by Cara McKenna
Like it matters. Like this guy even means anything to you.
To mystify her further, Vince cocked an elbow in invitation. And for no particularly good reason, she looped her arm through it.
“Lead the way,” he said with a nod.
Kim had to wonder how this might end. With a Nice meeting you; thanks for walking me, at her threshold, five minutes from now . . .
Or a Thanks for the ride, the next morning, when she woke up with this confounding man tangled in her sheets.
And tired of missing out on adventures, she was almost rooting for the latter.
Chapter 5
The motel was on the so-called good side of the tracks, the western side, closer to the mountains. The bad side was where most of the locals lived, and it was also home to the grimier businesses—the quarry, some limping little retail operations, Benji’s, a couple garages, the dump, the dueling liquor stores. The nice side boasted the tech company and its employees’ homes, a half-decent grocery store, the Sheriff’s Department, and the Volunteer Firefighters’ headquarters. Alex had been a member of the latter, once upon a simpler time.
Vince was burning up inside as he and his impromptu date strolled down Station Street, headed for the tracks.
He was used to girls acting coy when he hit on them. Or scandalized. Or downright eager. He wasn’t accustomed to this woman’s reaction, though. He didn’t even have the right word for it. A weary sort of . . . unimpressed. Goddamn if it didn’t make his pulse throb.
She asked him questions about the businesses they passed, then let his arm go to snap a couple photos of the dilapidated Fortuity Depot station, and stare up into the night sky.
“Jesus, you guys get a lot of stars.”
“Benefit of living in a one-traffic-light town.” For now, anyhow. In a couple years, Fortuity would be twenty-four-hour neon pollution.
“You know there’s going to be an eclipse around here in a few months?” she asked. “A full solar eclipse.”
“I don’t exactly keep current with astronomy.”
“Someone on Sunnyside’s marketing team mentioned it. I’m hoping they’ll like my work and want to bring me back to photograph it for them. To use in promotional materials, since the casino’s named the Eclipse.” She messed with some setting on her camera, aimed it skyward, and set it beeping and whirring, capturing the stars.
Vince was distracted by other natural phenomena, such as the shape of her ass and the smell of that perfume. He wondered if she had a tripod and if that camera had a video setting. He wondered what he had to offer God, to bargain his way into this woman’s bed tonight. He’d been feeling way too much this week. Maybe he could at least wake up tomorrow clearheaded, with sexual frustration checked off the list.
They crossed the tracks, turned onto Railroad Avenue, and headed for the Gold Nugget Motor Lodge’s well-lit lot. It was yet another local business that probably wouldn’t survive to see the casino’s ribbon-cutting. They were doing well now, most of the spaces filled with out-of-towners’ cars—folks here on development business. But once the resort opened, economy chains would follow, to catch the workaday tourists’ dollars. The Nugget would likely sell up, get turned into some name-brand outfit, get a major face-lift. Good for the owners, maybe, but it made Vince’s chest hurt, imagining everything anodyne, everything with a familiar logo slapped on it, the profits bound for someplace far from Fortuity.
Goddamn, since when had he turned so sentimental? He really did need to get laid.
Outside of room six, his companion’s key jingled as she got the door unlocked.
Just that noise focused his energy, the fate of the world seeming to hang on whatever was going to happen between them now. He felt his blood pumping hot and saw that sensation echoed by the pulse ticking along her throat. He could just about smell the curiosity on her. Same as he could smell that perfume, those flowers that wouldn’t last a day in this desert.
She turned in the threshold and Vince laid his forearm along the jamb, leaning close. She froze, but the interest coming off her was hot. She wasn’t scared of him, but there was a hesitance there . . . She was scared of what she felt. What she wanted. She wasn’t used to putting impulse ahead of consequence, he bet. He could tell from how she spoke, how she dressed. Impulsive wasn’t in her repertoire.
Welcome to Fortuity.
Vince stooped, bringing his lips to her hairline. Fuck, she smelled good.
