“You’re the boss.”
I walk Mo through step-by-step instructions. “Grip the rod with your left hand and extend your thumb against the handle, directly opposite the reel.” He tries to mimic my hold and I correct his hand placement. “No, no, like this.” I move his hand down the rod. Once I realized we’ve touched, for fear of blushing, I keep my head tipped forward. “There.” My eyes meet his. “How does that feel?”
Mo speaks softly. “Brilliant.”
I break away and point to the river, pretending to be unfazed by his flirtiness. Reaching into my vest pocket, I pull out a bag of red chenille and pinch off a wad. I tie the fluff onto the end of his line.
Mo tugs his hair and groans. “What? No hook?”
“I’m fond of both my eyes, thank you very much.”
“Yes, they are smashing.”
This cannot be happening to me. I try not to stutter. “All right, stay close.”
Mo lines up behind me, and his breath singes my neck.
I have trouble ignoring how close he’s standing. “Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. I’ll show you how to false cast until you get the hang of it.” Concentrating on the water, I talk him through each step. “See that large boulder in the middle? That’s your fish. Pretend you’re surrounded by a clock. The twelve is directly above you. Pull the line back, aiming the rod at two o’clock.” I demonstrate the technique as I’m explaining it to him. “Then, as the line straightens out behind you, load your rod, and pull into your front cast, aiming the rod at ten o’clock.” Gripping the rod, I flick the end forward so the line loops around me like a cowboy’s lasso. “Now, you try.”
Even after I step aside, his heat remains boiling at each spot on my back where his body brushed mine. Mo begins casting. I correct his stance a couple times and reposition his grip. After a few casts, he picks it up, quite naturally. There’s hope for him yet.
The whole time I’m with Mo, Tommy’s words go through my head. About living and letting myself put aside my Dad’s case for a brief time. Something I couldn’t do with Wyn. For the next couple of hours, I try to do just that. Mo practices his casting while I fish a few yards away. We both remain close lipped, except for the occasional comment or joke. Every now and then—that is, about every minute—I sneak a peek at him, trying to decide who he looks more like, Hugh Jackman or Brody Jenner. Not that it matters much. It’s nice to fish with someone again. Especially someone hot.
Until today, I hadn’t realized how much I missed the companionship.
Eventually, Mo and I take a break just as the sun breaks through the ceiling of cloud cover. We snack next to the river, toasted by the heat. The water continues to stroke the tops of the damp, water-polished rocks, spilling over into small pools. Along the edge, flowers lean their blooms toward each other, exchanging secrets only nature can hear. I eat my double-decker MoonPie and can’t resist breaking the silence. “You like MoonPies?”
He shrugs. “Can’t say I’ve heard of them.”
“Wow, you are missing out. Guess it’s a Southern thing. What is your favorite food?”
Mo straddles the log we’re sitting on, facing me. “I’ll share, if you share.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Okay, but I get to ask the questions first.”
“Fine by me. I’m not afraid to reveal myself.”
My body shifts uneasily, and I clear my throat. “Uh, me neither.”
“Right. Well? Go on then.”
I square my body off to him. “Favorite food?”
Mo doesn’t even pause before answering. “Anything cooked over an open fire.”
“Heeeey, you have to be specific. Favorite color?”
“Black.”
I shake my head. “Cheater. Everyone knows black is not a color. Favorite book?”
He rubs both cheeks with the back of his fingers. "Hm, that’s a tough one. It’s not really a book, but Wordsworth’s poem, ‘The World Is Too Much With Us,’ would be high on my list.”
I try not to appear too amused. “Wow. You must be really smart.”
He shrugs and rolls his neck in a circle as if his muscles are aching. I resist the urge to rub his shoulders. “Depends on who you talk to. Now I’ll have a go.”
“Shoot.”
“Favorite color?”
I think for a second. “Sky blue.”
“Very specific. Favorite food?”
