No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

10

  Dance to Your Tune (Blake)

  Surprises just keep showing up at my door.

  Last time Peace crashed on my doorstep, she showed up with her massage table and soft words threatening to split me open.

  This time, she looks terrified, shivering, flushed.

  And on the verge of tears.

  I’ve been thinking about her ever since that call-in last night, and the soft, low way she sang her little heart out for me.

  Aching to see her.

  But not like this.

  Not with the words, “Blake, I think I just saw the person who set the clothing shop on fire.”

  Everything in me bristles. I reach for her without thinking.

  It’s instinct, this feral urge to protect her from someone she’s already escaped from.

  Still, I slip my arm around her shoulders, stepping out on the porch. I put myself between her and the line of sight from the street, darting my gaze around suspiciously as I usher her in.

  “Come on,” I say. “Inside. Did they hurt you?”

  She shakes her head, scrubbing her ridiculous purple knit gloves against her red nose and gulping audibly, her hair bouncing from under her rainbow knit cap in shimmers of purple and red.

  “No, but he tried. Chased me through the forest and then tried to run me down in this big truck. I...I didn’t get the color, like, maybe dark blue or grey or even green, I don’t know.”

  “Hey. It’s okay. You’re with me now.”

  I nudge the door closed behind her, then sink down before her in the entryway, gripping both her hands. Even through the gloves, I can feel how cold they are, chilled to the bone, and I rub my hands over hers slowly for warmth, staring into her too-wide eyes.

  “I want you to close your eyes,” I say—and she does, instantly. “Count to ten, and the whole time, don’t think about anything but the truck. Tell me what you see.”

  She takes a few shaky breaths, then I see her lips mouth one.

  Then two, a hesitant pause, then three, four, five, all the way to ten.

  The whole time her breath slows, the tension in her heaving shoulders relaxing.

  She’d been gripping my hands for dear life, but now she eases up.

  I count with her, silent, mirroring the shape of her lips.

  She actually smiles, weak and shaky. “...you did that just to calm me down. You put on your radio voice.”

  I half-smile. “I got a radio voice?”

  “Yeah. Whenever something’s wrong, you talk this certain way.” She shakes her head. “Like you really believe everything’s going to be all right. No matter what. And it just soothes, wraps me up real warm like...”

  Like you’re holding me. It’s on the edge of her voice.

  Fuck.

  I can’t help a strangled sound.

  Holding her right now doesn’t sound half bad, but I have to focus. Some random asshole tried to kidnap her or hurt her or worse. Nothing’s more important than that right now.

  “Glad it helps,” I say, squeezing her hands. “You feeling better?”

  “Yeah,” she says quietly, opening her eyes. “The truck was hematite, almost. Really dark grey, almost black, but shimmery, too.”

  I’m trying to think of anyone in town who has a truck like that, but that’s the kind of flashy thing most people around here don’t bother with.

  Trucks out here get put to work, not lounge around looking pretty.

  Something with a nice finish like that, it’d take too much effort to keep it perfectly polished and sparkling.

  Means I’m drawing a blank, and I don’t like it one bit.

  Standing, keeping my grip on her hands, I step back slowly, guiding her to the couch. “C’mon. Sit down, I’ll make you some cocoa, and you tell me what happened.”

  She nods, biting her lower lip, the red of it looking so swollen with the cold it’s like an overripe cherry. When I let her hands go, she sinks down on the sofa, peeling slowly out of her winter gear.

  “Sorry for the ambush,” she says hesitantly. “My first instinct was to find you.”

  “Nah, glad you did,” I say, stepping into the kitchen to rummage in the cupboards. I can still see her through the doorway, watching me with wide, curious eyes while I pull down mugs and a tin of cocoa powder. “But how’d you know someone set fire to the shop?”

  She winces. “Well, your voice kind of stands out in a crowd. I overheard you.”

  “Goddamn. So much for keeping that under wraps.”

