by Freya Barker
From the corner of my eye, I watch her open the basket and haul out what looks like...a tray of muffins? Fuck me, I don't eat that stuff for breakfast. I need eggs; preferably with bacon. The smell wafting my way is a good one, though. It promises meat, which is always good in the mornings when I require my protein. Curious now, I turn my full attention to what she's doing and see two plates have appeared with paper napkins and plastic cutlery to the side. She is lifting one of those muffin things out of the tray, except it doesn't look like a muffin, now that I think about it. I slide in across from her, so I can see better, and she slips one of those things on the plate in front of me.
"What is that?" I ask, morning roughness making my voice sound even more hoarse than usual. One of the reasons I don't communicate before I've had a chance to lubricate with hot coffee. I watch her curious eyes flick up from what she's doing.
"Bacon wrapped cheese potato quiches," she says, a little smile playing on her lips.
I know quiche is made with eggs. So basically with bacon, cheese and potato, I've got a one-bite breakfast special. Good enough for me. Ignoring the knife and fork, I grab the thing with my hand, noting it is still pretty warm, and pop it in my mouth in one. The pixie's eyes go big as she watches me chomp the whole thing down. Damn that's good. I can taste onion and even a hint of jalapeño. Without a word, I grab another from the pan while the girl starts cutting into her own...whatever it is. This time I go slower—just two bites. She's chewing her first bite as I reach over for a third, when suddenly I get my hand slapped.
"Okay," she says, fire in her eyes. "I'm good with the grunting and growling. I'm even good with the hand motions to shut me up; I get caffeine deprivation. But when I come over at the butt crack of dawn to bring over your firewood—which I personally loaded and unloaded—and bring you breakfast—which you obviously enjoy, or you wouldn't keep swallowing them down whole; you can at the very least acknowledge it." I look at her for a minute before my eyes are back on the tray of bacon thingies. Before my hand gets halfway there. The tray is yanked away and stuffed back into the basket. "No!" she says firmly. "I already regret doing anything nice for you."
Nice? I guess...I just don't think that much this early. Making coffee is by rote, because that's what I need to get jumpstarted, put food in front of me and I'll down it, no problem—but thinking about the why of things? Most of the time I don't bother; too much fucking work.
"Coffee?" my mouth says, as she walks to the golf cart and puts the basket in the passenger seat. Not sure where that came from, but it seems to work, because she stops halfway in her seat. For a long pause, she seems to contemplate me as I stare back, focusing hard to keep my eyes on her and not let them drift to the basket.
"Milk and sugar?" she says suddenly, putting her hand on the basket's handle. I swear she's holding it hostage, threatening to take it if I can't supply. Which I can...sort of.
"Coffee-Mate," I counter, remembering the old container in the back of one of the tiny kitchen cupboards. It doesn't seem to make her happy, given that she winces like it hurts, but finally she shrugs her shoulders and walks back to the table, with the basket.
Making sure she sits and doesn't move, I hurry inside; grab two mugs, a spoon and the old container of Coffee-Mate that feels like it has a rock at the bottom. I plunk it all on the table, grab the coffee and start pouring. Nice and black, just how I like it. I shove one mug in front of her, while taking a sip of my own. She pulls out the tray and slides another two of those...whatever...on my plate. I watch as she chisels away at the clump of coffee whitener at the bottom of the container, while I eat.
"Next time, I'll bring my own," she grumbles, and my jaw stops moving mid-chew.
Next time?
"You can cook," I point out the obvious. She stares up at me for a second with an eyebrow raised.
"Yes...yes, I can. Your powers of observation are beyond reproach. I guess it's just your communication skills that are sorely lacking." This is all delivered with a smile. I'm starting to enjoy her bite. She may be pint-sized, but she's got the attitude of a linebacker.
"It's good," I say around another bite, and this time her smile is instant and genuine. The difference is stunning. I'm about at my daily quota for interaction, so I eat the rest on my plate silently.
