by Vicki Tharp
“What are you gonna do, throw me on the bed and take advantage of me?”
“Crossed my mind.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sidney opened the bathroom door and wiped the steam off the mirror, knowing the exact second Bryan had entered the barn. Not because she had some crazy comic character ESP when it came to him—that would be too weird. It was earthlier than that, like how a Venus flytrap knows when something edible falls within its grasp.
She frowned at the analogy. Kinda made her sound predatorial, as if she needed to ensnare a man to get a date.
With the bathroom stuffy after her shower, she left the door open while she finished getting ready for dinner. Not that there was much for her to do, deodorant, teeth brushed, hair moussed. Sidney didn’t have a little black dress, or any makeup, or even any perfume. She was failing women across the globe—dropping the ball, tripping at the one-yard line, skipping the winning goal off the top of the goal post.
Dolly Parton would be rolling over in her grave if her death hadn’t been a hoax.
She did polish her boots, but they were still pretty scuffed so she wasn’t sure that counted.
Bryan knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “You about ready?” He was dressed in dark pressed jeans and a stark white cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His boots—classic black. His hair lightly mussed from the walk over. His pecs, award winning.
She tried not to stare—well, not really. They were right at eye level so it wasn’t her fault.
Sidney washed the mousse off her hands before her fingers cemented themselves together and took the hand towel he offered. “Sorry for the way I look. Everything I own is for work.”
“Relax,” he said as they headed down the barn aisle to his truck. “Our clothes are clean, which makes us overdressed for this joint. Besides, who doesn’t like Frank Zappa.” He looked down at her Zappa Plays Zappa concert shirt. Not her favorite group, so she didn’t wear it much, which by default meant it was the nicest T-shirt she owned.
He held open the passenger door of his blue F-150 for her. They climbed in and he said, “This place isn’t exactly Ruth’s Chris, or even one of the fancy new Mickey D’s, but they have a killer steak and the apple pie makes you glad to be an American.”
He reversed the truck but stopped before pulling out. “We need to lock Eli in his stall? He’s not gonna follow us into town, is he?”
“We’re good,” she said. “He never follows when I drive away. Somehow he knows the difference.”
“Smart horse.”
“He’s Stephen Hawking in Mister Ed’s body.”
There were a few cars and trucks in front of the diner when they pulled up. The outside looked like an old railway car that had been converted. Its skin shone like polished chrome, its nose sleek and pointy.
They climbed the steep steps and entered the restaurant. It was wider inside than expected, the back half obviously blown out and added on. Even with the expansion there were only a few booths and a long counter with red vinyl-wrapped stools, and the restaurant was packed.
Sidney leaned into him. “Maybe we should have made reservations.”
“Lordy, look what the damn cat dragged in.” A waitress came around the counter with her arms raised, pad and pen in hand, and gave Bryan a big hug.
Sidney couldn’t tell if she was young and had been rode hard and put up wet, or if she was old and looked really good for her age. She was a little stooped and thin—the kind of thin people get from not enough rest and too many cigarettes.
“Pearl,” Bryan said, “this is—”
“Sidney,” Pearl finished for him. She leaned in and spoke out of the side of her mouth like she was passing on state secrets. “It’s a small town. We don’t have a lot to talk about.”
“Any room for us?” Bryan asked.
“If anyone else is joining you, you’ll have to wait for one of the booths, but if it’s the two of you on a date…” She let her sentence trail off like a seasoned reporter for the Enquirer fishing with hundred-pound test line for juicy gossip.
“It’s dinner. Him and me. Not like a date.”
Bryan looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted elf ears. She fingered the tip of her right ear to be certain.
“Yes, like a date,” he said, a funny mix of incredulity and amusement in his eyes. Then to Pearl he said, “First date.”
“Carl!” Pearl hollered over her shoulder like she was summoning the man from hell and not from a few bar stools over. “Scoot your skinny ass over one so Boomer and his lady can sit down.”
Subtle.
The tips of Sidney’s non-elfin ears heated. Bryan put his arm around her shoulder and whispered to her, “We could still make the long drive into Alpine. I hear they have a sandwich shop.”
It wasn’t like they were trying to hide anything. There wasn’t anything to hide. Plus, she was starving. “No,” she said. “This is fine.”
Carl slid over as ordered, and everyone went back to their conversations. The aisle between the stools and the booths could accommodate one person at a time, so Bryan ushered her ahead of him with a light hand at her lower back. He patted Carl on the shoulder as he passed, “Thanks, man.”
Carl lifted his beer in toast and turned back to the guy on the other side of him.
The stools must have been extra close together, like that thing airlines do to pack people in, because Bryan’s thigh rested tightly against hers. If he noticed, it didn’t seem to affect him. Sidney fluffed the neck of her shirt.
Twenty-seven was too young for hot flashes.
Pearl went back around the counter, slid a couple of menus in front of them, and leaned against the counter behind her. “What’ll you have to drink?”
Bryan didn’t hesitate. “Zonker Stout.”
