NC-17

by Larissa Reinhart

  And then it was gone.

  I squinted, peering into the timber. Heard more rustling behind me. I half-turned. And was knocked back. Shoved against the tree.

  My scream shook more birds from their perches.

  In my peripheral, I caught a swinging motion. I ducked and curled my hands around my head. An intense pain slammed into the back of my shoulder. I fell forward. Felt the scrape of bark. The sponginess of foliage.

  And my Campomaggi getting ripped from my back.

  Twenty-Six

  #DownAndOutAndNotInBeverlyHills #ToSleepPerchance

  Luckily, the tree caught my fall. With my forehead. Before I slid into the softer leafy vines at the base. Which I feared were poison ivy.

  As I lay there — dazed, aching, and frightened — my assaulter clomped off, plowing through the forest at top speed.

  I’m not saying it was Bigfoot. But when the kids found me — like the disobedient children they were — they had some theories that sounded almost relevant.

  Relevant if Bigfoot was into muggings.

  “It had to have been him,” said Fred. “Who else could throw those rocks like that? Or bash you with a stick?”

  “Someone with Little League experience?” I skipped my flying book incident. Although there were similarities to our forest friend.

  “He thinks we’re from Wellspring and that’s why he attacked you. He hates Wellspring. They’re destroying his habitat.”

  “By building a giant garden of organic herbs and vegetables? Does Bigfoot also hate hipsters?”

  “What did he look like?” said Laci.

  “I had my face shoved into a tree.” I stared at the ground, shaking my head. “And I was too busy cowering to look.”

  “What about my camera?” said Mara.

  “They got it along with everything else in my backpack. Sorry.” I patted my pockets. “No phone. I stuck it in my backpack. My probation officer is going to love that. And my keys.”

  I buried my face in my hands. I had to be the worst investigator in the history of investigators — real and fiction. I’d risked the kids’ lives for what? I had zero evidence that Chandler wasn’t in Mexico. All I’d done was possibly incite his brother to acts of vandalism against my bike. It’d probably been crazy Crispin following us. He was as outdoorsy as Chandler, after all.

  Maybe Tiffany and Rhonda were right. I should quit this job. At least then Nash would have one less payment to dole out.

  Except Nash was in a coma. I couldn’t give up yet.

  Wait. Was I trying to be something I wasn’t because of my feelings for Nash?

  How humiliating. I was supposed to be a feminist.

  As if they sensed my despair, the three circled around me, draping their arms around my shoulders.

  “You still have your mini flashlight,” said Laci.

  “Don’t forget about the lighter and the protein bar wrapper,” said Fred. “And the boot. Those are great clues.”

  Maybe for Sherlock Holmes. Too bad I hadn’t played an adult investigator.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mara. “We believe in you. You’ll find Chandler. Or at least what happened to him.”

  I wanted to believe in me, too. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But the list of people I didn’t want to disappoint was ever growing. And the time I needed ever shrinking.

  I hugged them back. You had to love kids and their optimism. I’d lost mine somewhere in that bank.

  * * *

  Fred insisted I take his bike. When Mara and Laci refused to let him ride on the back of theirs, I deemed it inappropriate to share a mountain bike with a fifteen-year-old boy and borrowed Mara’s. I told Fred he could do the chivalrous thing and let Mara ride with him. Which spouted an argument from the girls. After suffering through a long speech about the post-post-modern feminist concept of chivalry from Laci, the girls discovered Laci couldn’t support Mara’s weight.

  Mara rode on the back of Fred’s bike.

  I followed the three into town to make certain they actually went home. At least riding a mountain bike felt safer than riding on Lucky. Albeit a lot slower and with a lot more effort.

  Silver linings.

  I pedaled myself to Black Pine Police, hoping to speak to an officer connected to Chandler Jonson’s disappearance. I had a lighter and protein bar wrapper to not turn in. And a stolen backpack to report. Much worse than a vandalized dirt bike.

  I was moving up in the criminal world of victimization.

