by Laudat, Reon
“I can't believe you were going to leave me here!” His nostrils flared and his words came out in jerky little spurts.
She replied sweetly enough to set his teeth on edge, “All you had to do was ask for a ride.”
“No, you wanted me to beg for a ride. I’ll hike all the way back to Corrinth first.” His eyes darkened and the planes of his face took on a virile intensity.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jaimie released the lock on the passenger side.
“A little less gloating would be nice.”
“You think I'm gloating? Ha! That's rich coming from you. So are you getting in?”
Mitchell grumbled, scrunching his long legs inside the tight interior. She guessitmated that he stood about six foot three. At least. Though much taller than the average American woman, Jaimie felt diminutive and more feminine with this solid hunk of male flesh beside her.
“Something wrong?”
He shuffled his feet as his knees knocked against the lower dashboard. “Adjusting to your little Hot Wheels, that's all.''
“Feel free to hotfoot it if this ‘Hot Wheels’ is too uncomfortable for you.” Jaimie gave him a sideways glance. The temperature inside the Focus rose a few un-weather-related degrees, but she nixed turning on the air conditioner. Too obvious. His proximity and the scent of his perspiration mingled with cologne made her hyper aware of him. “So, you ran out of gas, huh?''
“Yeah, sometimes I get a little too distracted to notice—”
“Something as insignificant as a gas gauge or low-fuel warnings ,” Jaimie interrupted him with more than hint of condescension. “Who leaves town without checking their gas? Don’t you have a cell phone? Not a details sort of guy, huh?”
Mitchell pressed his lips together and sucked in a deep breath. “Had to leave the car on one of the smaller roads that branches off from this one. And I couldn’t get a signal for my cell phone.”
Jaimie had taken the needling too far so she softened her tone to get more intel. “Can happen to the most conscientious among us—especially when preoccupied. And I'm sure you were very preoccupied. You're on your way to Grundieville, right?” She paused. “On a mission, perhaps?” The mission to screw up her plan to connect with Richardson first.
Mitchell secured his seatbelt over his brick wall of a chest and broad shoulders. “Yeah, I'm on a mission to see that bronze pig on display in the town square.”
“Oh, right, the flying sow,” Jaimie chirped with what she hoped was grating perkiness. “I can’t wait!”
“And please, cut the bogus Suzie Sunshine act. My car conked out on me, and I had to walk for miles in the blazing heat.”
“Why are you headed for Grundieville?” Jaimie needed to hear him say it.
“As if you didn’t know. The paintball tournament. Richardson. This weekend he's mine.” Mitch poked his chest for emphasis.
“Not if I get him first.” Jaimie reached inside the glove compartment for her sunglasses and pushed them over her eyes, the gesture a symbol of the shield she needed to erect between them.
They rode in silence until she pulled up to Pac ’N’ Snac, a rinky-dink convenience store with two old-fashioned gas pumps out front. She plotted her next move. She’d done her good deed for the day. She had every right to ditch Mitchell’s butt right there and get back to the business of sniffing out Richardson. Mitchell had been remote and sullen for most of the ride, and he’d climbed out of the car without tossing so much as a thank-you her way.
***
Inside the Pac ’N’ Snac, Mitch quizzed the store clerk so he could make arrangements for alternate transportation, but had little luck. Grundieville had one taxi driver, someone the clerk called “Junebug,” who was unavailable at the moment, and Mitch’s cell phone still refused to cooperate. He quickly shopped for a few toiletries he didn’t bother to pack for his mad dash for Grundieville, assuming he’d make a pit stop at a store. He pitched a toothbrush, a mini tube of toothpaste, and mint-flavored dental floss inside his handheld shopping basket. As he passed the large glass storefront, he caught sight of Jaimie. She’d shoved her sunglasses on top of her head just to give him the stink eye from the front seat of her car. That woman had one funky attitude on her.
