Striking

by Lila Felix

  Stockton cleared his throat nervously but didn’t deny my accusation. “Well, I better go find Will.” He gave the preacher and my aunt another polite smile.

  Suddenly my uncle piped in and asked, “But you’ll be by later to look at that fence?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stockton answered immediately, but his gaze once again returned to me and I could see the panic flare to life behind his shuttered stare. He didn’t want to be anywhere near me and he wasn’t really trying to hide his feelings.

  What in the hell had I ever done to him?

  He was kind of pissing me off. Ok, not kind of, he was really pissing me off. Usually boys bent over backwards to get my attention. I was one fine piece of ass, and he should be tripping over his words and wiping the drool from his chin! He should not be in a hurry to get as far away from me as possible.

  So I did what any sane, rational girl would do in this situation, I extended my hand and turned on the charm. “It was so nice to meet someone my age, Stockton. You’ll have to show me around town one of these days.”

  His huge hand swallowed mine up as he performed the obligatory hand shake. His warm palm pressed against mine, and his masculine, strong fingers wrapped around mine. I almost jumped from the skin to skin sensation. I could have sworn there was an electrical current running straight from his hand to mine. My breathing easily sped up and my heart stuttered in my chest. I knew he felt it too, when he cleared his throat and stepped into the handshake.

  He was still glaring at me though, with his brilliant eyes and I just wanted to shrivel up beneath that hurtful stare. He was the first person in my life to make me feel inconsequential outside of my family and I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with all these emotions buzzing around inside me.

  “We will have to see about that, I’m really busy,” he murmured with no promise to accept or decline.

  More nerves fluttered in my stomach as he stared me down but made no attempt to remove his hand. I realized for sure this time that his right arm, was in fact much bigger than his left and I had to wonder if there was some kind of physical deformity underneath his nice dress shirt.

  Surely, he wasn’t like…. ugly under there.

  Everything else about him was way too perfect to have something seriously malformed hidden beneath his clothes.

  At least I hoped so.

  Was that shallow?

  Probably.

  “Alright, well I should probably get up there and start service,” the pastor announced, snapping Stockton and me out of our weird, way too long, handshake.

  Stockton released my hand immediately and practically sprinted away from me. He flexed and unflexed the hand I had been shaking as he made his getaway as if he was disgusted by touching me.

  That was so rude. What a jerk!

  Well, I thought that but my eyes still followed every step he took until he slid into a pew across the aisle with a gorgeous girl with long black hair and a pretty, but simple dress she kept adjusting like she wasn’t used to looking nice. There were two other boys sitting with them that were younger versions of him, clearly his brothers or some other kind of family.

  My aunt cleared her throat behind me and I quickly realized I was the only person still standing in the entire sanctuary. I sat down with a plop and tried my best to focus on the front of the room.

  The problem was that Stockton was sitting directly across the aisle, and I was starting to worry I had some kind of fetish with his profile.

  The preacher made some announcements and then a ridiculously old lady started pounding away at a piano while a middle-aged, silver haired man started belting out songs. The congregation collectively stood up again and started singing with him.

  With a dejected sigh, I forced myself to look forward and ignore the freakishly big armed man to my left. He didn’t deserve my attention. He was rude to me, obviously didn’t like me for some unknown reason and he was a boy.

  And I had sworn off boys after the whole stealing the car and crashing it through my mom’s storefront thing.

  I gave a less than half-hearted attempt to learn the hymn everyone was croaking out around me, but let’s get real, this place was just not for me.

  I had never been more uncomfortable in my life. I felt like every eye in the room was trained on me, judging me. Like they knew I was this heathen girl who did recreational drugs at parties and was seriously contemplating how much better this service would be if I could get my hands on one of their jugs of moonshine.

  Oh, god, I was going straight to hell.

  My hairline started to sweat, and I knew this was going to be a bad morning.

  My aunt stood perfectly still next to me, while I tried to hold back on the fidgeting. Eventually, the singing ended and we sat down en masse. The preacher took the pulpit again and launched into a lecture on treating others how we want to be treated.

  Or something like that, I stopped listening after he said something about judging a book by its cover.

  Unable to stop myself and desperately trying not to tug at my collar, I slid my gaze across the aisle. I caught Stockton’s eye for just a second before he quickly faced forward again, but in that moment I relaxed just a tiny bit.

  He was so checking me out.

  And, even though it shouldn’t, I was somehow comforted by the fact that the attraction I undeniably felt for him, was in some way reciprocated. Whatever reason he had for not wanting anything to do with me, at least he thought I was pretty to look at.

  And I could so work with that.

  Not that I would of course….

  But it was nice to know he didn’t hold all the power.

  Chapter 6

  Stockton

  That figures, the snooty duchess was from California—effing California.

  Probably spends her days on Rodeo Drive—shopping.

  Has never wanted for anything in her life.

  Dirt or grime haven’t even touched her shoes much less her hands.

  God, her hand.

  After I forced myself to let go, my hand tingled from her cool, soft as silk fingers wrapped in mine.

  No, she was a snotty west coast ball of uppityness.

