by Cindy Miles
I couldn’t help but wonder what that or else consisted of.
With my hands, I rubbed my face, then stretched my arms above my head. A sliver of moonlight streamed through the crack in the curtain of my bedroom window, and I stared at it until it blurred.
I was twenty-five years old, just starting college. Most of the students at Winston were still younger than me. I couldn’t afford to sew any wild college oats. I’d sewn plenty as a single guy, just working the ranch and the garage back home, hitting barn parties and bonfires and hooking up with a different girl each weekend. Man, I’d thought life was great. I was at the top of my game. Fearless. Guiltless.
Suddenly, it’d hit me. I wasn’t getting younger. And I didn’t have a plan for the future. So I had to get my ass in fucking gear.
I let out a groan and rubbed my face again.
Memory Thibodeaux. Female player. Party girl. Good-time Betty.
I couldn’t let her get to me.
No matter how damn beautiful and witty she was.
And no matter how damn appealing her carefree, daredevil lifestyle was.
Oh, Jesus, not now. Not today! Please make it stop. Make it go away.
I’d taken the medicine that morning before class, just like I’d been taking it every day. The side effects had eased up over two weeks. The headaches were milder and fewer. The nausea wasn’t intolerable. But the moment I stood up to leave Professor Malcolm’s class, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Snap—just that fast. It blasted all thoughts from my mind. All anticipation. The only thing I wanted was to escape unnoticed.
With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I hurried through the hallway and pushed through the double doors of the BFA building. Outside, the air was cool but the sun warm, and it bypassed the forty-something degrees and seeped through the hide of my leather jacket and burned my skin. I felt flushed. Hot. Cold. Sweaty. A dozen people spoke to me, and I pasted on a grin and tried to pretend my head wasn’t about to explode.
When I finally made it to my Jeep, I swung into the drivers seat, started the engine and had a fleeting thought of relief that although Crisco was parked right next to me, he wasn’t around. Had he been, or had he seen me, he would’ve been able to tell. Already I felt like everyone could see me. See through my pasty fake grin and forced swagger. Jesus Christ, I hated this. Hated. It.
Thankfully, the line of cars heading out of Winston was short and moving fast, and in minutes I was on the main street and heading home. I sucked in lungfuls of cold air as I drove, hoping that would quell the nausea building. It barely did. I turned down my lane, skidded to a stop close to the porch and flew into the house, making it to the bathroom just in time. I heaved until my stomach was sore, and finally, I had no more in me. With my head still pounding, I leaned over the sink, gathered handfuls of cold water in my cupped hands and splashed it on my face. One second I was there, in the bathroom, and in the next I was in my bedroom where I flung myself across my bed. I wasn’t even sure if I’d closed the front door.
At this point, I didn’t care. Gathering my pillows, I crammed my head between them and pushed against the headboard until a constant pressure settled over my skull. I was pretty sure my eyes were closed, but it was so black, so dark, I couldn’t tell. All I wanted was the pain to go away.
The last thing I remember was Captain Gregg’s nails clicking across the wood planked floors as he made his way to my room.
“Memory?”
I bolted upright at the sound of my name.
In the bed, I sat there for a moment, gathering my whereabouts.
Medicine. Headache. Barfing. Bed.
Jace.
“Shit!” I said out loud. Déjà vu: Jace Beaumont had caught me unaware. Late for a date I’d arranged! I sat still for another split moment, to assess my condition. I blinked. Waiting.
Nausea gone. Headache gone.
“Memory? You in there?” Jace Beaumont called from the screened door.
Guess I hadn’t shut it after all. “Hey!” I called. “Come on in, I’ll be there in a sec!” I hoped I hadn’t sounded to desperate. I was, kind of, but I hoped I hadn’t sounded it.
I’d been looking forward to this ever since yesterday.
