I’ve just printed off copies of all the shots I have when the timer on the oven goes off. It smells amazing when I open the oven. At first glance, it looks like a regular New York cheesecake, but it hides an Amaretto apple compote I made in the middle. The crust of ground almond and coconut, lined with a very thin layer of white chocolate, will hopefully give it a little crunch.
With dessert ready, I head outside to start a nice hot fire in the pit. Once I have it going hot, I toss the potatoes wrapped in a double layer of tinfoil straight into the hot embers. Once that’s done, it takes me just ten minutes to throw together the meatloaf in a covered cast iron pan and slide it on top of the grill.
I just step inside to get started on the salad when I hear Ben’s bike rumbling by and a hint of nerves starts swirling in my stomach.
Whatever she’s cooking it smells fucking phenomenal from way the hell over here.
After running into town on an errand for Luis, picking up supplies, I’m in desperate need of a shower to wash off the stench from the unsavory characters I’ve had to interact with.
He’d been pissed the morning after he spotted Isla and me on the dock. It took everything out of me not to reach out and snap his wrist when he stuck a gun in my face. Instead, I’d simply stood my ground quietly and waited until he finally lowered the gun, hopefully deciding she wasn’t worth the trouble. He’d been ignoring me since, so I was surprised when he texted me first thing this morning with a grocery list.
I’d already surmised they had to be exchanging supplies with product by way of that damn rowboat. The fact they sent me off to pick up rock salt and bleach solidified my concern about what happened to the third guy. I’d managed to get message out that we might be dealing with a dead body at the bottom of the reservoir earlier this week, but it wasn’t something that could be dealt with right away, without blowing my cover.
I stop the bike on the path beside Isla’s site and leave it running, while I pull a bottle of wine out of the saddlebags, set it on her picnic table, and get back on.
“Back soon,” I mouth at her over the noise of my engine, while she stands in the doorway watching my every movement with curiosity, salad tongs in her hand.
It takes me five minutes to shower and pull on a clean set of clothes, and I’m back outside, this time leaving the bike behind.
I can hear her swearing up a storm from a distance and pick up the pace. The bottle I left on the table has been uncorked and has two glasses upside down beside it. A salad bowl with one of those net thingies, to keep out the bugs, is sitting on the table, as are plates and eating tools. It’s nice. It’s also been a fuck of a long time since I’ve sat down to a proper home-cooked meal. The unfamiliar warmth in my gut sours when I consider who might be watching.
“Dammit!” I hear her mutter as she sticks her entire arm in the firepit.
“The fuck are you doing?”
She jumps back at my voice and immediately squeals as her arm hits the side of the metal pit. For fuck’s sake. I’m beside her in two steps and haul her with me into her trailer, straight to the kitchen where I stick her arm under the tap.
“That was your fault!” she snaps. “You creep up every time, scaring the living daylights out of me,” she hisses and pulls her arm from under the water.
“Keep it there,” I instruct her, rummaging through the little freezer to look for a bag of peas, or ice, or something, but all I find is half a loaf of bread and a Ziploc bag full of double A batteries. I hold it up and raise my eyebrow in question. “Emergency stash?” Isla rolls her eyes in response.
“Power goes off regularly,” she explains. “Uncle Al has a generator in the shed outside, but he likes to be prepared. Nothing quite as exciting as where your mind went.”
I pull out a frost-covered, forgotten, ice cube tray and have to whack it against the counter a few times to get them to dump in the towel. “That’s too bad,” I whisper against the shell of her ear, as I step up behind her and turn off the water, pressing the makeshift ice pack against the red welt on her forearm. I can feel her bristle, but she doesn’t say a thing. A quiet grin slips on my face.
After fishing the potatoes from the fire—the task Isla had been trying to accomplish—I sit down across from her at the table. She’s already poured some wine, and although not my drink of choice, I don’t mind a glass when the occasion calls for it. A generous chunk of meatloaf, making my mouth water, is barely deposited on my place when I shovel a bite in my mouth. Fucking amazing.