  But damn was she gorgeous.

  Not the kind of pretty we see around here, the kind of beautiful that songs were written about.

  Then again, she probably listened to pop music, or rap.

  Why in the hell am I analyzing her like this?

  I stomped out of the church, angry at the stir in my gut because of her. Back to work, back to the grind—that’s where I needed to be. Shit—back to work meant going to Henry’s house—where she was. Damn it all. Bridger, West and Will filed in behind me like soldiers—I’d forgotten they were still in town from spring break in my anger. And I became so proud of myself for not looking back for one more peek at her. I’d been caught at least once in the middle of the sermon, studying the shape of her neck, the way it curved to meet her back. And her legs—I swore she’d crossed and recrossed them so many times I wondered if she was attempting to fan the person in front of her. She was so aggravating—and sexy as hell.

  We got back home and ate in almost perfect silence until they all broke out in laughter, Will firing the starting gun. We’d been given some kind of chicken casserole from Preacher Wife and we’d slaughtered it.

  “What the hell is so funny?” I couldn’t help but smile at them but I tried to zero each of them in with a demanding glare.

  Will swayed to her left, my authoritative voice failed me—she was laughing harder than before.

  “Somebody tell me what’s so funny,” I demanded.

  “What’s the word I’m looking for,” Bridger asked himself, tapping his finger on his chin, “How about—whipped?”

  A snort erupted from Will’s nose, “No way, she’d have to make him do something other than ogle her the entire church service to be called that—love-struck?”

  “Shell-shocked,” West mumbled.

  I needed to end this right tha
t second, “Here’s a word—pissed—tell me what you’re talking about now.”

  I knew exactly what they were talking about.

  Will sombered and cleared her throat, “You were totally goo goo eyeing Mr. Henry’s niece.”

  I ‘pshed’ at her accusation. I was not ogling her. I glanced at her a few times more than I should have but it was just because she was so damned awkward in church like she was a witch and that pew beneath her was a puddle of holy water. And the fidgeting—God help me the fidgeting. It drove me mad. It’s just not that hard to sit still in church. Maybe she was on something—all those wild California girls did coke, right?

  I retorted, “I was not. She just resembled a strung out Chihuahua all that damned squirming. It was driving me nuts.”

  Their gazes snapped to each other and the usually quiet West quipped, “She did what to your nuts?”

  And then Will fell out of her chair.

  It just wasn’t that funny.

  Pissed me off good.

  Wait until they found out I had to go to Henry’s later.

  Shit.

  Bridger offered to clean up and I let him, it was a nice reprieve from the norm. They all went their separate ways in the afternoon. Will went to see Jesse, Bridger packed up and went back to school and West did the same. I decided to go ahead and get it over with. I’d just run over there, see what the problem was with the gate, hopefully fix it and run back home and resume my regular Sunday napping schedule. Just like that. I probably wouldn’t even see her.

  She was as good as forgotten.

  I threw on some jeans and a black thermal and ran out the door. I pushed some tools and another gate that was lying around into the back of the truck, just in case I needed to bring Henry’s home to repair it in the shop. I slammed the tailgate shut and got in. I allowed one self-inflicted eye roll before I left home.

  I would not let her get to me. I would not let her get to me.

  You know when you have to chant to yourself that you’re already long gone.

  I drove up the curvy, rocky drive to dead end at the log cabin I’d loved as a child. In addition to being my Dad’s best friend, Henry and Mallory were my God-parents, so I’d spent a lot of time with them. They were my second parents but now things were just—weird.

  As I killed the engine, a flash of yellow caught my eye in the distance.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy…” I asked myself.

  It was her—Cami—what kind of name is Cami—in the field to the North of the property with the sheep. I left the key in the ignition and watched—but not before checking the perimeter to make sure that I wasn’t being monitored while I got my eyes’ fill of her. I had a suspicion Henry, Mallory, and I even suspected Preacher, were in cahoots, trying to get us together. But give me a break, she stuck out like a clown amongst mourners alone in the field maneuvering around like a brazen chimp.

  She was the epitome of ludicrous.

  Ludicrous didn’t even cover it.

  She was pitiful.

  God in Heaven, she was breathtaking.

  First, even from the distance, I could see that she was freezing. She had some billowy robin’s egg blue dress on with a white long-sleeve sweater that was completely translucent. There was no way that whisper of fabric was doing anything for her warmth. When the wind pushed its way against her, the dress plastered itself to her subtle curves, giving me just enough outline to imagine just how amazing she must look—minus the dress. She clomped through the pasture like the ground was made of hot coals and I didn’t understand why. But her shining flaxen waves shone in the gleam of the blaring sun as she tried in vain to—well, I couldn’t tell what exactly she was trying to do to those poor sheep. She was probably committing some crime against farmers and animals everywhere. PETA would have a field day. And I wasn’t the only one. Henry’s four dogs, Australian Shepards, lay in a row on the outskirts of the fence. And if dogs could laugh, these were hooting it up. Why was she trying to herd sheep without the dogs? And just when I thought Cami couldn’t get any more challenged, I caught sight of the reason for her coal hopping—the duchess was wearing orange sky high heels. I had to look away for a second—even I was embarrassed at the sight of her in those things—in the middle of a field—in the Appalachian mountains—with sheep dogs as her audience.