Sidney ordered tea and perused the menu. All around, the cacophony of the diner engulfed her. The clomp and scrape of utensils on plates, the clatter of glasses on tables, and boisterous conversation that varied all the way from the weather to some lady named Ingrid’s penchant for walking the town sans bra.
In the kitchen, the grill hissed and fryers dinged, filling the air with a mixture of hot oil, beef steak, French fries, and burgers. It made her mouth salivate and her stomach do the cha-cha.
The cook passed a pie through the window. Apple cinnamon, from the smell of it. Its crust lightly browned, hot filling bubbling through the slits. She almost dug her fork in while Pearl had her back turned.
Bryan leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his, nodding his head toward the pie. “You can’t leave without trying some.”
Before she could answer, Pearl dropped off their drinks.
“Ready to order?”
“Go ahead,” Sidney told Bryan, unable to decide between the steak and the fresh trout tacos. Deciding on the tacos, when her turn came, she opened her mouth and “I’ll have the apple pie” came rolling out.
“That’s it?” Pearl asked.
“Uh, no. Make that à la mode, with chocolate and butterscotch and nuts and a cherry.”
“Sprinkles?”
She patted her stomach absently. “Nah, don’t want to get too crazy.”
Bryan chuckled and his lips turned up at the ends—it wasn’t in invitation, but tell that to her libido. Then he raised his half-drunk beer in toast. “Here’s to a woman who isn’t afraid of going after what she wants.”
She raised her tea and clinked his glass, the heat in her ears returned. “It’s pie and ice cream.”
“This time. Next time, the world.”
It felt like he was in her corner, that she had a one-man cheering section, that suddenly she wasn’t so alone, that somehow, she mattered. Her throat tightened, and she struggled to swallow her tea. “Thanks,” she choked out.
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into h
im, kissing the side of her head as if he understood how much the comment meant to her.
She cleared her throat and changed the subject. If she dwelled on his kind words any longer, her eyes might spring a leak. “So, what did Mac say about us going out together?”
Bryan stopped with his beer halfway to his lips and turned his head to look at her, he scanned her face. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m serious.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking baffled and genuinely confused. “Uh…‘have fun’?”
“No, really.”
Their food arrived and she dug into her pie, using it as an excuse not to look him in the eye. Chicken.
“Really,” he said around a bite of steak.
“You’re my supervisor.”
“This is a small-time gig and we’re grown-ass adults. No one on the S cares who’s sleeping with who.”
She choked on her whipped cream. “Who said I’m sleeping with you?”
That came out louder than she’d intended because the conversations had died. The guy to her right reached behind her to give Bryan a fist bump.
“Figure of speech, Irish. All I’m getting at is there’s nothing saying we can’t see each other.” He forked another piece of steak and flagged it at her for emphasis. “If it makes you feel any better, consider us colleagues, peers. I’m head of construction, you’re head of training. See, no conflict.”
“I report to you.”
“Because Mac and Hank are usually out with Alby and Santos, and my work is at the cabins so I’m around more. So, all good, right?”
Her stomach did a little flop. Maybe she needed some protein to balance out all the sugar. She stabbed a piece of his steak and swallowed it down, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The reality that there was no reason they couldn’t see each other was both frightening and freeing.
She stole another piece of steak. It really was good.
He pushed his plate toward her. “Help yourself.”
She ignored the hint of sarcasm in his voice, pushed her half-eaten pie and soupy ice cream toward him, and helped herself to his dinner.
By the time they’d finished their shared meal, the place was almost empty and Carl was long gone.
“Hey, Wilcox.” A man from one of the booths walked their way. Bryan turned and shook his hand. The man tipped his hat at Sidney. “I heard a couple of your boys ran into some trouble by the river.”
“Not trouble so much as tracks that shouldn’t have been there.” To Sidney, Bryan explained, “Bill works on the ranch south of the S.”
“We were moving some of the cattle up toward Dead Man’s Pass. Saw some riders off in the distance. Three riders and a donkey all strapped up like they was gonna supply the Ark.”
“It’s public land up that way,” Bryan said. “Not illegal for them to be there or unusual to see packers either, now that the snow’s melting higher up.”
The man scrubbed at a light scattering of stubble along his jaw. “Nah. Didn’t have that kind of feel. Weekend horse campers ’n such, they tend to be a friendly bunch. These guys…” He shook his head. “These guys not so much. As soon as we started riding their way they lit outta there.”
“Do you have a description?”
“Nah, never got that close. Like you said. Public land. They’d ever’ right ta be there. But the ol’ gut says somethin’ ain’t right.” He patted his paunch. If size were an indicator of accuracy, his gut must have been spot on.
“Thanks, we’ll keep an eye out,” Bryan said.
While the conversation wandered, Sidney excused herself to visit the restroom. She didn’t know what to make of the sheriff’s concerns, what Alby and Santos had seen, and now what this guy and his men had witnessed, but she didn’t see how it would affect her. Ninety-nine percent of her time was on the ranch proper, training the horses. She shouldn’t have anything to worry about.