Mitch still simmered from the tension-laden barbecue at Travis’s the day before so the last thing he needed was some ill-tempered female, balancing a boulder-sized chip on her shoulder. They’d obviously gotten the same lead on Richardson again, which pissed him the hell off, but he had to admit that little coincidence ultimately worked out in his favor. She couldn’t have shown up at a better time, whacking twenty miles off his unexpected hike and rescuing his dogs from the unyielding wrath of a too-new pair of Cole Haans. She twirled a lock of her hair around one finger. The day before she had worn a tight bun. Today, it cascaded down her back like a gleaming black curtain. In the car, his fingers had twitched to touch it.
Jaimie wore denim overalls, dingy sneakers, a Spunky’s Funky gym T-shirt, and a ratty little macramé bracelet. Pretty face. Actually very pretty. And the body looked even better than he’d initially assessed. That’s when it hit Mitch. She reminded him of that one actress, who was equally adept at doing her own stunts in kick-ass blockbuster action flicks and gliding down red carpets like a high fashion model.
However, it was obvious Ms. Jaimie did not put herself out primping and preening. Again, her face appeared war-paint free. Though he dug the berry-colored lipstick she’d worn the day before, her kisser was just as sexy sans artificial coloring.
“Hey mister, we’ve got a four-for-one sale on ice scrapers,” the young clerk behind the cash register barged in on Mitch’s thoughts, pointing to a prominent display situated on the counter.
“Ice scrapers? It’s late May.”
“Hence, the four-for-one special.”
“I’ll pass.” Mitch pitched additional items inside his handheld basket as he moved toward the checkout counter. “I’m looking for a place to crash for a few nights. Any recommendations? Hotels? Motels? Inns? What’s Grundieville’s best?”
“Got one nice inn in town, the Bluebird,” the clerk told him. “You can try there, but it’s a long shot. We’ve got a lot of out-of-towners in for that paintball tournament, but who knows? You might get lucky.”
“Directions?” he asked as he checked his phone again. Still no signal.
The clerk reached for a pad and pencil. “Here, I’ll write’ em down for you.”
“No, just tell me.”
“Get back on the road out there, heading north, then take the right on Elm, then a sharp left on Boll Weevil and another right on Freemont. Oh, and then turn left at Pearlie Mae’s diner. You sure you don’t want me to jot it down?”
“Nope. Got it.” Mitch paid the clerk and made his way toward the exit with his stash, which included an empty gas can. When he stepped outside he immediately felt Jaimie’s arctic glare. But he had a little something in his bag guaranteed to take the chill off.
***
Jaimie impatiently tapped the steering wheel and watched Mitchell mosey out of Pac ’N’ Snac as if he had all the time in the world. It would serve him right if she made him eat her dust again. Who did he take her for, anyway? Boo-Boo-the-chauffeuring fool? He could’ve called a taxi while in that convenience store. Why waste valuable time driving him back to his car when she could get at least a good hour’s jump on him? But instead of seizing the opportunity, she sniped, “Aren’t you going to say thank-you, Mitchell?”
Mitchell set his gas can on the ground and ambled over to her window. Her gaze roamed from his lips to his fingers as he worked three shirt buttons free. Rivulets of sweat trailed from the curve of his jaw, down his neck, and pooled in the deep crevice dividing gym-carved pecs.
Mitchell bent from the waist, his gaze locked on hers. “I was going to say thank-you as soon as we got back to my car.” He moved in close. So close she noticed luminous flecks of gold in his light brown irises. “And only my father calls me Mitc
hell. I prefer Mitch.”
The prince of presumptuousness! “We are done as far as I'm concerned. This is the end of the road. You’re on your own. And the day we met you told me your friends call you Mitch.”
“So you're just going to leave me stranded out here?”
“Get a taxi, Mitchell,” she said, practically taffy pulling the last two letters of his name into a third syllable.
“Look around you. Grundieville makes Mayberry look like Vegas. I could walk back to Corrinth in the time it's going to take for Junebug, the town mortician-notary- cab driver, to head back this way. He's in the middle of embalming the Widow Tillery so I don't think he can help me out at the moment.”
She lifted one brow and sniffed, “How do you know all that?”
