by K. A. Tucker
“Trapped with a whole lot of fancy shit,” he puffs out.
“The guy treats her like a servant and he hits her. She made a mistake, marrying him.”
He pauses, resting on his elbows, regarding me with recognition in his eyes. “And are you making an even bigger mistake? Because fucking with Viktor Petrova’s wife will not end well for you, my friend . . .” He shakes his head, his mouth open like he’s holding back from saying something. “Just make sure it’s worth it.”
“I’m not doing anything with Alex,” I lie.
His brow pops up. “She goes by Alex now?”
“Alex, Alexandria. Whatever. The point is . . .” What is the point? Viktor beats his wife and . . . what? “The point is don’t ever repeat any of this to Rust or anyone else because he will probably hurt her for it.”
“Repeat what? I didn’t hear shit.” He rolls over onto his stomach for his push-ups.
I head back to my room, slightly more calm. Checking my phone, I see that Alex hasn’t texted again and I don’t know how to respond to her just yet, other than to say, “Call the police and leave the asshole.” My gut tells me Viktor would get off and Alex would pay for reporting him.
Reaching over my head, I peel my shirt off. Kicking off my jeans, I drop to the ground for my own set of push-ups. I have no specific rep number, though. I figure I’ll just keep going until I can work this shit out in my head.
I wake up at some point in the middle of the night, facedown on the floor beside my bed, having pushed myself to exhaustion.
And having no answer.
TWENTY
Water
now
The old Chevy truck comes to a sputtering halt on the now familiar dirt road.
I check the dashboard. All needles point down.
This isn’t good.
A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I’m alone. I’m not surprised. I’m about seven miles from home, surrounded by fields and trees. I rarely ever pass anyone out here.
Reaching down, I turn the key to “off” and then try to crank the engine again. All I get in return is a clicking sound. I flop back against the bench with a heavy sigh.
Ginny’s truck is dead.
And I’ve got the week’s groceries sitting in the back. It’s too far to carry them, especially with an arm that’s still weak, although my leg has been better lately. I check my watch. A quarter after five. There’s no way I can get home and get dinner in front of Ginny in time, and I can’t even call her to warn her, because she doesn’t have a phone. Thank God for neighbors.
I dig my cell phone out of my purse to call Amber. It isn’t until I see the blank screen that I remember I forgot to charge it at work earlier. “Dammit!” I cry out, slapping my steering wheel in frustration. I’ve been so good about plugging it in for the afternoon.
Until today.
Because today, all I could focus on was that low, hypnotic rhythm over the stereo system and the ball of anxiety sitting in my stomach.
It’s a clue. I know it.
I lied to Dakota. I told her I loved trance. I pleaded with her to keep it playing all day, desperate for a bigger sliver of insight—a flashback, a clearer feeling.
But all the incessant music did was grow that ball of dread bigger and stronger, making it impossible to ignore.
And now I’m stuck on an old dirt road with a broken truck and no phone.
I rest my head on the worn steering wheel. Ginny’s going to freak. When she says she wants dinner at six o’clock sharp, it’s not just an expression. It took me a few weeks to realize that her eyes are actually glued to the minute hand of her watch and if her meat dish—because there’s no such thing as dinner without meat in Ginny’s eyes—doesn’t hit the table on time, she starts pacing and fidgeting.
It’s not my fault. She knows as well as I do that this old thing was running by the grace of God and nothing more. On the way home from work last week, it started making a rattling sound, like something was loose in the engine. I mentioned it to her. She merely shrugged and asked me if it got me where I needed to go.
Up until now, it has.
How am I going to get to work tomorrow? Dakota needs me there. It’s the first Saturday that the farmers’ market is open, so the shop will be busy.
How am I even going to get home?
I’m not, until someone comes by and I wave them down. Someone I know. Otherwise, what will I do? Get into the car with a stranger? “It’s okay, Water,” I coach myself through slow breaths—like Dr. Weimer told me to do whenever I feel panicked. “You’re in Sisters, Oregon. You’re perfectly safe. Your truck just broke down. It’s a normal thing. It can happen to anyone.”
