by Wesley Lewis
He glanced in her direction. Jennifer tensed, waiting for him to speak.
He returned his gaze to the road. Jennifer relaxed.
“I hope you’re not as uncomfortable as you look,” he said, still staring straight ahead.
Her hands tightened around the steering wheel, causing the car to rock. “Uncomfortable? Do I look uncomfortable?”
“Maybe I’m just being self-conscious, but you look like you’re ready to open the door and jump.”
“Oh. No, I—”
“You don’t need to explain. I should have let one of the deputies drive me home.”
“No, really,” Jennifer insisted, “it’s not you. I just . . . I can’t decide if I should say something or not say something or . . .” She took a deep breath.
“Trust me, I get it. I seem to have learned everything about how to survive a shooting except how to act normal afterward.”
The tension in Jennifer’s forearms eased up just a bit. “So this was your first? Shooting, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that why—” She caught herself, but it was too late. The embarrassment in his eyes said he knew what she’d intended to ask. She tried to cover. “Is that why they handcuffed you?”
“Why they handcuffed you”? she thought. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Crocker’s face softened into a smile. “No, that’s standard procedure.”
Jennifer returned his smile, grateful to have been let off the hook but unsure of what to say next.
Just as the silence threatened to turn awkward again, he asked, “Did you have big plans in Vegas?”
The question was so unexpectedly benign that she took a couple of seconds to recognize it as small talk.
“Or,” he added, “did you get this dressed up for a night out in Pahrump?”
“No, I was definitely not planning on spending my evening in Pahrump.”
If he detected the melancholy in her voice, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned and said, “I’m going to guess . . .” He looked her up and down. “Bachelorette party?”
She shook her head. “Not even close.”
“Huh. I’m usually pretty good at this.” He rubbed his chin. “Quickie wedding?”
“What? No.”
“Quickie divorce?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not even trying.”
He watched her for a moment. “Celebrating the end of finals with your sorority sisters?”
This time she managed a smile. “Wrong again, but thanks.”
“Am I getting close?”
“Not even remotely. How about I just tell you?”
Crocker shrugged. “Have it your way.”
“I work for a commercial real estate firm out of Dallas. Our entire office is in town for a conference.”
“The one for retail developers?”
“That’s right,” she said, impressed. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Only vaguely. I was asked to work a party tonight for some of the attendees.”
“Work?” She watched him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m afraid to ask, but how does a firearms instructor work a party?”
He half grinned. “Security. I do private security in my spare time.”
The empty desert had given way to a steady stream of RV dealerships, gas stations, and manufactured homes. Ahead of her, Jennifer saw the first cars she’d seen since leaving the truck stop. In her rearview mirror, she saw the first hint of daylight in the eastern sky.
“And you’re working security at one of the conference receptions?”
“No, I had to turn it down. They wanted me at eight, but my last class doesn’t get out until ten.”
“Ten? You have to be at work at seven in the morning, and you don’t get off until ten at night? That’s a fifteen-hour day!”
Crocker chuckled. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. The academy is only open September through May. We hold class four days a week, ten hours a day. During the first and last month of the season, the desert heat can get pretty oppressive, so we hold classes in the morning and in the evening and take a five-hour break during the heat of the day.”
“So you get an afternoon siesta?”
“That’s the idea. But I usually spend the time giving private lessons.”
A neon-adorned monstrosity of a casino beckoned from the right side of the road. Based on the number of recreational vehicles in the parking lot, a person could easily have mistaken it for another RV dealership.
“By the way,” he said, “you’re going to want to take the first right after the casino.”
“Thanks.” Jennifer took note of the approaching traffic light. “So let me ask you a question: Between private lessons, private security, and your day job, when do you find time to sleep?”
“Summer.”
“You’re off all summer?”
“Just like a schoolteacher.”
She turned onto the side street beside the casino. “And that’s why you work all the extra jobs?”
“I could probably get by without the extra work, but it helps make the house payments and lets me put something away for retirement.”
She saw his gaze drift to the dashboard clock, which now read 5:02.
“Speaking of work,” he said, “I need to find a way to get there. Could I borrow your phone to call a coworker?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have one.”
Even in the dimly lit car, she could see the skepticism in his eyes.
“I mean, I have one,” she continued, “but it’s back at my hotel.” She glanced away as she recalled her hasty retreat from La Condamine. “I left in a bit of a hurry.”
“That’s okay. I’ll grab a quick shower and walk down to the Chevron station and use the pay phone. I can grab a cup of coffee and wake myself up a bit while I wait for someone to come get me.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but wouldn’t your boss understand if you took the day off?”
