The door shuts behind them, cutting off Mercy’s exuberant laughter. I hear the revving of a motor, then the squeal of tires, and spitting of gravel. I shake my head a little. Some things never change.
“That was…”
“Disgusting?” I supply.
Lexie laughs. “Unappetizing,” she counters.
“I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ll order pizza. Apparently, I haven’t gotten any better at cooking the last year since I’ve seen you.”
“I told you that you should have let me cook.”
“Noted. Next time, you’re the chef. Grab my phone and order some, would you? My card info is already saved on the app.”
“You’re hopeless,” she says.
“Hopelessly awesome,” I call out after her.
It’s been a couple hours since Mercy left, but Lexie doesn’t seem to notice. Or at least, she tries pretty hard to make it look that way. I did my level best to distract her with a couple movies and a relentless stream of teasing. Accompanied with the horror shot that is dinner, I think I did all right.
The meatloaf I’d attempted to make was probably the low point, I decide as I scrape what’s left of the charred block into the garbage can. Not my fault. Most of my food in my adult life came ready-to-eat so I can’t be held responsible when I’m put in charge of making it.
Another knock comes at the door as I’m elbow-deep in suds, trying to scrape the congealed disaster off the pan. “Can you get that?” I call out to Lexie. I’m not technically working today, but as the owner of one of the most prominent tourist locales in the town of Windy Point, I’m always working.
I hear the door open and the low chatter of the delivery guy, followed by Lexie’s response. Stomach growling, I think, Screw the dishes, and leave the whole lot of them to soak in the sink. I’ll worry about them later.
Lexie’s still at the door when I get to the living room. She’s juggling two large pizza boxes and a package from some mail delivery service on top of that.
“Need some help with that?” I ask, but her response is interrupted by the familiar sound of an engine revving.
I look past Lexie in the doorway and see a douched-up Ford Mustang in my driveway. Mercy’s in the front seat. At first, I try to pull Lexie back inside. No one should have to see their mother MILF-ing it up with some prick. Then, Mercy jerks back, but not because of anything good.
The motherfucker hit her.
A surge of adrenaline propels me to maneuver Lexie back inside with one hand. I don’t know how I manage to do it without dumping everything in her hands on the sidewalk, but I do. My long strides eat up the distance between the front door and the car in seconds. I see Peyton out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t have time to worry about her. In another few steps, I throw open the door with one hand and yank Mercy out with the other.
She screeches like a pissed-off alley cat and I shove her in the direction of the lodge. “Get inside,” I tell her without looking at her.
“I can handle it, Ford,” she protests, and tries to force her way between me and the car, but that’s not happening.
I turn and pin her with a glare. “Go inside with your daughter,” I say slowly.
The mention of Lexie has Mercy pausing long enough for me to scoot her a couple more feet in that direction. She sees Lexie peering out from behind the curtains, and whatever maternal instincts she must have pull her toward the lodge. Peyton gives the scene one last glance, then scurries back around to the front entrance.
Putting her out of my mind, I turn back to the dude in the car and see he’s as much of a douche as his ride. “Don’t come back,” I tell him.
“Or what? Gonna kill me, too?”
“What’d he say?” Mercy screeches.
I lift a hand and gesture for her to get her ass inside. To the douche, I say, “You wanna try me and find out?”
He considers it for all of two seconds before he puts the car in reverse.
“Smart choice,” I tell him and slam the door.
I watch as he speeds out of the driveway until I can no longer see him.
Mercy is waiting for me as soon as I go back in the house.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her makeup is smeared, and her eyes are watery. The redness around her eyes is already starting to darken.
Adrenaline still pulses in my veins. It worries me more than a little how much I missed this feeling. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Next time don’t bring assholes like that around my place, though, Mercy.” I glance at Lexie, who’s hovering in the doorway that leads to the kitchen.
“I won’t, I promise,” Mercy says, and then wraps her arm around her daughter. They both go into the kitchen as I close up the front door.
I couldn’t protect my men, but I damn sure won’t let anything happen to the people I care about.
Chapter Five
Peyton
The water is cold, too cold, assuredly, for me to be dipping my feet in it just yet, but I can’t help myself. The freezing temperature grounds me, and I concentrate on noting the sensations in my body that root me in reality.
My toes dig into the grainy texture of the sand until both feet are buried completely beneath the surface. With my eyes closed, the sounds, scents, and feel of the world around me are amplified. It’s a technique I learned in therapy to take my mind out of the realm of panic and toward calm.
I chickened out of apologizing for snapping at him after seeing Ford in a second confrontation with another woman and some guy in a tricked-out car. I could tell from the look in his eyes he was in no mood for interference, so I kept my distance and instead trekked around the lake and enjoyed another meal in my room. Nightmares plagued my sleep, and I woke up covered in a cold sweat with my heart still racing from an invisible attacker.
The thought occurred to me to stay in my room for the day, give myself a break from the overstimulation, but I knew if I stayed it would be one more step toward holing myself up behind the security of a lock and never coming out again. I forced myself to get out of bed, dressed, and then speed walked blindly out of the lodge and found myself at the lake.