I pick at a piece of dead bark on the log, exposing a family of slugs. “Hm. Either MoonPies or Spicy Cheetos.”
Mo stops and appears a bit shocked. He pulls his t-shirt away from his chest as if he’s hot. “Seriously?”
“Sad but true.”
“Favorite book?”
Grimacing, I cover my face. “I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t read much.”
He tilts his head to one side and chews on a pine needle. “Pick something.”
“Fine.” I tap my forehead to bring forth a random book buried deep in my school curriculum. “I got it. Stranger Danger.”
Mo smirks. “You probably wrote it.”
I giggle at his joke, sounding a bit like a child who’s just heard the word “poop.” Attempting to sound more mature, I answer a few more questions with total composure and class. At some point, the Q&A session tapers off, and we sit in silence once again.
Seconds turn to minutes, which feel more like hours. Questions continue to skim through my mind, but I don’t dare ask them.
Do you think I’m cute? Do you date geeks? Do these pants make my butt look big?
I distract my crowding thoughts by braiding a few vines of wintercreeper into a flower bracelet and weaving in some orange trumpet flowers. Once I’m done, I hold up the finished bracelet. “Voila.”
“Let me see that.” He lays nature’s jewelry in his palm and studies the details. “Nice little masterpiece. Is it for me?”
I snatch it back. “Nope. These are very, very rare. Priceless, you might say. Only special blokes get these.”
“Hopefully, I can qualify.” He stares at me. For a second, it feels as if the world holds its breath before exhaling.
The comment throws me off guard. My mouth gapes a little. How can he just blurt out stuff like that so easily? My nerves take over my body. “Um, I gotta go!”
I scramble to my feet and grab my things, trotting along the stream. Unfortunately, I move too fast and slip on a slimy rock. My right ankle twists, and I flap my arms, trying to stay on both feet. Definitely not graceful. I fall to one side and grab onto a rock, scraping my arms. Mo reaches out and steadies me so I don’t tumble into the water.
“Thanks.” A dry klutz is better than a sopping one.
Mo laughs. “Steady on.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at him for finding humor in my clumsiness. I’m also afraid I’ll cry from absolute and total humiliation if I open my mouth. Tears swim in my eyes as my arm throbs. I check the damage to my elbow. Deep red lines of blood form a nasty scrape.
Mo bites his bottom lip when he sees it and immediately looks concerned. He holds my arm. “Crumbs, are you all right?”
I try to play it off by reciting Dad’s favorite Monty Python line in my mock English accent. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
Mo laughs as he checks out my arm. “Interesting movie reference.” He inspects my cut. “You need a plaster.” He walks over to his bag and pulls out a Band-Aid.
“I got one, thanks.” I pull out my own first aid kit, hoping I don’t look as frazzled as my hair. The only Band-Aid I have left is one with Smoky the Bear on it. Great. My ears heat up as I patch the wound and wince.
Nothing sexier than a big nasty scab covered by a pervy bear that wears nothing but a hat.
To avoid Mo’s gaze, I gather my stuff and walk carefully across the pebbled lane, refusing to hint at the throbbing pain in my ankle.
He speaks behind me. “Why are you so nervous around me?”
I don’t turn around so he can’t see the words ‘g
uilty as charged’ written across my forehead. “What? Excuse me, but you do not make me nervous.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
I continue focusing on where I step. Stumbling once, a fluke, but stumbling twice, a fool. “Maybe I just need to go. Shouldn’t be here anyway. I’ve got stuff to do. Very important stuff.”
“Like what?”
For a split second, I think of telling him about my dad but decide against it. “Don’t worry about it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mo snatch his bag and hop over the rocks after me. “At least, let me walk you back. Just to be sure you’re safe.”
I stop and face him with my arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. “How about a bodyguard?”
“Considering I took you out, that’s a joke, right?” I tighten my lips to keep from revealing the smile that’s reluctantly forming inside. “Like I said, I don’t need help.”
