by Penny Reid
Actually, I thought it was cute. But I’d never tell my grandpa that.
This time of year, it was too cold to park, therefore the field was typically vacant. So of course, my mind leapt to the absolute worst conclusion.
The Wraiths must have carjacked Roscoe and have taken him to the field to work him over and/or murder him.
This was why I would never make a good field agent. To a hammer, everything looks like a nail. To my brain, everything looks like a precursor to murder. Likely, I was a gothic novelist in a past life.
Pressing my foot more firmly to the gas pedal while attempting to talk myself off the ledge, I reasoned that—statistically speaking—the worst-case scenario was always the most unlikely answer. Plus, if the Wraiths picked up Roscoe, they’d take him to the Dragon Biker Bar, not a field thirty minutes down the road. Plus, Isaac would be the one to pick him up, and Isaac would keep him safe.
Plus, plus, plus.
Despite my attempt at reasoning, my heart continued to gallop, and my jaw hurt from clenching it by the time I arrived to the first fence post of Hawk’s Field. The field was vast, several acres, and Roscoe’s GPS coordinates had him near the back southwest corner, which made me feel a modicum better.
The southwest corner was mostly flat and open while other spots of the gated acreage were covered in thick growth of both new and old forest. If the Wraiths had him, and wanted to do him harm, they would have taken him to one of the forested areas, not the out-in-the-open area.
But as I neared the entrance to the field, my heart did another jump, this time at the sight of a police car, all lights off, parked along the side of the road just beyond the open gate. A flash of terror, an echo of feeling from my encounter with Officer Strickland last week, had me gripping the wheel tighter as I pulled into the field. I kept one eye on my rearview mirror as I drove—holding my breath—in the direction the tracker dictated.
Luckily, I spotted Roscoe’s truck easily. He had the headlights on and, even from a distance, I could see him moving around his vehicle with easy steps. Furthermore, he was alone.
So, not murdered.
I was just breathing out a relieved sigh when I spotted the unmistakable sight of police high beams behind me, some hundred feet or more away. Keeping my speed constant, because I’d reach Roscoe before the police car reached me, I mentally sketched a quick plan of action should the officer be of the Strickland variety.
Roscoe seemed to spot my car and realize I was heading for him, because he stopped in front of his open passenger door, where his features would be bathed in light instead of silhouetted by it. I pulled next to his truck, shut off the engine, and jumped out, my attention split between Roscoe and the quickly approaching police car.
“Simone?” Roscoe was looking between me and the coming vehicle, his attention equally divided.
I’d parked so that my driver’s side was along his passenger side and closed the distance between us in two steps.
Peering up at him, I made no attempt to disguise my nerves, mostly because I was too anxious to disguise anything. “Hi, Roscoe.”
“What’s going on?” In the pale-yellow illumination provided from the pilot light of his car, I could discern that he didn’t seem upset by my sudden appearance, but rather looked concerned. “Are you okay?”
Hoping Roscoe wouldn’t notice my hand inching toward the concealed weapon at my side, I asked, “Who is that?” I lifted my chin toward the cop car that was slowing to a stop. “Do you recognize the number on the side of the car? Is that Jackson? Or Duke?”
Roscoe glanced between me and the now stopped car. Abruptly, his arm came around my waist and he pulled me closer. I felt his body grow rigid, and I soon knew why.
Officer Strickland straightened from his vehicle. Just like last time, he’d placed his hand on his weapon.
I gritted my teeth, rapidly assessing the situation. This man would not find me as powerless and docile as he had last week. Also, I was a great shot. Really, really great. I could hit a mannequin’s balls from seventy-five feet with a revolver.
Officer Strickland was less than thirty feet away.
“What’re y’all doing out here?” he asked, not kindly. I couldn’t be sure, because it was as dark as the inside of a closed coffin out here, but it felt like his eyes were on me.
