Danger, Sweetheart

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Hansoms.”

  “—I hate driving forty-five minutes to get a gallon of milk, everything in the ’Heart closes at nine P.M., and I’d rather barf; yeah, that’s right, I’d rather fucking barf than keep the family biz going one more generation.

  “There’s more out there than Sweetheart, Blake, and you’re maybe the one other guy in town who gets it. And I’m ready, I’m more than ready, to go. I could go to Hollywood!”

  “You would flourish in Hollywood.”

  “Thank you! I could go to—to the Riviera!” That was a rich-guy thing, right? Blake would know what the fuck he was talking about. “I could start a chain of strip clubs! I could design my own line of toilet paper! Whatever I do, it’s because a classy life is waiting for me and the sooner the ’Heart turns into the area’s biggest and best mini-golf course, the better!” He paused and forced a long, steadying breath, then finished: “My point is, we’re the same.”

  “Ah … no.”

  “We can get the fuck out and never look back.”

  “Oh. You’re assuming that because I said— Ah!” The guy looked relieved for some reason. Why now? The time to look relieved was when Garrett first explained how much the same they were. “You misunderstood. I meant I can’t sell Heartbreak Farm as in can not sell Heartbreak.”

  Garrett blinked. He’d been falling into a fantasy involving the Victoria’s Secret fashion show and a tray of cream puffs. “Can’t? Listen, you don’t want Shannah Banaan sticking her nose in our business; who could blame you? But I can help you quit all this in a way where the blame wouldn’t fall on you; it’d just hit me. Which I’m used to, believe me. Like I said, I’m the guy who set this whole thing in motion. You can leave town with your conscience totally fine.”

  “Ah.” Blake was frowning, which put grooves in the dirt on his forehead. “I apologize; I was imprecise. I won’t sell Heartbreak, though technically I can, is that better?”

  “Nope.” Lately even looking at the population sign (Hello, Sweetheart! Pop: 9,339) was enough to give Garrett a rage-induced nosebleed. Nine thousand three hundred thirty-eight people all complicit in his great-grandfather’s determination that every Garrett generation would sell shit forever, amen. “It’s not.”

  “Unfortunate. Well, thank you for stopping by, but it seems I must go back to the house and put cinnamon on several apple slices. Not that I’ll be thanked for it!” he added at a shout, glaring past Garrett in the direction of the fat, mean pony.

  “No!” Before he could stop himself, he’d seized handfuls of Vegas Douche’s shirt and was practically shaking the man. “Let me Martian this for you!”

  “Remove your hands,” came the chilly response, “or I’ll break your wrists.”

  He probably could, too. Garrett could barely get his fingers around the guy’s blocky wrists. He was too lost to care; if anything, he just clung harder. “Let me be your fucking Martian, you crazy fuck!”

  “Um…”

  They both looked over at the interruption. Natalie fucking Lane was standing in the far doorway, looking as surprised as Garrett had ever seen her. And no wonder. He and Vegas Douche were nose to nose and there had been shouting. A lot of shouting. And threats of violence. She probably thought they were going to start fighting. Or fucking.

  “I can come back, if you want…? Yeah.” She started to turn, her expression frozen in a grimace of startled shock. “Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.”

  “For God’s sake,” Vegas Douche muttered. Garrett concurred, and let go of the guy’s shirt. Natalie fucking Lane catching him groping another man. Day couldn’t get any worse, though, right?

  Right?

  Twenty

  Natalie fucking Lane couldn’t believe what

  (no, idiot, that’s his nickname for you; it’s not actually your name)

  Natalie Lane couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Of all the days to telecommute for the bank! She’d been in the office when whatever was happening started happening. Unsettling enough to hear the snarling boom of Garrett’s convertible

  (whoever heard of a guy in his twenties having a midlife crisis? it’s the only thing he was ahead of the curve on),

  weird to see it parked outside Main One with Garrett nowhere in sight by the time she made it outside, weird to hear shouting that wasn’t Gary yelling for a fire extinguisher or Blake promising a grisly death for Margaret of Anjou

  (God, now he’s got all of us calling her that ridiculous name),

  but then to come upon them and see they were chest to chest. Kissing close. And the worst part, the most emotionally shattering weirdest most inappropriate part …

  She’d been jealous.