The screen door creaked and Jace’s heavy footfall sounded just inside the front of the house. Fast as lightning, I peeled off my leather jacket and scrambled out of my knee-high leather boots that I hadn’t bothered to take off when I stumbled home, flung open my closet and dug my hiking boots out. I quickly pulled them on, tied them up, yanked a brush through my hair a few times before pulling on my red slouchy knit hat, then dashed over to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Then I was down the hall and when I entered the living room, Jace was standing at the old refurbished secretary my dad had found at an estate auction, looking at the pictures we had there. One was in his hand, and he looked up as I entered the room. Those sage eyes regarded me closely, quietly.
I walked over to him, smile in place. I knew the picture he held, just by the size of it. “My mother,” I informed him, and decided to relieve him of the awkward question sure to follow. “She died in a car accident when I was nine.” In the picture, she was young, sitting on a branch of a massive oak tree, her bare legs and feet dangling down. She wore a white sundress, and her long black hair tumbled nearly to her waist. Her smile lit up the picture.
“You look just like her,” Jace said in That Voice. He placed the framed photo back in place and picked up another one. He studied it for a moment and turned it around to face me. “So, you’ve been the way you are your whole life?” There was a slight curve to his lips. A vague sparkle in his eyes.
The picture was of me at six years old. The Year Before Everything Changed. It was winter, cold, and I had on a brown barn jacket and my favorite knitted Mickey Mouse hat. In each of my hands I clasped an enormous bullfrog. My eyes and mouth were wide and full and lively. I remembered it like it was yesterday. “My dad took that,” I finally answered. “He’d caught them down by the pond and I thought they were the coolest things ever.” I gave a laugh. “They were cool in my hands, squirming and croaking and I was laughing and croaking right along with them.”
“I can tell,” he said, then put the photo back. When he looked at me again, he was quiet for a moment. But his gaze was loud. Almost as if trying to pick me apart, to see what was going on inside my head. Good luck!
“Memory,” he finally said. “You don’t really need to do this.” He took a step toward me. “It was just a belt. No big deal.”
Now I took a step toward him. I held his gaze, made sure he was looking dead at me. “Now, this is where you really, really don’t know me very well,” I started. “You see, Jace Beaumont, everything is a big deal to me. So,” I inclined my head toward the front door. “Don’t try and squirm out of this date. Trust me,” I wiggled my brows. “You want to go.”
He gave me that smoky, dubious stare, but a grin lifted his mouth. “If you say so, Miss Thibodeaux.”
“I do,” I replied, and at the door I grabbed my jacket off the hook on the wall. As I turned to push my arms into the sleeves, Jace took me off guard.
He helped me into the jacket.
It was an odd feeling.
I liked it.
“Thanks,” I said, and when he followed me out the door, I turned and locked it. “I’m driving,” I announced, and started past him on the steps. At the driver’s side door, I made sure he was actually following me. He was. “It’s part of the fun.”
Jace swung into the passenger side, threw on his seatbelt, and I did the same. In the next instant we were bumping down the lane, and at the highway I turned right. I glanced at him, and he’d pulled on his shades, and the afternoon sun glinted off the lens and his brown hair that was cut short, but not too short. There was a boyish little flip to it that, if I had to bet money on it, he hated. I thought it was adorably stinking cute, and sexy as all hell.
“Aren’t you going to ask me where we’re going?” I asked, just before I
turned into Barnett’s Burgers and BBQ.
Jace looked at me. “Er, Barnett’s Burgers and BBQ?”
I gave a snort and pulled in to a parking spot. There were several other patrons there, but I’d called Billy Barnett, the owner’s son and whom I’d been taking classes with for two years, and placed an order. He’d promised it would be ready when I dropped by. I put the gear in neutral and pulled the emergency brake. Jace started to get out, but I stopped him. “Oh, no, handsome. You stay right where you are.” I got out, then screwed my face up at him. “You don’t think I’m any more imaginative than eating at a burger joint?” I laughed, and before he could answer I jogged across the lot and ducked into the side entrance.
Billy was running the kitchen and, when he saw me, he flashed me a grin and slammed his palm down onto the silver bell that announced when an order was up. I walked over.
“Thanks, Billy,” I said. “Did you add in extra crazy Barnett sauce?”