“Thanks for the walk,” she said softly.
“Ask me in.”
He felt her exhalation on his neck, a tight, anxious huff. “I’m not sure.”
“Bet you are,” he breathed.
“It’s been a really long, shitty day.”
“All the more reason to end it on a high note.”
She laughed, the sound winding him even tighter. “You’re shameless.”
“Shame’s a useless emotion.”
“I’m going to ask you one question; then I’ll decide. Deal?”
“Shoot.”
She looked up and held his stare. “What’s my name?”
Fu-u-u-uck. “Uh . . .”
Her brows rose. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“No. No, I do not.” But he’d memorized her backside, in that skirt. Ought to count for something. “Jog my memory?”
She shook her head with an irritated sigh and stepped inside. “Good night, Vince. Thanks for the company. Sorry it had to end here.”
He grabbed her hand. “Oh, hey—come on, now. That’s not fair.”
“I was down for maybe being your random one-night stand, but not an anonymous one.” Her fingers wriggled free. Her voice had risen, cool tones lost to something far hotter. “I wasn’t feeling real choosy tonight myself, but I do have some standards.”
“When you live in a town this small, you don’t get much practice at memorizing new names.”
“All the same, maybe work on that before you try to fuck me again. Sound like a plan?” She wasn’t shouting, but every measured word hit him like a slap. He kinda liked it.
He nodded. “Sure. Sorry.”
“Good.” Her feathers were smoothing, but just this taste of her temper, just the pink staining her throat and cheeks . . . shit. The ache knotted deep in Vince’s belly felt more urgent than ever.
“You still up for a ride, Sunday?”
She blew out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Show up and find out, I guess.”
“Will do.” He took a couple steps back, paused with one foot still on the concrete. “Like I said—sorry.”
She shut the door on him. A lock clicked and the lights came on, but the curtain swept shut before he could steal a peek at Kim’s bed—
Kim. “Kim!” He went to the window, rapping the glass. “It’s Kim, right?”
The curtain swished aside, framing her. She mouthed her muted reply clearly. “Too. Late.”
“Shit.”
She shut him out.
He knew when he’d fucked his chances, and he also knew the line between flirtation and harassment. But as he started across the lot, blood pumping so much mischief, he couldn’t help himself. He turned on his heel and strode back toward room six, hopped onto the walkway and knocked.
Her shadow darkened the curtain as she passed, and when she opened the door, she kept the chain lock on. “What?”
“So, Kim.” He hooked his finger around the chain, toying. “You’ll tell me when it’s time, right?”
She blinked wearily. “Time?”
“Whenever it’s cool for me to try to fuck you again.”
Her eyes rolled up. “Go away, Vince.”
He smiled. “Whenever you’re ready, just say the word. Can’t wait for the chance. Till then . . .” He held his palms up, miming deference, and took a step backward.
“Yes, you’ll be needing those,” she returned. “It’s going to be a long wait.”
“See you Sunday. Five a.m.”
“Five a.m.?”
“Sunrise,
sweetheart. Dress in layers. No heels. I’ll find you a helmet. Oh and wear that perfume—that shit drives me up a goddamn wall.”
And off he went, giving her no chance to argue. He felt the heat of her glare on his back. It felt as good as a curious hand on his dick, and he smiled to himself. The door thumped shut, and he could hear her voice through the thin wood.
“Son of a bitch.”
The smile became a grin as he aimed himself downtown. “To be continued, sweetheart.”
• • •
Kim fell asleep in a foul and frustrated mood, and awoke in a matching one. Vince’s come-on echoed in her memory.
Ask me in?
The nerve. It hadn’t even been a question, had it? More a command.
Fuck him.
And fuck the part of her that had been half a breath from doing just as he’d suggested.
She packed her camera bag gruffly, stuffing lens wipes and memory cards into the pockets as if they’d insulted her.