Roscoe sucked in a breath as though he were going to say something, but seemed to stop himself. He then gave me a squeeze that felt reassuring, followed by another squeeze. I realized he—Roscoe—was waiting for me to speak.
Taking the hint, I squeezed him back (because at some point my arm must’ve found its way around his waist, though I didn’t remember that happening) and replied evenly, “Good evening, Officer Strickland. We’re setting up camp.”
The man said nothing. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see parts of his form in silhouette, backlit by the interior of his car. His hand still rested on his weapon.
“Can’t camp out here. This is private property.” He adjusted his stance. Like before, he placed his weight on his left foot. “Y’all need to leave.”
“I have permission from Mrs. Cooper.” Roscoe lifted his voice.
“You saying you got permission don’t mean much to me, boy. You still got to go.”
“I have her permission in writing.” Roscoe’s voice held just a hint of irritation.
“I’m not interested in no phony—”
“And a picture of Mrs. Cooper holding the letter, giving the camera a thumbs-up.” Now Roscoe sounded fierce, angry even, reminding me of last week when he’d argued with his father.
In that moment, I decided I liked fierce Roscoe. I liked him a lot.
And also, a picture of Mrs. Cooper holding the letter and giving the camera a thumbs-up? This was something I needed to see.
Officer Strickland sighed loudly. “Fine. Let’s see it.”
“I have to reach in my back pocket for my phone,” he growled in response, but didn’t move.
The man huffed again. “Then git it.”
Roscoe gave me another squeeze and I looked at him as he said, “Can’t say I feel safe reaching for my phone right now.” His profile was grim and his eyes were pointed at Officer Strickland’s waist, where his hand hovered over his gun.
“Officer Strickland, do you think you could take your hand off your weapon, please?” I asked, my tone again calm, even. “When you have your hand on your weapon, it’s frightening.”
Once more, the man said nothing, and his eyes seemed to be on me. I gave him a tight smile.
Finally, finally his hand fell to his side, and he braced his feet apart.
“You frightened, girl?” He sounded amused, pleased even.
I had the sudden urge to shoot him in the balls.
But I also sensed a change in Roscoe, his frustration multiplying into rage. If this had been the Roscoe of my childhood, then I would have known what to expect. Kid Roscoe always grew quiet in his rage, turned it all inward, and worked through his anger privately. But this adult Roscoe was unpredictable and might possibly have a crush on none other than moi.
I’d seen both men and women lose their temper in a fit of possessive rage before. Not that I thought Roscoe was on the precipice of doing that, or that his alleged crush on me ran deep or crazy enough to inspire a sense of possession. But—that said—I didn’t know what adult Roscoe was capable of.
So I spoke before he could, “Yes, sir. You frighten me. If that was your goal, you’ve achieved it.”
Roscoe turned his head in my direction and he released a quiet, restless sound, as though my words pained him, like he couldn’t abide the thought of me frightened. The sound caused an answering flutter in my heart, which honestly made no sense to my brain.
Hearts are weird, best to ignore.
The officer appeared to consider my words, like they were a puzzle, or I was trying to trick him, and silence stretched.
Then a thought occurred to me, and I said, “When I worked at the Virgi
nia Department of Forensic Science, I interacted with hundreds of police officers. My degree was in law enforcement, and my graduate degree is in forensic chemistry. I interned there, helping officers—such as yourself—solve crimes. But none of those fine men and women in blue frightened me. You have the distinction of being the first.”
Officer Strickland shifted, seemed to rock back slightly on his feet, his chin lifted a notch. The three of us passed another long moment, during which Roscoe continued to look at me, some of the tension leaving his body, and the officer stood eerily still.
Strickland was the first to move, placing his hand on the top of his car door. “I have things to do, can’t be out here all night.” His tone was stiff, gruff, but neither aggressive nor threatening, and his fingers drummed distractedly on the metal frame. The man didn’t move to leave otherwise, giving me the impression he wanted to say something else.
He didn’t.