Mo saunters forward, as if he’s stalking prey. A sexy smile, with one corner turned up, breaks free. “Maybe I’m not trying hard enough.”
I shift onto another mossy boulder. “Stop it. You can’t just say things like that.”
He takes a step forward. “I’m seventeen. If I can graduate early and start a semester of college. Isn’t that old enough to flirt?
I back up again and stutter. “Yeah, but … it’s just not cool.”
He inches closer. “Maybe I’m not trying to be cool. Maybe I’m just being honest.”
I retreat a step. “Doesn’t matter. You should play hard to get or something.”
His eyes are intent on keeping my attention, and his voice sounds raspy. “Why? What’s the point?”
My voice gets trapped in my throat, and I swallow hard, still retreating until my back bumps into the stone wall.
I’m trapped.
Mo crowds me, and I try hard not to stare into his eyes. My fear mixes with excitement and anticipation, concocting an explosive reaction. The sweats. Probably not listed in Cosmo’s “Top Ten Ways To Attract A Hot Guy.” He places his hand on the wall just inches above my head. With his other hand, he moves a damp strand of hair that’s clinging to my cheek. My breath quickens.
His silky lips graze my cheek and move to my ear where he whispers, “I like you, Grace.”
My nerves trip over my words so all that comes out is a, “Um, okay. Yeah, sure.” Oh, great comeback, Grace. Since I don’t hear anything else he says, I fixate on his mouth as it moves. His lips have no cracks or creases. Just smooth. Nice and soft. He could be reciting Shakespeare or informing me of another geological miracle and I wouldn’t hear a word.
He lifts my chin, forcing me to find his eyes. I stare at the dark pupils and watch them dilate, in and out. He hones in on my mouth and leans down until his lips barely brush over mine, gently like a leaf floating out of a tree and skimming lightly along the water.
Just then, a popping sound echoes in the distance.
Survival Skill #19
A tracker must know when to trust a hunch.
“What the hell was that?” I break out of his mysterious hold and rush forward to scan the woods.
He stands with his hands on his hips, listening. “Maybe an engine backfired.”
“Out here? No way!” Shaking my head, I point in the direction of the noises. I brush past him and stand by the trickling river, straining to hear more. “That was gunfire.”
Little popcorn sounds drift by again.
Mo touches my arm, igniting a small fire deep in my belly, warming me from the inside out. “Maybe it’s those wankers from the other day. Drunk and shooting off firecrackers or something. Whatever it is, it’s none of our business.”
I stumble around in a circle with my hands cupped on the back of my neck. “You’re wrong. It is my business.”
He draws back and seems slightly irritated. “Really? Why?”
I’m not ready to tell him about Dad, so I focus on the trees surrounding us and avoid his prodding eyes. “Never mind. But I plan to find out.” Before he can stop me, I charge off in the direction of the noises.
Mo runs up behind me and clutches onto my wrist with a vice grip. “Bloody hell, woman. In case you forgot, we’re in the middle of nowhere and definitely don’t want to meet up with those blokes again.”
I think about Al and Billy, wondering if Les found them. “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right.”
He tugs my shirt. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
I can’t help but appreciate how protective he’s being. Kinda sweet. Though I would never admit it.
Reluctantly, I follow him down the path as we pass by jungles of wild rhododendron and a long parade of wildflowers. The setting sun casts shadows along the ground, breaking up the natural light. I’ve never been afraid of much, except maybe boys, dresses, and poison ivy.
Until now.
My jaws clench as my eyes shift back and forth on the lookout for anything tied to those shots. My lungs retreat into a dark corner of my body. Al’s face pops up in my mind. Suddenly, I break into a full-fledged run.
Mo calls after me, his tone a mixture of frustration and concern. “Oi! What’s the rush?”
Storming down the path, I trip on a tangled web of exposed roots and bang my knee on a log.
He rushes up and touches my arm, but I jerk away and march up the hill. “I need to get out of here. Now.”
