by Mary Frame
He nods. “I would say take your time, but I get the sense it’s running out.”
“Will you watch the front for me while I head to lunch?” Jane asks me.
“Sure.”
It’s not like I have a choice. No one is here except us. The guys have taken to disappearing at the same time every day because they can’t handle taking over for the “secretary.” It makes them feel like less than men when they don’t know how to transfer calls coming in, even though it’s like two buttons and the thing barely ever rings.
Besides, after the chat with Jude over burgers last night, I’m not doing much of anything except making a list of the pros and cons for getting involved with him.
I mean, getting involved with the whole Grace thing.
Pro: I could get the scoop of my life.
Con: I could end up in prison and become someone’s bitch.
It’s really a struggle to decide. I want more information and Jude dangled just enough to get me intrigued, the bastard. I can’t help it.
After doing a bit of my own internet research, I’ve discovered some stuff about hackers and their lingo.
There are a few different types of hackers. There’s white hat (the good guys), black hat (the bad guys with the malware and viruses and bank fraud), and something in between called grey hat (someone who maybe does this illegal stuff, but without malicious intent).
Jude mentioned script kiddies, which is apparently a term for hackers who just like to stream illegal movies and the like and don’t really care much about being real hackers.
Then there are green hats (newbies trying to get into the hacking world) and red hats (vigilante types who fight against black hats instead of just reporting them).
If Jude is to be believed, Grace must be a red or grey hat.
And what is Jude?
I’ve got conflicting thoughts. My logical mind is screaming not to trust him while waving big red flags and calling me a dumbass. My vagina—the little slut—is doing her hair and makeup and wondering if I should get a wax just in case.
Not that he would take advantage of the goods even if I offered them up on a silver platter. Which I already did.
I’ve been trying not to think about that night, to shove it down with everything else in my life that makes me feel too much. But the memories fly out anyway, like a colony of bats escaping from the cave in my mind.
It was Begonia Day—the one day a year the entire BFU campus celebrates it’s swine mascot with a giant party—and while the festivities on campus were over, Jude’s house party was kicking off.
Jude and I were arguing, as usual. We had been having a disagreement as to whether pigs were monogamous—as we do—and he disappeared right when I was winning the argument because he had to “take care of some important business.”
I figured he just had to help Beast settle down some belligerent guests or something, but after he’d been gone for over an hour, I went in search of him. If he thought he could walk away from a discussion I was winning, he had another think coming.
But he was nowhere to be found. The backyard was packed with people in pig masks drinking from the keg and dancing and talking.
The house was wall-to-wall people and stank like beer and too much cologne. He wasn’t in the living room or playing cards in the kitchen or in the line for the bathroom.
So I meandered to the back of the house toward his room.
Pressing an ear to his door, I listened but couldn’t hear anything but the thump of the party and shouts and laughter from down the hall.
I tried the door.
Locked.
Damn him, he had to be in there.
I knocked.
“Jude! I know you’re in there. We weren’t done with our discussion and you can’t back out now,” I yelled.
The door swung back and I opened my mouth, ready to tell him how pigs are not monogamous and only 3 to 6 percent of mammals are anyway, but when he opened the door, something was different.
He was still wearing that silly robe covered in cats that resembled Mr. Bojangles. He still had too much facial hair and needed a trim. I never liked long hair and beards on a guy, it just wasn’t attractive. But he was wearing thick-framed black glasses. There they were, perched on the bridge of his nose.
I blinked. The nerd glasses lent a sense of refinement to his unkempt appearance. He was like a hipster without the affected flannel and PBR.
It was a stunning sort of contrast and it made him so, so . . . hot. It made me hot.
And that’s when everything went off the rails. It was like my body took over my mind. I stepped through the doorway and grabbed his stupid, too-long hair and pressed my mouth against his bearded face.
His lips were softer than I imagined. The facial hair less scratchy and more . . . silky.
I must’ve shocked him because he didn’t move for one long second, but then suddenly he was all fluid motion and sliding hands. Distantly, the door clicked shut behind me but I was too focused on his mouth on mine, his tongue sliding between my lips. My legs turned into jelly.
His confident hands made their way down my sides to my rear and then he lifted me and I wrapped my legs around him like we’d done this dance a million times before. I clung to his neck and he licked into my mouth like I was the best dessert he’d ever had. My body was on fire with need. More. I had to have more.
Needy noises slipped from my mouth without thought. He pulled his face back, though his hands held me against the hardest erection I’d ever felt, pressed directly into my center. I squirmed against him. Every cell in my body was on fire.
Then he turned with me still wrapped around him, and we moved over and down to his bed.
Yes.
This was what I wanted. But instead of coming over me and continuing our descent into wild, uninhibited passion, his kisses turned gentle. Soft. Less demanding and more . . . sweet.
Which wasn’t bad either, but the sweet, gentle pecks and nips along my neck and back to my mouth turned into the longest, most frustrating make-out session of my life.
“I love this spot here,” he said, his voice tickling my neck right before he kissed the sensitive spot behind my lobe. “You have the cutest freckles across the bridge of your nose,” he murmured when his lips trailed over my cheek back to my mouth.
