows on the table—Jennifer had spent eighteen years telling her not to do that, though she might as well have saved her breath—and was gesturing with her hands and talking a mile a minute, while Owen was turned all the way towards her, listening hard. She said, “Not what it looks like to me.”

  “I’ve got three little sisters,” Kris said. “Trust me. It’s not going to be Owen.”

  His blue eyes were serious, and so was the rest of him. He’d said “trust me” again, but he’d meant it. She could tell. And she felt exactly like she had when he’d tackled her out of the way of that snowmobile. Breathless. Stunned.

  Almost convinced.

  Harlan said, “Good night,” watched Jennifer head out of the restaurant and through the bar with Dyma—and, yeah, she had some walking-away moves—and asked Owen, “Ready for that beer now?”

  Owen said, “I could drink a beer.”

  The bar was packed by now, as a place would tend to be when it was the only possible choice, because even so much as walking out the front door wasn’t an option. Being stuck here like this made Harlan itchy. He was more of a next-place guy than a put-down-roots guy, but once you showed up at Yellowstone in the winter? There was no place else to go.

  Maybe the itchiness was due to more than that, though, because the two of them had no sooner dropped onto barstools than a thirtyish, outdoorsy blonde with legs that wouldn’t quit, who looked like she could ski all day long and then come back for some real fun, walked up to them and asked, “Excuse me. Aren’t you Harlan Kristiansen?”

  “Who?” Harlan asked.

  “The football player. You are, aren’t you? I saw you in that insurance commercial.” She was taking a good hard look at him—all of him—then glancing at Owen. “And you’re somebody, too. You have to be.”

  “Everybody’s somebody,” Owen said gravely.

  She hesitated another minute, and Harlan said nothing. Which, yeah, was rude, and probably didn’t happen to her much, since she was the high-gloss type, but he wasn’t going to encourage her. Finally, though, she headed off, back to a table where another woman, a brunette, waited. Harlan caught her out of the corner of his eye, pointing him out, working up her courage for another approach.

  Owen said, “Maybe take the beers to my room,” and Harlan said, “Yeah. Sounds good.”

  See? Trapped. On the other hand, they were having breakfast with Jennifer and Dyma tomorrow, doing some skiing with them, and then, obviously, coming back here, because there was no place else to go. Which would be the plus side.

  Which was also why he needed to have this conversation.

  “My room,” he told Owen when they’d headed down the hall. “It’s got two beds.”

  When they were each sitting with their back against a headboard and holding a bottle of beer, Owen said, “This reminds me of my rookie season.”

  “Except that we had TV and the internet,” Harlan said.

  “Did they have the internet back then?”

  Harlan sighed. “Man, the generational stuff is just going to get worse, isn’t it?”

  “If you go after the mom? Probably.”

  Harlan stopped a second, then said, “It’s one weekend.”

  Owen took a swallow of beer. “Yep.”

  “See,” Harlan said, “this is the problem with meeting women who’ve got depth. Depth just complicates things.”

  “You saying you’re not going after her?”

  “How can I, if I’m about to tell you that going after Dyma would be a dick move?”

  “Because Dyma’s eighteen and Jennifer isn’t? Also—you think I don’t know that? Seriously, bro? She’s in high school.”

  “I also think,” Harlan said, “that she spun your head all the way around.”

  “It’s not my head that’s confused,” Owen said. “My head gets it.”

  “So that’s a no, then,” Harlan said. “On both counts.”

  “Yep,” Owen agreed. “That’s a no.”

  11

  Can’t Sleep. Can’t Sit

  There was noise outside Harlan’s window. An eerie sound, like a horn.

  It wasn’t the freaky near-scream of coyotes. He’d heard plenty of coyotes. He didn’t think it was wolves, either, though he’d sure like to hear those. He listened some more, then went over to the window and shoved it open. The snow swirled in, and the subzero air nearly sucked the breath out of his body. Like playing in Green Bay. Or like playing on his high-school field, in a flat, frozen land where football was the only thing there was. His ticket out.

  The sound came again, much louder now, and he recognized it. Owls, two of them, calling back and forth to each other.

  He listened a while more, getting colder but feeling better, then shut the window, grabbed the coffee-table book again, and looked them up.

  Great horned owls. Dark spirits of the night, according to the Cheyenne. Moving silently with their fluted feathers, seeing in the dark, swooping down on their prey without warning, the horns on their heads symbols of their fearsome power.

  Huh. They didn’t feel sinister to him. They just felt powerful. He’d heard them like this once in high school. The dead of winter, when football was over and there was no baseball yet, when he’d linger in the weight room to delay going home. One night, he’d driven up to find his mom out on the porch, her coat on, hugging herself.

  She’d said, “Listen.” And he had.