This time, he paces himself at my heels. “Away from me?”
I speed walk and answer with a scattered breath. “Yes. I mean … no. Away from here. From these guys. From...”
“From me?”
“No.”
Mo grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. “What are you hiding?”
My arms fly out to the side. “Nothing! I’m fine.” Tears threaten to drown my eyeballs, but I pinch them back.
He searches my face for clues. “I can tell. You’re holding something back.”
My hands clench into fists as I squeeze everything back. I refuse to make eye contact for fear he’ll see right through me. “Please, I don’t want to talk to about it.”
He cups my jaw and draws my chin upward to face him. “Maybe you need to.”
“I barely know you.”
“Maybe I want to change that,” he says.
Without thinking, I blurt out. “My dad’s missing.” His shoulders slump, and his arms hang down. I back away from him, awaiting his reaction.
Mo doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, as if he’s waiting for a translator to decipher what I said so he can fully understand. He speaks softly as if his volume’s been turned way down. “When?”
I study my watch. “Three months, eleven days, twelve hours, and forty-three minutes ago.”
He laces his fingers on top of his head, knuckles white, and tilts his head. “How?”
A sigh of frustration streams out. “I don’t know.”
Mo stiffens and shakes his head as if what I’m saying is wrong. “What do the police say?”
I scrutinize the army of trees, still feeling watched. “That he drowned. Fell into the river.” I wring my hands together. “They found some of his stuff, but his body never showed up. Everyone says he’s dead, but I refuse to believe it.”
Mo’s eyes remain fixated on mine. Shock mixed with horror distorts his angular face. He allows silence to expand the air between us, waiting for me to continue. I notice how he drums his fingers on his thigh, the thumping noise creating a galloping rhythm.
I prevent my voice from shaking. “I think those guys from the other day and these popping noises are related.”
He massages his temples with his fingers then gives me a strange look. The same one I’ve gotten from Carl, Mom, and everyone else. The look of disbelief, pity, and doubt.
The comfortable vibe once connecting us morphs into sheer awkwardness. “Look, let’s just drop it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I pivot on one he
el and march off.
Mo doesn’t say anything as he trails me several strides back.
As soon as I reach my motorcycle, I hop on and nudge the kickstand with my toe, ready to bolt. When I stomp down on the pedal, Luci coughs a few times before going back to sleep. I swear under my breath. Can’t even depend on my stupid bike. I step on the foot starter again until Luci catches her second wind. I hug my helmet like it’s a football. “Goodbye, Mo.”
He straddles my front tire and grips the bike’s handlebars so I can’t roll forward. “Why are you leaving?”
“You don’t believe me.”
He hesitates for a millisecond too long. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I believe you.” He stops to swallow before forcing out more words. “I do.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?”
He leans in and pecks my cheek. My body relaxes slightly. “Grace, I’m not doing anything to anybody.”
My voice comes out flat, unemotional. “I have to go.”
“Can I see you again?”
Truth is, I want nothing more than to hang out with him. But my heart can’t get a grip on that right now, not to mention I can’t afford any more distractions. Focusing on questioning these guys once they are in custody and finding Dad are my main priorities right now. I’ve wasted enough time. “I’m not ready for this.”
Mo scratches his head and wrinkles his face. “You lost me. Ready for what?”
I point between us. “This.”
Mo sighs and shifts to one side, allowing me to pass. “Meet me at Bear Creek again tomorrow. We can talk more.”
I slip on my helmet. “I don’t think I can.” As I roll away, I glance in the rearview mirror. Mo stands on the trail, watching me leave, reminding me of Humphery Bogart when he watches Ingrid Bergman walk away in Casablanca. My fleeting moment of romance.
I head home to meet my mom for our “dinner date,” yet Mo still lingers in my thoughts. I analyze every moment of the day. Remember every smile in my mind. Popping noises reverberate in my head. No way those were firecrackers.
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