  The police station hummed with activity. After answering multiple questions about Nash’s condition, I was left in the waiting room to stare at my ragged nails and wonder if my Mother cropped jeans would ever recover from woodland trauma. Detective Ian Mowry arrived thirty minutes later. Whom I wasn’t expecting. But it was always nice to see Ian.

  “What about your daughter?” I asked. “It’s a school night.”

  Ian smiled. “She’s with her mother. I told reception to notify me if you needed anything. And you looked like you had an accident. What happened?”

  “I went hiking.” Ignoring his look of surprise, I continued. “I had more evidence on the Chandler Jonson case for you. Until it was stolen. Actually, a lot has happened since this afternoon.”

  “I think we should sit down.” He herded me in the back to his desk. “Start over.”

  “The evidence was a lighter and protein bar wrapper believed to be Chandler’s. Found at a Bigfoot offering site. A bucket inside a tree. The kids had identified the lighter positively and the wrapper semi-positively.”

  “Semi-positively?”

  “A brand he favored. But to be honest, it’s a popular brand.”

  “Gotcha.” Ian leaned forward. “I’m really more interested in the theft and why you look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

  I sighed. “The kids took me to the campsite where Chandler was last seen, then we hiked to the back gate of the Wellspring Center. Had a chat with Oliver Fraser—”

  “Oliver Fraser. Your ex-fiancé? The one who got you in all that trouble?”

  “He’s sort-of managing the Wellspring Center.”

  “He moved to Black Pine?” Ian leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Don’t worry, I made sure he’s not a fugitive. Anyway, I just learned Wellspring has security cameras posted in the area of Chandler Jonson’s last known location. Did the officer handling his case look at the Wellspring CCTV footage? Oliver invited me to watch surveillance videos tomorrow morning, but I wanted to know—”

  “Oliver Fraser invited you to watch security footage?”

  I nodded, not liking the look settling into Ian’s normally easy-going features.

  “I’ll ask about the videos.” Ian’s arm dropped to his desk and his fingers drummed the laminate. “Skip forward to the part where you were robbed and ended up looking like you do.”

  “Okay.” I squirmed in my chair, relieved to get beyond Oliver’s part because Ian was making me uncomfortable. Ian had never made me anything but comfortable. Too comfortable. Which was why dating him didn’t work out. The men that tended to catch my interest were more Harley Davidson than Honda Accord.

  Of course, one is more likely to receive a traumatic injury on a Harley than in an Accord. Something to think about.

  “The teens and I were trying to trace Chandler’s path that night through the woods—”

  “On Black Pine Mountain?” He skewed his lips to the side. “Did their parents know they were on the mountain?”

  “They filled out my permission slips—”

  Sighing, he mopped his face with his hands. “Lord love you, Maizie, but merciful heavens, you’re a hot mess.”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  That shut him up for a moment. “What happened to you? How were you robbed?”

  I chewed my lip. I wasn’t sure how to explain this without telling Ian about Crispin. I didn’t want to lose the Bigfoot case. The three were counting on me. And then there was “Do N
ot Pass Go” Gladys waiting for me to screw up. Ian would be required to report me if he figured out I had broken into the Jonson house.

  I lied. “I tripped and fell in the woods. And — I’m trying not to scratch — I think I might have poison ivy, too. On my face. I can feel it flaring.”

  “And the theft of your backpack?”

  “I…uh…left it by my bike.” I squirmed. “And someone took it.”

  “What else happened today?”

  I performed a breaking and entering, stole an herbal remedy, tricked a young girl into giving me her unwanted clients, and intimidated Mrs. Price into payment. Whereupon she wrote me an SOS. And when I returned, I found an armed man at her house but was taken down by an ATF agent before I could find out if the armed man was holding her hostage.

  None of which I said aloud. “I met Agent Langtry.”

  “I know.” Ian massaged his mouth. “Did you want to fill out a theft report?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty tired. I should go home for calamine and ice.”

  “Before you go…” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “Promise me that you and the kids will stay off the mountain for the time being.”