  “I haven’t said anything!” she protests. “I’m smarter than that, jeez. If rumors got out, you wouldn’t be able to find the arsonist. They’d be more secret.”

  “Pretty much,” I grumble.

  That’s the way it should work, anyway. Shame something about this shit feels different, like a puzzle with mismatched pieces.

  I get some milk warming on the stove and fill the kettle with water. The best cocoa’s a mix of both according to the Gospel of Ms. Wilma Ford’s cooking.

  “So why don’t you start from the beginning and give me the rundown?”

  While I let things heat, I move to the kitchen door and lean against the frame, folding my arms over my chest and watching her.

  She looks up at me nervously, then ducks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. After shedding her winter things, she’s got on jeans, ski boots, a clinging sweater in thin white fabric that looks like it was hand-splattered with multicolored paint. All hugging her curves in just the right places.

  Shit.

  I try not to give my dick a dirty look. This is already hard enough.

  Her tongue darts over her lips. “I was just out for a walk, taking in the scenery. There’s a big pointed bluff, kind of like the one where Rafiki holds Simba up when he’s first born? You know, The Lion King?”

  I can’t help cracking a smile. “I know the one you’re talking about, darlin’.”

  “I was up there. Then I saw smoke back down the path and a bit to the...” She pauses, squinting. “Northwest, I think. You can probably find it; he was burning this pile of sticks, but he was already putting them out with a jug of water.”

  “Hmm.” I stroke my chin, rubbing my fingers through my beard. “So he came to set a fire and then put it out, prepped with water? Fucking around with methods, maybe. What’d he look like?”

  “I don’t know.” She shakes her head, looking at me mournfully like it’s her fault when it damn well ain’t. “He was wearing all black. Covered from head to toe, he even had a ski mask. Couldn’t see anything except his eyes, and I was panicking so much I didn’t really catch the color. They were creepy and glazed. And he was really tall, almost this whipcord build?”

  Damn.

  Whipcord.

  That rings a few bells.

  My jaw tightens. It better fucking not be.

  Not a gangly teenager who loves pyrotechnics, tall and playing with an attitude problem big enough to write checks his ass can’t cash. And way too up close and personal with my little girl.

  I scowl. “And he tried to hurt you?”

  “I don’t know if he meant to hurt me or just scare me, but...he wasn’t fooling around with the car chase.” She wraps her arms around herself tight, fingers making creases in the sweater’s sleeves. “I stepped on a twig. He heard me, saw me...”

  She looks up sheepishly.

  “Not your fault. Go on, darlin’. Give me more.”

  With a flimsy smile, she tweaks the bright cap piled at her side. “Hard to hide with all my color. Then he just came charging after me, so I ran back to my car. I thought he took off, until I heard his truck starting. He chased me down the hill to the highway and clipped me a little, but he just trailed off when I started getting close to town.” She winces, then. “Oh, hell. That’s a rental. I don’t think they’re going to believe ‘a masked man chased me down,’ and my insurance won’t cover it—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I know some folks. The fire department around he
re has pull with the cops, even if we’re not the best paid. I’ll smooth it over. Might even be able to get Rich to help buff out anything before it’s an issue.”

  But I’m not really thinking about her huckleberry car.

  I’m thinking about what the hell’s going on here in Heart’s Edge.

  A fire set at the clothing store.

  A nasty note for Leo.

  Clark dicking around in the woods with fire. Then dicking around more at the carnival grounds without his uncle’s supervision.

  Holding a grudge because I made him stop.

  Because I damn well don’t want him anywhere near Andrea.

  Fuck.

  Was he playing with new ways to light shit up?

  He knows fire almost like I do, inside and out. His uncle works in pyrotechnics, does big shows all over the country, and Clark’s been his apprentice forever.

  He wouldn’t want to use professional gear, no.

  Stuff that could be traced back to him.

  So he’d have to experiment with new tools, whatever he could make look more reckless and accidental.

  Damn, my mind’s running away from me.

  And Peace is just watching me with her pretty green eyes like I’m a human powder keg and she’s just waiting for the blast.

