Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  Greg turned back. The bartender handed him another Coke. This time the carbonation didn’t burn so badly.

  “Recovering alcoholic?” the woman asked. “Going dry? What’s the story on the soda?”

  No story. He just wanted a clear head, and the extra sugar, caffeine, and carbonation were plenty for his system to adjust to. Plus, his dad had been an alcoholic. So maybe there was a story, but she’d never hear it.

  She leaned forward to speak to Burke, dark, curly hair spilling over the counter in front of Greg. “Your friend isn’t very chatty, is he? Maybe we should convince him to order a real drink. Get him to loosen up so we can get acquainted.”

  Make it stop, Greg begged silently.

  Times like these made him miss Carrie and her un-pushy, un-pretentious personality. Burke was plenty single. Kinda ugly, but more than willing to give this woman whatever she wanted—and then some.

  “Good luck. I already tried,” Burke said. “Believe me, this guy is wound too tight.”

  “Is he married?” she asked.

  Burke eyed Greg’s left hand. “Don’t think so.”

  “Engaged? Not into girls?” She frowned. “I usually have better luck than this.”

  Greg pushed back from the bar. “I’m gonna turn in for the night,” he said to Burke. Then he worked his way through the pulsing crowd.

  He didn’t realize the woman had followed him until he was nearly outside. She grabbed the corner of his black uniform, pulling him to a stop.

  “Hey,” she said, “I didn’t mean to scare you away, handsome. I just think you and I should be friends. What’s your name?”

  “Not interested,” Greg said, trying to step around her.

  She laughed but blocked the door. “You’re feisty. I like that. But I have a little secret for you.” She leaned closer, close enough he could smell the alcohol on her breath. “I already know your name, Gregory Curtis Pierce.”

  Great.

  He glared at Burke through the crowd.

  “Excuse me,” he said, sidestepping. She matched his step, making it impossible to get past without plowing her over, which he was about ready to do.

  “I’m not letting you leave yet, Gregory Curtis Pierce,” she said. “Don’t you even want to know my name? After all, I’m your new wife.”

  The poor woman was too drunk to know which way was up. Greg worked to keep his voice calm. “In case you missed my other fifty hints, I’m not interested.”

  With that, he double-backed for the bar, hoping to find another exit. He didn’t even make it two steps before somebody grabbed his arm and spun him around. Hard.

  “That’s no way to treat your new partner, is it?” the woman said, keeping a surprisingly firm grip on his arm.

  “Partner?” Greg stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  Dropping his arm, she held out her hand with a returning smile. “I’m Isabel, your new partner. Commander McCormick told me I could find you here.”

  “You’re who?”

  “Lieutenant Isabel Ryan. McCormick said he told you about me, or has that Coke already gone to your head?” she added with a wink.

  Ryan.

  Isabel Ryan.

  “Oh, no,” Greg said. “No way.” He wasn’t going anywhere with that woman, let alone living as partners for who knew how long.

  “Out of my way,” he said, this time forcing his way past her.

  He stormed outside into the humid evening and straight across the grounds to the commander’s office. Isabel followed, four-inch heels clicking on the pavement. Greg threw open McCormick’s office door without knocking.

  “This,” Greg said, pointing back at Isabel, “is not what I agreed to.”

  His commander eyed Isabel in her tiny getup. “You’re welcome.”

  Greg shook his head. “I’m not doin’ this. I’m not. Find yourself another puppet.”

  He whirled around to leave, but Isabel leaned against the door, long tan legs crossed at the ankles. “Come on, Greg,” she purred. “That’s no way to treat your new wife.”

  Wife. So that wasn’t some drunken detail.

  Greg spun back to McCormick. “Either I go alone, or you find somebody else.”

  “You’re not going alone,” McCormick said, setting his paperwork aside, “and my niece is the best we’ve got.”

  Niece? The blows kept coming. The two looked nothing alike. Isabel had a middle-eastern darker look while McCormick was whiter than Canadian-white.