Billy had a slight gap in his two front teeth that I’d always thought was adorable. “Yup,” he answered. “And lemon meringue pie.”
I closed my eyes briefly, then looked at him. “I just slobbered.”
Just then, a waitress bustled up wearing a navy blue long-sleeved tee with Barnett’s in red across the front, and a pair of faded jeans. She flashed a smile and handed me a large carry-out bag with sturdy plastic handles. “Lots of napkins,” she added.
“Thanks, guys!” I said, and handed the waitress thirty dollars. “Keep the change!” Then I headed back to the Jeep. I placed the bag in the seat behind me, right next to the cooler of strawberry soda I’d been chilling in the freezer. I climbed in, and Jace was cautiously watching me behind his shades.
“Define imaginative,” he said.
And I laughed.
“You know,” I explained, turning over the engine, putting the gear in first and releasing the emergency brake. “Imaginative. Creative. Ingenious. Not just an average dinner date at a burger joint.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s totally lame and you know it.” As I pulled back onto the highway, I chanced another peek at him. “You’re not worried, are you, Beaumont? About my…imagination?” The sun was beginning its descent, and I picked up the speed. I didn’t want Jace to miss the show.
He rubbed his jaw. “That’s a loaded question, Miss Thibodeaux,” he answered. “Let’s just say I’ve got my guard up. About your…imagination.”
I laughed. “Well,” I said with a shout over the wind barreling in through the Jeep’s open doors. It’d been consistently cold lately—so much that I should’ve put the doors back on. But I liked the open-Jeep freedom. “I won’t bite,” I slipped him a glance, and he was watching me. “Unless you want me to.”
Jace studied me for a moment, then just shook his head and turned his gaze forward.
But behind those shades I’d bet my ass his eyes lit up.
After a few miles I turned down a small, unmarked dirt road that ran alongside the Calico River for a while, then turned and began to ascend a slight incline lined by pines and cottonwoods. At the top was a large landing that had been cleared and, usually in the summer, was packed with cars and people. I stopped the Jeep, put the gear in park and pulled the brake. Jace assessed his surroundings, and I assessed him. Slightly difficult, since he was clothed in winter’s garb. My eyes traveled to his hands, resting on his thighs, and I noticed they were large, well worked, with thick veins and large knuckles and blunt fingernails. When I looked up, he was watching me. I shrugged.
“Can’t blame a girl for copping a good look while you’re facing the other way,” I gave a sly smile. “You’ve got nice hands. Ready?”
He inclined his head. “What is this place?”
“Morgan’s Bridge,” I answered proudly. “The most deliciously deserted, possibly haunted train trestle in the state of Texas.” I stepped out of the Jeep, grabbed the cooler and set it on the ground, then reached back in and hefted the bag of Barnett’s. “From May till September, the bridge is the exclusive summer home to an exquisite colony of bats—”
Jace was beside me then, reaching for the cooler.
“—which is quite a breathtaking sight to witness. As well as one of the finest bungee jump launches around,” I continued with a grin. “But tonight it’s our dinner table.” I tilted my head back, as he was closer to me than I’d thought, and I cocked my head. “If I’d have wanted to go on a dinner date with Maverick, then I would’ve asked Maverick. But I wanted you, Jace Beaumont.” I lifted my free hand and removed his shades. “There. That’s better. Now I can see your reaction to the things I say, not to mention cop a few more sneaky looks at those faded sage green eyes I fancy.” I stuffed his shades in his jacket pocket.
Said sexy eyes regarded me. “Who’s Maverick?” Jace asked.
I jerked back. “What’d you say?” I mocked. “Seriously? Goose. Maverick. Top Gun?” I shook my head and started for the trestle. “It’s quite obvious you need some food in your stomach. Lack of sustenance is making you kookoo.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Who’s Maverick? Well, you comin’ or aren’t ya, handsome?”
I stared long enough to watch Jace tilt his head back and heave out a sigh, and that sight alone made me want to start giggling. What an internal struggle that goody two-shoed, straight-laced boy was having. I knew I probably came on strong, but hey. That was my personality. I never meant any harm. Ever. “I’m not askin’ you to marry me, Mr. Beaumont,” I called without looking. “It’s just dinner on a haunted train trestle! Sheesh!”