  “I have to do volunteer community service and therapy at Wellspring.”

  “That’s fine, just stay out of the woods. We still don’t have an ID on the victim we found near the peak. And no motive.”

  “I have no intention of returning to those woods. I’m not a woodsy sort of person anyway.”

  “I figured.” He gave me a tight smile.

  Slowly and painfully, I rose from the chair. “Thank you. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  Ian watched me, then followed. “Come on.” Placing a hand on the small of my back, he walked me down the hall, through reception, and into the parking lot. He frowned at the mountain bike I pulled from the bike rack.

  “It’s a loaner,” I explained. “Lucky’s keys were in the backpack.”

  “Someone stole your backpack with the keys but not the dirt bike?”

  “You know criminals…” I gave the shaky laugh of an actress unconvinced by her character’s motives.

  “I’ll give you a ride home.” Ian walked the bike to his truck. As he opened the passenger door, he studied me. “Why did you really come here, Maizie?”

  Because I foolishly thought I could report a woodland assault and robbery without screwing up more than I had already done.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m a little lost without Nash’s help, I guess. I’m really sorry I wasted your time.”

  “I want to help you, Maizie. But don’t forget. I’m law enforcement.”

  I knew that too well. But gave him my Covergirl smile anyway.

  * * *

  Visiting hours were over, but after a major dose of acetaminophen and Neosporin, I borrowed Carol Lynn’s minivan and sped to the hospital. I’d made friends with an admitting nurse who understood that coma patients needed mental stimulation as much as they needed rest. Particularly from loved ones who had odd working hours.

  In his room, I placed Steve the armadillo under Nash’s tubed-up arm. And after a quick (impersonal) massage, I dropped into the chair beside Nash’s bed. Took his hand in mine.

  “It’s been a long day. I’m a little dinged up, but aside from possible poison ivy, I think I’ll be okay.” No need to worry Nash about the woodland assault and battery.

  If there was a timberland mugger, the police would find him while looking for their mountaintop shooter. And if it was Crispin harassing me, I’d have to figure that out for myself.

  I stroked Nash’s hand with my thumb. Yawned. Blinked hard. My shoulder and forehead throbbed. I focused on comparing Nash’s pain to mine.

  “The Bigfoot kids and I hiked to their campsite where Chandler went missing. Like literally next to the Wellspring Center’s vegetable garden. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it in front of the three — particularly because I was on camera — but I think Chandler must have been meeting someone. My guess is Everett Lawson, the gardener with the gun, and something terrible happened to Chandler. Why is it that nobody at Wellspring knows Lawson? What if he shot Chandler?”

  I studied Nash’s face and thought I could sense the flicker of a frown.

  “I know. Jumping to crazy conclusions. But none of this makes sense. Why would Chandler disappear? The Bigfoot Trackers show is really popular. I checked the stats and just in ad revenue alone, Chandler probably pulled in more than a million a year. That’s like a Millennial’s dream, getting paid to hang out and do stuff you wanted to do anyway. And if the teens are making a percentage, it’s no wonder their parents let them go to the woods whenever and with whomever they want.”

  I fought the sting of jealousy that snuck through my exhaustion.

  “How has TV changed so much so quickly? Even on reality shows we’re forced to do stuff you don’t really do because your usual stuff is pretty boring. Anyway, I can’t believe Chandler would give that up without saying anything. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I scooted closer, leaned an elbow on the bed, and rested my cheek on my fist.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to look at Wellspring’s video surveillance with Oliver.” I yawned, lulled by the steady blip-blip of his monitors. “Oliver’s really aggravating. And he’s making Fred jealous. Which is disconcerting, too. And Giulio is driving me bonkers with threats to call off the wedding, which I normally would support except I don’t have time for that kind of backlash. I’m going to make Lamar’s flyers, too, just as soon…”

  My head slipped off my fist and landed next to his arm. I remained bent over, resting my cheek on Nash’s bicep for a long moment.