  McCormick’s niece.

  No wonder he trusted her.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Greg started, “I—”

  “—don’t have a choice,” McCormick said pointedly. “She’s your tether, your very firm handcuffs, Pierce. You make one wrong move, and I’ll know within seconds.”

  “Probably faster,” Isabel said, winking at Greg again.

  “However,” McCormick added, “with the two of you married and her pregnant, you should be able to garner enough sympathy to weasel into any clan. She’ll be injured as well. Maybe we should bruise her up a little to make it convincing.”

  Married and pregnant. And bruised, no less.

  Greg’s anger kicked up a notch, but instead of flying off the handle, which only caused issues, he took a deep breath and chose a rational approach. “Sir, may I speak with you alone?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I wish no disrespect to your niece, but she looks like a tramp and smells like a spy. She’s not exactly illegal clan material.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?” Isabel said. “Handsome here knows how I smell.”

  “Everybody does!” Greg snapped. “Your hair reeks of shampoo, your skin smells of government soap, your nails are perfectly clean, and your hands”—he stormed over and picked up one to show her uncle—“have no calluses. Plus, you weigh too much.”

  For the first time, anger flushed Isabel’s face. She yanked free. “You think I’m fat?”

  “You’re healthy, which is my point.” Greg turned back. “She doesn’t look like somebody who spent the last six years on rotten corn and stale potatoes. She looks like a spy, sir. Are you trying to get me—us—killed?”

  The commander rose slowly, eyes small slits of fury. “Do you really think I’m that inept, you arrogant SOB? Lieutenant Ryan has infiltrated four clans already and has done so without detection. She can out-shoot you, outrun you, and out-perform you in every other way, including blending into these clans. Believe me, she doesn’t always look this good.”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  Greg ignored her, but the fact that she’d already infiltrated four clans eased his anxiety. Some.

  But only for a second.

  “Sir,” Greg said, “it’s still a huge risk. This whole thing is just a—”

  “Show him your mark,” McCormick interrupted.

  “What?” Greg said, but McCormick wasn’t talking to him. He motioned to Isabel.

  “Show him.”

  With a shrug, Isabel raised the sleeve of her tiny black getup, wincing as she did so. Her upper arm and shoulder were red and inflamed, burned in the shape of a crossed-out star.

  “Pretty, huh?” Isabel said, stroking it. “I hear you have a matching one. Hurts like mad, but I guess this makes us twins.”

  Even after she dropped her sleeve, Greg continued to stare at her arm, horrified. That scar was permanent.

  He stepped back from both of them. “What is wrong with you people?”

  “It was her idea. Brave girl.” McCormick crossed the room to his niece. “It will come in handy, making it look like you were marked as traitors together.”

  For the first time in Greg’s life, he was at a loss for words.

  “As I said, she’s far more qualified than you are, Pierce, so I’d suggest you start groveling before she levels you—or I assign you to shovel manure for the rest of your life.” McCormick stopped in front of Greg, eyes set in a hard challenge. “Or do I need to bring in your sick mother to help
you remember your manners?”

  Isabel walked forward. “No groveling necessary, Uncle Charlie. Greg is just concerned for my safety. It’s kind of cute, actually.” She slid her arm into Greg’s. “We make an excellent couple, don’t we?”

  A couple. Living together in whatever circumstances these clans thrust on them. Sharing tents, blankets, and who knew what else.

  The shock wore off, and Greg yanked free of her grasp.

  “Fine,” Greg said. “Go run a couple miles without showering, dig some holes to ruin those nails, climb a rope for some decent calluses, yellow your teeth—or better yet, knock out a few—lose twenty pounds, maybe some hair, and then I’ll agree to this insanity.”

  Isabel crossed her fingers over her cleavage. “I swear to be sufficiently disgusting when we leave. Who knows? Maybe you’ll like me better that way.” Her dark eyes softened in an attempt to be seductive.

  “She’s better than she pretends to be,” McCormick said, reading Greg’s mind.