  I sigh, lifting my head, looking at her. “You don’t feel safe at the inn, do you?”

  She almost flinches, averting her eyes. “Well...not anymore. I know Warren’s a big, tough guy just like you, but—”

  “No buts. I wouldn’t feel safe either, if I were you,” I say—then make an impulsive decision. One I know I’m probably gonna regret before it’s even out of my mouth. “You’re staying here with me.”

  She’d started looking away, but now her gaze flicks back, full deer in headlights. “Wh-what?”

  “You saw this firestarter prick. You didn’t catch his face, but he doesn’t know you can’t identify him.” I sigh, shaking my head, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “Look, I don’t want to go to the cops with this just yet. There’s been too many messes the last few months, all that Galentron crap and the big fire. Plus, our man, Langley, he’s not the best at keeping secrets, much less solving ’em. So, just in case I’m off my nut, I don’t want to cause a panic with folks on edge.”

  Sighing, I can’t even quantify this feeling.

  It’s irrational, and I’m trying to rationalize it in words, trying to make it make sense for her in a way that doesn’t just come out in this big flood coming out of my mouth. “This creep might also come looking for you, Peace. I’d rather have you where I can keep you safe.”

  Yep, she’s still staring.

  And I’m still standing here like a big dumbass.

  Christ Almighty, I’m ruined around this girl.

  Whatever happened between us on the radio the other night just made it worse.

  Unplugged this whole frigging tangle of pent-up daggers in my guts. Now they’re spilling out in this jumble of words that don’t mean what they’re supposed to mean.

  Let me protect you.

  Let me take care of you, Peace, because I can’t stand it.

  I can’t let anything happen to you.

  That’s all I want to say. Instead, I’m just looking her up and down, wondering where that calm, put-together radio voice she loves so much ran off to.

  She lowers her eyes, biting her lip, tucking her hair back in that sweet way she has. When she can go from brassy and bold to soft and uncertain in seconds, it’s the little things that tell me when she’s flustered, when she’s confused.

  “I mean, all of my things are at my place, though, and...I have appointments.”

  “I’m flexible. Unless something’s burning down, that is. I’ve been doing welding jobs long enough to set my own schedule.” I half-smile. “Don’t think your clients are gonna want to get their massage in the same room as a giant boa constrictor, but if they’re okay with in-home, then I’ll drive you there and back if you’re not feeling safe. And we’ll bring your stuff here. Hopefully it’ll be just crashing for a few days till we get this sorted out.”

  Her brows knit. “Why do you think anyone would set fires? Why here?”

  “In this crazy town, I don’t even know why anybody does anything no more.” I snort, crossing the room to settle down next to her on the sofa, keeping a safe distance so I won’t be tempted to touch her.

  I just want to be close, to let her know she’s not alone.

  Her face tilts, giving me this brutal look that tells me she sees the hero I’m not.

  “Listen. Whatever this asshole’s deal is, it’s not your problem. Promise you, anyone playing arsonist doesn’t want you involved and doesn’t even know who you are. It’s just rotten luck that you saw him and he ran you off.”

  “Or maybe good luck,” she whispers—and it’s her touching me now, leaning over to bump me with her shoulder. “You’ve got a description to go on, if you’re playing detective, Blake.”

  “Not really my strong suit, but, well, when you get thrown into it over and over again, you learn a thing or two.” I grin, bumping her thigh with my knee. My cock wants more, but I’m thankful for the saving screech of the kettle, reining me in. “There’s the cocoa.”

  I stand, wondering why I feel this tether tugging me back to her, something deep and hard.

  Can’t think about it too much, though, and I ignore it firmly as I head to the kitchen. “Let’s get something warm in you. Then we’ll go grab your stuff before dark and get you settled in at the Chat-two Silverton.”

  “Um.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it pronounced chat-teau?”

  I grin. “Languages never were my talent. Just ask Leo.”

  * * *

  It’s not much work getting Peace set up at my house.

  No.

