by Penny Reid
“Okay.” I sighed, glancing beyond Drill to the horizon. I needed to think.
On the one hand, it wasn’t right or appropriate for him to comment on his admiration for Miss Sullivan’s backside. On the other hand, this was Drill. He was by far the most even-tempered and fair-minded of the Wraiths. If it had been any of the others, Shelly would have been knocked around before I’d have had a chance to intervene.
“Listen . . .” I paused, still debating how to proceed. “You coming fishing with us on Wednesday?”
Drill eyeballed me, and then nodded once. “That’s right. Hank wanted me to bring Catfish and Twilight.”
“Good. That’s good.” I rubbed my forehead tiredly. “Why’d you drop by today? You need me to look at your bike?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Drill took a step away and kicked at the gravel of the drive, not meeting my eyes. “Razor’s old lady wants a meeting with you.”
I reared back, convinced I’d misheard him. “Say what?”
“Christine.” He said her name with a hushed kind of reverence, like he was talking about the boogey man. Or, in this case, boogey woman. “She wants a meeting.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say.” Drill licked his lips and I knew this was a nervous habit of his. “Just that I wasn’t to ask Duane, only you.”
I studied the bigger man, quickly debating what this could possibly be about, and finally deciding her request for a meeting had to do with using my skills as a mechanic to man their chop shop. And honestly, this baffled me.
About a year ago, the Wraiths had approached Duane with a threat, telling him that he and I needed to disassemble their stolen cars—but only Duane and me, not Cletus. They had evidence against our oldest brother, Jethro, and if Duane and I didn’t agree to their demands, they were prepared to send Jethro to prison.
In the end, Cletus and his sneaky machinations saved the day.
Now, I presumed, they were after more of the same.
I grimaced at Drill. Not angry. Just a smidge irritated. “We settled this last year. I ain’t working for y’all.”
Drill was shaking his head before I finished. “No. Nothing like that. Between you and me, Christine may be crazy, but she was there when Cletus showed his hand. She knows that evidence against Jethro is worthless. This is about something else.”
“What could it possibly be about? Claire?” Claire being Christine and Razor’s only child. Claire was good friends with both Jethro and Cletus. She’d moved away from Green Valley about a month ago to take a teaching position in the big city, but she and Cletus were set to play in a music competition together in October.
Drill shrugged, his features arranged in a mask of helplessness. “I’d tell you if I knew. But, you know how she is.”
“Actually, I don’t.” I poked the inside of my cheek with my tongue. “I’ve never spoken to the woman.”
“Whether you want to or not, that’s about to change.” He gave me quick once-over tinged with what looked like sympathy. “What Razor’s old lady wants, Razor’s old lady gets.”
* * *
After I promised to think on the meeting with Christine St. Claire, Drill left, saying he’d give me two weeks to think about it. I’d talked him into a month.
Now, I dawdled.
I wasn’t much of a dawdler. Usually, I was a doer. But I’d rather have a root canal than speak to Shelly one-on-one about the events of the morning. It was Duane’s day off, and Cletus was in the office. I deliberated whether or not to brief him on the situation and let him handle it.
In the end, I wasn’t the one who did the seeking. Still dawdling by the entrance to the garage, Shelly strolled over. Like before, her steps were unhurried, self-assured.
I braced—instinctively—all my muscles tensing, and stared at her sideways as she neared. Duane had been right, she was hard to look at directly. She should’ve been on the arm of some billionaire in Hollywood or Paris, or walking on a runway someplace. People didn’t look like her in real life.
Jethro’s fiancée, Sienna, was the most attractive woman I’d seen up to now, until this woman mechanic. But Sienna wasn’t aloof. She smiled easily, told jokes, was kind to everyone, and that made her approachable. And Sienna being Sienna made us all forget she was gorgeous on the outside, ’cause her heart eclipsed her exterior.
Whereas I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forget Shelly’s cold beauty. It was like looking at someone through a wall of ice. It was all I could see.
“Is he gone?” The weight of her stare felt more physical than before, yet somehow less evocative.
“Yeah, about that . . .” I exhaled silently, preparing to say what needed to be said. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way, and I’m sorry it happened. I had a talk with him and it won’t happen again.”
Shelly shoved her fingers into her back pockets. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts instead of the coveralls, which showcased her long, bronze, smooth legs. Part of me wanted to suggest she stick to the coveralls from now on, to avoid unwanted comments from customers.
But then, somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the voice of my momma say, “You don’t blame the chicken when a fox gets in the hen house ”
Now, Shelly was no chicken. And Drill was no fox. But the analogy still fit. Plus, she wouldn’t be able to hide behind coveralls. She was striking no matter what she wore.
“Is that it?” she asked. Unless I was imagining things, her shoulders seemed to relax a smidge.
“That’s it.”