He slid into his car, shut the door, turned the engine, and left.
When his taillights were out of sight, Roscoe released me, his arm sliding away as he turned. “That was . . .” He shook his head, pulling his fingers through his hair. “That was impressive.”
I swallowed, my fingers and toes tingling with the ebb of adrenaline, my gaze still focused on the distant spot where Officer Strickland’s car had disappeared.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his hand coming to my shoulder and sliding down my arm, his voice soft.
It was the softness of and palatable concern in his voice that drew my attention. I found him studying me. He appeared deeply concerned, and that’s when I noticed adult Roscoe Winston was exceptionally handsome this evening, his eyes exceptionally entreating, his mouth exceptionally alluring. This last thought was a bizarre thing to note as I’d never considered a man’s mouth to be alluring before.
Who am I kidding? Noticing anything enticing about Roscoe Winston, especially after what had just transpired mere moments ago, was incredibly bizarre.
Nevertheless, my heart did another little flutter thing while we swapped stares, causing me to wonder if maybe I had a heart murmur . . .?
I should go see a cardiologist and increase my electrolyte intake.
“Hey.” He entwined our fingers, releasing an audible exhale. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I nodded absentmindedly.
Relative to the context of Roscoe’s question, I was okay. But I was also not okay, because I needed to see a cardiologist about this odd, aching flutter.
The right side of his alluring mouth tugged upwards. “You sure about that?”
I nodded again, but said, “I think I need to go to the doctor.”
His frown was immediate. “What? Why?” Roscoe’s hand squeezed mine and he gained a half step closer.
Dammit. Freaking heart flutter explosion.
“Nothing. Never mind.” I pulled my hand from his and laughed, hoping it didn’t sound uneasy as I waved away his concern. “It was a joke, but it came out weird and wrong and . . .” I sighed, placing my hands on my hips, peering up at him and his partially concerned, partially confused, but all handsome expression. “I don’t think Officer Strickland likes me.”
Roscoe crossed his arms and his eyes seemed to heat and harden. “I think Officer Strickland is an asshole.”
I laughed again.
Roscoe added, “To put it lightly.”
I nodded, chuckling, and glanced over Roscoe’s shoulder to the dark field, peaks and branches of the trees outlined by pinpricks of starry light. I also spotted the small, two-person tent he’d set up just a few feet from his truck.
“How was your week?” I asked. I didn’t particularly want to talk about Officer Strickland, so a change in subject seemed in order.
“Just fine.” I sensed his eyes still on me, the way his gaze leisurely traced my features. My mouth was suddenly dry.
Heart palpitations and dry mouth, those sounded like adverse side effects in a pharmaceutical commercial, right? I’d changed my birth control seven months ago, but maybe I was having a delayed reaction.
“How about you?” he asked.
“How about me, what?” I looked at him, losing my place in the conversation.
He flashed a smile—there and gone—and glanced at his feet. When he looked up again, his expression looked patient, but also interested. “Do you want to talk about what just happened?”
“With Officer Asshole?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I said. Firmly.
“Are you going to tell your family?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked, his voice hard, frustrated.
“I just said I didn’t want to talk about it,” I said on a rush, hoping he’d let the issue drop.
He stared at me. I stared at him. Crickets chirped. Wind whistled through nearby trees. Seconds ticked by.
After staring—intently and at length—he finally said, “Okay,” nodding once.
I released a silent sigh of relief.
Roscoe continued scrutinizing me as he leaned a hand against the roof of his truck and asked, “What are you doing out here, Simone?”
I was definitely coming down with something. It was not normal for the sound of my name on a man’s lips to set my lungs on fire. An upper respiratory infection. That’s what it was.
“Oh, well, you know—” Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the half-truths portion of the evening. “—Shelly and Beau mentioned that you like to camp one night a week.”