"I'm thinking of making this a daily event," she says, stopping suddenly when she sees what I imagine is panic on my face and promptly bursts out laughing. I stand corrected; her smile is great, her laugh is stunning. With her mouth wide open and her head thrown back, she just lets it rip, not holding a damn thing back. It's rare to see a woman let go like that, maybe with other women, but rarely in the presence of a man. "Freaked you out there for a sec, didn't I?" she teases, still chuckling and shaking her head. "Man, you are so easy." Easy? Not something I think I've ever been accused of.
"I mean doing the rounds. A new site every day," she explains. "Kind of like the Welcome Wagon, except instead of useless products and coupons, I bring breakfast."
She lost me there. I have no clue what a Welcome Wagon is, but I do I know I don't like her idea. At all. The thought of her driving up to site forty-nine, with a big smile on her face, has the hair stand up on my neck.
"Not everyone might be as welcoming," I try, but it only serves to make her break out in another bout of laughter. I sit back with my arms crossed over my chest and wait until she's done. It takes a while before she starts wiping at her eyes and calming down.
"Oops, guess you were serious?" she mumbles. "I thought for sure you were joking. I can't imagine anyone being less welcoming than you were. I think most people would love getting an unexpected breakfast served."
Not the folks on forty-nine. I can guarantee that, but I can't say anything.
CHAPTER 3
I haven't seen much of Mr. Congeniality in the past week. Not since I brought him breakfast that morning. The only time I've seen him was when he drove off on his motorcycle and barely raised a hand in greeting when he passed me in the golf cart. Haven't seen him since. Not that I've been listening for the rumble of his bike or anything.
I'd surprised two more sites with breakfast since, but the families at both of those just looked at me strangely. I gave up after realizing my first attempt with Ben was the friendliest reception I've had so far. People are so suspicious, it's depressing. I didn't even try to head over to site forty-nine. Not so much because of my uncle's and Ben's caution to steer clear, but because I'd encountered one of its tenants, while cleaning the showers, one morning. Let's just say it was a less than pleasant experience that left me with the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
Instead, I've been racking up the shots on my digital card. After I lost my job at the Glenwood Springs Gazette two months ago, I was floundering for a bit before I decided to take it as that proverbial door closing, so I would finally dare to climb out the window. My whole life I've wanted to be a photographer. I took the graduate photography program at ASU, graduated, and subsequently discovered that an education does not a career make. One has to live in the meantime.
So I worked in a photography store for a while, mainly taking pictures of crying babies, until I saw an opening at the paper for a junior staff photographer. It was a pretty steady job, with lots of special event assignments for me, since the one time I was sent out to take pictures of a deadly four-car pile-up on the highway, and I spent my time puking instead of snapping.
My dream has always been realistic art photography; finding beauty in the mundane things around us, capturing the artistry of nature, and showing the brilliance of imperfection. Just so I can open people's narrowed eyes to the richness that surrounds us.
A coffee table book: that's the plan.
It's Plan B, actually, because Plan A—an exhibition of my work at a world-renowned gallery—was too dependent on luck, connections, and patience. All things I do not have in abundance. The book seems like a great alternative. Something that since discovering the new world of self-publish
ing, has become a distinct possibility. Even if I ever only sell a single copy, the knowledge my vision will be sitting on one coffee table, somewhere in the world, makes my heart full.
My uncle's call for help was the final nudge I needed to get off my keister. I'd caught some beautiful sunsets over the reservoir, and last night, I snapped a bunch of random shots of a little boy, maybe four or so, playing on the dock with a little frog. Against the orange sky it made for a nice contrast. I'll have a closer look at what I've amassed so far this afternoon, but first I want to get some early morning shots with the faint fog rising up off the water as the sun peeks over the mountains.
With one hand reaching for the camera slung around my neck, I stop in my tracks when I hear rustling in the underbrush. It's somewhere to my right, and I slowly turn my body in that direction, while carefully bringing my camera up. About twenty feet away, munching on the young saplings, is the majestic shape of a big, black...cow?