My heart begins to settle and my breathing to quiet as I focus on the lap of the cool water against my ankles. In the distance, I hear the muted rumble of a lawn mower roar to life, followed by the sharp scent of freshly cut grass. Rooting myself in the present is one of the only sure ways I know to keep from being swallowed by the past.
“That wasn’t what it looked like, yesterday.” Comes Ford’s voice, startling me out of my serene reflection.
I keep my eyes closed, thankful I didn’t jump and screech like a frightened little rabbit this time, even though I wanted to. “None of my business,” I say.
“I don’t want you think I go around terrorizing the locals,” he says, his gruff voice sounding closer than before.
“Why would it matter what I think?” I ask and finally turn to peer up at him, having to smother the instantaneous instinct to put a safe distance between us.
He’s too tall to be human. His shoulders look like he’s packing some serious muscles underneath the T-shirt and flannel button-up he’s sporting. As he studies me in turn, I wonder what he does in spare time to be so built, chop down trees? Certainly the tingling in my stomach isn’t…attraction? It’s nerves. There’s no way in hell I could want a man like Ford, a brutal beast capable of violence.
“It doesn’t.” I nearly roll my eyes at his bluntness. So much for my feelings. “But you’re a guest. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable while you’re here and we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.” The words are robotic, mechanical. I wonder if he’s given this speech before.
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” My own response is just as mechanical. Maybe Ford and I have more in common than I’m willing to admit.
He rolls his massive shoulders, squinting against the rising sun. “None of my business. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I thought you said it wasn
’t any of your business?”
“Just making conversation.”
Silver glints in the light at his neck. The beaded chain is a familiar one—military dog tags—which makes a lot of details click into place. His careful, watchful nature. The intensity of his stare. His physique. Even the hardness around his eyes and mouth. He’d seen violence, caused it.
Death, I’ve learned, stains people once they came in contact with it. It settles over your shoulders like a mantle you can’t ever take off.
Whose death was on his?
Long seconds pass and I realize he’s staring at me as I stare at him. My cheeks burn. “No, I’m from Mississippi. Near Jackson.”
“Vacation?”
“Sort of. What about you?” I turn and sit on the dock, watching him as I cross my legs and try to relax in his commanding presence. Sitting down only causes him to tower over me, but it hides the fact that, even though I know he won’t hurt me, he causes my legs to shake.
“My parents used to own the place. When they decided to retire, I took over.”
I don’t know why, but those last words make me shiver. “You were in the military before then?”
Must be a sore subject because his lips thin. “Marines. Ten years.”
“My dad was in the Navy. Desk jobs, mostly.”
This causes him to turn that laser gaze to me. “You were a military brat?”
“Sort of. He retired before I was born. I was a surprise baby, my parents didn’t think they could get pregnant. You?”
He winces. “I wish I was an only child. Older sister, Mercedes. You saw her and her daughter, Lexie, yesterday.”
So that wasn’t his girlfriend. Doesn’t matter. “I bet you drove each other crazy.”
“I guess,” he replies. Then he glances back to the lodge. “I’d better get back. You okay out here?”
I hate that question. “I’m fine.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he shrugs. I watch him walking back up the trail for far, far too long for someone who isn’t attracted to him at all.
To keep the promise to myself to get out of the room—and to stay away from Ford and the jittery feelings he gives me—I make the short drive into the heart of Windy Point. I park at a public parking lot next to the main street run of stores and shops, intent on passing time peeking through like a proper tourist, then stopping at one of the restaurants for lunch before I head back to the lodge to paint some more.
I stop first at a kitschy little trinket shop, the kind where they sell homemade jams and jellies along with local artisan crafts. I can’t resist the blackberry jam, chocolate-covered crickets, and a darling bee carved from oak. Weighted down with my purchases, I move along to the next shop, a tea emporium. Loving the thought of sipping tea in the morning on the back deck at the lodge, I eagerly peruse their selection and add a sachet of blueberry green tea to my bag, already looking forward to brewing it.
The next shop makes my heart sing the moment I spot the sign. Splatters Studio is framed by blotches of colorful paint. It’s a far cry from the highbrow art scene I used to participate in, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing through the bright red door. Some sort of lesson or group activity is taking place, and I keep to the back of the main room so I don’t interrupt.
A tall, statuesque woman leads the demonstration with a commanding presence. I observe in envy of her self-confidence, wondering what it must be like to be so sure of one’s self. I’d been like that once. Maybe, with time in places like Windy Point, I’ll find the girl I used to be.
It must be some sort of spin on a wine and paint night, except with pottery. The small group of women are each separated into pairs with lumps of clay in front of them and a variety of mixed drinks and glasses of wine at their elbows. Feminine chatter and laughter punctuates the woman’s instructions.
I browse around the public front of the shop, noting the different services offered. Birthday parties with little pails of art supplies for party favors. Variations of tonight with different mediums and meeting times. More serious instruction for the dedicated hobbyists.
“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before, I’m Alice Kent.”
Turning from the display, I find the instructor standing behind me and am stunned silent because she’s even more striking up close. In her mid-fifties or so, with thick-framed glasses and dramatic silver hair, she towers at least half a foot over me.