“The store clerk told me. Apparently this is Junebug’s day to work the funeral home. You see, I did try to make other arrangements so I wouldn't have to detain you any longer,” Mitchell told her. “I understand if you have to leave. I'll figure something out. You go on ahead.” He reached inside his bag and removed a package of Hostess Dings Dongs. “Thought you might need a sugar boost right about now.” He passed Jaimie the snack cakes and a liter bottle of water to wash them down.
“Tokens of your appreciation or a bribe?” Jaimie wanted to appear hard and in charge, but she reached for his offering.
“Look, I appreciate what you’ve done for me so far,” Mitchell offered with some reluctance. “Especially under the circumstances. You go ahead. I’m good. Again, thanks.” He appeared rumpled and humbled, so obviously playing the pity card as he trudged to the pumps.
As he filled the gas can with premium unleaded something nudged Jaimie’s conscience. “Hurry up, would you? I don't have all day, Mitchell!”
He went back inside Pac ’N’ Snac to pay for the gas before settling on the front seat of her car again.
“About my sweet tooth?” Jaimie asked, trying to make polite conversation. “What gave me away?”
“All those doughnut holes you scarfed down at the Shangri-La buffet table. When one fell to the ground, you looked as if you were seriously considering the five-second rule. And there was the way you risked your life to get to that box of Twinkies.”
Jaimie unwrapped a Ding Dong and took a greedy bite before starting the engine. The cake disappeared in three bites and the second one was stripped of its wrapper before they rolled away from the Pac ’N’ Snac.
Mitchell stared at the road ahead. “Got quite an appetite on you for such a skinny thing,” he tossed out as a droll afterthought as they headed down the road.
Jaimie rolled her eyes, but didn’t launch a counter attack because of the chocolaty goodness filling her mouth. With both of them in Grundieville hot on Richardson’s trail, she’d get a chance to even the score.
***
At the Mustang, Jaimie discovered running out of gas was the least of Mitchell’s automotive troubles. The car wouldn’t start with a full tank, but the temperature gauge showed overheating. The car required a tow to the town auto shop. By the time they reached the Bluebird Inn, where she had reservations, daylight had passed and the last of her patience had skidded away with it.
“Let me get this straight.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and dragged in a deep breath. “Every room in this place is booked?”
“Yup.” The desk clerk, whose curly hair gleamed with too much hair gel, sat riveted to the portable television on the counter and a round of Wheel of Fortune. “Buy a vowel, fool…E…E”
Jaimie tried to get his attention again. “Excuse me, but I had reservations. You do, too. Right, Mitchell?”
“Well, not exactly.” Mitchell had been leaning on the counter, quietly taking in Jaimie’s exchange with the desk clerk.
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” Jaimie asked. “When I told you I had a room here and you asked to tag along, I assumed you had reserved a room here, too. Where do you have reservations?”
“I don’t recall actually telling you I had reservations,” Mitchell replied. “I just figured I’d find some place to crash after I got here.”
“ ‘Some place to crash’? Don’t tell me.” Jaimie clucked. “It’s that thing you have against handling details, right?”
“If all had gone as planned, I would’ve hooked up with Richardson yesterday at Shangri-La. That is, if somebody hadn’t gotten me thrown out.” He shrugged. “I figured I’d wing it on the sleeping arrangements. But sounds as if I’m not the only one who has to wing it.” Mitchell glanced at the desk clerk. “Right, my man?”
“Yup,” the clerk said. He finally pried his gaze from the television and looked at Jaimie. “When you didn't show up or call by three p.m., we rented the room you reserved. Lots of people are in town for that four-day paintball thing, you know. Most of them ended up in hotels in nearby counties. You might try Marion or Grant County, but forget about Potts. They’re having their big garlic festival this weekend. I doubt you’d find anything open there. Oh, and you lost your deposit, too. Sorry! Them’s the breaks.” The clerk turned his attention back to the TV screen. “ H…H…H”
“ ‘Them’s the breaks’?’ Why, you…” Before Jaimie could rip into the clerk, Mitchell grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the counter. “Hey, you need to take it down a notch. This guy might be useful.”
