CrissCross (Crossroads Book 1)

by Mandie Tepe

  Chance almost jumped out of his skin when he caught sight of a huge bear of a man stalking toward him. The guy was the definition of burly, his barrel-chest and hefty gut covered in a leather apron over a ratty, stained flannel shirt. His jeans and boots were splotchy with some of what splattered the concrete floor. The man had a wild mane of red hair and a massive beard to match. His eyes were intense on Chance as he moved nearer . . . one alpha male assessing another.

  “You lost?” He called it out to be heard over the music.

  “No,” Chance responded a bit quieter—not much—because the bear of a man had stopped almost toe-to-toe in front of him. “Looking for my girl. Jimi,” he finished nodding a head toward her still seated unaware at the pottery wheel. “Her mother told me where I could find her.”

  A small glint of amusement sparked in the stranger’s eyes. “You wouldn’t be Chance—would you?”

  “I would.”

  “Thought you were out of town.”

  “I was. I got back early.”

  The guy nodded, turned his head and bellowed, “Yo! Jimi!”

  Keeping her hands on the slippery clay in front of her, she looked over her shoulder. “What?!”

  He didn’t need to answer. She caught sight of Chance, jumped up and ran across the space, throwing her arms around his neck and clutching him tight. Chance encircled her waist and squeezed watching over her head as the clay on the wheel kept spinning. When she’d hopped up, she’d inadvertently depressed one side of the vessel’s rim and—because she hadn’t thought to switch the wheel off—as it continued to spin the piece went wonkier and wonkier.

  “Baby . . . peaches . . . your vase—or whatever—is getting away from you,” Chance warned. He heard her mumble something, but her face was smushed against his chest, so he couldn’t make it out. “What?” he asked.

  She turned her head and repeated, “Beer stein.”

  He noticed several similarly shaped cylindrical pieces sitting on a side table. “Well, you might want to rescue it,” he suggested.

  She didn’t move for a moment. Then her head slowly raised and she pulled her hands from the back of his neck to rest them on his shoulders. Her eyes widened in horror when she remembered they were covered in slimy putty-colored clay and she had transferred it to his neck . . . his hair . . . and now the back and front of his sweatshirt. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I got clay on y-your—”

  Before she got any more out, she burst into hysterical tears, leaped back into him and clung on for dear life. Chance looked imploringly at the other man.

  “You take care of that,” the stranger instructed, pointing at the back of Jimi’s piled up strawberry blonde curls. “It’s not about the clay, by the way,” he said meaningfully. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder he continued, “I’ll get this,” before turning and sauntering casually over to shut off the pottery wheel.

  Looking around and seeing a stool backed up to the wall beside the door, Chance scooped Jimi up and carried her over to it. He settled her in his lap and murmured words of comfort to her while she babbled through her tears. Some of it made sense, but most of it didn’t.

  He had to give her credit. She didn’t let herself vent for long. Within only a few minutes, she stopped sobbing and snuffled for a bit. Again, she got control of that in a couple more minutes and the residual hiccups faded off before another full minute passed.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  He noticed she hadn’t pulled back to look him in the eyes. “No need to be sorry,” he said gently.

  “I—” Whatever she’d meant to say remained unsaid. Her face crumpled and Chance feared she was going to lose it again, but she only said plaintively, “I forgot to tell you I love you too.”

  His heartbeat kicked up. “When, baby?” he asked tenderly.

  “It was the first thing I was going to say when I saw you after you got back.”

  “Okay,” he nodded. “Go for it.”

  “I love you,” she hiccupped, peeking up at his face.

  It wasn’t perfect timing after her meltdown, but he’d never forget the moment. “Me too,” he whispered just before he laid a soft kiss on her lips. “Are you okay, peaches?” he asked. She nodded but kept her head down. He realized she was embarrassed. “Have you cried at all since it all happened?” She shook her head. “You were way past due, baby. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She gave a small shrug. “But I’m kind of glad you saved it for me,” he assured her.

  That got him her eyes. She pulled back and looked him in the face. “That’s a nice thing to say, but . . .”

  “I mean it. It makes me feel like I’ve been there for you in a small way even though I couldn’t actually be there for you when you needed me.”

  Her eyes moved down to see her clay-covered fingers clutching the navy blue fabric of the sweatshirt over his chest and they filled with tears again. “I’ve ruined your shirt,” she said plaintively.

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s an old shirt.”

  “It has a Navy emblem on it. It’s one of your Navy shirts,” she challenged on a sniffle.

  “I have dozens of them.”

  “I’ll try to get the clay out. Sometimes—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. I want to know if you’re alright.”

  “How did you hear? And why didn’t you tell me you were on your way home tonight? You’re back early—right? I thought you said mid-to-late-week.”

  “I landed in Houston this morning. I heard about it all from River, so I expedited wrapping everything up so I could get back. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer and your voicemail box was full. When I didn’t find you at home I called Nova and she said you were planning on working here tonight so I came on over.” He gave her a stern look. “She also told me you’ve been without your phone since those kids left you in your apartment.”

  Her eyes shifted away. “I just haven’t been able to go back. It’s silly, I know.”