“Oh, I know Jeff would understand. But I’m not sure the students who paid twenty-five hundred apiece to take our four-day combat handgun course would be quite so understanding about the head instructor playing hooky on the last day.”
“Oh,” she said, still thinking that any right-minded person would understand the need to take a day off after shooting it out with three armed robbers.
“Besides,” he said, “today is the last day of the season. Come Monday, I’m on summer vacation.”
Jennifer didn’t respond. She was lost in thought, trying to decide what she was going to do about her own work situation. Would she tell her coworkers what had happened at the truck stop?
She wasn’t sure she was up for reliving the incident right away, and she knew she wasn’t up for the inevitable questions: “What were you doing so far outside of town?” “Whose car did you take?” But if she didn’t tell them what had happened, they’d expect her to be on the convention center floor, bright eyed and bushy tailed, at seven thirty sharp.
“It’s the first driveway on your right,” said Crocker as they left the gaudy casino behind.
Jennifer decided to put off thinking about work for just a little longer. “I have an idea. Why don’t I wait for you to shower; then I’ll drop you off at work before I head back to Vegas?”
“Do you have time? The academy is a ways off the main road.”
“I’ll make time.” She slowed and signaled the approaching turn. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll accept on one condition—you have to let me make you breakfast.”
For the first time since starting the drive, she smiled without effort. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
S
he was about to make a joke about his offer of breakfast sounding like a pickup line when she saw the driveway he’d told her to turn in to.
Did he say, “Helps make the house payments”?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Crocker felt the cobwebs clearing from his brain as the hot water washed over his body. For the first time since he’d regained consciousness on the truck stop floor, all cylinders were firing. Every inch of his body screamed with exhaustion, but the return of his cognitive abilities made the physical strain more bearable.
Now that the fog had lifted, he wanted to pistol-whip himself for the way he’d handled the aftermath of the shooting. Every student who attended one of First Shot’s self-defense courses heard a speech titled “After the Smoke Clears: Your Rights and Responsibilities Following a Self-Defense Shooting.” The speech offered a few small pieces of legal advice and one big one: Always ask for a lawyer. Even though Sheriff Cargill was an old friend, Crocker’s peers would no doubt view the waiving of counsel as more egregious than the fainting spell that preceded it.
He’d also exhibited terrible judgment in accepting a ride from a woman still reeling from a traumatic event. Fortunately, there had been no arrest at the scene and no fiery car crash on the way home, just casual conversation with an attractive woman.
Of all the things Crocker should have done differently in those early morning hours, the one that kept gnawing at the back of his mind was his failure to warn Jennifer Williams about his current living arrangements. She wasn’t the first woman to see the ancient Argosy travel trailer parked in slot forty-seven of the Rangoon Harbor RV Park—one of the classier amenities offered by the Rangoon Harbor Casino—but in the past he’d always been careful to explain the situation beforehand.
He turned off the water and opened the shower curtain. As he reached for his towel, he noticed his sweat-soaked shirt lying beneath the rack and realized that in his sleep-deprived state, he’d made one other miscalculation: He’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom.
♦ ♦ ♦
Jennifer caught herself nodding off and jerked her head upright. The adrenaline surge from the truck stop had dissipated; now she could only postpone the inevitable crash. She longed for sleep, but she wasn’t about to let herself doze off inside this time capsule from 1976.
The trailer’s interior was a kaleidoscope of fake wood paneling and muddy yellow-orange hues that reminded her of childhood. The only part of the interior that appeared to have been updated was the linoleum flooring, which looked to be fifteen to twenty years newer than the rest of the trailer.
I guess the shag carpeting wore out.
From her seat on the built-in sofa, she could see straight down the single corridor that led from the front sitting area to the small sleeping quarters at the back. Though dated and unimpressive, the place was at least well kept. She wasn’t sure what to make of Matt Crocker, who seemed intelligent and hardworking but who apparently lived like a vagabond.
Before retreating into the bathroom, he had put on a pot of coffee to brew, and the strong aroma now taunted her. She wanted a cup, but her enigmatic host had neglected to set out any mugs, and she wasn’t sure if she should search for them herself or wait for him to finish his shower.
She occupied her mind by surveying his few personal possessions. On a small shelf to her right sat two framed photographs. She guessed that the first, a faded picture of a man and woman standing in front of Mount Rushmore, was of Crocker’s parents. The second showed Crocker, perhaps ten years younger, standing next to a woman with freckled skin and dark brown hair. Both he and the woman were smiling and holding up paper targets riddled with holes.
The only other photograph in sight was a framed eight-by-ten hanging above the stove. It looked like a landscape, maybe a sunset, but she couldn’t tell for sure from where she sat. She was about to stand for a closer look when the bathroom door opened and Crocker stepped into the narrow hallway, wearing only a bath towel, which he’d wrapped so tightly around his waist that it looked as if it might give out under the strain.