  “I’m so tired, Nash. I don’t know how much more insomnia I can take.”

  The heaviness in my limbs resisted the awkward stretch. With the ache in my shoulder, the discomfort felt unbearable. Exhaustion battled with the pain. Without giving it much thought, I dragged myself onto the bed, curling into the tight space between his arm and body. Breathed in the scant Nash scent that still remained on his skin. Awkward if someone found me, but I was too drained to care.

  “Just for a minute,” I told Nash. “You won’t even know I’m here. I’m just so tired…” My thoughts liquified into a blend of Bigfoot, Oliver, and baseball.

  I heard the even keel of my breath. Felt my limbs loosen, flex, then relax.

  And Nash’s arm draw around me.

  Twenty-Seven

  #KeepingItTooReal #DonutDoIt

  Despite the sign reading “closed,” the front door of LA HAIR swung wide. I smiled at Tiffany just before Rhonda pulled me into a deep hug.

  “Oh, my stars,” said Rhonda, releasing me from the cushioning of her body. She smelled of Happy, Hydrox, and hope.

  This was the real reason I had begged for an extra-extra-early appointment. I needed hugs and encouragement after all my disappointment and despair.

  Not to mention, my nails looked like I’d let beavers gnaw on them. And my hair? Don’t even get me started.

  “Lawd, it’s early. I don’t know why you always want an appointment at the crack of dawn.” The blueish circles beneath Tiffany’s eyes almost matched the blue tips in her dark asymmetrical bob.

  “Habit. Hair and makeup on the set were always early. And I have to be at the Wellspring Center first thing.” I waved the paper bag in my right hand. “I stopped by Dixie Kreme on my way here.”

  Tiffany’s hand shot out and snatched a coffee from the paper tray I carried. Rhonda grabbed the donut bag from my other hand. I deposited the tray on the counter and sank into a salon chair with a coffee. Back in the day, I always brought treats to hair and makeup. I hadn’t wanted to be seen as one of those stars who took services for granted. It also got me extra keratin treatments and quickie facials, which was a nice bonus.

  “You look like hell,” said Tiffany. “When’s the last time you slept? And what happened to your face?”

  “Tree bark s
crape. I had a mishap in the woods.” I lied. Again. But I couldn’t handle anything but hugs, light, and love today. No arguments about my job or possible lack thereof. “When I got home I needed to research and make flyers. I just couldn’t get to sleep.”

  I pulled a folded piece of paper out of my back pocket. Not an easy task when wearing the Jean Atelier slim-fit. For me, anyway. “How does this look?”

  Rhonda studied the flyer. “I think when you say, ‘we’ll fulfill all your needs,’ you might want to be more specific about the needs. Particularly because your picture looks a little—”

  “Slutty?” said Tiffany, eyeing the flyer over her shoulder.

  Rhonda pursed her lips. “I was going to say glamorous.”

  “That’s my headshot. I don’t have anything recent. How is that slutty?”

  “Your eyes are half-closed and your lips are puckered and pouted,” said Tiffany. “How is that not slutty?”

  My face burned. “It’s normal for a headshot.”

  Tiffany shrugged and turned her attention to the donut bag.

  “What are we doing today?” Rhonda lightened her voice and busied herself at the counter behind me. “Highlights and trim? Girl, your nails need fixing something terrible.”

  “I don’t have time for highlights,” I said. “Whatever you can do quickly. I’m meeting Oliver to look at security footage this morning. I can’t face him looking like this.”

  Rhonda spun my chair around. “Hold on, now. Whys the hells? That boy got you a ticket to jail.”

  “I don’t want to see Oliver. This is just business. At the Wellspring Center. Where it turns out he’s now a manager.” I shoved my arms through the holes of the plastic cape Rhonda held.

  “And how’s Mr. Nash?” said Rhonda.

  “The same,” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt about climbing into his hospital bed. I had been woken by a nurse thirty minutes into a beautifully deep sleep. The best I’d had since the incident. Despite my cramped position.