  “It’s not silly, but you should have at least had someone go in and bring you your phone.”

  “I don’t know exactly where it is. They hid it so I couldn’t call for help right away.”

  He grinned. “Jock told me that didn’t stop you though.”

  Jimi shrugged. “It seemed stupid to wait around, then take the time to search for it when I could call from Mrs. Wilson’s immediately.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said proudly, planting a quick kiss on her mouth. “Could you go home if I come with you? We’ll find your phone and I’ll sack out on your couch tonight. You really need to get back in your space so you can feel safe there again.”

  “I guess because you and Axel were both gone maybe I let my nerves get the best of me,” she admitted, biting her lip.

  “I get it. But now I’m home. For good.”

  He moved in for a more serious kiss, but was interrupted by the rough sound of a clearing throat nearby. The two of them glanced toward it and saw the big guy standing there.

  “Before you get into making out . . .” the man started.

  Jimi slid off Chance’s lap. “Oh . . . I’m sorry, Ginger,” she exclaimed brushing tears off her face before realizing she was actually smearing clay under her eyes instead. “Holy frig,” she muttered, staring in consternation at her hands. She took a deep breath. “Chance, this is my friend Ginger . . . Ginger Baer. Well, it’s actually Gary, but everyone calls him Ginger,” she babbled.

  Chance’s lips quirked. “Ginger,” he greeted with an outstretched hand. He got the nickname right away. He was called Ginger because of his wild and wooly red hair. Baer was just a quirky happenstance, being German for bear. The man really did resemble a large ginger-haired bear.

  Jimi continued her introductions. “Ginger owns the studio. He sculpts in metal and in clay. He lets me and some other potters work here and use his kiln. Ginger, this is Chance.”

  “Yeah, I met the boyfriend just before you saw him. Good to meet you, Chance.�
��

  They exchanged a few pleasantries while Jimi went back to the wheel, grabbed the ruined beer stein and crumpled it together.

  As she began to stuff the clay into a plastic bag, Chance interrupted her. “Why don’t you finish it? I can wait around for you.”

  “No, I’ll just scrap it. It was only an extra one anyway . . . in case something happens to the set.” She gestured toward the half dozen vessels on the table before turning to Ginger. “I’ll be back in a couple days to shape the feet and sculpt the handles on these.”

  Chance watched her cover the steins with plastic and move them out of the way to a shelf. They had been sitting on a piece of plywood, so moving them was a simple matter.

  Ginger was soaking a couple of dingy—but clean—towels under the tap of a large utility sink. He passed one to Chance and walked the other over to Jimi and began wiping clay off her face. Chance tried to focus on their words instead of letting jealousy of their closeness creep in. They were only longtime friends. It was obvious. He started brushing the wet towel over the back of his neck, shoulders and chest.

  Ginger was saying, “—get those charger plates in the kiln before I leave tonight. That glaze is gonna turn out kickass.”

  Jimi chuckled. “I was going for rustically elegant, but whatever.” She took the towel from him and took over cleaning up her face and hands herself. “Thanks, but if you need to go, I’ll come by in the morning and get them firing.”

  “I got it,” Ginger grunted. “Where’d you order that new stoneware clay from? I like that terra cotta color and it’s good heavy clay. It would be great for a new piece I have in mind.”

  “I got it from ZCC . . . that supplier out of Albuquerque. Use mine. I haven’t cracked the case open yet and I don’t even know what I’m going to do with it. If you like it and need the whole case, you can just order one for me at a later date. Or not. We’ll settle it eventually.”

  Chance had ceased to exist for the two artists in this tiny space in time. He didn’t mind a bit. He’d watched her weave a little bit and now he had a taste of seeing her at the potter’s wheel. He suspected he’d have plenty of opportunity to observe her doing both in the future and looked forward to it. The artist side of her was fascinating.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jimi was leaning over the bathroom sink and staring into the mirror with her bronzer brush poised for action when the text tone sounded from her cell resting on the vanity. It was early and she was getting ready for work so she decided to check it later. That decision took all of less than a second . . . but then someone started pounding at the front door. She straightened and studied her reflection. Chenille robe cinched tight. Towel wrapped around her hair turban-style. Her face halfway made up and still without mascara, bronzer/blush and finishing powder. She sighed. It was amazing how much impact that last bit of cosmetics made because—even with the rest of her make up done—she looked tired and anemic without the blush and just that first coat of brown mascara. Her text dinged again and was immediately followed by more pounding at the door.

  She tossed the brush onto the vanity counter, spun on her bare feet and stalked out of the bathroom, down the short hallway, turned the corner into the living area and toward the door. The irritation flowed out of her when she recognized the silhouette through the frosted window glass of her door. Hopefully she wouldn’t scare him off forever with her towel-bundled head, ancient robe, still pale cheekbones, and scanty pitiful eyelashes.

  After unlocking the door and swinging it open she asked sassily, “Where’s the fire?”

  Chance was scowling at her and she wondered what she could have done to upset him overnight. “You didn’t call me,” he accused.

  “When was I supposed to have called you? I don’t rememb—”

  “You should have called to let me know you did okay here alone last night,” he rudely interrupted.