Between the compliments, we kissed. And the farthest we got was when I pulled off his shirt so I could kiss across his chest and ravish every bump and hard ridge, but he wouldn’t let me go farther, though I attempted it.
And then we somehow fell asleep. And cuddled.
And he was a good snuggler, damn him to hell. I woke up the next morning to find him wrapped around me, our hands mingling. He played with my fingers, sending shocks of awareness tingling up my arms. I wasn’t naked from having a night of wild sex. Nope. I was in his boxers, ones with cats on them, and one of his T-shirts. Clothes he had kindly offered to make me more comfortable overnight.
For a few minutes, I savored the sensations. His heat at my back, his soft, rhythmic breathing, the smell of him on the sheets—the comforting scent of fresh linens combined with his citrusy aftershave.
He held me like I belonged there, his arms exuding possession and comfort, an intoxicating mix that made me instantly horny. And did he take advantage of me squirming against his giant erection?
No. No, he did not.
I turned and looked at him, and his cool blue eyes were like a hot tub on a snowy day—full of steam and comfort and warmth and sex.
But he didn’t whisper dirty phrases in my ear. He didn’t promise to make all my dreams come true. No. Instead, he whispered, “Can I take you to dinner later?”
And that’s when it grabbed me. A heavy, squeezing vise around my rib cage, telling me to run.
And I did.
“Coffee,” I said and rolled away from him.
I didn’t really want coffee. My stomach was churning too much.
Maybe the real reason he didn’t want t
o have sex with me was because he knew: I’m not worth the effort.
The little voice in my head was booming. And it was telling me pain would be inevitable. It would be all too easy to fall for Jude, with his bedroom eyes and talented mouth and enough secrets to fill the Mississippi.
I reacted like I always do when people get too close. I ran. But the thing is . . . I don’t want to run anymore.
The bell rings when someone pushes open the door at the Daily Blue office and I leap into work mode like I wasn’t just fantasizing about hot bearded men.
“How can I help—” The question stalls out on my lips.
She’s standing there, staring at me.
My palms sweat, my heart starts racing, my muscles tensing in a fight-or-flight response. No, it’s not the creepy chick from The Ring climbing out of the well with her hair in her face. It’s worse.
Taylor.
She’s the epitome of the girl next door. Her dark hair is pulled back on one side with a flower clip. Her button-up shirt is happy and yellow. She’s dressed like the kindergarten teacher she is, down to the paint stain on her cheek that should make her slovenly but instead is endearing.
Our eyes meet and she freezes and I know exactly what she’s thinking, as clear as I can hear my own heartbeat. She wants to run. But that’s never been Taylor’s MO. It’s mine.
It’s not like I’ve been able to completely avoid seeing her at any point in the last four years; this town is way too small for that. But normally I’m more aware, and upon any kind of Chad or Taylor sighting, I hide. One time at the H-E-B I got stuck behind a stack of zucchini until they exited the premises. Not my most glorious twenty minutes, but it’s better than being within breathing distance like I am now.
There’s the brief moment where her eyes widen and she realizes it’s me and then she marches right over and sets a piece of torn-out notebook paper on the counter.
“I’d like to place an announcement, please.” Her voice is quiet but oh so familiar. It reminds me of late-night sleepovers, drinking pop on the front lawn, and zigzagging through the sprinklers on summer days when it was too hot to even think straight.
I wrench my eyes away from her and grab the paper. I can do this. Read the number of words, give her the price, and then she’ll leave and this will all be over and I can go back to thinking about Jude and everything he told me and I can shove Taylor back into the cavern of things I don’t like to think about.
My eyes run over the page.
It’s a wedding announcement.
She’s getting married. To Chad.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
Count the words on the announcement.
My eyes blur. Focus. I try three times and fail.
“That’ll be thirty dollars.” It’s the best estimate I can muster even though it’s at least ten over.
But she doesn’t argue with me even though, knowing Taylor, she’s already counted it out and made exact change.
She shuffles through her purse and I stare at the motivational poster on the wall that has been there since the last century. It’s a picture of a rowing team at sunset with the word TEAMWORK spelled out in giant block letters underneath.
I count the number of oars in the water three times before she finally sets the bills on the counter, her fingers shaking slightly. “Annabel.” Her voice is soft, but I don’t let it sway the walls around my heart. “I’m so sorry about everything. So is Chad. I would really like to talk—”
“If that’s all you needed?” I swipe the bills from the counter and turn my back to put the cash in the lockbox and make a record on the payment log.
“I— Won’t you even listen to me?”
“I’ve got work to do.” I busy myself shuffling papers around Jane’s desk. I have nothing to do, but Taylor doesn’t know that.
The bell jingles on the door as she leaves.
My head hangs forward.
That was the first time I’ve talked to Taylor in years. Not since . . . I push twelve more house-sized boulders down the memory shaft.