  Of Garrett Hobbes.

  Almost as bad: Garrett knew she didn’t work for Heartbreak. He wouldn’t know what she was doing, exactly (she was no longer sure herself), but he knew enough. He could out her in five seconds. And then … and then …

  Well, what? Why did that thought make her so anxious? Why had she been having trouble getting to sleep when she pictured someone blowing her secret? What was she afraid of? Blake would storm off because she hadn’t come clean about working for the bank? He couldn’t storm off. He’d accuse her of having a secret agenda? She did, but it wouldn’t change their working relationship.

  No, the reason she didn’t want Blake to know she prevaricated was simple and staggering: she didn’t want to disappoint him. She’d been riding his ass for days

  (not even in a good way … sigh … when was the last time I got laid, anyway? there was snow on the ground, and it wasn’t last winter)

  about his morality, his pretension, his arrogance. His smug white-guy entitlement. About how if Heartbreak died it would be, if not entirely his fault, then a lot his fault. How being honest and forthright was a damned sight better than being rich and distant.

  Meanwhile she worked for the bank that was profiting off Garrett’s deal with the devil.

  Problematic.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Garrett had released Blake and was glaring at her like she was the asshole interloper.

  “None of your concern. This is still private property, so blow.”

  “What the fuck is it with people who have no business working this farm suddenly working this farm?”

  “There is no need to speak to Natalie like that.” Blake said it calmly, but he sure didn’t look calm. At least he’d assumed Garrett was speaking to her about Blake, rather than lumping her and Blake in the same category. (And in fairness to the scumbag, it was actually a pretty good question.) “You’ve worn out your welcome, not that one was ever extended in the first place. Run along, Garrett.”

  “Fucking right I will.” He took a couple of steps toward Natalie, who took a compensating few steps away because ugh, Garrett Hobbes. “Natalie, why in the fuck d’you even care? What’s the big deal about this fucking place? You never lived here.”

  “You’ll never get it, Garrett,” she replied kindly enough. She’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t such a contemptible ass. And he could be the nicest guy in the state (except that was Roger Harris, owner of the White Rose of York) and she still couldn’t put it into words. It was one of those places that felt like home even if it was never your home. Heartbreak was hot chocolate on a cold day, fireworks and potato salad, weddings and funerals. People were born and died and moved on and came back and Heartbreak was always, always there. You didn’t have to own it to feel you belonged. “There’s no point in me trying.”

  “I don’t— Oh.”

  “What, oh?” She was suspicious; Garrett had a familiar look on his face, the one that presaged him saying something horrible. Worse: he was actually trying to make it come out not horrible, which was why he now looked like the “before” picture in a hemorrhoid ad. He had never, to Natalie’s knowledge, succeeded in lessening his awfulness.

  “Are you invested in this whole ‘the land of my ancestors is sacred’ thing because, uh, b
ecause of your, uh, heritage? Because we’ll put a casino here. Don’t worry about that.”

  Blake, who had collapsed on a nearby straw bale to rest and take a swig of water, paused in mid-gulp. Then he unfolded and climbed to his feet. It was leisurely and careful. His face was utterly calm and Natalie had never been so afraid for an idiot than she was at that moment for Garrett. She crossed the barn to get between them and wasn’t leisurely or careful about it. “Nope! Nope nope nope! Please don’t, Blake. He can’t help it; he’s stupid.”

  “Hey!”

  “Shut up, Garrett. I’m trying to save you. Just shut up and stay stupid.”

  “Look, all’s I was saying is I get it!” He held up both hands, placating her or Blake, she wasn’t sure. His palms were disturbingly shiny; he liked running his hands through his thinning hair but used too much conditioner, so it was often greasy. “My people did terrible things to yours and you want compensation. It’s fine. I get it. We’ve got you covered.”