This time, I heard a faint, deep chuckle behind me, and I was surprised to find Jace had caught up with me. Then, he was beside me, his tall, broad-shouldered and lanky bow-legged cowboys gait just a step ahead of me. He said nothing, though, and I was starting to get the feeling that Jace Beaumont was that curious yet astoundingly alluring guy who might have the potential to be silent, but deadly. A fury to be reckoned with, if provoked.
In a good way, that is.
We both stopped where the path ended, and the trestle began. Dead straight ahead of us, the old Morgan tracks still existed, supported and framed by aged iron that stretched over the Calico River. Enter At Your Own Risk signs were all over. I supposed that was the Law, having grown weary of coming out to the bridge almost every single day during the summer in an attempt to run everyone off. A gust of wind blew through and lifted a strand of my hair, and it caught on my lip. I looked out over the water, dotted by the sun like so many diamonds. “The sun will begin to drop just there,” I said, and pointed. “And as we sit and eat the most scrumptious burgers you’ll ever put in your mouth, the water bugs and moths and night crawlers will scramble and fly upward, shadows will lean and stretch over the Calico, and before you know it—” I looked at him. “It’ll eat us up. So let’s get a move on—”
Jace’s eyes were on mine when he lifted a hand, and his finger brushed the strand of hair still caught on my lip. So taken aback by the intimate movement, I almost gasped. Almost. Instead, though, I smiled, and his sage eyes danced.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked. He actually looked surprised that he’d done it.
“Are you referring to the trestle, or being with me?” I asked. But before he could answer, I laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s just the right fusion of safe and uncertainty to make it breathtakingly exciting.”
He let out a gusty sigh. “Stay behind me, Memory,” he said.
“What? And let your big self stomp ahead, crack those old boards and then me follow and fall into the super-cold, super frigid Calico?” I shook my head and shoved my hand into my pocket, withdrawing the two dimes in change I’d had from my lunch at the school cafe. I handed one to him, and he looked at me.
“We’ll flip to see who goes first,” I announced, my lips pulling up into a grin I tried to hide. “It’s only fair.”
This time, Jace let out a frustrated sigh, with his head falling back. I’d started to believe it was his signature move, and it was endearing as hell. “God
Almighty, Memory,” he said, and looked at me. He set the cooler down. “You are so peculiar. All right then, let’s do it.”
“Takes one to know one,” I retorted. “Okay, flip.”
We both flipped.
“Heads,” I said.
“Heads,” Jace said at the exact same time.
When the dimes landed on the ground, we both squatted to inspect.
My eyes widened when I saw them both. “Oh, Jesus,” I whispered, then looked at him all serious-like. “It’s a goocher.” I picked up the dimes, holding them side-by-side, and I rubbed my thumb over them. My gaze met his. “This is bad.”
Jace was silent for all of two seconds before he let out a deep, rumbling laugh. It was a total guy laugh, the kind that was sexy, from the gut, and one hundred percent hot-blooded male. I silently vowed I would listen to it for the rest of my life, if given the chance.
“Come on, Verno,” Jace finally said, using the phrase from Stephen King’s Stand By Me. Once again, impressing me. “Let’s go together.”
My mouth turned up into a grin. “All right. But a goocher’s a goocher, no matter how you look at it. And you keep adding on points, boy. A Stand By Me reference is a plus, and it smites the lack of Maverick knowledge from earlier.”
“Whatever you say, Memory,” Jace chuckled. “But it’s actually The Body by Stephen King. Stand By Me is the screenplay and movie.” He eyed me. “But I’m sure you knew that.”
My smile pulled at my cheeks. “Of course I did. But I didn’t expect you to. Point!”
So together we started over the trestle, and the sun beamed through the cottonwoods and oaks and magnolias and onto our faces, and when we made it to the very center of the trestle, we both stopped. I sat down first, and Jace followed, right beside me. Our legs dangled over the edge, and we both leaned and looked down.