I try to swallow my snicker, but am only partially successful since the beast lifts its massive head and glances my way. Not sure what I was expecting; a bear, or maybe an elk, but the cow is a surprise. Makes for a pretty picture, though, backlit by the early sun, slightly shaking its head to get rid of the bugs buzzing around it. The moment it dives back into its breakfast, I carefully lift the netting of my uncle's fishing cap away from my face and take a peek through the viewfinder, adjusting my shutter speed to the diffused light under the trees. I'd heard them last night, the lowing of the cattle dropped off on the mountain by some local farmer. Livestock grazing on public land is a common practice in Colorado. In fact, when I drove up the mountain last week, I encountered two cowboys on horseback, herding their cattle along the narrow road. Something about a man on horseback...
I lower my camera when I hear a splash in the water beyond, reminding me why I'd come out this early in the first place. The cow forgotten, I make my way to the water's edge to see the light of the sun just starting to streak across the vast expanse of the reservoir. From my vantage point, facing south from the north side of the campground, I can see the dock sticking out from the fog starting to swirl off the water. I take a few shots when I hear another splash. Looking out on the water, I spot a small boat in the middle of the lake, a single person inside. Must be up early to catch some fish, I hear it's the best time of day at dusk or dawn. I wouldn't know, fishing's never been on my list of things I want to do, but I won't scoff at a nice piece of trout or salmon, when offered cleaned and cooked on a plate.
Instead of a fishing rod, the person in the boat seems to be tossing bags overboard. They look like garbage bags. Odd, and a little disturbing. I snap a few pictures but step back into the tree line the moment I see him grab the oars and start rowing back to shore. This way.
Damn. Littering is a big no-no and dumping in the reservoir is seriously frowned upon. Part of me wants to yell out at the boat, but for once, common sense overrules my tendency to speak before thinking. From my perch in the shadow of a sizable tree trunk, I watch him come into shore. Not to the dock, as I expected, but to the only campsite this side of it. Site forty-nine: the site with the elusive tenants.
Curiosity drives me to move closer when the boat disappears from my view. I have yet to set eyes on whoever is living in the trailer and tents. When I sneak up closer, I can hear the low sound of voices and spot two men pulling the boat out of the water on the far side. One is the gentleman, and I use that term loosely, who accosted me in the showers the other day. That's when the smell hits me. The strong stench of ammonia hits my nostrils and almost makes me gag up the quick cup of coffee I had on my way out. Fucking gross. I brace myself with a hand on a tree and lift the other to cover my mouth and nose as I watch the two guys make their way to the trailer.
My hand never makes it all to way to my face, when an arm slips around me from behind and a hand, much bigger than mine, firmly covers my mouth.
"Don't move," a gravelly voice whispers right against my ear, sending shivers down my back.
My body is frozen as I'm held in place like that, watching the two men enter the trailer, closing the door behind them. I want to scream for help—and I'm sure I could still make some noise—but something holds me back. Whoever is holding me, starts pulling me back into the woods, and I instinctively start struggling.
"Stop."
Wait a minute.
"You?" My voice is muffled by the hand covering my mouth. My temper rising, I haul back with my elbow and know I hit pay dirt when I hear a satisfying grunt.
"Jesus, Pixie."
The arm around my waist is loosened a fraction, and I immediately duck and turn to face the silver-haired biker. Ben.
"What the fuck?" I whisper shout. Ben instantly brings his finger to his lips and throws a concerned look over my shoulder. With a sharp shake of his head when I open my mouth, he snags my arm and pulls me further away from the site.
Tromping through the bush, we're almost back to my trailer before he finally lets go of my wrist. Expecting an explanation, I am stunned when he just keeps on walking, leaving me gasping like a fish.
"Hey!" I yell after him, finally finding my voice. When he doesn't stop, I start jogging after him, pulling him around by the arm. "Wait just a damn minute!"
I knew it.
I knew she was trouble the first time I saw her standing there in those ridiculous cut-off jeans. All week I've stayed off her radar, even though I've been keeping an eye out just in case. It wasn't that hard; her damn cheerfulness carries.
My mood wasn't good to start with this morning. Yesterday's covert meeting on the other side of Dolores didn't quite go as I had hoped. My hopes to move full steam ahead, and get this last one over with, were thwarted when I was told to hold off taking them down. Goddamn desk-jockeys always want to hold out for the big fish. According to an informant, said big fish was expected to make an appearance sometime soon. In the meantime I'm stuck with the two guys I've been keeping my eye on. Keeping a low profile for the benefit of whoever is looking, and at the same time, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone getting too close to the compound.