  “Give me a break, Great White Fathead! Your ‘people’ didn’t even get to America until long after my ‘people’ had been shunted off to reservations. No one I’m related to was ever repressed by anyone you were related to.”

  “Okay!” The idiot blew out a relieved breath. His relieved breath smelled like chili. “So you admit you’ve got no reason to hate me or the land deal.”

  “I hate the land deal and it’s got nothing to do with being part Native American!” The barn swallows, who hadn’t minded Garrett’s yelling, were taking flight at hers, probably because of the shrill factor. Her father, who’d been a flight scientist before retirement, had the theory that the madder Natalie got, the more supersonic her rant. “I hate it because there are too many golf courses already! I hate it because your plan to replace all this with that awful disaster putt-putt course is stupid! I’m allowed to be revolted by things that are revolting, get it? I don’t have to show my Official Indian Reservation I.D. card to prove it’s okay for me to be annoyed.”

  “Do you guys really have those?” Garrett nodded and managed to look grim and smug. “I knew it.”

  “Go. Away.” Gah, she was so steamed she could feel her pulse in her temples. “Kill. You. If you don’t. Argh.”

  “Fine, but just know your angry-squaw routine doesn’t scare me.”

  “Did you know it’s possible to scream so loudly the blood vessels in your throat rupture?” Blake had maneuvered around Natalie and was once again nose to nose with Garrett. “Imagine the kind of pain that would induce that. Throat-rupturing screaming. It’s the kind of pain that is agonizing, but not quite enough to make you pass out. The worst kind of pain, I think.”

  “You don’t scare me.” This from the driver’s side of his car, as he’d wasted no time getting fleeing distance from Blake. Natalie was impressed against her will; she’d had no idea Garrett Hobbes could move that fast. “Nothing about you is scary!”

  “He’s scaring the shit out of me,” Natalie admitted, then smirked as Garrett’s rebuttal was swallowed by the shriek of his engine as he roared out of the driveway in reverse. There was a crunch—

  Blake winced. “Was that the stump?”

  —and the sound of tearing metal—

  The wince turned into a grin. “My, he’s certainly hung up on it, isn’t he?”

  —followed by the car stalling, only to start up almost immediately and keep going, the engine making a blat-blat-blatttt sound that grew steadily distant.

  “Too bad he had to leave so soon.” Blake sighed in mock regret. “I felt a certain kinship with the man.”

  “Never in a hundred years are you anything like that jackass. When we were fourteen, he grabbed my ass when he was supposed to be spotting me in gym for the rope climb.”

  Blake’s grin disappeared like he’d been punched. “His address, please. Work and home.”

  “No, no.” She waved away his misplaced adorable unnecessary machismo. “Took care of it myself. Let’s just say he never again neglected to wear a cup when we had class together. Any class: Phy Ed, Algebra, Home Ec, Spanish…”

  “I found him to be somewhat loathsome,” Blake admitted. “He struck me as one of those unfortunates who blame everything and everyone for their own dreadful decisions. From what I gathered, everything that has gone wrong in his life—“

  “And so much has gone wrong,” Natalie interrupted with a grin.

  “—is somehow the fault of … this town? And apparently fertilizer? Or at least his family’s long, proud history selling it?” He shook his head and looked adorably befuddled. “Perhaps I’m not one to pass judgment. Our mother never spoke of Sweetheart, never discussed her roots—”

  Don’t say anything. He’s opening up and he’s being the opposite of a Vegas Douche. Of course, compared to Garrett, anyone would seem the opposite of a Vegas Douche. But this was no time to explain exactly why Shannah Banaan had not one damned thing to brag about, remember fondly, or look forward to. She couldn’t imagine a family less excited about bastard grandchildren. She was just surprised their fate took almost three decades to catch up with them.

  “We never had a sense of history to live up to—or to live down.” Ah. Still babbling about the family history he knew nothing about. “When our father passed, we were instantly wealthy. So I can’t relate to Mr. Hobbes’ dilemma.”

  “He’s a douche. That’s his dilemma.”

