Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  “Your daddy wants a word.” Twilight sounded bored. Bored and impatient.

  Glancing between the two men, I widened my stance, preparing for Twilight’s inevitable advance. “What does Darrell want?”

  “A word,” Twilight repeated, over-enunciating. “And that’s all you gotta know.”

  He advanced on me again and I tensed my right arm in readiness. Twilight made just one step before stopping, turning over his shoulder as the sound of an approaching car met our collective ears.

  Actually, the Audi wasn’t just approaching. It was speeding over the gravel road, kicking up a quantity of rocks and dust in its wake while its shocks took a beating.

  Simone.

  My stomach fell.

  What in the hell? How could she possibly know where to find me?

  Speaking of which, how did she find me last week at Genie’s? And how did she know the exact spot where I’d be at Hawk’s Field on Thursday? And Starbucks on Friday?

  I glanced at my truck, a suspicion taking hold.

  . . . No.

  She wouldn’t.

  Yes. She would.

  My brother Cletus had placed an over-the-counter car tracker on someone’s car once (once that I know of), and he was just a sneaky bastard.

  Whereas Simone had a bachelors in criminal justice, and a master of forensic science in forensic chemistry. The woman might’ve been unemployed in her field, but she was a modern-day Sherlock. I couldn’t believe the possibility—that she’d been tracking my truck—hadn’t occurred to me until now.

  “Son of a—” Twilight stopped himself, his lips pinching as an expression of intense frustration claimed his features.

  His unfinished thought was my sentiment exactly.

  “Okay, well.” I locked my truck, walked past a distracted Twilight toward where Curtis stood by the SUV. “Let’s go.”

  But I wasn’t fast enough. Simone pulled her car—recklessly, I might add—between my truck and their SUV, blocking my path. Undeterred, I set my jaw and walked around her car just as she jumped out of it.

  “Thank goodness you haven’t left yet,” she said, sounding breathless and ridiculously cheerful, her hand grabbing my arm and yanking me to a stop.

  I spun on her and shook her off, giving her a warning glare. “Go home.”

  “I just got here,” she said, her tone hard and determined, as were her gorgeous eyes.

  “Simone, I swear to God—”

  “Listen to Roscoe, Simone.” Curtis’s boots crunched over the gravel, the big man strolling toward us and drawing her notice.

  I watched as she did a double take, presumably recognizing him. A hint of fear or astonishment sparked behind her eyes and she took a half step back. Almost immediately, she straightened her spine, lifting her chin as renewed defiance blanketed her features.

  “You don’t tell me what to do,” she spat at the big man, raising a finger.

  He seemed unaffected by the vehemence in her tone, but his steps slowed, like he was recalculating what to do next.

  She spun on Twilight, finger still raised. “Neither do you, My Little Pony. And”—she turned to me, the gold in her eyes flashing, her lips a grim line—“neither do you.”

  “Fine.” I seethed. “Goodbye.”

  She caught my arm again, her gaze darting between Curtis’s slow-motion approach and me. “Don’t go with them. Stay here. With me. We’ll go on that hike, like we planned.”

  I shook my head, confused by the words—lies—spilling out of her mouth. “What are you talking—”

  “They can’t take both of us,” she said on a rush, her eyebrows lifting meaningfully. “That would be kidnapping.”

  “Yes. We can.” Curtis’s deep voice was closer now, but he still moved at a snail’s pace. “And we will.”

  “I prefer the word detain to kidnapping,” Twilight said. The comment was clearly meant to be sarcastic, but he didn’t sound too happy about it. “Baby Winston here is coming with us willingly.”

  “That’s right,” I said through clenched teeth, “I am. And you’re staying here.”

  “No.” Her hand slid down my forearm to tangle our fingers together. “Please.” She brought our hands to her chest, worry making her eyes bright. “Please don’t go. You have no assurances that you’ll come back, that they’ll let you leave.”

  At these words, Curtis stopped moving.