Except, I’m not just anyone. I’m the girl who was dropped off in an abandoned building parking lot not far from here and left for dead.
A low rumble in the distance, like thunder, and a dust cloud marks the approach of a car. A few seconds later, black paint shines in the late-day sun.
Relief slams into me. I know that car. It’s Jesse. He’ll recognize me. He’ll stop.
Won’t he?
With a hint of trepidation, I scurry out of the driver’s side and round the truck to stand next to the tailgate, butterflies in my stomach as I watch the car near. I don’t really know this guy at all. Sure, he’s Gabe and Meredith’s son. Sure, he waved at me. Once. Sure, he brought over all that firewood. But he’s also the black sheep of the Welles family, of the entire town.
The sports car comes to a stop about ten feet away, its engine grumbling.
I hazard a slight wave. Not really a wave. More a tentative hand held in the air.
He kills the engine and slides out of the car, his body lean and muscular in a pair of jeans and faded black T-shirt.
“Hi . . . Jesse, right?” I’ve never actually talked to him directly, and yet it feels so natural to use his name.
“What’re you doing out here?”
With my panic at being stranded and the subsequent thrill over being rescued, I temporarily forgot about my face. Now, though, standing in front of him, I casually brush my hair forward. Gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb, I explain, “Ginny’s truck just died. I don’t know what happened.”
He smirks. “You didn’t run out of gas, did you?”
“No! I mean . . . I don’t think so.” It sounds like he’s teasing me. I hope I didn’t do something so stupid. Then I remember stopping at the local full-serve on Wednesday. “No. It’s at least three-quarters full.”
I follow him as he moves to the front of the truck and lifts the hood, his arms straining against the weight until he has it propped open. A chill is settling with the early evening. I fold my arms across my chest to ward it off as I study Jesse from the side, while he tests various wires with the ease of an expert.
I would never guess he and Amber are twins. He’s definitely Sheriff Gabe’s son, though, with that same olive complexion, the strong jaw, and the tiniest cleft in his chin. He really is a good-looking guy.
And I’m staring at him.
“You look like you know cars,” I blurt out.
“I know a little bit.”
He doesn’t seem overly chatty, and yet this strange, giddy feeling inside compels me to say something. “You haven’t been back for a while.”
“You noticed?”
“Yeah. I mean . . . no. I mean . . . Meredith said you come home on weekends but you didn’t, so . . .” And now I’m rambling.
Jesse disappears behind the driver’s-side door. Seconds later, I hear that clicking sound again. He reappears, pulling the prop down and letting the hood slam shut. “It’s your alternator,” he informs me, lifting his hands to inspect them. “And a dozen other things.”
Alternator? “I don’t know car-speak. Is that a big deal?”
“Could be worse.” Jesse turns to face me, his dark eyes boring into mine. I automatically turn to give him my better profile. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.” He starts pulling the g
rocery bags out of the truck bed and carries them to his car in one arm, the muscles chording beautifully. He uses his free hand to pop his trunk. When I reach the passenger side, he’s already standing there, holding the door open.
The scent of leather and mint fills my nostrils as I slide into the passenger seat. Jesse waits for me to buckle my seat belt before he pushes the door closed—that’s rather nice, and unexpected—and then strolls around the front, his fingers sliding across the hood as he passes.
The gesture is familiar.
I’m momentarily distracted by the car’s interior—the soft black ceiling, the chrome gear stick, the wide backseat that now holds two large duffel bags—but that familiarity lingers. In fact, as I reach forward to skim the dash, it’s even stronger. Could this car be reminding me of some part of my life?
It only intensifies when Jesse cranks the engine and the vibrations reach deep into my chest.
“You all right?”
I smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He shifts into first gear and the car lurches forward. I instinctively brace myself, one hand grabbing the door while I reach for the console with the other, and accidentally grab his forearm, his skin hot against my fingertips. I pull back immediately, feeling my cheeks flush. “Sorry.”
