by James, Ella
“Call ’im handsome,” Manning says. He laughs again then says, “I’m gonna run to the feed and seed. Y’all be here a while?”
“An hour or so,” Kellan says.
“Catch you girls later. Keep your yap shut, snake bit.”
Manning disappears out the door, and I look up at Kellan. “Snake bit?”
He rolls his eyes, despite an amused smile. “I told him that your name was Cleopatra.”
I smile. Snake bit. Makes sense; Cleopatra was killed by a snake. “I’m a queen, what can I say?”
I rise, because the hardwood floor is making my knees ache. I watch Truman shift his lithe, muscular body, so he’s lounging at Kellan’s feet.
“He’s beautiful,” I say sincerely.
Kellan leans down to rub the dog’s ears again. I watch the easy way his fingers stroke the dog’s head. It’s a practiced movement—no doubt.
“He’s been staying here with your friend?”
Kellan lifts the dog’s floppy ear, squeezing it lightly. The dog lets out a comically long breath, and Kellan nods, his face stuck somewhere between sad and stoic. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I go out of town sometimes.”
I open my mouth to ask why the dog can’t stay at his house alone, but I don’t want to be annoying.
Kellan stands, and his dog circles both of us, tail thumping my leg as he nuzzles my knees.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I croon, stroking his back. “Are you named after President Truman?”
Kellan snorts. “Capote.”
I look up at him. “You named your dog after Truman Capote?”
He folds his arms over his chest and arches a brow at me.
“Well, well. I guess your dad does read,” I say to Truman.
“C’mon,” Kellan says. He waves me past the staircase on our right and down the hall. I sweep my gaze over the crown molding lining the high ceilings as I follow him. From where we stand, it looks like the hall dead-ends into a living area.
Truman trails behind us, making me remember the dog we used to have when I was little. Her name was Honeycomb, because she was always trying to eat bees. She was a black lab, and she ran away the month after my sister Olive died. I use to think our crying was too much for poor Honeycomb. Our grieving sent her running for the hills.
I watch Kellan’s face as we move down the hall.
“Can we take him home? I’d feel so much better with a guard dog.” I smile cheekily. “He can keep me from getting offed by a rival drug lord.”
He runs his eyes over me. Solemnity weights his features. “You worried about that?”
I nod. “Are you surprised by this?”
The hallway dead-ends at a living area with cappuccino walls, brown curtains, two teal couches with chevron-patterned pillows, and a huge brick fireplace. To the left is a modern-looking kitchen, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. To the right, another hall—the floor of this one lined with a burgundy runner.
We drift up behind the nearest couch, and Kellan wraps his hand around the spine of it. He surveys the room, looking pensive. “Not many people know where I live, Cleo. My dealers are students.”
I glance down at Truman, who’s smacking Kellan’s calf with his ever-wagging tail. “So they’re all non-threatening and presumed loyal.”
“It’s not perfect, but I pay them well and I keep tabs on them.”
“Hmm.” I lean against the back of the couch and look around the room, which resembles a family room; it’s nothing like the drug den I expected.
He props his hip against the couch’s back and leans a little closer to me. I watch his hand come up. I shiver as he drags his thumb along my lower lip.
He smiles a predatory smile. “So sensitive.”
I arch away from him. “Yeah, when people touch my mouth.”
“You had a Tru hair on it.”
My cheeks go hot for absolutely no good reason. “Well thanks I guess.”
He smiles at me, and it’s a weird smile—one I don’t understand, because it seems so sad. I wait there silently for an explanation. I wait for him to open up to me, to tell me what is on his mind. But Kellan doesn’t.
I feel useless. Clueless. My eyes wander around the room, noting the Glade Plug-Ins beside the entertainment center, and to the right of a potted palm.
I wave at the massive brick fireplace, filled with a pretty, iron candle stand, and topped with a dozen half-burned white candles. “Are you sure this place is what you said it was?” I ask him finally.
He puts his arm part-way around me, clasping my shoulder and turning me toward the hall with the runner.