  I was embarrassed for her.

  But it was funny as all hell.

  After a few minutes, a feeling of regret passed through me. I couldn’t just let her suffer like that—as stupid as she looked, she’d never get those sheep to the next field—I had to help her. Even though I loathed her manners and her snotty attitude, there were some things I had to admit.

  She was so beautiful, I kept checking the horizon, making sure the sky hadn’t fallen in her presence.

  The words she spoke with such sticky sweet malice flowed from her mouth in a soothing stream of velvet, making me simultaneously irritated and desirous for more. It yanked my chain like nothing else.

  And there was something endearing about the way she knew absolutely zilch about real life—apart from shopping and tanning—or whatever those girls did.

  I couldn’t just sit there any longer.

  She looked like a cat-eyed marble rolling around in a tin can.

  I slammed the truck door shut, grabbed a jacket from behind the seat through the open window, and crossed the land in front of the house until I reached the fence that marked the field. I opened it, taking a short inventory of the state of the gate—this one was still in good shape. As I made my way over to her, I called each dog by name. Henry always named his dogs after cuts of lamb. As I passed, I halted only to wrap my jacket around her shoulders.

  “Chop, Flank, Loin, Rib!” I called them from sitting sentry. They already knew what to do; they were simply waiting to be beckoned.

  I opened up the opposite gate, the one leading to the next field and whistled for them to do their job. After that, all you had to do was stand there and watch. I could see her from the corner of my vision, standing in shock as the wool clad animals moved around her like a stream moves around a rock. I sucked my cheeks in trying desperately not to smile at her. She was pissed and defeated.

  And then I felt like shit for humiliating her.

  And then I felt like a champion for saving her.

  And then I felt like a bastard for not helping her sooner.

  I had turned into some pre-pubescent woman—effing feelings and shit.

  She scoffed, turned, and tried to bolt for the house, angry as a hornet, but her caution-sign heels stuck with every step she took. So I bee-lined for her and before she could whine or protest, I threw her over my shoulder and closed the distance between us and the house in seconds flat. Halfway to my destination, I realized where my hands were. My right hand was grasping her calf, her perfect, silken yet firm calf and it caressed her there briefly, just confirming that it was real. There were only mere inches between where my hand was and where I wanted it to be. And her beautifully rounded hip was right next to my face. It would be so easy to turn to my right and bite it, just a simple, pleasurable nip. She gripped the back of my shirt, her knuckles grazed my back. That’s what it would feel like for her to reach behind me and pull it off. And I would let her—all f-ing day.

  When we reached the porch, I set the duchess on her feet and waited for something, a thank you or an ‘asshole’ but I got neither. She turned after wiping off the pristine flowing dress, her heels tick tacking the sounds of her anger all the way back to the front door which was promptly slammed behind her.

  What the hell did I expect?

  A girl like that and a guy like me? Yeah, that would be the last time I ever put my hands on her.

  I flexed my hands trying to change the flow of blood to the cells in my fingers, begging the sensation to leave my hands. That way I could forget how she felt. How light she was. How she smelled like honeysuckles that feathered the fields in the spring.

  God, I need to do somet
hing manly. I’m turning into a girl more and more by the second.

  I stalked over to the broken gate, out by the steers. It was more gnarly than I expected, I’d have to take it back to the shop. I walked back to the truck and pulled out the replacement gate which would have to tide him over until I repaired the other one. I detached the broken gate and rigged the other one in place, hopeful it would hold until I could get the one my Dad built so long ago repaired.

  I stopped in my tracks on my return trip to my truck to leave. Should I go in and apologize to her? Should I see if she’s okay? Make my excuses for practically groping her leg?

  But she’d been completely pissed and revolted by my carrying her through the field. I’d probably take a pan to the head or a heel to the eye if I attempted to apologize. So I drove off, but in the rearview mirror, I swore I saw the curtains flow back in place.

  After I got home, even though it was Sunday, I went straight to work on Henry’s gate. I built and stoked the fire. As I allowed it to come to the right temperature, I berated myself. I should’ve taught her how to rustle the sheep instead of barging in like a raging lunatic and taking over the job. I was a bull in a china shop. Her prissy tea cup was probably smashed to pieces.

  I built three replacement pieces and then pulled the gate into the shop to make sure everything was melded together correctly. I finished sometime late in the night and since there wasn’t a tired bone in my body, I decided to bring the gate back to Henry’s place and replace it by the gleam of my truck’s headlights. I threw the old gate in the back of the truck and again considered walking up to the door and apologizing or asking her if I could touch her legs again.

  Shit.

  Cami was wrecking my head in the best way possible.

  But I couldn’t let her get to me.

  She was probably just using this place as a vacation from her perfect life—and she’d probably use me as her little mountain fling—if I’d let her.

  ‘Show me around town’—dream on, Duchess.

  Chapter 7