Had it been an incidental come-on? Maybe King Roughneck hit on anything with breasts if it stood still long enough, his attention as impersonal as buckshot sprayed in the general vicinity of animate females. Or had he read something in her body language or eye contact, some chemical invitation . . . ? Read the far-too-personal truth in signals lost even to her. That she wanted him. In her body, if not her logical brain.
Kim sighed, no clue which possibility annoyed her more.
She’d slept like crap, restless to the last cell. Coffee was needed. Stat.
At the energetically named Wild Horse Diner, kitty-corner from Benji’s on Station Street, she climbed out of her rental car. The formerly silver Jetta was dusted to the finish of a cinnamon doughnut. It locked with an obedient bloop, and she carried her purse and camera bag through the open front door.
She had her pick of seats, snagging a booth at the end. When the waitress swung by, she ordered an omelet, and coffee was delivered as she was buffing her glasses on a napkin.
“Thank you. God knows I need this.”
“Sightseeing?” the young brunette asked.
“Yeah, you could say that.” Kim smiled, not feeling like soliciting yet another stranger’s opinions about Sunnyside’s casino project, nor indeed feeling as though she were somehow their representative. She’d been grilled not only by Vince, but by the motel’s front desk woman, a drugstore clerk, the gas station attendant. People had questions about the development, probably good ones, but she had zero answers. Sunnyside was as tight-lipped as . . . as . . . as some gross, chauvinistic simile a man like Vince might come up with.
Damn. There she went again, remembering him. Vince . . . Whoever. Gris . . . Grim . . . Grenier? Grossier. He’d probably forgotten her name already. Again. God help her if he actually showed up, the next morning. If he did, she’d go along for the photo ops, solely.
The company was paying her for five days’ work and travel. In truth, way more time than she needed—she’d already have hundreds of usable shots by that evening. But she’d stay the full five, and not only for the money.
She wasn’t in a rush to head home. Fortuity might be rough, the assignment not exactly a gold mine—she’d grossly underbid for it, desperate for a change of scenery, some breathing room—but at least here she didn’t have to confront the awkwardness waiting back home. Her stuff still in Ryan’s apartment, and the man himself. A man whom, on paper, she’d had no good reason to dump. But hearts weren’t made of paper, were they?
Plus, when have I ever felt sure about a guy? She slumped at the thought. Maybe she was holding out for something that wasn’t ever coming, waiting to feel that mythical lightning strike, that sizzle. What if that glittery expectation was all bull, cooked up by the same sickos who’d invented Valentine’s Day and Brazilian waxing?
She opened her camera bag and propped the Nikon against her thigh, turning it on. She cycled backward past the black night sky, the train tracks and station ghostly in the streetlight. Then came a punch in the stomach.
That man. His flash-lit face was jarring and stark.
He’d turned his head slightly, and she could see the tip of that ridiculous neck tattoo curling from behind his ear like an evil sideburn, black like all the other work he’d had done on his arms. None of it scandalized her. Sleeves were as common as eyeglasses in Portland, though Vince was no skinny hipster. His bike was no doubt the kind that came with excessive horsepower and earsplitting, look-at-me decibel levels.
She clicked to the next image on the card. Studied that matchstick pinched between his full lips, the ones she’d managed to capture sans evil smirk, surely a rare sight. She’d surprised him on that first shot, his eyes still wide. The flash bleached his retinas pure white, hazel irises lit up—striated near-green, the color of lake water and rimmed in gray, a gold corona around his tight pupil. Nice lashes, dark as his hair and stubble. Nice brows, though one had a bald spot, the gully likely framing a scar the flash had blown out. The man probably had a hundred scars—and a dumb, macho story to explain each and every one.
When a man came built like Vince Grossier, it told you one of two things: Either his job was backbreaking, or he made violent love to his weight bench every morning. She had her money on the former, given the local economy and those dusty jeans of his. But no matter the cause, the effect was the same. All that muscle added up to a man who lived through his body.
The smart man will manipulate you, and the strong one will push you around. Either way, they knew where they wanted you. At least with the guileless, pushy ones, the Vince Grossiers of the world, you saw it coming. There was an honesty in that. It gave you a chance to put up a fight.