  But Twilight stepped forward, leaning in close. “All your daddy wants is to talk to you, that’s it. You got my word that you can leave as soon as Darrell is finished.”

  Simone shook her head, not releasing my gaze.

  My chest constricted in response to her plea and the worry I saw in her eyes for me. But what could I do? Her sudden appearance had tied my hands.

  The Wraiths were a mixed bag of human garbage and salvageable souls.

  Darrell Winston and Razor Dennings—the club vice president and president, respectively—were human garbage.

  Curtis I trusted. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.

  Twilight was anybody’s guess. How he treated his sister, his momma, the choices he’d made, he hadn’t made any sense in years.

  There were a few other recruits there—two guys I’d gone to high school with in particular, and Drill, a big bald dude who sometimes went fishing with me and Beau on Bandit Lake—who were not human garbage. If I needed to get out of a bind, they’d help me escape and make it look real.

  But I had no idea if the same could be said for helping Simone. These MC guys, they were encouraged by senior members to view women differently. Women to them were property, used and disposed of, subhuman submissives kept around to meet physical urges.

  Maybe Darrell would let me go once he had his say, maybe he wouldn’t. One thing I knew for sure, with Simone here as potential leverage, any chance I’d had of fighting my way out or escaping this mess was gone. Curtis and Twilight were taking me with them one way or the other, and I’d never forgive myself if they took her, too.

  So I shook her off, grinding my teeth and shaking my head. “Goodbye.”

  Worry gave way to fury and she glowered at me. I could almost hear the parade of expletives marching through her mind.

  Turning to Curtis, I nodded and walked past him to the open door of the SUV. I slid in. I buckled my seatbelt. I waited. Curtis and Twilight lingered where they were for several seconds, but then eventually moved to the black vehicle.

  “If there’s no danger, then I can come along too,” she said to their retreating backs.

  “Simone. You’re not coming.” I shot her another glare.

  She shot me one back, following in Curtis’s footsteps. “I’m coming.”

  “You are not.” Curtis spun, blocking her path.

  Lifting her chin and meeting his towering gaze, she crossed her arms. “If you don’t bring me, I’ll call the police and say Roscoe was man-napped.”

  “Then, when they show up”—Curtis crossed his arms, too—“Roscoe will explain the situation and they’ll leave.”

  She smirked. “Then I’ll skip the police and call Congressman William Winston. Or better yet, Cletus Winston.”

  Curtis stood exceedingly still, staring down Simone, obviously considering the merit of her threat. It was a great threat, maybe the most effective one she could have made. I think I knew before he did what his decision had to be because I cursed under my breath and my vision clouded with red.

  “Simone,” I hissed, but it was too late.

  “Fine.” Curtis turned, stomping back to the SUV, his mouth a wrathful, frustrated slant. “We bring her, too.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Touch has a memory.”

  John Keats

  *Simone*

  I sang “It’s a Small World After All” and Roscoe paced.

  Pacing, pacing, pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Prowling the medium-ish room we’d been deposited and locked in.

  The room held barely any furniture. No windows, one door with two l
ocks from the outside, cement walls with no pictures; a gray metal desk and chair sat against one wall next to a neatly made twin bed with a white bedspread and gray metal frame; a wooden footstool with an embroidered cushion was on its own near the center of the space; three folding chairs were leaning against the wall near the door. A huge, pristine-looking oriental rug covered the floor—red, dark blue, and light green—and felt soft and clean beneath my feet.

  Oh yeah, they’d taken our shoes and socks. They’d also taken Roscoe’s sweater, whereas I’d been allowed to keep my jacket. Which meant he was prowling the room in bare feet.

  This—bare feet, clothed only in a black T-shirt and tan hiking pants—added to my impression of him as a caged cheetah. Not a lion, or a tiger, or a jaguar. A cheetah.

  A lean, strong, restless, and extremely pissed-off cheetah.