I knew things were serious with them. I couldn’t avoid hearing about it, not in a town this small. Chad’s father works with my friend Susie’s brother at the manufacturing plant, and I’ve overheard the gossip from Cathy a time or two. Everyone thinks they’re the cutest couple.
Chad is a newly hired cop—ironic, since Jude just mentioned his aversion to going to the cops, but Chad is the poster boy for angelic behavior and could never be involved in anything even slightly shady. He can’t even tell white lies. And getting a job as a cop is not an easy feat in a town this small, since you basically have to wait for someone to die or retire for there to be an opening. Blue Falls isn’t exactly a hotbed of murder and crime. Being a police officer has been his dream ever since we were kids and playing cops and robbers in Taylor’s basement.
And then there’s Taylor. She’s teaching kindergarten at the elementary school.
They’re like the lamest, most boring Hallmark Channel movie ever come to life. At least, that’s the lie I tell myself.
An image flickers in my mind, the long-suppressed memory surfacing like an old-timey movie: Chad’s face when I told him all my embarrassing truths, when I put myself out there and he crushed me with one sympathetic look and a few honest words. Honesty that cut through a load of lies being fed to me by someone who was my best friend. Or so I thought. The old, familiar humiliation rises like a fast-moving tide up my chest, threatening to drown me, but I shove it back down, back into the cave in my mind where I put everything that hurts me.
It doesn’t matter. I’m going to do something with my life, leave this town. And I don’t need anyone else to do that.
Except . . . I glance down at my pro and con list again.
I still need to keep my day job.
Chapter Six
Friendship is constant in all other things.
—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Annabel
“Hold on. Who is Taylor? Why haven’t I ever heard of her? Do you really need that much whiskey?”
“An old friend, I don’t talk about it, and yes I really do.” I take another shot and tap the glass on the bar twice, motioning the bartender for another.
It’s girls’ night. Reese wanted to go to Granny’s to test out the new archery set, but I drove us here instead. Bodean’s. The only good place in town to go when you want to get trashed. I mean, Granny’s got moonshine, it’s true, but getting drunk and playing with pointy things seemed like a bad decision.
Bodean’s is your typical small-town country bar. The interior is smothered in dark wood. There’s a large dance floor sticky with cheap booze. A variety of colorful, fraying posters are tacked up behind the bar. It’s patronized by everyone from city employees enjoying a beer after work to farmers to college students. Even though it’s somewhat early, people are already trickling in through the front door and filling the sparse seating behind us.
“So why aren’t you and Taylor friends anymore? What happened?”
“I might lose my job,” I tell Reese instead of answering her question. I’m not drunk enough to share that piece of my past, although I know I’ll get there quick. Despite the way I’m mainlining Tennessee whiskey tonight, I’m not usually a big drinker and it doesn’t take much.
She grimaces.
“I suck at writing.”
“You don’t suck.”
“I just . . . need something better to write about. Something interesting. Something that will wow my boss and let me keep my job. Otherwise Fitz and I might be moving in with you.”
The bartender sets down another shot and I ask for a beer to chase it with.
She wrinkles her nose. “My room at Jude’s is barely big enough for me.”
“I know. Which is why I need some ideas so Fitz doesn’t have to sleep on the street.”
Reese thinks for a moment. This is one of the things I love about R
eese. She never jumps to conclusions or judgments. She thinks and offers solutions. “When I’m stuck, I like to make a list.”
“Yeah, I do that, too,” I murmur, eyeballing the next shot, thinking about my pro and con list about Jude. I down the shot. “What do you think about Jude?”
Reese wrinkles her nose and takes a small sip of her beer. “In what context?”
I wave a hand. “In general. You seem to trust him. Thank you,” I tell the bartender as he sets my beer down. He nods and whisks away the empty shot glasses.
“He hasn’t given me any reason to not trust him.”
“You’re so logical.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I guess not.”
Reese taps a finger on the bar. “He’s a good landlord. And roommate. Very clean. He knows a lot of things, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it weren’t for him, I might not have come up with my idea for the school.”
Reese is next-level smart, but she was having trouble early in the term picking her major and running out of time to decide. She finally settled on a dual major and came up with plans to eventually open a school in Blue Falls for people like her—i.e., super smart people who lack social skills.
Okay, so I made the last part up, but she is planning on opening a school for the gifted and talented.
“What did Jude have to do with it?” I ask.
“He introduced me to Fynn.”
“Who the heck is Fynn?”
“He’s Jude’s Little Brother. Not literally, but you know, Jude does the whole Big Brother thing.”
“Wait. What?” When the hell does he have time for that in between his other nefarious activities?
Reese nods. “Fynn is his little. Fynn’s very advanced for his age and I’ve been helping him obtain access to information and resources that aren’t available at the local elementary.” She taps her chin. “A month ago or so I had a cancellation for a class, and when I went home, Jude was heading out to meet Fynn and asked me for a ride. After spending time with Fynn, I came up with the idea for the school. Blue Falls doesn’t have anything for gifted kids, and they need support and encouragement. It was like Jude knew what I needed before I did. And what Fynn needed, come to think of it. Yet it was seemingly coincidental.”