  Isabel straightened, looking suddenly business-like. “She is standing right here, so if you men are done playing, it’s time to work. We have paperwork to fill out, immunizations to get, maps to scour, and supplies to pack.”

  “Pack?” Greg said in exasperation. “Need I remind you that we can’t exactly waltz into these clans with suitcases and a valet? The only thing I came with was my lucky shirt which was confiscated the second I walked through the gate. You’ve no idea what it’s like to live as a squatter. Commander, you brought me here ‘cause you said I know how illegals live, and I’m tellin’ you that this…” Greg motioned to Isabel, head to four-inch-heels, “will not work.”

  Isabel cocked her head. “You have a lucky shirt?”

  Greg threw his hands in the air. “I’m done. I’m done!”

  “Now wait. Did it look like”—Isabel crossed the room and grabbed something from under her uncle’s desk—“this?”

  Greg spotted the light blue wad. He lunged. “Give me that.”

  Isabel whipped out a gun from her tight outfit and gave him a wicked grin. “Say please.”

  Greg slid to a stop, staring into the end of her small pistol, calculating just how crazy this dark-haired lieutenant was.

  McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Pierce, if I give you back your lucky shirt, will you shut your trap and cooperate? There can’t be any room for mistakes. This polar ice cap between you two has to melt and it has to melt fast, or you’ll both wind up dead.”

  “Which will it be, honey buns?” Isabel said, waving his shirt in one hand and her gun in the other. “Come on. You could be really, really rich.”

  Rich.

  That word caught Greg’s attention.

  “How much do I get paid?” he asked suddenly.

  McCormick scowled. “You get paid in years added onto your life.”

  “Come on, Uncle Charlie,” Isabel said. “Tell him.”

  McCormick folded his arms over his round stomach. “You’ll get paid for every mission—after every mission—the equivalent of four month’s salary for a normal patrolman. I’m hoping you’ll be in each clan less than two weeks, so it’s decent money.”

  That was more than decent. Greg could start sending money back. His mom could finally see a doctor. The clan wouldn’t starve. They might even be able to buy another home.

  “Fine,” Greg said. “Give me my shirt.”

  thirty-two

  “OLIVER’S HERE,” TERRELL SAID, looking up from their dirt map.

  “On a Monday?” Carrie stopped to listen for his car. She’d seen him twice since their talk, but only on Thursday mornings and he’d stayed two minutes each time. Their conversations were more awkward than ever, but it seemed like he’d taken her suggestion to stop by another day. Either that or something had happened.

  News from Greg?

  Her heart jumped, and she brushed the dirt from her hands. “I better go see what he wants.”

  “We’ll meet outside of CJ’s first thing,” Richard said. “I have a good feeling about the Watercrest Clan.”

  Nodding, Carrie hurried around the side of Terrell’s house. Even with her hair pulled up, sweat beaded up the back of her neck from the long, hot day. She was in no state to see anyone.

  Oliver’s patrol car sat in her driveway, but he wasn’t at her front door. He was still sitting in his car. She waved as she jogged down the sidewalk, but he didn’t see her. When she reached the driveway and he still hadn’t glanced up, she knocked on his car window. He jumped a foot. Then he scrambled to shove some papers in the glove box.

  “Hi, Carrie,” he said, rolling down his window. “I didn’t see you.”

  The car’s air conditioning blew out the window toward her. It felt heavenly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

  “You didn’t. I mean, you did, but it’s fine.” He brushed down his beige tie. “Sorry. I was just looking at something.”

  “No problem. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Really good—really well. I mean, I’m doing well.”

  Are you sure? she nearly asked, even more concerned that he’d shown up on a Monday evening. He seemed extra nervous. His thumb tapped his steering wheel at a racehorse pace.

  “Did you…” Her gut clenched for the worst. “Did you hear anything on Greg’s note?”

  “No, but I didn’t expect to.”