  After a while, she said, “That’s a mated pair of great horned owls. You can tell from how deep the sound is, and how strong. No other owl sounds quite like that. They’re calling to each other. They mate for life. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?”

  Harlan didn’t say, “Yes.” He wasn’t sure it was such a beautiful thing.

  “You hear how the voice near us is higher, and the other one’s lower?” his mom said. “That’s the male. He’s got a bigger voice box. They’re finding each other, telling each other, ‘I’m over here.’ And maybe, ‘I’m heading out again,’ because they’ll be hunting some more tonight. Who knows what else they’re saying? Why do they talk so long? Maybe they enjoy it. Maybe it’s conversation. What do you think?”

  “Hey, Joann,” Harlan heard from inside the house, “you planning to get that dinner on the table anytime this century?”

  She didn’t answer. She
told Harlan, “Some people think that’s a scary sound. To me, it reminds me that spring’s coming. It’s cold and dark and snowy out here, and it feels like it’ll never stop being cold and dark and snowy, but there’s still life all around, under the snow. That’s the good thing about winter. It always ends up turning to spring.”

  And then she’d gone in the house to put dinner on the table.

  She’d found her spring, he guessed. Too bad she’d left the rest of them stuck in winter.

  He dialed the phone.

  “Axel Kristiansen,” the voice boomed out.

  “Hey, Dad.” Harlan forced his body to relax. “How’re you doing?” He wished once again that his dad would let his little sister have her own phone. That way, he could’ve just called her and bypassed all this.

  His father said, “You calling to apologize? To tell me you’ve remembered what you owe me?” His voice was just a little bit slurred.

  Breathe. In and out.

  “Nope,” Harlan said. “I called to talk to Annabelle.” He left it there.

  “What’s everybody’s going to think,” Axel said, “if I tell them you’re not coming for the Super Bowl after all? And not only that—what about the thing I have planned for tomorrow out at the dealership? We’ve got half the town coming for that. Am I supposed to tell everybody it’s off, because my son, the big hero, can’t be bothered to show up and support his home town? Even after he lost the game?”

  “Tell them what you want,” Harlan said. “I already told you I wasn’t coming.”

  “This town made you.” His father’s voice was rising now. “Every coach who took his time to help you, every teammate you ever had, every business that sponsored you. Don’t you think you owe them?” Harlan didn’t answer, and he went on. “Hell, don’t you think you owe me? Who went to bat for you with the coach when he didn’t want to play you, sixth grade? Who kicked your ass when you got lazy and made you get back out there and run another two miles? Who worked his ass off for all of you after your mom ran off? All so you could get what I got cheated out of. Now you’ve got it, and you think you did it all by yourself, don’t even think you owe me the courtesy of showing up for an event that’ll put food on the table. What the hell kind of gratitude is that?”

  There was so much Harlan could have said, but there was no point. Axel’s voice had gotten even louder as he talked. How many beers down was he now? Six at least. No point, not after six. So instead, he just said, “Not gonna happen, Dad. Put Annabelle on, will you?”

  “Are you on your way, or what?” Axel said.

  “No,” Harlan said. “I’m not on my way. I’m not coming.” No point dressing it up. He said again, “Put Annabelle on.”

  “Go to hell,” his father said. And hung up.

  Harlan sat a minute, until his heart rate slowed. Then he got up, drank a glass of water, grabbed the phone again, and emailed his sister.

  How’re you doing? I heard great horned owls hooting tonight and saw a bison. I’m in Wyoming. Just as cold as North Dakota, but more animals.

  No answer. She was probably at a friend’s. He hoped so.

  He needed to move, but he was stuck here. There wasn’t even a gym. What kind of hotel didn’t even have a treadmill and a universal machine? Failing that, he needed a drink, but since thinking that you needed a drink was the first step to really needing a drink, he was going to have something else instead.

  Maybe even hot cider.

  Dyma asked, “Where are you going?”

  Jennifer paused on her way out the door. “Just down to the lobby to make a phone call. I might hang out down there and read my book, too.”

  Dyma set down her calculator. She’d been sitting on the bed with a notebook in her lap doing calculus equations, or whatever you called calculus problems. “Impossible,” was what Jennifer would have called them. She had to admit, in totally honest moments, that she wouldn’t have been Dyma even if she’d been in Dyma’s position, meaning, “a non-mother.” Her Mary Tyler Moore job would’ve been in something involving more talking and not nearly as many numbers, that was for sure, and it definitely wouldn’t have involved Bernoulli’s stupid equation, which she still didn’t really get. Which meant it would also have paid just about nothing, because that tended to happen when you didn’t understand calculus. Why was that?

  Dyma said, “Are you going back to meet him?”

  “What? No. Of course not.” She was calling her grandpa, if only because she needed to touch base with real life. And maybe because the person she wanted to call most of all couldn’t pick up anymore.