She lifted her chin, inspecting me. I got the sense she was trying to determine if I was being truthful, which in turn made me wonder why this woman was so distrustful.
As we were exchanging stares, I spotted Mr. McClure—the fire chief—pull into the gravel lot in my peripheral vision. Inwardly I cursed. Thanks to the Drill’s big mouth, I was running behind with Mrs. McClure’s timing belt.
Abruptly, Shelly announced, “If I wanted commentary on my ass, I would go to a proctologist.”
My smile felt more like a grimace at this point. I tried to smooth it into something resembling genuine. “Of course.”
“I want to fix cars.”
“Sounds good.”
I must not have been giving her the answers she wanted, because her jaw grew tight and her stare fierce. But before she said anything else, Mr. McClure called out a greeting.
“Hey, son. Hot enough for you?”
I turned my attention to the fire chief and gave him a wave, which quickly turned into a handshake as soon as he was close enough. “Morning, sir. I’m not quite finished with your lady’s car. I should have messaged you. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, ain’t no bother. I can wait.” The older man shrugged, turning his attention to Shelly. Giving her a genteel smile, as was his way, he held out his hand. “Hello, there. I’m Carter McClure. Who might you be?”
I glanced at Shelly, waiting for her to accept the fire chief’s handshake.
And then I waited some more.
And then continued to wait.
With dawning horror, I watched as she glared at Mr. McClure—one of the kindest, most generous, and well-meaning folks on the face of the earth—and then glared at his hand.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away.
* * *
“I don’t like her,” I was hollering even before I had the door completely open, allowing it to bang against the wall as I entered the office.
As usual, Cletus didn’t look up from whatever was so damn fascinating on his computer screen.
“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”
He continued to click stuff on his screen then finally, finally, gave me his attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”
I tried—Lord, how I tried—to
even my tone. “She might be a decent mechanic. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”
“No, Beau. She’s not a decent mechanic. She’s a great mechanic.”
I opened my mouth to—I don’t even know because he was right, she was a great mechanic—and Cletus talked over me. “Duane is leaving before Thanksgiving. We have too much work as it is. We need the help. Now leave me be. I need to finish this up before my meeting with Drew.”
As though everything was all settled, Cletus turned away, facing the computer screen.
I stared at him, seething, endeavoring to mind my temper. I swallowed the surge of fury threatening to choke me, taking a deep breath for good measure. I knew my brother. No amount of yelling on my part would make him listen. Likely he’d just dig his heels in.
Without looking away from his work, he snapped, “I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.”
“I’m not done talking about this.”
Huffing loudly, he turned his chair to face me. “Why don’t we talk about something else, like the preparations for Jethro’s bachelor party? Did you finish the scavenger hunt?”
“Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. Stop changing the subject.”
“Fine then.” He set his teeth. “Go ahead and talk about Shelly.”
“She’s rude. Not just to me. She’s rude to the customers.”
“Why’s she talking to customers? That’s your job.”
“What do you want me to do? Hide her under a car? She’s impossible to miss, Cletus. She looks like one of those . . . those . . . those models from the magazines.”
“Which magazines are these?” Cletus’s tone was dry and heavy with implied meaning because, Yes. Fine. Okay? I like car magazines and I like looking at the models in them.
Satisfied?
I tossed my hands up and then settled them on my hips. “You know what I mean. People catch sight of her, they want to talk to her.”
“You mean men catch sight of her and want to talk to her.”
“Yes. Fine. Men. Men want to talk to her. And then she insults them. Do you really think that’s a good business strategy? Hiring a gorgeous woman to insult our male customers?”
“No. No, I do not.” His tone was serious but I didn’t miss the telltale twitch of his mouth.
The sneaky bastard thought this was funny.
“Oh, is this funny?”
He didn’t respond, but he was laughing.
“Are you laughing?”
“Nope,” he said, still laughing.
It was the wrong thing for him to do. The simmering anger, the pinch in my lungs regarding Darlene, my frustrations, they all chose that moment to boil over. Before I knew what I was doing, I knocked the container of writing utensils and the stacks of papers off the file cabinet with a growl.
Finally, he stopped laughing. And when I faced him, his eyes were crackling fire at me.
“You’re going to pick that mess up, Beau Fitzgerald Winston.”
I was too angry, too pissed off, and maybe too proud to do as he ordered.
However, I wasn’t too far gone to realize that this was Cletus I was addressing. If anyone could make my life a nightmare, it was him. Instead of capitulating to his demands, I jabbed a finger in the direction of the chaos and seethed, “I will pick it up when I’m good and ready to pick it up.”
Then I turned, slamming the door after me as I marched down the stairs, almost colliding with Drew Runous at the entrance to the stairwell. Muttering a short apology, I darted past him, out of the garage to the back lot where I could pace and calm down.
Cletus didn’t want to fire the woman? Fine.