“Come with me.”
His strange, sad air and sparse words have got me nervous, but I’m soothed a little by the Thomas Kinkade prints on the hall walls. They’re quaint and country, framed in cedar. One shows a barn, another a waterfall, the third a proud-looking black lab surrounded by dead ducks. The ceiling overhead is striped with a thin skylight, casting filmy light into the shadows.
When we reach the first door, cut into the left-hand wall, Kellan delves into his pocket. I see his key ring come out, and am momentarily distracted by it. The angle of the Escalade is such that I can’t see it dangling from the ignition, so I’m surprised that it’s... a rodent? I blink—and blink again as he inserts a key into the deadbolt on the door, then wraps his hand around the handle and tugs the door toward his chest.
It looks almost like a little, pewter sloth. Is it a sloth? I swear it is.
Before I get the chance to ask, the door swings open, and I brace myself for what I’ll see. Part of me expects to find a Pottery Barn-style bedroom with bookshelves filled with bud-stuffed Mason jars. I picture an old-fashioned smoking parlor with Victorian-era couches and bong-bearing end tables. I’m imagining high-gloss antiques. Something sensual yet homey.
So I blink when I behold what looks like the outdoor garden section at our local Walmart. Instead of palms, ferns, azaleas, or lilies, every plant inside this room is marijuana. Some are tall and some are short, but all are endowed with fragrant, palmate leaves.
I hear the dull hum of a generator somewhere nearby and take a deep breath of humid, pot-scented air. I run my gaze down to the far end of the room, which is roughly the size of a basketball court. So many plants! There’s too much fluffy green for me to see exactly how they’re potted. They’re planted in three thick rows that look at least five feet wide: two rows along the rectangular room’s two outer walls, and another row down the room’s middle. Two cement aisles stretch between the three rows.
Between the mini forests of the leafy green plants, I can see the cement aisles are water-stained and littered with coils of hoses, bags of fertilizer, and familiar gardening utensils, like shovels and mini rakes.
I turn to Kellan with my mouth open. “Holy shit, this is a grow house.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cleo
I look to my right, where the nearest row of plants dances in a breeze made by huge, wall-mounted fans. Their blades whirl slowly. The plants’ thin leaves wag.
I turn back to Kellan. “I’m just... wow. This is so... WOW. This is incredible! How much weed is in here?”
He smirks. “Enough.”
“Enough for everyone! Enough for the whole school, the whole town.”
I reach out to fondle the plant nearest to me, but curl my fingers before I touch its leaves. I wonder what a plant is worth. I’m so clumsy—I don’t want to injure it.
I look around the space once more, this time noticing the ceiling, home to an army of tire-sized heat bulbs. I guess that’s why this room feels a little like the inside of a tanning bed.
Each time my gaze roams, I notice something new, from rows of mysterious mechanical gauges along the room’s two shorter walls to the arrangement of the marijuana plants. Now that I’ve had a minute to look, I can see they’re potted individually atop elevated wooden platforms.
I turn back to Kellan. “This is so legit. I don’t
know why, but... I’m surprised.”
I can’t tell if he looks smug or bored with all my gushing. Ever since we came into the grow house, I’ve had a hard time reading him. Hell, I guess I’ve always had a hard time reading him.
“Where are you from?” I ask him. “I think your guest column I read in the student paper said California? One of the ritzy glitzy cities?”
One brow arches. “Ritzy glitzy?”
I shrug. “If the shoe fits. So am I right? Are you from California? L.A. maybe?”
His brows draw together. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering how long you’ve lived in this area. I’d think it would take time to create something like this.”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’d be surprised.”
Mounted on the ceiling to my right is a big, flat-screen TV. It’s protected by some kind of plastic wrap, but through the hazy cover, I can see alternating views of the inside and the outside of the house. Mounted on another spot on the ceiling is some kind of clock counting down in red, digitalized numbers.
“What’s that?” I point to the clock.
“It has to do with adjusting carbon dioxide in the room.”