  That was better than bad news, but she still worried about how Greg had reacted to his mom’s death in a place where he couldn’t do anything about it.

  She waited, wondering what had Oliver so preoccupied.

  “I don’t have partners anymore,” he said after a minute.

  “What? That’s wonderful! Wait, is it wonderful?”

  A smile finally lit his small gray eyes. “Yes.”

  No more partners. She couldn’t believe it.

  “What happened?” she asked. It seemed like there was more work than ever for patrolmen since she spotted new distant fires every few days.

  “My boss hates me,” he said simply.

  A strange reply. She couldn’t imagine anyone hating Oliver, but when no further explanation came, she returned his smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re free now.”

  His brows shot up. “Free?”

  “Partner-less?”

  “Free,” he echoed.

  He stared straight ahead at her garage door, thumb tapping the wheel again. Each second of him avoiding her felt like an hour. He didn’t have partners, but he was obviously stressed out about something.

  “Carrie,” he said finally, “I was wondering if, uh…”

  His gaze snapped back to her garage door. Oliver wasn’t the type she could pressure into talking, so she kept waiting. The cold air conditioning blew out his window, and she stood as close as she dared, braced for the bad news. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  Finally, he looked up at her. “Do you eat?”

  “Do I eat?”

  He winced. “Sorry. I mean, do you like to eat? You know, dinner? Food?” With a huff, he looked around. “Never mind. I’ll see you later.”

  Like a light bulb turning on, she understood. Oliver didn’t have bad news. He was asking her out. Her first reaction was to turn him down, but he deserved better. Oliver loved her, and Greg was trying to love her.

  “Actually,” she said softly, “I love to eat.”

  “You do?”

  She smiled. “Yeah.”

  It took another moment of him staring straight ahead—she could practically see him talking himself into it—before it blurted out of him.

  “Would you like to go to dinner with me, Carrie? I know I have no business asking you, but I would really like you to eat with me. I understand if you want to say no, and I won’t mind, but if you want to, would you mind coming with me? In the car? To a restaurant to eat”—his face scrunched as if in actual pain—“sometime?”

  Oliver Simmons was adorable if nothing else. The poor guy was petrified, sweating bullets even
though he sat in perfect air conditioning. He was waiting for a rejection which, of course, she wouldn’t give.

  “I’d love to,” she said.

  The color drained from his face. “You would?”

  “Yes.” But then reality hit her upside the head. “Except I can’t go to a restaurant. It’s too public. Can I make you dinner here instead?”

  “No, no, no. I’ve got it all worked out. There’s a tiny restaurant far from here where patrolmen usually don’t go. Plus,” he glanced at the glove box, “I still have that thing, those papers from before that would keep you safe. That is…if you want to.”

  Was that what he’d been staring at?

  Her travel papers?

  Obviously, he knew more about the laws than she did, so she shrugged. “Then I’d love to, although it’s been so long since I’ve been to a restaurant—to anywhere in public—I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with myself.”

  It was another minute of him staring at her without blinking before he said, “It’s more a cafeteria, but…but we can pretend.”

  “Yes we can,” she said, warming up to the idea.

  “Yes. Great. Okay.” And suddenly he was off again. “My only day off is Saturday. Is this Saturday okay? If not, we can go another—Oh, wait!” he said, interrupting himself. “I have training until late Saturday. Maybe there’s another time, like Wednesday, but it would have to be during the day, like lunch or something? Or we could…” He scratched his receding hairline. “Oh, man. I should have thought this through first. I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

  She smiled again. “How about now? Have you eaten dinner yet?”

  “Now?”

  “If you have time. If not, we can try another day.”

  “I can go now,” he said. “Can you?”

  “Yes,” she said, biting back a full-on grin. How was a man in his position scared of a simple, illegal girl like her?

  He glanced down at his clothes and then around the neighborhood. Sasha sat on her sidewalk with the little boys. Rhonda Watson was on her front porch, fanning herself. Oliver didn’t seem to notice any of them.