Fine.
That was just fine.
But hell if I was going to work with her. Or talk to her. Or look at her.
As far as I was concerned, she and her rude—perfect—ass didn’t exist.
4
“Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.”
― George Orwell, 1984
* * *
*Shelly*
“I’m having invasive sexual thoughts.”
“Tell me.” Two words.
I took a breath and silently counted to ten before speaking again. “Do you think it’s the new medication?”
Dr. West shook her head. “I don’t know, Shelly. Describe these thoughts you’ve been having. Then we can figure out if it’s the meds or if something else is going on.” Four words. Six words. Sixteen words.
I bit my tongue, not hard, just enough to keep from informing Dr. West that she was consistently speaking in sentences with an even number of words. I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to count.
But here I was, counting.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Instead of drawing her attention to the number of words in her sentences, I cleared my throat and tried not to think about it, not counting to ten this time. “Has this happened to any of your other patients?”
“Not with fluoxetine, but this is your first time on an antidepressant. Describe what’s been happening.” Twelve words. Four words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“I . . . I think about one of my coworkers. Often. In inappropriate ways.” I glanced over Dr. West’s head to the blank white wall behind her.
She didn’t have any paintings on her office walls. She’d explained during our first in-person session six weeks ago that her patients—the type of patients she treated—became easily distracted by decorations.
No paintings. No magazines. No clutter. Just her chair, a chair for her patient, and a coffee table between us. The only other object in the room was an air purifier in the corner.
“You have to be more specific.” Six words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I brought my attention back to Dr. West and her gentle expression. It had been that gentle expression staring back at me from the pages of a magazine last year that had convinced me to finally do this.
More accurately, it had been Dr. West’s gentle expression and the fact that my brother’s wife had just discovered she was pregnant with their first child.
My nephew had been born a few weeks ago. I hadn’t visited. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t. I wanted to, desperately, but every time I thought about it . . .
What if? What if he gets hurt? What if you’re the reason something happens? What if?
“Shelly?” she prompted.
I’d taken too long to answer.
Filling my lungs with filtered air, I endeavored to be completely honest without going into too much unnecessary detail regarding my thoughts about Beau. I’d learned over the course of my life that providing too much detail or being too expressive often disconcerted people.
“I think about his smile. He tells jokes. And he’s friendly. He goes out of his way to help people.”
“How long have you known him?” Six words.
“Just two weeks.”
“And you see him how often?” Six words.
“Almost every day.”
“Okay, so why do you think your thoughts are invasive or sexual?” Twelve words.
I rubbed my forehead, reprimanding myself for counting. Just stop. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
“I think about his hands. I think about what he looks like with no clothes on. I think about him taking my clothes off. I think about us kissing. Him touching me.”
“And then?” Two words.
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Really, Shelly?” Two words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“What? Should I have brought diagrams?”
She allowed herself a small smile and I knew she thought my question funny. Dr. West hadn’t smiled at all when we’d begun our face-to-face sessions over Skype last year, and I’d liked that about her. Smiles between strangers are a show, a mask, misdirection, manipulative.
Or I used to think so.
Before Beau Winston.
“No worries about inflict
ing physical pain? Hurting him?” Six words. Two words.
“No. Never.”
“Do you feel fear? When you imagine him touching you?” Four words. Six words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“No. Not at all.” I told my heart to slow down. She’s not doing it on purpose.
She stared at me, considering, the small smile still in place. “Do you think, maybe, you’re just attracted to this guy? Your coworker?” Ten words. Two words.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you speaking in even sentences?”
“What’s that?” Two words.
“You did it again, Doctor. Every one of your sentences has an even number of words. You know I prefer sentences with an odd number. Is this the initiation of a secret ERP plan? Are you testing my endurance?” By the time I finished speaking I was out of breath.
And enormously disappointed in myself.
I didn’t drop my gaze, though the heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck and over my cheeks. And that was fine. I was used to being embarrassed. At this point in my life, being an embarrassment was my normal.
Dr. West stared at me for four seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, Shelly. Is this better?” She spoke deliberately, slowly, like she was planning what to say, counting her words in her head.
I hated that she had to do that. I hated that it worked. I hated that I was already feeling better, calmer.
I glared at her because I couldn’t glare at myself. A surge of impatience flooded through me and I whispered, “You have to fix me.”
“Therapy isn’t about ‘fixing,’ Shelly. We’re building strategies to help redirect your existing responses. You know that. You are showing good progress. But you . . .” she paused, and I could see she was trying to keep a mental tally of how many words she’d spoken, “have lived with this disorder your whole life, and . . . you have made room for it.” Five words. Nine words. Three words. Five words. Seventeen words.
“I want to hold Desmond,” I pleaded. “Hug my brother. See my parents. I need to tell them the truth about what I did to them. Please.”