This is what I'm good at, blending in with the biggest lowlifes on the face of the earth. Doesn't matter that getting close to that kind of scum makes me feel as filthy as the pond they crawled from.
Last time. With early retirement waiting for me on the other side, I take in a deep breath and consider how to keep this nosy little chick out of the line of fire. Another sacrifice for the sake of the greater good. Except the plan that comes to mind doesn't feel anywhere near what a sacrifice is supposed to feel like. I should know—I've made many.
"What the hell was that all about?" she snaps, her little fists bunched on her healthy hips, and her camera dangling between what looked to be two scant handfuls. Just enough.
"Two men alone on the remotest site of the campground, who work hard at staying out of the way, and you think it's a good idea to go spying on them?" I counter, stringing more words together than I have since I hit my twenties. My voice strains with them, and I lift a hand to the scar at my throat, partially hidden by the beard and the extensive tattoos reaching my jawline. The little pixie's eyes follow my movements, and I have a feeling she's more observant than I'm comfortable with.
"I was just shooting the sunrise," she says defensively. "Got curious when I saw one of them on the lake this early." She takes a step closer and tilts her head to one side, the ridiculous hat in danger of slipping off. "Did you know they're dumping shit in the reservoir? Who does that? Why would someone throw their trash out of a boat, when there are perfectly good dumpsters at the end of the road? I know Uncle Al said they take care of their own garbage, but I'm pretty sure he has no idea they're tossing it in the reservoir." She prattles on in a suspicious voice. Proving that she is smarter than is good for her. Son of a bitch.
"Just stay clear of them. I'll keep an eye out," I enforce, giving her a stern look, which is received with a roll of her expressive hazel eyes behind the mosquito
netting. No damn respect.
"You know, you make it really hard to maintain my positive attitude. I'm in need of more coffee—you're killing my buzz." With that, she whips around on her bright orange, Converse high tops, grabbing at the fishing hat that almost comes sailing off her head. With attitude too big for that short little body, she stalks off, and I can't help staring after the enticing sway of her generous hips in those ridiculous jeans.
CHAPTER 4
So much for killing with kindness.
The man aggravates me way too much to muster up any kind of kindness.
Bossy, controlling, and grumpy! Other than, “You can cook” last week, when I brought him breakfast—and that wasn't even all that convincing—all he's done is either criticize me or ignore me. I'm done trying.
All day I've been holed up in the trailer with my laptop, editing some of my photos from this past week in Lightroom. At this rate I'll have a coffee table book a week. I'm really pleased with the way most of these have turned out. It's not until I come across a covert picture I took of Ben, driving past me on his bike one day, that my irritation with him bubbles up again. How dare he look so...super hot? A silver fox on a bike—and yet all the attraction disappears after discovering his serious lack of personality. Okay, well maybe not all.
Ugh. I slam my laptop shut and go hunt for something to eat. The sun is already setting low in the sky, and I have plans to experiment a little tonight with night skies. Something I've not been very successful with thus far, but I'm hoping with my tripod and new wide aperture lens, I'll have more luck. The tripod is necessary, because free-handing the low shutter speeds you need to capture the light is impossible, I discovered. The lens should help with depth perception.
I'm sorely disappointed when I pull open the fridge door. All I have left is a few eggs, two slices of ham, and a loaf of bread in the little freezer. Resigned, I throw together a few sandwiches with fried eggs, the ham, and some mayo. Along with a couple of bottles of water, I stuff them in my backpack. The bug spray goes in a side pocket, and I strap a rolled up sleeping bag under the flap. All my camera equipment is already in there. It's still warm out, but I still dress for the cooler air later, and the bugs waiting to eat me alive. Old sweats, tucked into my high tops, a thin rain slicker over my long-sleeved T-shirt, and my uncle's fishing hat finishes the ensemble. I couldn’t care less, as long as I keep those bloodthirsty mosquitoes from poking more holes in me. The jacket hits me halfway down my legs, which is good because the backs of my thighs are already full of bumps and lumps. Little bastards.