She puts me on the spot when she asks what I do for a living, but seems satisfied when I tell her I’m a semi-retired government employee. Not exactly the truth, but not quite a lie either. Apparently she notices my reluctance to talk, because she starts telling me about her photography. Something she’s obviously passionate about.
Dinner is comfortable. Any tension from earlier appears to be gone, and I sit back, listening to Isla talk about her visit to that funky bakery in town. It feels good, chilling, sharing a meal—all the more so because it’s with her. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. A take life by the balls kind of attitude you don’t see very often. Even so, I sense there is something underneath that almost exaggerated zest for life she shows. Something sad.
“Good grief, I’ve been yapping your ear off. Do you want some coffee with dessert?”
“Depends on what’s on the menu.” I mentally slap myself for letting that slip out. Even in the dimming light, I can see a blush staining Isla’s cheeks. “Coffee’d be good,” I add quickly. “And you’re ten out of ten on what you’ve fed me so far, so dessert would be a yes.”
She shakes her head slightly, trying to hide her small smile at the compliment. “You’re weird,” she states boldly. “Most of the time, you grunt or give monosyllabic answers, and then out of the blue you give me entire compound sentences.” She’s teasing—mostly.
“I don’t talk much,” I confirm, my fingers lightly tracing the scar under my beard and once again her eyes follow my movements. “Don’t like to waste energy on empty words. But I like to listen to you talk.” She lets out a nervous chuckle before getting up from the table.
“I’ll be right back.”
While she’s inside, I take the opportunity to scan the site I’ve been trying to keep my eye on. Lights appear to be on in the trailer, and I don’t see any movement, although that’s no guarantee. For all I know they’ve had eyes on us the entire time.
“Ben?”
I turn around to find Isla hanging out the trailer door.
“Is it okay if we have coffee inside? It’s getting a bit buggy out there.”
“No problem.” I get up, grab our now empty glasses and plates and follow her inside.
I can tell by her jerky movements she’s nervous having me in her space, which is unfortunate, since I’ve developed a liking to being in her space.
“Sit.” She waves impatiently at the banquette in the small kitchen. Instead, I take a seat on the couch. With purpose. The moment she turns, two mugs in her hands, I can see panic flit over her face. Just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. Replaced with a dramatic eye roll. I chuckle and hold out my hand for the coffee, taking a sip, and setting it down on the narrow coffee table. She’s back in seconds with a massive piece of cheesecake.
“That’s a fuck of a lot of cheesecake, Pixie,” I point out, looking at what appears to be a quarter cake.
“Sweet things have to be devoured—not nibbled at,” she says sagely, sitting down as far from me as she can manage and immediately digs in.
“Not gonna argue that,” I agree, my eyes firmly focused on her and not my plate. When she finally feels me watching, she looks at me from under her lashes and immediately turns pink. “But first let me enjoy this.” I pile a huge bite on my fork, and stuff it in my mouth. Christ. This is good. Watching her eat, hearing her little moans of pleasure, is enough to have me inhale mine. I’m glad somewhere there’s another half to this cake, because I’m too preoccupied with those wh
impers of ecstasy to taste much.
“Done?” I lean over and pluck the empty plate from her hands, setting it next to mine on the table. She promptly reaches out for her coffee, but I catch her hand mid-air. “Later,” I whisper as I bridge the vast space she’s put between us and pull her right up on my lap. “Much later,” I say, holding on to her tight, because she’s squirming to get off.
“Ben! I’m heavy,” she squeals.
I throw my head back and laugh. “Babe, you weigh nothing.”
“Hardly. I’ve got a big ass; I’m a size fourteen.” Like that’s supposed to mean anything to me.
“So? You’ve got a big ass. I like that about you,” I tell her honestly, pulling one leg over my lap so she’s straddling me, and cupping said ass with both my hands. She’s got a great ass. Lots to grab onto.