I blink, because beyond the basic association between plants and carbon dioxide, I can’t summon an intelligent comment.
“Does Manning run this?”
“We do,” Kellan says, shifting his feet.
I hold my arms out. “I’m surprised you trusted me enough to show me this. It’s crazy impressive, Kellan. You’re legit as hell.”
One side of his mouth quirks up, like he’s amused by my praise. “Walk around if you want. You can touch the plants. Just be gentle—if you can manage that.”
I stick my tongue out. “When called for. I only see one douchebag in this room, and I think I’ve already dealt with him.”
I whirl around, halfway hoping Kellan chase me. When my self-restraint runs dry and I look over my shoulder, I find him smiling, definitely amused.
The cocky fucker.
I walk up and down the room a bunch of times, pretending I’m on a documentary and marveling at the plants. Many are taller than I am. They’re so green. So... real. The marijuana I bought from Kennard came in several large, round containers—a little like the canisters that zip from the bank to the drive-through line. To me, weed has always seemed almost synthetic. Sometimes the crystals have an orange tint, other times a purple hue. They have various scents and there are various strains. But I never bother much with that, or give much thought to where it came from. So I’m surprised to see it in its raw plant form. It looks so innocent and unassuming.
I stop in front of a particularly tall, spindly plant on a platform labeled TIGER’S CLAW. After rubbing my fingertip along one of its soft, thin leaves, I let my gaze wander to the far end of the room. Kellan’s in the same spot he was a few minutes ago: standing in front of a platform of smaller plants. His head is bowed, as if he’s inspecting them. I’m admiring the width of his shoulders like the girl perv I am when he crouches, poking at the soil in one of the pots. A jolt of lust bursts through me, thinking of his fingers poking something else. I take a long, deep breath and look away.
I don’t know why he gets me so damn hot. It’s probably the mystery. He’s a golden god from California, who is both SGA president and some kind of drug kingpin, who’s never appeared around our town with any woman—until the last four months.
And one of the only things I know about his personality is that after I busted his balls, he called me hours later for some panty-melting phone sex. That, and he’s willing to pay me like a prostitute to...well, prostitute. Except it isn’t prostitution, because it’s not just about the money for me. It’s about this weed business, and it’s about those thick, hard shoulders, too.
The more I think about the deal he’s offered, the more I think that this could work out really well for me. Could.
When I make my way back to Kellan, he’s standing again, staring pensively down at the plants, one hand cupped loosely over his mouth. I stop slightly behind him, checking the label in front of the platform: SILENT STALKER. Hmm.
“What ya thinking about, Farmer Kello?”
He lowers his hand. His mouth twitches on one side, revealing the ghost of a dimple. “Farmer Kello?” His expression is hung between disapproval and amusement.
I smile and nod. “All you need is a straw hat and some overalls.”
“Is that all?” He gives me a wicked look that goes straight to my panties, but it fades after a breath into a smirk that, this time, features the reappearance of that adorably handsome dimple. In that heartbeat, he looks so unlike the Kellan Walsh I usually know, I’m buoyed by affection. I throw my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his back.
“I know where your grow house is, na na na na na naaaa!” I squeeze him. “It makes me happy that you brought me here.”
He sets his hands on mine. I can feel the hesitation in the way they flutter for a moment before settling. “Does it?” he says, sounding serious.
I nod against his hard, warm back. “I like to be trusted. I’m a trustworthy person. You’ll find out.”
He cuts his eyes over his shoulder. “How?”
Nervous elation coils under my ribs—from the weight of his gaze at such a close proximity. I shrug and try to keep my voice light. “When rival drug dealers kidnap me and hold me for ransom, they’ll have to torture me for, like, seven hours straight before I reveal this address.” I wink, as if my hands aren’t shaking slightly as they rest atop his hips. Maybe he senses that in me: the giddy nerves, the banked hunger. Because at that moment, he turns to face me. My hands brush the top of his slacks as his rise up to cup my face. His fingers stroke into my hair.
“I won’t let you get kidnapped, Cleo.”