He says nothing, throwing the car into second and then third gear, before reaching up to tune the radio. “Any preference?”
“No.” I quickly correct, “Just no trance music.”
Jesse swerves to avoid a pothole, tossing me back and forth a little. “Why not?” He sounds wary.
“I’m not sure, honestly.” How much has Jesse’s family told him about me? He knows I was in the hospital, but what else does he know?
Drums and guitars fill the speakers and I sigh with relief. I keep my eyes on the mountain range ahead as I absorb the beat, feeling Jesse’s gaze flicker between the road and my face several times. Thank God he can only see my good side.
“You saved me from a very long walk, so . . . thanks.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “No problem.”
I keep my eyes forward until he turns into the Welleses’ driveway. “Ginny doesn’t want my car in her driveway,” he explains.
Or you. “Yeah, she might have mentioned that before, once or twice.”
“Or a hundred times, I’m sure,” he mutters.
When we pull around to the back of the Welleses’ house—which they use as the front, with a giant sliding glass door off the kitchen—Sheriff Gabe is standing next to his cruiser, watching us. He doesn’t look happy.
What would it have been like, throwing your own son in jail? Being told that he had stabbed another teenager? No wonder they seem to have a strained relationship. I can’t imagine either has recovered completely from that experience.
Jesse hops out of the car to meet his dad head-on. No fear.
“I thought we agreed,” Sheriff Gabe says in a low, ominous tone.
“Ginny’s truck broke down,” I blurt out, pushing open the heavy door, feeling like I need to jump in and protect Jesse from his father’s anger. “Jesse, can I get my groceries, please?”
He pops the trunk and grabs the bags before I have a chance to reach for them.
“Where do you think you’re going with those?” Sheriff Gabe hollers after his son.
Jesse doesn’t bother stopping. “You want her to carry them all by herself?”
“I can make two trips,” I call out. Jesse ignores me and keeps heading toward the fence. I’m forced to speed walk—awkwardly—to catch up.
“I should probably bring these up to your place,” he says, throwing his long legs over the old wooden rails.
“That’s fine. I cook dinner there anyway.” Except for a few toiletries, a bag of oatmeal, and a tub of Nutella for Ginny’s daily breakfast and lunch, I would have brought it all up here.
He slows, allowing me to pass and head to my stairs, which are on the back side of the garage and not visible from any part of Ginny’s house.
My skin begins to tingle as I lead Jesse into my apartment. If he feels at all uncomfortable, he doesn’t let on, walking right in until he’s standing in the very center, his eyes taking in the little that I have.
“I’ll pick up a new alternator and get the truck running again for you,” he offers, setting the bags down on the floor by the fridge.
“You know how to fix it?” I ask, grabbing a pot to fill with water for the pasta, hoping it’ll come to a boil by the time I’ve put the groceries away.
“Yeah, I think I can handle it.”
I glance over my shoulder to find him pulling out the blue-and-red plaid wool blanket. “I just got that today. It’s so nice and—”
“Warm,” he finishes for me. I can see his Adam’s apple bob from here. “I used to have one exactly like this.”
“Well, Dakota got a dozen in this week, so you can always pick up another one.” I pull out the small saucepan of pasta sauce and throw it onto the stove, fumbling with the dials. “Thank you for your help with the truck. I’m sure Ginny will appreciate it.” In her own unorthodox way. “Cars are complicated, aren’t they? All those parts to figure out. It’s like science.”
I hazard another glance over my shoulder and find Jesse staring at me, his head cocked to the side and a strange look on his face. What is it, exactly? Wonder? Curiosity? His attention shifts to my scar and I duck my head back toward the stove, letting my hair fall to veil it. “Any chance you’ll be able to fix it before ten tomorrow morning?” I ask, half-jokingly, as I stir.
“You’ve gotta be somewhere by then?”
“Yeah, at The Salvage Yard. I work there.”