I can tell she’s contemplating getting mad, I can see it on her face, but then a smile breaks through as she leans into me. “That’s good,” she whispers, just a breath away from my mouth, before closing the gap and kissing me. To show her just how much I like it, I slip my hands in the back of her waistband, squeezing her firm flesh. I swallow her gasp when I twist both of us and end up with my hips between her legs. One hand still tucked in the back of her pants and the other pulling her leg over my hips, I grind my length against her center. The slight tug of her fingers tangling in my hair, and the other hand clutching my ass, she encourages me to move. Fuck me. With her tongue in my mouth, her nails scratching my ass cheek, where she’s worked her hand down the back of my jeans, and her heat rubbing against my dick, I’m about to explode.
“God, baby—you feel fucking fantastic…” I mumble in her mouth when I suddenly feel her go rigid beneath me. I reluctantly lift my mouth from hers and watch her turn her head slightly—listening. Then I hear it, too.
A car revving its engine.
CHAPTER 6
God, I’m frustrated.
Last time I checked my clock, it was one-thirty in the morning. Not even a round with my little battery-operated friend—the one I claimed earlier not to have—did the trick. It got me off so fast, after having Ben work me up like that; it barely brought any relief. Bastard.
The moment he heard the car engine, he was up and out the door, only stopping to give me stern instructions not to move. I wasn’t about to listen, though. In a flash, I was out the door behind him. At the sound of the screen door slamming shut, he’d stopped and turned before stalking back, not stopping until he was right up in my space.
I heard it then, the ruckus coming from the direction of where those damn kids pitched their tents.
“I’ve got it,” I told Ben, trying to step by him. After all, this was part of the job. But his hand snuck out and grabbed my wrist, swinging me back around.
“Wrong,” he said, pissing me way the hell off, as I tilted my head back to look into his angry eyes. “I’ll deal with them. You go in and go to bed.”
To say that was a slap in the face is mild. Rejection fucking sucks, and his face was completely closed down. Cold. Not even a hint of the fire I saw there just minutes ago. Well, fuck him. He let me go easily that time when I yanked my hand back. Fighting down the telltale burn in my eyes, I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. He wanted to deal with a bunch of drunken idiots? Fine, let him.
Without a word, I swung around and marched back to the trailer, slammed the door shut, and had a good cry over the sink, cleaning the dishes. The hot and cold routine he was giving me was not something I needed in my life. My head was done…my body, not so much.
Since then things have been quiet; not a peep from the guys on site twelve, but also no sign of Ben. I’m so stupid. Guess part of me was waiting for him to come back, but he never did. Color me a fool. Again.
Sleep won’t come and I’ve tried reading, tried watching some TV on the little thirty-year-old set, complete with rabbit ears, but the single working channel was so snowy, I couldn’t tell whether I was watching CNN or the Playboy Channel. So now it’s back to rolling around in the surprisingly comfortable queen-sized bed.
The sound of something moving over the gravel path leading to my campsite has me sitting straight up in bed. Is Ben coming back after all? With my ears perked, I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of the storm door. It feels like I’m waiting minutes when in fact only a few seconds have probably passed. There. A distinct crash sounds right outside the window at the foot of my bed. Gingerly, without making too much noise myself, I crawl over the bed to take a peek. I carefully pull the curtain aside and press my nose against the small pane of glass. The moon is not out tonight, so it’s pretty dark out, just the faint light from the shower building, a couple of hundred yards away, on the other side of the trailer. I don’t see anything, only the familiar shape of the picnic table and a glint off the metal from the firepit next to it. Dammit! My cast iron pan is still sitting on top of the grill. Rookie mistake.
I quickly jump out of bed, pull on a pair of sweats, stick my feel in some flip-flops I find on the floor, and shuffle to the door with a flashlight in my hands. Pushing open the door, I shine my light over the picnic table and the pit beyond. Nothing. Better get that pan inside or whatever’s out there will be keeping me up all night. Letting the storm door fall shut behind me, I hurry to the firepit, where the lid is half shoved off my cast iron pan. I straighten out the lid, and with my flashlight in one hand and the pan in the other, I turn to hurry back inside but freeze in my tracks instead.