“Because you’ll loan me Truman,” I joke weakly.
“No—because I’m going to take care of you. Like I said.”
For one hard heartbeat, I wonder if he’s joking. The guileless intensity of his face, the way he’s stroking my hair: as if it’s second-nature to him to touch me gently... It’s easier to imagine he’s about to grin and add “in bed” to the end of that earnest-sounding declaration. I wait for it, but his expression never changes.
With one final, light stroke of his thumb over my brow, he lowers his hands and takes a half step back.
My heart gives a few slow, off-beat thu-WUNKs before I realize I’m staring. I spin around, because damnit, when I get embarrassed, my feet move without permission. “Wait, where’s Truman?” I turn back around to Kellan with my arms out. “Did we lose him somewhere?”
God, my awkwardness is so obvious. I glance around the room, and when I’m brave enough to look at Kellan, he’s smirking. This one is curved upward at the corners, as if he thinks I’m funny but has something against the act of smiling.
“Truman’s not allowed in here. He knows it.”
“Aw, that’s kind of sad.”
Again, that smirk—but this time it seems pained. “You like him.”
“I’ve always been obsessed with hounds, and Truman is like... a proto-hound.”
Kellan laughs. At least it should have been a laugh. He turns it into a weird, low laugh-cough thing, covering his mouth with his hand and shaking his head.
“Bow wow WOW.” I lift my brows coyly and get a real laugh. It’s just a raspy huff of air, but it’s a laugh for sure. I beam proudly.
As the smile slips from his face, he sticks his hands in his pockets. His eyes move over me. They’re deep and blue, round and serious, and just as quickly as they move down me, they shift away. He looks to the floor, although there’s nothing there. It’s as if he needs to get his eyes off me.
I’m scrambling for a way to draw him out again when he turns and starts walking down the cement aisle.
My stomach flips, and all the giddiness I felt comes crashing down.
Did I do something wrong?
I stare at his back, and all I can th
ink about is rushing after him.
I’m not insane, right? That was weird.
Yes, of course it was weird. Twenty-one years of being female lets me know why, too. I shake my head. If Kellan Walsh didn’t just now get scared off because he felt too close to me, then I’m a monkey’s auntie.
My stomach clenches as I remember what his friend said—Manning. About how Kellan doesn’t trust people.
I watch him moving down the cement aisle between the plants. He’s probably thirty feet away by now. The angle of the lighting has him looking slightly shadowed: a lone figure defined mostly by big shoulders and a broad back. I watch him stop, pull some leaves into his hand and bring his nose down to them. I watch him as he crouches down to touch the soil.
If I stare hard enough, will he look back at me?
A less confident Cleo would start feeling insecure now. Like she’d overstepped some invisible bounds. Like she’d been too obviously trying. I take a deep, slow breath and tell myself this Cleo is beyond that.
I walk slowly, at a steady pace, toward Kellan. I tell myself that I’ll be patient. Wait him out. I’ll be living with him, so I can watch him. I’ll find out what makes him tick. Why laughing at my stupid joke made him clam up like he’d just confessed some deep, dark secret.
I notice my hands are in fists. I loosen them and flex my fingers. I need to take this thing with him one moment at a time. I can do that. If anyone knows the tenets of mindful living, it should be Cleo Whatley, future art therapist.
I practice as I move. Listening to the sounds of the room: fan blades spinning, and their echo through the large space. The smell of the plants: bitter yet sweet, like fresh-cut garden weeds mixed with some kind of citrus fruit. The warm, heavy air on my cheeks and arms. I redirect my mind from Kellan by looking at the plants. Noting which ones are tall, and which ones smaller. I note the names of various strains of marijuana as I pass the plant-filled platforms.
VIOLET VIPER. KILLER CROCK. APPLE ASTEROID. By the time I reach GRAVE YARD DAISY, I’m feeling calm again. I pass THE BIG SLEEP and am pretty sure I’ve found a pattern in the plant names. I nod to myself as I remember SILENT STALKER. All the names are morbid.