  “He was unpleasant,” Blake agreed. “And that was before his unfortunate assumptions about you.”

  She groaned. It was all still so vivid. She’d need a lot of booze to start repressing the afternoon. “Is there anything more annoying than a well-meaning racist?”

  “A comic-book villain, perhaps? He was so over-the-top. It wasn’t unlike watching a play. I kept waiting for him to twirl his moustache while tying a widow to train tracks because she wouldn’t sell the family farm.”

  Natalie felt her eyes widen and shouted before she could suck it back. “Hey!”

  He flinched and looked around as if for an attacker. “What? What?”

  She calmed herself; poor guy had no idea.

  (poor guy? he was Vegas Douche not so long ago, ya big softie)

  “Blake, I’m sorry to yell, but you can’t go around saying stuff like that.”

  “I’ve offended you?”

  “No, but … look, just … don’t talk about Garrett’s great-grandfather like that. It’s not just because he’s still upset about it; it’s just generally regarded as not cool to bring up. Guy’s got enough problems without having to live down what his ancestor did.”

  “Wait. What?” Blake sat back on the bales as if worried his legs would quit. “Are you— That happened?”

  “Of course it happened. Where do you think villain stereotypes come from?”

  “No, come on.” She could see him struggling with the concept. “His great-grandfather was Snidely Whiplash?”

  “Shhh. And yes. That’s why even when they were trendy, no one in his family would ever wear a cape or a top hat, or grow a moustache.”

  “When were capes and top—”

  She kept going; it was important that Blake internalized this. “That’s like the Holocaust to his family. Which is ironic, because they’re all Holocaust deniers. But it’s the one aspect of his awfulness that’s not to be made fun of.”

  “I’m never going to understand this place, am I?”

  She shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

  “I’m not sure it is.”

  She shrugged again—what to say to that, really?—then handed him the small bottle she’d grabbed on her way out the door … when? Ten minutes ago? Felt like longer. Blake glanced down at it, puzzled, then looked up at her and smiled. God, that smile. Nnfff.

  “I know Margaret of Anjou likes cinnamon on her apples. Thought I’d save you a trip.”

  “You’re very kind,” was his careful reply, but that smile. Like she’d just done the smartest, coolest thing ever. Like she wasn’t a lying, deceitful sneak.r />
  “I’m not. I’m not kind, Blake.” And she dreaded the day he’d find out, and hated the dread.

  Twenty-one

  Over an hour after she’d called it a day (twenty-first century or not, there was only so much work you could do on a farm once the sun was down) she was spreading butter and brown sugar over a piece of lefsa,* then rolling it into something resembling a delicious cigar and wolfing half of it in one bite. Oh, lefsa. You take so little, and give so much. It needed cinnamon, which was too bad because—

  Oh. Blake. As if reading her mind, Larry and Harry, who were sitting at the kitchen table playing poker (online, not with each other, fallout from the Deuces Wild Incident of 2013), were discussing him, unless Vegas Douche was the nickname of yet another wealthy, jaded stranger from Vegas who hung around Heartbreak for reasons known only to him and maybe two others.

  “Vegas Douche hasn’t quit.”

  Larry scratched his chin. He hardly ever had stubble, only freckles that went with his pale skin and carrot-colored hair, but he never gave up trying. “Nope. He hasn’t.”

  “Might not.”

  “Yep.”

  “Might die.”

  “Risk I’m willing to take.” Larry rose, then looked up to see Natalie’s gaze on him. “What? I didn’t say I wouldn’t feel bad for the guy. I would. A little. Jeez, I’ve known him less than a month. I don’t haveta give the eulogy.”

  “He’s not dead yet!” she almost shouted. This. This was what happened when she stopped going to the bank and went to Heartbreak instead. She ended up liking a city guy and snapping at someone she’d known since third grade.

  “Yeah, but when he does die! Someone else will have to do the eulogy!”

  Harry, still playing poker on his phone, called his opponent’s bluff, then looked up and rejoined the conversation. “Any idea how long he’s sticking around?”