I never heard it, and I certainly didn’t see it when I stepped out, but there’s no missing it now. Standing on the edge of the path is a sizable black bear. I should’ve brought the shotgun Uncle Al keeps beside the bed. The shotgun I promised to practice with but didn’t.
“Hey!” I hear yelled, followed by a sharp whistle. Next thing I know, a gunshot cracks through the night and instinctively I drop everything I have in my hands and drop to the ground, balling myself up as small as I can. A loud grunt and more yelling, but I’m not listening. Instead I find myself eye to eye with a small bear cub, sitting under the picnic table, the little culprit.
I’m in trouble.
“Pixie! Get the fuck inside. Slowly.” I can hear Ben’s voice from the other side of the momma bear, who is swaying from side to side, her head turning back and forth between the cub and me on one side, and Ben, who is waving his arms in the air on the other. “I’ve got you, baby, just go easy.”
Carefully I crawl sideways on hands and knees, my eyes now focused on the mother. I stop every time she looks my way, like a game of Marco Polo. Except the stakes are a little higher. With each shift of my body, I move a little closer to the steps, and a little further from blocking momma bear from her cub. I’m so focused on her, and on the stairs, I don’t notice the cub until the thing toddles into my view and hobbles past me to its mother’s side. Immediately momma bear takes off behind the trailer, her little one hurrying to keep up.
“Isla,” I hear Ben’s voice. “Go inside, babe. I’ll be right there, just gonna make sure they don’t turn back.” The moment he too disappears behind the trailer, I scramble up the steps and launch myself through the door, slamming it shut behind me.
It takes longer than I expect. The bears take their time disappearing into the woods at the far side of the campground. On the way back, I have to contend with worried campers who woke up when I fired a warning shot in the air. I made sure every last one of them was instructed on the rules of camping in bear country. Something I didn’t do myself when I took the plates in but forgot about the pan. Christ, if I hadn’t been able to distract her, I would’ve had to shoot that magnificent animal. As it is, I attracted too much attention already, judging by the lights on in the trailer on the far side of the campground. No doubt they’ve taken note of the fact I’m carrying.
In contrast, Isla’s trailer is dark, which is a bit of a surprise. I would’ve thought she’d have the place lit up like a football stadium. An unfamiliar pang of guilt hits me when I think of the wa
y I walked out on her earlier. Fuck me, but I want her.
Realizing I hadn’t even heard the loud raucous party, I managed to break up in record time, had freaked me the fuck out. I never lose sight of my surroundings, ever. But I had then; so wrapped up in the pint-sized sweetness moaning under me I wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off. It threw me; I walked away, and regretted it almost instantly. Even more so, when I fucking spent hours sitting in my trailer after, staring up the hill through the tiny window.
My life has never been conducive to having anything more than the occasional one-night stand. The only time I spent more than one night with someone, since I started working undercover, was when it benefited the case I was working on at the time. Just like I’d planned to do with Isla. I had no trouble keeping my mind focused where it should be on those previous occasions. Not so now. Not even after I left her alone.
The campground is quiet now. The occasional frog the only sound to be heard. The storm door squeaks when I pull it open. The same sound I’d heard from my trailer earlier, causing me to run up here, to find Isla in a damn standoff between the bear and her cub. I knock softly on the door so I don’t scare her, before trying the knob, finding it unlocked. It’s dark, so I let my eyes adjust for a second before checking the kitchen and the couch. Then I turn left, toward the bedroom. Only to find it empty as well.
“Isla?”
I hear it then, a slight shuffle, right before the narrow bathroom door flings open. I barely manage to catch her when she comes barreling out of her hiding place and launches herself against me, shaking like a leaf.
Love, Lies, & Crime: Anthology Page 4