  His pissed-off-ness, I assumed, had begun as soon as I’d arrived at Cooper Road Trail. Allegedly, it was threefold:

  1. We’d been abducted by the Iron Wraiths

  2. I’d insisted on being abducted right along with him, and

  3. I currently sang his least favorite song in the universe

  I was fine with his pissed-off cheetah status because nothing I currently felt was as neat and tidy as being pissed off. I was angry. I was also not angry, which was confusing. Additionally, I was having strange thoughts about Roscoe and me and the past and the future.

  Resentment stew had been simmering since Thursday night when I’d kissed him, he’d kissed me back, and then he’d pushed me away. However, last night during the dance floor incident, the resentment had ceased to simmer and had morphed into anger. Red, hot, boiling anger.

  Now, pay attention, because here is where things get interesting.

  After leaving Roscoe at Genie’s, driving home in a wrathful tizzy, and parking in front of my parent’s house, I cried. I cried and cried, and at the time I didn’t know why I cried. Not only were there tears, there were also soul-wracking sobs. So many sobs. And pain. In the chest, stomach, behind my eyes, and chest again.

  I imagined the tears came from within my bones, marrow deep, because even my bones hurt.

  Once the tears were spent, I went into the house—grateful I’d texted my mom a heads-up early so I wouldn’t be subjected to an apparating attack—and collapsed on the couch in the living room. I slept there in a dreamless sleep, waking up disoriented much later than I’d planned.

  My first thought upon waking, before realizing I was on the couch and not in my bed, was of Roscoe.

  He loved me, my brain thought in wonder, dumbfounded but not displeased.

  My heart answered, You stupid, wonderful, brilliant fool. You loved him, too.

  That, ladies and gentlemen, was the reason I’d cried in the car.

  Slowly, I became aware that I was on the couch, still in my black skirt, leggings, and black shirt from the day before. My shoes were still on. Glancing at my watch, I realized I’d overslept, and I panicked. Frantically reaching in my bag, I pulled out the tracking screen just as Roscoe’s truck left the Winston house. I rushed through a quick bathroom visit and was once more on the road.

  Also, of note, my hair was a disaster. I mean, I can’t even with the succubus on top of my head right now.

  But back to Cheetah Roscoe, the medium-ish room, and my superior singing.

  Let the record show, I was not singing at the top of my lungs.

  Oh no.

  I was singing his most hated song a la opera style. I’d already done a Beyoncé rendition, Adele, Gloria Estefan, James Brown, Weird Al, and Cake. After opera, I would move on to Kanye—which required a mirror if I was going to do it right—Alicia Keys, Broadway, Britney Spears, Snoop Dogg, Sammy Davis Jr. or Frank Sinatra—depending on my mood—and then, my personal favorite, Elvis.

  Old, gross Las Vegas Elvis, not alarmingly attractive young Elvis. Young Elvis smiled too much and moved his hips in ways I wasn’t sure I could imitate without sustaining a back injury.

  I’d just finished my operatic rendition and was searching for a mirror in the metal desk—if you’re going to Kanye, you must commit—when Roscoe snarled, “Are you finished?”

  “I’m looking for a mirror.”

  A noise emerged from him, deep like a growl, but short like a grunt.

  “Not the Kanye.”

  “Yes, the Kanye.”

  Another growl, longer this time, as fingers pulled through his thick, black hair. More pacing.

  Watching him prowl, I set my hand on my hip. “If you would talk to me, I wouldn’t have to serenade you.”

  “You don’t want me to talk to you.” Roscoe glared at me through slitted eyes.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m so angry right now, I’m liable to start yelling.”

  I shrugged. “Then yell.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” he exploded, finally. “What the hell is wrong with you, demanding that they bring you, too?” He pointed at the door. “These are bad guys, Simone. Dangerous, evil, fucking nightmare, dumpster fire, human garbage assholes.”

  I bit back a smile and the urge to say, Tell me how you really feel, or, So. . . take them off the Christmas card list?

  Instead, I hazarded three steps toward him. “That is exactly why I came. Strength in numbers.”

  Plus, as I’d suspected would happen, no one had thought to frisk me. They’d frisked Roscoe, but not me. Therefore, I still had my gun.