She toyed with the camera’s DELETE button. One push of her thumb, and he’d be gone. She pressed and his image shrank, sucked off the screen forever. The second shot filled the void, those brows drawn in surprise and annoyance, eyes narrowed to match. Her thumb hovered.
She jumped as a steaming plate was set before her, stammered her thanks to the waitress, and shut off the camera. Shut it in its bag, like she’d stuffed down her attraction and shut that motel door on him.
Four more days, she reminded herself, spanking the ketchup bottle. Four days to do this job, four days to avoid heading home and facing the fallout with Ryan.
Four days in the desert of northernmost Nevada. In the New Wild West known as Fortuity.
She eyed her camera bag.
Four days to get real good at avoiding Vince Grossier. The rest of her life to get busy forgetting him.
Chapter 6
Vince gave the door to the sheriff’s office a cursory knock at the same time he pushed it in.
Sheriff Tremblay looked up from his computer, his expression suggesting Vince was the next best thing to a migraine. The guy had to be maybe fifty-five, but he scrubbed a hand across his face like he was pushing eighty. “Vince.”
“Sheriff.”
“Funny findin’ you in my office,” Tremblay said, visibly mustering courtesy as he got to his feet behind his desk. “Voluntarily, that is. What can I do for you?”
Vince grabbed the heavy wooden chair Tremblay kept parked a respectful distance from his desk and hauled it forward, making himself at home. “Need to have a talk with you. About Alex.”
“Ah.” Tremblay’s face fell. “Sad business, I don’t need to tell you. I know you two were close. No matter how many times the man found himself lockin’ you in a holding cell.”
Vince smiled. “I never took that personal.”
“So what about Alex? ’Cause I’m a busy man, and I don’t believe you came here to have a good ol’ cry-it-out with me.”
“He called me, the night he died. Less than an hour before the crash, in fact.”
Tremblay’s brow furrowed. “He drunk?”
“Yeah, very. Drunk, and freaked the fuck out. Said he saw something that afternoon, at one of the construction sites.”
“Saw what?”
“Bones, he said.”
The
man frowned. “Bones? What kinda bones?”
“Didn’t say. But something tells me it wasn’t a stegosaurus, Sheriff.”
“Well, what’re we talkin’, here? Bones could mean anything. Human bones—how old? Shallow grave or burial ground?”
“Didn’t say,” Vince repeated. “He just said he was upset about some bones he saw down by one of the sites.”
“And you think that’s why he got as drunk as he did? Got himself killed?”
Vince kept his stare cool and steady. “Got himself killed over it? Yeah. But not by his own hand.”
Tremblay laughed, the sound hollow with incredulity. Just the reaction Vince had feared . . . and expected. “What on earth are you implyin’?”
“I think he saw something bad. Something somebody wanted to keep hidden. And I think somebody took the opportunity to shut him up.”
“But if Alex saw something that afternoon, and he didn’t get killed until midnight or later, what was to stop him from tellin’ me about it? Me or anybody else in the department?”
Vince’s brows drew together at that, and the sheriff sighed. He came around to sit on the edge of his desk, the motion making him look like a TV dad, poised to impart some heartwarming words of wisdom. “I’m gonna confide somethin’ in you, Vince.”
He crossed his arms. “What’s that?”
“I did talk with Alex that afternoon. Long talk, and nothin’ to do with any bones. I called him in, and he sat in that very chair you’re sittin’ on”—he nodded to it—“and I told him, gentle as I could, that I thought he needed to take some time off.”
“Time off?”
“From the department. He’d been wound tight since his granddaddy passed. His drinkin’s been worse than ever. I told him as diplomatic as I could, ‘Son, you’re gettin’ sloppy. When you’re functionin’, you’re the finest deputy I’ve had the pleasure of workin’ with in all my years as the head of this department.’ But lately, he’d been a wreck. Hungover. Slow upstairs. Memory shot to shit.”