“Useful? I doubt it.” Jaimie glared at the clerk and crossed her arms across her chest. “He can't seem to pull himself away from that stupid game show long enough to do anything. I don't believe this! I can’t believe these last two days! It’s been like something out of some crazy nightmare! And it's all your fault!”
“So it's like that now, huh?” Mitchell hammered her with a hard, assessing look. “You think I actually emptied my gas tank on purpose and then broke my serpentine belt on the off chance that you’d happen by and pick me up? If you believe this, you’re losing it.”
“Well…” Jaimie drew the word out. The accusation was ludicrous, but her nerves were frayed.
Mitchell stayed calm enough for both of them. “Look, I know you're angry. I don't blame you, but let's consider our options.”
“I'm not going all the way back home.” Jaimie had a tendency to sound shrill when perturbed. “That’s almost a three-hour drive, and I refuse to sleep in my car after the day I've had!”
“Those options don't exactly appeal to me, either.” Mitchell approached the desk clerk again. “Hey man, I don't believe I caught your name.”
“Kenny-Wayne, Kenny-Wayne Cobb.”
“Mr. Cobb—”
“No need to be all fancy. Everybody calls me Kenny-Wayne.”
“Kenny-Wayne. I’m Mitch. Nice to officially meet you.” Mitchell offered his hand for a robust shake. “And that’s Jaimie.”
“Nice to meet you, Mitch.” Kenny-Wayne cheesed. “And Jaimie.”
Jaimie rolled her eyes.
Mitchell leaned against the counter. “Got any suggestions for us? Maybe there's a boardinghouse or something around here.”
“One boardinghouse in town. Already booked up.” Kenny-Wayne told them before eyeballing Vanna White again. “J…J…For the big money! Big money!”
“Speaking of money.” Mitchell went for his wallet and removed some bills. He slid them across the counter. “You sure you can't think of somewhere else?”
When Mitchell plucked a few more bills and placed them on the counter he finally had the desk clerk's undivided attention. “Give me a minute to check something.” Kenny-Wayne stepped away to use the phone on the opposite end of the counter. He dialed a number, turned his back, and spoke low so they couldn’t eavesdrop. After talking for a few more minutes, he walked back over to the counter. “You’re in luck. I live at my uncle’s place. For double the inn’s standard weekend rate you and your lady can have my pad over Uncle Waymon's garage. I’ll sleep on his sofa bed in his family room.”
Jaimie wanted to set him straight. She and Mitchell were most definitely not a couple! Sharing accommodations was
out of the question, but Mitchell agreed to the deal. “We’ll take it.” He slid the bills toward the clerk.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Jaimie slapped her hands on the money to block the transaction.
Mitchell pulled her away from the desk again and reasoned in stage whisper, “Look, you don’t have to drive back to Corrinth tonight or sleep in your car now, and an apartment over a garage sounds a helluva lot better than a sleeping bag inside a garage now, doesn’t it? We’re two adults. I know it’ll be a challenge, but surely you can control yourself long enough to share a room with me for one night. Maybe we can come up with another arrangement tomorrow.”
“Don't flatter yourself! Kenny-Wayne, his uncle, and you could be serial killers for all I know! My granny watches those true crime cable channels all the time. And I’ve seen quite a few of those reenactments. Foolishly trusting young woman disappears only to be found days later, hacked up in little pieces stuffed inside a Hefty bag. No, sir. I don’t even know what I was thinking! I actually picked you up, a gosh-darn hitchhiker!”
“I wasn’t hitchhiking.” He got in her face. “I didn’t have my thumb out. I was walking to town before you came along.”
“A hitchhiker who was parading around practically naked the day before! A perverted, ax-wielding hitchhiker! Maybe that’s an ax in your duffle bag! My god!”
“Get a grip. That’s my tripod.” Mitchell clamped onto her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You could be at the ax murderer for all I know. But I’m tired. I’m willing to take my chances with anyone right now…even you and your mouth that never stops running.”
A rumble of thunder and a clamoring downpour suddenly shook the inn's roof. A piercing beep drew their attention to the severe thunderstorm warning scrolling across the bottom of the television screen.