I remember social niceties long enough to shake her hand. “Peyton. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt,” I add with a glance back toward the group of women, who are now shuffling out of the space with the remnants of their drinks, their cheeks flushed with laughter and alcohol.
She smiles gently and adjusts her glasses. “No, of course not. We’re always happy to have fresh blood here. New to the area or are you visiting?”
I clutch the small bag of purchases in front of me. “A little bit of both.”
“Ah, well why don’t you stay for a little while to see what we’re all about? I never say no to free labor,” she says. “Are you into art?”
“That’s like asking if I breathe.” She hands me the mangled remains of molding clay on a tray, and I follow behind her as she loads the rest into my arms.
“What mediums?”
“Anything really, though I stick mostly to canvas work.”
Once we’ve cleared away the clay, Alice leads me through a door that reads Employee’s Only and we dump the supplies on a counter. She begins sorting through them and organizing them into their respective places.
“You should take one of my classes sometime,” she offers. “Or if you’re looking to stay longer, I can always use some help around here. Most of my part-time work doesn’t come in until the season starts. My husband and I are trying to prep to foster a child, so sometimes I can be a bit shorthanded.”
Wow, so this is what people meant when they said small towns can be friendly.
“I’m not sure exactly how long I’m planning to stay, but if it becomes more of a permanent situation, I’ll definitely stop by.”
I leave ten minutes later with her business card in my hand and the prospect of a future dancing around in my head. A future—that’s what violent acts steal from you—in addition to the scars they leave on your body or the people they wipe out from your lives. The future you planned for so long, coveted and nurtured. Mourning loved ones makes sense, but mourning the life you’ll never get to have again? That’s a mind trip.
Sensing my thoughts going down a path best left alone, I hurry down the street, back toward my car. My shopping bag slaps repeatedly against my side. The farther I go, though, the more I feel the weight of someone watching me. I brush it off, knowing I have a tendency to be hypersensitive and somewhat paranoid.
On my way back to the lodge, I swing by a drive-through and get a mound of tacos and a slushie. I plan to take my haul back to my room and lock myself in for a few hours of work. Alice’s offer keeps rolling around in my mind as I navigate the winding roads.
What if I did decide to stick around for a while?
Windy Point, the mysterious Ford aside, is the first place I’ve felt comfortable and creative. Why not stay while I am feeling inspired? The moment I feel the itch to move on, nothing is keeping me here. I can move on until I want to stop or keep playing gypsy for the rest of my life.
The reminder that I’m not trapped, I’m free to make my own decisions, calms me as I pull to a stop at the lodge. I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I get out of the car and see the hazy moonlight glittering off the slices of lake visible between the thick tree trunks.
I pause by my open door and figure, screw it. Ford had interrupted me earlier, but the likelihood that will happen twice in a row is slim to none. Besides, the nerves clamoring in my stomach make me even more determined to go see the moon glimmering on the water. I’d been trapped by my mind for so long, I won’t let myself be afraid of the dark anymore.
Leaving my
purchases in the front seat, I lock my car and stride determinedly around the lodge on a stone path. My heart thunders in my ears, and I feel cold and hot at the same time, but I force one foot in front of the other. All my instincts are screaming at me to turn around and go back to the lodge where the light shines from the dazzling windows like a beacon of hope, but I turn my back on them defiantly.
There’s enough daylight left for me to walk without tripping over my own feet, but it makes visibility past about ten feet questionable at best. The shadows seem to whisper to me and each crackle from deep in the forest at either side, or brush of wind along the naked branches, has my pulse skittering.
A boat that skims the surface of the water in the distance eases my anxiety, if only a little. I’m not alone.
You’re being silly, Peyton.
I chuckle a little at myself and slip out of my shoes as I reach the dock where I’d seen Ford earlier. He’s nowhere in sight, so I relax and amble down the worn wood planks barefoot.
It isn’t dark enough for stars to be visible, but the cloudless sky is a deep, unblemished blue. The jet-black shapes of bats dart out from the trees above me and I watch as they swoop and dive, feeding on the insects above. Tears spring to my eyes. My dad and I used to sit on our back porch swing and watch the bats come out at night. We’d talk about everything, silly conversations, really, and he was probably nice and buzzed from an after-work beer. Those are the things I miss the most about my parents. The out-of-the-blue meaningless memories we shared. Inconsequential things we’ll never get to do together again.
I groan, annoyed with myself, and brush the tears away. My eyes roam over the landscape, looking for a distraction and they go back to the boat. There’s a couple people on board and they’re close enough that I can see that they’re having some sort of intimate conversation, standing at the back of the boat. I shouldn’t be watching them, but I’d gotten used to observing people the year I spent locked away in my house. It’s a hard habit to break.
I can’t make out anything, other than their general shapes, but they’re both sitting in the back seats of the boat, gesticulating wildly. Telling some sort of wild story, I imagine. I lean my cheek on my knees and let my thoughts drift as I watch them. With the sounds of the lake in the background, I nearly relax enough to forget how dark it’s getting.
Traitor (Last to Leave Book 1) Page 4