  “Oh, yeah?” Dyma scrutinized her some more, then said, “Except that you probably are, because if you were meeting him, that would be the exact wrong outfit to do it in, and even you would know that.”

  Jennifer would have loved to say something snarky back, but since Dyma was right, she couldn’t think what it would be. She’d washed off her makeup and changed into yoga pants and moccasin slippers when she’d thought she was going for “reading on the bed,” and she couldn’t be bothered changing now. Yeah, she was pretty sure nobody was going to be hitting on her.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she finally said anyway. “Maybe Ski Shop Guy’s down there right now. He seemed pretty desperate.”

  Dyma sighed. “Mom …”

  “Yep,” Jennifer said. “See you in a while.”

  She was still buzzing, was what it was. She’d tried to do the “sitting on the bed and reading a book” thing, but she couldn’t sit and couldn’t sleep. She headed to the lobby, then changed her mind and went back to the bar.

  In her yoga pants. And her moccasins. Working out Blake’s two weeks’ notice. But she had as much right to be here as anyone else. Besides, the best-looking guy she’d seen in a long time—besides Blake, who didn’t count—had bought her dinner tonight and smiled and flirted. She was sure he’d flirted. Hadn’t he? He’d held her hand.

  Of course, he’d held her hand when he was trying to make her feel better about being terrified of large animals and other methods by which to die in the wilderness, which was possibly not the same thing, but never mind. She’d just make sure, when they had breakfast with the guys and did that skiing tomorrow, that she made it clear by her manner that she was expecting absolutely nothing. That she wanted nothing, which should be easy, because it was the truth. She also couldn’t ski, which she was fairly sure meant that somebody would have to hang back and wait for her, presumably attempting not to look impatient about it. That person wouldn’t be Dyma, because Dyma’d barely managed not to look impatient about it today. She sure wasn’t going to do it tomorrow, when she was skiing with the bison shifter. Also, Jennifer suspected she was older than Kris, and a guy like that was …

  Sitting at a table in the bar with a blonde and a brunette, was what. Both of whom were thin, and neither of whom was in any possible way wearing yoga pants.

  OK. That was back to Plan A, then. Calling her grandpa.

  12

  Harlan Lies

  Harlan’s plan wasn’t working out too well.

  He was in a bad mood. Normally, he still had to be charming even when he was in a bad mood. Kinda went with the territory, at least to him. He was a fortunate guy with a fortunate life, the fans filled the seats and paid the rent, and he didn’t need to feel like a dick.

  Which was why he still had to be semi-charming, even though he wasn’t being himself. To tell himself he wasn’t a dick. Because although he didn’t care about his dad’s party at the dealership, everybody was going to show up on Sunday to tailgate on the frozen prairie and then watch the Super Bowl in his high-school gym, and he wasn’t going to be there. He’d said he would, they’d be setting up folding chairs and big screens tomorrow, he was backing out, and he did owe them. He might not owe his dad, but he owed them.

  The brunette was saying, “I swear, you look exactly like Harlan Kristiansen. Are you sure you’re not just messing with us?” She did some hair-flicking for good measure. She
had very nice hair.

  “Really?” he said. “I’ve gotten Chris Hemsworth before, but I’ve got to be honest here, this Harlan guy feels like a big ol’ step down. I never heard of him, and it’s kind of a redneck name anyway, isn’t it?”

  “You do look like Chris,” the blonde, whose name was Mandy, assured him. “But you don’t have the accent.”

  The brunette—Melissa—said, “Excuse me? Actor? He could have a different accent. But he’s not any Hemsworth.” She was clearly sad about it. Chris Hemsworth was smart enough not to trap himself into an isolated lodge in the middle of a howling storm, though, and Harlan was willing to bet every other Hemsworth was, too.

  “Nope,” he said. “I just sell farm equipment, sorry.” He wasn’t going to ask what they did. Being a non-dick was one thing. Making conversation was another. He was going to sit here, put out farm-equipment, boring-guy vibes, and if that didn’t work, pull out his phone and start actively ignoring them.

  Which was when he saw Jennifer. She’d changed clothes and was holding a big book, but it was definitely Jennifer.

  He suddenly realized that all she needed was blue eyes, a clap of the hands, and a “Time to get on the rug for Circle Time!” and she could’ve been his kindergarten teacher.

  Ms. Flowers had been his first crush. He’d made her a huge Valentine over which he’d labored for about an hour, involving doilies and construction paper and glitter and glued-on candy hearts and possibly the words, “I love you.” At the end-of-year assembly, as his classmates never tired of reminding him, when it was his turn to talk, he’d burst out with, “My favorite part of Kindergarten is Ms. Flowers, because her name is a flower, and she smells like a flower, and she’s as beautiful as a flower.” It had brought down the house, apparently.