“How do you like it?”
“It’s good. Dakota’s really nice.”
“She is. I remember her from high school. I don’t know if she actually ever went to class, though. She just sat up on the hill, smoking weed most of the time.”
“I think she still does that, just not on a hill,” I joke.
The floor creaks with his approaching footsteps until he’s standing directly behind me, setting my hair on end.
“How are you liking it here, Water?” he finally asks.
“It’s great. The mountains, the town, your family. Even Ginny. It’s all great.” What must he think of me? I keep my eyes on the stove as I ask, “How much do you know? About what happened to me?” I still get a lump in my throat when I talk about it. I don’t even have to get into specifics.
“I know enough.” Sizzles sound from the stove as water begins bubbling and spilling over. “It smells good.” Jesse takes a step closer and reaches around me to lift the lid. I glance up to catch a wistful smile touch his lips. “I should go. God knows Ginny will skin me alive if she knows I’m in here.”
“And me too, for letting you in,” I agree.
I watch his back as he strolls out, a pang of something curling around my heart.
Wondering why I reacted to his proximity like that.
Wondering if it should have bothered me.
Wondering why it doesn’t.
“Where have you been?” Ginny’s voice gets exceptionally screechy when she’s upset. It’s not pleasant.
I check my watch. “I’m only two minutes late, Ginny. Come on.”
She swats the air. “I don’t care about dinner. I’ve been sitting here, waiting for the truck to pull up for forty-five minutes. I thought something had happened to you!”
“Oh.” I sigh with relief. And then I smile. Ginny was worried about me.
Someone is worried about me.
“What the hell are you so happy about?”
“Nothing, it’s just . . .” I stifle my smile. “The truck broke down. It just died.”
“Oh.” She pauses, and then turns to the empty driveway, puzzled. “How’d you get home then? Did Gabe come get you?”
I open my mouth to answer, wondering if it’s better to lie. But lying to Ginny just doesn’t feel right, with all she has done for me. “Actuall
y, Jesse was driving by so he gave me a ride.”
The way Ginny gasps, you’d think someone had just informed her that a loved one had died in a fiery plane crash.
And I start to think I should have lied.
“I knew I heard that car of his!”
“He’s going to fix your truck and bring it back for us, Ginny. He was really nice to me.”
I can hear her teeth grind against each other. “I told you to stay away from that damn boy. He’s trouble.”
“Would you rather I still be walking home alone right now, carrying all those bags?”
“You could have called Gabe and Amber.”
“My phone died.”
“Well, what’s the point of having a phone then, huh?” she barks.
“He was really nice, Ginny, and he’s going to fix the truck for us,” I repeat calmly, adding a smile. That’s how I’ve noticed Meredith deals with her. I think it’s the only way to deal with Ginny. “I’m guessing it wouldn’t be cheap to fix. And tow to a mechanic.” I know I can’t afford to fix the truck on my nine-dollars-an-hour cash wage. From what Meredith has said, Ginny lives on a modest monthly budget, thanks to an inheritance from her parents and her quilt sales.
“No . . . I suppose not,” she mutters, scooping up some of the pasta. The words carry their usual snip, but there’s no heat in them anymore. She allows me to ladle the sauce onto her plate, though her fingers twitch the entire time. “I don’t want to see him on my property.”
I nod. There are just some things Ginny’s better off not knowing. She didn’t see him on her property anyway, so technically it’s okay.
Wanting to steer her away from the topic, I say, “So I met Chuck Fanshaw today. He said to tell you ‘hi’ from his family.”
“Oh, I’ll bet he did,” she grumbles. “His grandfather showed up here a month after Papa died, trying to scam me out of this place. Chased him away.”
My gaze shifts to the straw broom resting by the door. She was ten seconds away from swatting the cable guy with it that day he arrived to hook up my cable. I know it’s not just a figure of speech for Ginny.
Though I know I’m going to regret this, I bring it up anyway. “He mentioned boarding horses in the barn. Have you ever considered that?”