  That’s a lie.

  It’s a hell of a lot of work, but it’s work that needs to be done.

  The guest room is full of boxes and boxes of Abby’s old things, sitting there gathering dust like it’s some kind of mausoleum.

  I don’t know why I never got rid of ’em.

  For Andrea’s sake, maybe.

  So someday when she’s ready, she can see and touch things that belonged to her ma, bringing her back in little memories of Abigail wearing a certain dress or reading a book or laughing in the light from the window as she turned, her fingers glittering with delicate silver rings.

  Things weren’t always bad, once.

  I fell in love with her when I was young and married her for a reason, even if those reasons wore thin real damn fast.

  But it’s time to put this stuff away until Andrea’s ready.

  Beyond time.

  This heavy feeling knifes through me as I move, and I wonder if Andrea’s the only reason I kept this stuff.

  Why the hell do I feel this ache, swiping the dust off the stacked boxes and hefting one into my arms?

  Is this what letting go feels like?

  If so, I’m ready.

  I turn with my arms loaded up and step out into the hall—only to bump right into Peace.

  She looks up at me, bouncing back, then touches her fingers to the side of the box, tracing something.

  My eyes lurch open. She’s tracing my handwriting.

  My jagged, angry Sharpie letters written so many years ago, blurred with rage. I’d been stabbing at the cardboard with the marker, trying not to be furious at Abby checking out on us the way she’d gone. Leaving no closure. And because it felt wrong to be pissed at the dead.

  ABIGAIL – BOOKS

  That’s all it says. Just those two words.

  I know deep down it says a hell of a lot more.

  Peace smiles sadly, all the flighty sweetness that makes her who she is tied up in those soft pink lips.

  My heart thumps so hard she must hear it.

  “Need a little help?” she asks, and my throat constricts.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Think I’d like that a lot, darlin’.”
>
  She doesn’t say anything else.

  As much as she peels me open with those soft, understanding words, right now, it’s her silence that gets me.

  She rests her hand on my arm, squeezing gently, then slips into the bedroom behind me and grabs a box.

  Together, we make our way to the attic with the first load of memories boxed up tight.

  Memories which suddenly don’t cut so bad at all.

  * * *

  With Peace’s help, it doesn’t take long to clear out the bedroom.

  We don’t talk until we’re stripping old bedding and opening up the windows to let some light in, taking down curtains that have so much dusty fur on them I think they might damn well be alive.

  “Sorry this place is such a mess,” I growl. “Rest of the house is plenty clean. This room, we just shut up under lock and key.”

  “You kidding? This is nothing. That honey farm I lived on right outside Redding for a few months...I think I slept with the bees. They lived more in the wood of that rotted old house than inside their boxes.”

  Can’t help but grin. “Been meaning to see about some beekeepin’ myself one day. Doc swears up and down I’ll get myself stung to death. I’m itching to prove him wrong.”

  We share a smile over easygoing banter for once. It’s nice.

  She’s impressed I can get a fitted sheet on seamlessly.

  Boot camp discipline and attention to detail as a grunt never leaves a man, I guess.

  I’m impressed she nearly kills herself taking down a pair of lace curtains, flopping back into my arms when her balance craps out.

  The two of us keep working for a few hours to turn this vault of dead memories into a living space for Peace. Before long, it’s not too hard to breathe without choking on dust. The room comes alive, full of sunset light and the fresh smell of clean linens and brand new curtains.

  There’s a little glimmer of pride in us both.

  On an unspoken agreement and a little toss of her head toward the door, we dust ourselves off and head out into the late evening to fetch her things.

  We take my Jeep, leaving her car at my place for obvious reasons.

  One, I don’t want anyone to realize she’s coming back to the inn, if they’re watching for her—though if they’re spying at her cabin, they’ll see us getting out together. Whatever, I’m with her. I’m sure I can handle some gangly freak in a ski mask after taking down a whole group of lethal bandits months ago with nothing besides firecrackers, helping Doc’s tight-lipped ass.