Roscoe seemed to straighten, grow taller at this news, least I forget how deliciously tall he was in the first place. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes.” I glanced at him, watching him react to my half-truth. Seeing that this news seemed to inspire conflict within him, I shrugged and glanced at the interior of his truck. “So, you’re camping? Tonight? Out here?”
“I am—”
“Why not just camp in your backyard?”
“Because Cletus—”
“Isn’t it kind of cold outside to go camping? And where’s your sleeping bag?”
“It’s in the—”
“Are you sleeping in your clothes? Did you already eat? Do you really have a picture of Mrs. Cooper holding a letter of permission and giving the camera a thumbs-up? And what about—”
Roscoe clamped his palm over my mouth, his other hand coming around my neck to hold the back of my head. He smiled, a closed-mouth smile warm with affection, his eyes seeming to reflect the twinkling of the stars in the sky.
. . .
Seeming to reflect the twinkling of the stars in the sky? What the what? Did that thought come from my brain?
Great. Now I’m having delusions of grandeur.
I knew why he was smiling. He’d covered my mouth often growing up, when I’d get stuck in a “curiosity loop” as he called it. No mystery there.
But why all my symptoms chose that moment to flare together—heart flutter, dry mouth, lungs on fire, delusions of grandeur—a trifecta plus one of adverse reactions, I had no idea.
No idea.
No idea, at all.
Adult Roscoe Winston still smells good.
Also, I was dizzy.
But my ailments did not prevent me from noticing how Roscoe’s smile faded by degrees; or how his eyes dipped, grew hooded and hazy as they focused on the hand covering my mouth; or how his breathing changed. I also didn’t miss how strong and—yes—delectably tall he was.
No, I did not miss these details. But I was also forced to add feverish and confusion to my list of symptoms.
So, basically, I was dying. Probably of a brain disease.
Roscoe gathered what sounded like an unsteady breath and released me, averting his eyes as he turned and walked around the open door of his truck and to the tent pitched in the dark field. He cleared his throat once, twice, three times while he fiddled with the stakes anchoring the poles.
“To answer your questions, I am camping. Tonight. Out here.”
He sounded funny, like he’d lowered his voice, firmed it or something. “I don’t camp in the backyard because, when I tried doing that, Cletus woke me up before sunrise, complaining that I was in his yoga spot. It’s not too cold to go camping if you have the right gear. My sleeping bag is in the bed of the truck, all set up. I will be sleeping in these clothes. I already ate, but I have supplies for breakfast. And yes, I have a picture of Mrs. Cooper holding the letter and giving the camera a thumbs-up on my phone.”
This time the flare of feeling I experienced was easily identifiable. Nostalgia.
“You just answered all my questions. In order.”
He paused in his work but didn’t look up. “Yeah. So?”
“You still do that.”
“Yep.” He exhaled as he stood, still not looking at me, and walked to the driver’s side door. He opened it.
“I always thought it was cool, when you did that,” I admitted quietly, mostly to myself.
I couldn’t see his expression well, since he was moving and it was dark, but I thought I saw a small, fleeting smile curve his mouth.
“I always thought it was cool, when you could remember a series of numbers after reading them a few times,” he said, just as quietly.
“Yeah, but I used mnemonic devices and practiced. You never had to practice. If you heard something, you could always repeat it, word for word.” At one point I wondered if he had a photographic memory. He definitely didn’t. His ability to retain facts read—or even pictures seen—had never been as good as mine, especially once I started working on my memorization skills.
Roscoe shrugged, pulling out two pillows from the cab and closing the driver’s side door.
I walked around to the bed of his truck, inspecting this sleeping bag he claimed he had. Reaching inside, I discovered it was more than just a sleeping bag. He’d placed a wooden board on the bottom, followed by a foam mat, an air mattress, a sheet and that wool blanket, and topped it off with a sleeping bag.
“You’re sleeping back here?” Look at him, a regular princess and the pea.
He nodded, adding the two pillows to his bed, and moving to place a battery-operated camping lantern near the tailgate.