  She looked at him in disbelief. “It’s not even seven o’clock in the morning yet.”

  He shook his head in irritation, shrugged his shoulders and held his hands—one of them clutching his phone from which she now suspected the texts had come—out to the side as if to say “So?!” He didn’t verbalize it, but he might as well have.

  She answered as if he had. “So, you left here at almost two in the morning after working some ‘International Man of Mystery Op’,” she drew air quotes around that last part, “and returning to chaos and an emotionally stretched girlfriend. There’s no way I was gonna wake you up before sunrise to give you an unnecessary status report.”

  His scowl got even more intense which she would have never believed was possible. It was. “Did you sleep?” he asked shortly.

  “I did sleep.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “No.”

  The scowl faded as his eyes raked her head to toe. “I don’t like this,” he said bizarrely.

  Jimi shifted uncomfortably, first tugging the ends of her belt to tighten it even more than it already was, then reaching up to adjust the towel turban that seemed to be listing a bit to one side. “You don’t like what?” she asked defensively.

  She knew it was too soon for him to see her like this first thing in the morning. At least he hadn’t shown up fifteen minutes earlier when she looked really scary. But it was his fault, after all. She hadn’t invited him over. Still . . . what if his seeing her like this drove him away? And why had he expected her to call him?

  She mentally went over the events of last night. After they’d left the studio, he followed her home in his car. He had walked her to the Crosswind’s entrance and up the stairs carrying both of the their overnight bags with her picking bits of hardening clay out of his hair and off his shirt as they went. They went into his apartment first. She believed it was so he could check on any damage to his property and to rinse the clay off and change clothes. Soon she realized he could feel her trepidation so he was giving her time to get her bearings before going into her place.

  Luckily the damage in his apartment was limited to some scratches and gouges around the lock and hinges of the gun safe, some piles of misplaced items that the burglars had obviously intended to take with them when they left, and smudges of fingerprint powder here and there that could be easily wiped up. Chance had opened the gun safe which revealed it contained two handguns—a Glock 22 and a Ruger SR45—a Remington hunting rifle, a Mossberg pump action shotgun, boxes of ammunition for each of the weapons, and a taser. There was no cash in the safe because he didn’t keep any there. The kids would have been disappointed about that. He’d definitely been relieved that everything was still inside the way he’d left it.

  Noticing his taser, Jimi had remarked that she was contemplating getting one after her two break ins. He’d laughed and informed her that he’d get her pepper spray and teach her how to use that. It was safer. She smarted off that they’d just see about that. He shot back that yes, they would. That was the extent of that argument . . . for now.

  After their walk-through he’d taken the fastest shower in history—yet another SEAL-trained skill, he claimed—they finally made their way over to her place. She hadn’t really known what she’d expected. But as she stood six paces inside her door and turned a slow circle to look around, she didn’t feel panic closing in. Some of the furniture was out of place from the intruders moving chairs around. There was fingerprint powder to wipe up there too, but again that wasn’t going to be a big deal. There were kitchen cabinet and pantry doors standing open and she didn’t know if the kids had done that looking for snacks (she hadn’t noticed them snacking) or by the police when they were processing the scene. It was weird to think of her home as a crime scene.

  Chance had pulled out his cell to call hers so they might be able to find it by listening for her ringtone. That was if the phone still had enough battery power after sitting for all that time. Fortunately the battery saver app had done its job and they could hear the faint sound of The Beatles’ Here Comes the Sun of her ringtone coming from the direction
of the pantry. It took them no time to zero in on a box of instant brown rice on the top shelf, pull it down and dig through the grains to the bottom and fish it out. She’d remarked that it was good they chose the rice instead of the bag of flour next to it because flour particles might be small enough to work their way inside the phone and ruin it. The battery power was getting dangerously low, so she’d plugged it into the charger right away.

  They’d moved around the apartment setting things right and wiping down the black powder, Chance watching her carefully for signs of anxiety. After that, Jimi made tea. He’d asked for coffee, but she bossily told him it was too late for that much caffeine and pushed a cup of tea on him. He’d been more amused by this than irritated.

  Settling in on the living room sofa, they’d talked over everything from the night of the break in and all that had happened since. He’d been pleased and proud to hear that his family—all of them—had shown up and even been in touch with her over the past few days. Jimi filled him in on her visit with Shad and Ben at the juvenile detention center early that evening as well.

  Finally, after exhausting that topic, Chance had told her what little he could about his deployment and his frustration that it was a bust. He expressed his frustration that he’d essentially been away for nothing and, had he been there, the burglars’ plot would have been foiled altogether. She’d looked at him and gave him the “woulda, coulda, shoulda” spiel and got a laugh out of him, completely smoothing away his anger at the situation.

  They’d eventually used all the words they had and made out for awhile. When he’d realized it was closing in on two o’clock in the morning, he’d asked for a blanket and told her he was bunking on her couch. She’d studied his long, bulky frame and laughed. Even if she pulled out the sofa bed, he’d overflow it. So, she chased him home telling him she’d be fine and would call if she needed him.