She washed the sticky spots of pie from her fingers and washed her face. When she came back out, she stalled in her steps. Bryan sat alone on his stool, and he pulled something out of his pocket, tossed it into the back of his throat, and washed it down with the dregs of his beer.
He turned to her as he put his mug down and froze for a nanosecond, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong and wondered how much she’d seen, but then an inviting smile spread across his face, convincing her she’d imagined the stutter in his movements.
Her parents had made her ultrasensitive and a little paranoid. He probably had a headache. It had been a long day.
Still, as he walked her to his truck, she had a niggling in her gut, a gnawing, a knowing that something wasn’t right. Her ice cream soured, curdling in her belly.
She decided she would start by not making assumptions about what she’d seen. “How’s your head?”
“My head?” He leaned against the passenger door, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. He lifted her chin with his index finger. “Why are you asking?” His voice hovered above a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure wanted to hear the answer.
A rancid concoction of apples and dairy climbed the back of her throat. She swallowed it down and managed a fortifying breath. “Are you taking drugs?”
She waited for the quick denial, the explanation that would clear things up, that would make them laugh about the conclusions she’d jumped to.
Instead she got a hard, considering stare. He crossed his arms over his chest. Even in the dim light of the parking lot she could see the corded muscles in his forearms. She looked up. A vessel pulsed at his temple.
He blew out a hot breath. “Meds,” he said. “Prescription pain meds. I don’t take illegal drugs.”
“Prescriptions can be abused.”
He was slow to answer. “Yeah.”
Again, no denial. She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. An abuser would deny it, but so would someone who didn’t.
She needed a straight answer. “Do you abuse them?”
“What’s your definition of abuse?”
She let out an incredulous laugh. She felt like the dog chasing the squirrel around the tree trunk; she was running, running, running, and the squirrel was always a quarter turn ahead, out of sight, out of reach.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’d like to go home now.”
“Look, Sid—” He reached for her hand, but she yanked it away, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid his touch would melt her resolve.
Life was so much easier when you looked the other way.
“Please take me home.”
“Sid…Sidney, would you at least look at me?”
Slowly, she looked up. His expression was strange, and intense mix of exasperation and give-a-guy-a-break.
He scratched at his beard, thoughtful. “I take the meds for the pain in my leg. Sometimes it’s phantom pains, sometimes it’s real pain if I overdo it.”
“Do you ever take them when you don’t have pain?”
“I live in constant pain. Every. Fucking. Day.” His voice was harsh, guttural—a cornered, wounded animal. “Whether it’s physical or psychological or emotional or spiritual. I live in pain every damn day.” He jabbed an index finger in her direction, emphasizing his words. “And until you have sacrificed a part of your body, part of your life, watched your buddies maimed or vaporized in front of your eyes, you and everyone else have no right to judge.”
As much as she hurt for him, for what he’d lived through, for what his friends hadn’t, she would finish the conversation. She cleared the emotion from her throat. “Have you considered getting help?”
He laughed. It was bitter and bruised and brutal. “I don’t need help, Irish. I don’t want help. I’m not out of control. Have you seen me drunk? Drugged up? Unable to do my job? A danger to others?”
“I haven�
�t known you very long.”
He snorted, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You know what I need?” He didn’t wait for a response, but barreled on. “What I need is for people to accept me for the man I am today. Not wait for the man I was to come back, because that man punched a one-way ticket to hell.”
* * * *
Boomer pulled up next to the barn and stared out his windshield. Stars pocked the inky sky, infinite, like his regrets. He went to open Sidney’s door, but she’d climbed out by the time he’d rounded the hood. Leaning on the front end of his truck, he took her hand. It was slight and strong, delicate and calloused.
The contrast fascinated him, how this dichotomy of her physical being reflected her inner self. Did his exterior mimic his interior? Battered, bruised, and not entirely in one piece?
More like FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.
Yeah, FUBAR summed him up.
She didn’t take her hand back. “Thank you for tonight,” she said at last. “You’ll never know how much it meant to me.”
On a half snort, he said, “It was pie and ice cream.”
“I meant the honesty.”
“Yeah, well, no one deserves to be lied to.” He tipped her chin up. “Especially you.” When he leaned in to kiss her good night she turned her head at the last second. His lips glanced off hers and crash-landed on her cheek, like the big fat fuck off it was.
Her message was clear.
Honesty was all fine and good, but that didn’t mean she accepted his truth.
Accepted him.
He’d been sucker punched in basic training. This sucked ass much the same.
She squeezed his hand and looked him in the eye when she spoke. “You know, Bryan, I really like you—”
“Don’t.” The quarter moon was halfway up, her features shadowed and dulled in the low light, so he couldn’t read her expression.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything else. ‘I really like you,’ period. No comma, no buts.”
Her teeth flashed bright and sharp, cutting the tension. “If hair washer at the salon isn’t your thing, you can always try your hand as an English professor.”