  Roscoe scoffed, shaking his head and kicking the embroidered footstool, sending it flying across the room to the far wall.

  “Kicking isn’t talking.”

  Although . . . I could see how it might be gratifying to kick random furniture.

  “Fine. You want me to talk?” Roscoe wasn’t yelling anymore, but the quality of his voice made it obvious none of his fury had dissipated. He was simply doing a better job of controlling his temper.

  As I reflected on it, I’d never seen Roscoe lose his temper. Therefore, the last half hour had been a revelation. When we were younger, he’d always stomped off to be alone whenever he was mad, sulking and sullen. He couldn’t do that now.

  “Tell me why you’ve been following me,” he demanded, his blue eyes heated, his posture and the angle of his head giving the impression of a cat ready to pounce.

  He looked quite intimidating, but I didn’t believe he had any intention of frightening me. Rather, Roscoe was clearly at his wit’s end and incredibly angry. Nor was I intimidated by his demanding tone or loss of temper. I found it was easy to take both in stride.

  Maybe because you’ve loved him.

  Not a hunch, not a hypothesis, not a theory.

  A law.

  I’d loved him.

  But what I’d told Roscoe on the dance floor last night was also true. I’d been too young, too immature to deal with feelings that big. I hadn’t been ready at sixteen, or eighteen, or even twenty-two. There existed the possibility I still wasn’t ready now.

  I mean, loving someone is a big fucking responsibility. How could I love someone if I couldn’t even decide between Chinese or Thai food when ordering takeout?

  I loved my family. I loved myself. I loved my neighbor—especially my Nancy—but the nature, requirements, and demands of those relationships were different than what he’d wanted from me. Could I love, really, truly love someone as remarkable as Roscoe, and all his soulfulness, how he deserved? Was I ready? Was I capable?

  And did I want to?

  As an aside, assuming I couldn’t figure this out on my own, I made a note to ask my mother if my qualms were normal—a la, was it normal to worry whether one is capable of loving another person how they deserved? If anyone could shed light on the situation, help me dissect it, and reach a satisfactory conclusion, it would be her.

  I must’ve taken too long to answer, because Roscoe made another frustrated growl, asking again, “Why have you been following me? The real reason this time.”

  I shrugged, trying to look bored. “Where
I go and what I do is none of your business.”

  Roscoe’s features darkened. He wasn’t having my answer.

  In the next moment, he strolled forward with determined, menacingly slow steps. He didn’t stop even as he entered my personal space, forcing me to shuffle backward until my back was against a wall, literally.

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, he glared down at me. “You knew the Wraiths were going to pick me up. How did you know?”

  “I overhear things at the diner,” I whispered in return, impressed with the reasonable sounding half-truth, and definitely not noticing again how tall he was.

  Have I mentioned that Roscoe was tall? Because he was really tall. Also, even angry, his eyes were still soulful. How does he do that?

  “What did you overhear?”

  I glanced at the ceiling. “I heard one of the Wraiths talking about how Darrell wanted to speak to you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Warn me?”

  Shaking my head, I moved my attention to his neck while I searched for a reasonable sounding lie. “I couldn’t be sure.”

  I felt his eyes on me, assessing. “You’re lying.”

  Lifting my gaze to his, I feigned impatience. “About what?”

  “I don’t know.” He shifted back a step, scrutinizing me. “Why are you lying?”

  “Maybe I don’t trust you.”

  That gave him pause, his stare growing hazy. “You don’t trust me?”

  Twisting my lips to the side, I stalled, studying him for several seconds before admitting, “I do trust you, but I’m angry that you don’t trust me.”

  He made a face of confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “You wouldn’t let me come, here, to keep you safe.”

  The confusion became vexation and he regained the step he’d ceded. “What is wrong with you? Me not wanting you here has nothing to do with not trusting you, and everything to do with wanting—no, needing you to be safe. I can’t—”

  Roscoe turned, shaking his head and grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he paced away. I thought I heard him mutter, “Unbelievable.”