“Good,” he said. “You’re still here. I was afraid my humble digs might have scared you off.”
Jennifer searched for a polite response, but her sleep-deprived mind stopped short of anything even tangential to polite and backtracked to her host’s well-toned chest.
He opened the door to the small closet across from the bathroom and reached inside. “Did you have some coffee?”
“Oh, no,” she replied. “I, uh . . . I thought I’d wait for you.”
He turned back from the closet. “I hope I’m not embarrassing you.” He glanced down at the towel. “I should have thought to take a change of clothes into the bathroom with me.”
“Not at all!” The words came out more forcefully than she’d intended. She jumped to her feet and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “Would you like me to pour you a cup? I know I could use one.”
“Sure.” He rounded the corner from the hallway. “Let me grab a couple of mugs.”
As he reached into the cabinet above the sink, Jennifer noticed the corner of the towel coming untucked at his waist. She opened her mouth to voice a warning but hesitated, unsure of the most polite way to phrase it.
She was still thinking when the corner freed itself. Before she could will herself to look away, his left hand swooped in, grabbed the stray bit of towel, and tucked it back into place.
“I’d better go put on something a little safer.” He held out two coffee cups in his right hand.
She took the cups. “I’m sure your students would appreciate that.”
As Crocker turned back to the closet, Jennifer noticed a tattoo on his left shoulder blade—an amalgam of a bird, a globe, and a boat anchor. She couldn’t place the symbol, but she recognized the two words below it: semper fidelis.
Crocker took a handful of clothes from the closet and walked into the small sleeping quarters at the far end of the trailer. He turned back toward Jennifer and drew a curtain across the doorway, blocking her view.
“I don’t have any cream,” he said from behind the curtain, “but there is milk in the fridge and sugar in the pantry.”
“That’s fine,” she said as she poured the coffee. “At this point I’d chew the raw grounds to get the caffeine.”
When she’d finished pouring the first cup, she took a moment to inspect the picture hanging above the stove. It showed a mountain range silhouetted against an orange sky. Only the peaks of the mountains were visible—a red-hued cloud bank covered the rest.
“Where was this photograph taken?” she asked as she poured the second cup.
“The sunrise?”
“Yes. It’s very picturesque.”
“That’s the view from my porch.”
“Really?” She leaned across the sink, lifted the blinds covering the small window, and peered out into the twilight. “You have a porch?”
Crocker laughed, pulled back the curtain, and emerged from the sleeping quarters dressed exactly as he had been when they arrived, in khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt.
Jennifer let the blinds fall back into place. “What did I say?”
He grinned. “Nothing. I just realized you must be trying to figure out which side of this trailer has the magnificent mountain view.” He glanced up at the photo. “This was taken at my home in Colorado.”
“Colorado? So this . . .”
“This is what you might call my winter home. I’m here nine months and home three.”
“You have a home you only see three months out of the year?”
“I used to have a house here in town, but I hardly saw it while I was working, and I didn’t care much for spending my summers in the desert. So I sold it and got a place in the Rockies.”
“A place you rarely see.”
“I know it sounds a little strange”—he reached for one of the steaming cups—“but it works for me. And it ended up being the best financial move I ever made.”
“How so?”
He took a long sip of coffee. “When I bought my place here, Pahrump was just a one-horse town that limped by on nickel slots and legalized prostitution. Then Las Vegas real estate prices spiked, and this little one-horse town turned into a thriving bedroom community. By the time I sold my house, local housing prices were higher than anybody could have predicted.”
She reached for the remaining cup. “It sounds like you cashed out at the height of the real estate bubble.”
She wasn’t accustomed to drinking her coffee black, but she was intrigued by the conversation’s sudden turn toward real estate and didn’t want to interrupt Crocker’s story.
“I wish I could claim some keen economic insight,” he said, “but in all honesty, it was just dumb luck.”
“But didn’t you buy right back into the same bubble, in Colorado?”
“Like I said, dumb luck. Because my house hunting was limited to the summer months, it was almost two years later when I finally found what I was looking for.”
She nodded that she understood. “And by then the bubble had burst, and for anyone with cash to spend, it was a buyer’s market.”
“Exactly. I found my dream home at a foreclosure auction.”
“One man’s misery is another man’s opportunity.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but it’s not like somebody lost their home. The place was pretty much unlivable when I bought it. I ended up parking this trailer on the property for the rest of that first summer and sleeping in it while I started the renovations.”
“Is the rest of the property as nice as the view?”
“It will be when I’m through. I still have six bedrooms left to renovate, but—”