by Penny Reid
I knew better than to speak, or flinch, or make any movement other than holding on. I’d been in similar situations several times with Duane.
My attention cut between Shelly and the side mirror, and I kept waiting for any sign of pursuit. Thus far, there were no headlights, no sounds of motorcycles. Shelly, however, kept her eyes forward, never once looking behind us, her features an impassive mask of concentration.
We raced down the mountain road for a good while. Or at least, it felt like a good while. Abruptly, she downshifted and braked just before a switchback and I glanced at her in alarm. Our speed reduced to a near stop, Shelly turned the wheel, shutting off the lights, and taking us on a dirt road. I understood immediately why she’d slowed, kicking up dirt would be like shining a spotlight on our location.
But I was also concerned, because I knew the road. It led to a vacation rental—really, a fishing shack—owned by Mr. Tanner. The gravel drive was long and twisty with no offshoots. If they followed us, we were trapped. And if Mr. Tanner had tenants, they might not take too kindly to our parking in their drive. The kind of folks that rented from Mr. Tanner usually didn’t care much about comfort, and usually didn’t stay long.
Shelly seemed to know the road by heart; with no headlights and the darkness of the surrounding forest, it would’ve been easy to steer us into a ditch or a tree. She didn’t.
My siblings and I could see better in the dark than most folks. Cletus attributed this to our Yuchi ancestry on our daddy’s side, a Native American tribe that lived in the East Tennessee River Valley until the seventeenth century. But even I was having trouble following the line of the road.
Not twenty seconds after we pulled off, I heard the telltale sounds of motorcycles approaching. I held my breath, straining to hear, bracing. But then they raced past the drive, rumbly engines slicing through the night, close enough to give me chills. And then the sounds faded into the distance.
I blew out the breath, telling my heart to quit slamming into my ribs. Shelly was still coasting, rolling forward on momentum, and when we reached a certain point, she tugged the wheel just slightly to the right.
“She’ll go in the garage. If they come down this way, she’ll be hidden.”
Comprehension was slow to arrive. “You’re renting this place?”
“Yes.”
“From Mr. Tanner?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t like this fact one bit. Sure, it was on several acres, with a private slope on Bandit Lake. Launch off the dock was possible even though it was in severe disrepair. The location was ideal, but if memory served, the place was little more than a lean-to.
We rounded the main structure; calling it a cabin would’ve been too generous. Shelly flicked on the parking lights, illuminating a Quonset hut similar to the one on our property.
“I don’t remember this being here.”
“I added it.”
That had me looking at her. “Mr. Tanner let you add it?”
“I didn’t give him much of a choice.”
“How so?”
Her eyes darted to mine, and then back to the corrugated structure. “I didn’t ask.”
I chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
“It’s pre-fabricated. When I go, I’ll remove it if he wants.”
When I go . . .
I tensed at that, and for a moment I was struck dumb by the words. Before I could ask whether she meant When I move someplace else in Green Valley that’s not a shack, or When I return to Chicago, she’d placed the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, and hopped out.
It took me just two seconds before I unbuckled my seatbelt and exited the car to follow her. I heard her dogs barking from the direction of the house; clearly our stealth wasn’t stealthy enough for the giant animals.
By the time I reached her, she’d bent to unlock the thick-gauge padlock; the lock anchored a roller door to the ground.
Now wasn’t the time to question her about leaving, seeing as how the Wraiths might still double back and search private driveways. But something about how she’d said it, like leaving was inevitable, rubbed like sandpaper in my armpit.
Clearing my throat, I helped her lift the metal door, noting conversationally, “You know he’s the junkyard man, and he’ll probably use it for storage . . . when you go.”
She made a noncommittal sound, and then turned, jogging back to the car and slipping inside. Kicking a patch of dirt, I tried to curtail the impulse to mention the issue again.
I could wait.
I should wait.
We had plenty of time. I hope.
Distracted by this train of thought, I moved to one side, glancing into the interior of the semicircular structure, and started in mild surprise by what I found there.
It looked like a workshop, which wasn’t surprising. Everyone knew Shelly did metal work, engineering car parts and casting them on her own. But the source of my astonishment were the huge sculptures along the back wall. Metalwork, from the looks of it. The three figures were lined up, and each one must’ve been twelve or fifteen feet tall. They looked like birds.
Shelly pulled forward, casting more light on the shapes and I saw they weren’t birds, they were angels. My breath caught. Each had feathery wings made from what appeared to be silver. Strong male bodies, entirely nude.
Drawn to them, I walked into the hut without thinking, navigating past machinery I might’ve admired if not for the sculptures. As I drew near, I realized the wings were made from reclaimed utensils. One had forks, one spoons, and the last knives.
Barely aware that Shelly had cut the engine but left on the lights, I reached forward and touched the wing, found it was moveable. The metal fabric created by the reclaimed silverware bent and moved like chicken wire, plus the entire wing seemed to be on a hinge.
“Holy shit.”
“They’re for a plaza, in Berlin. Over time, the wings will soften.”
I glanced at her, startled to find her at my elbow. “You made these?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit.” This time, I said the words to her. “You’re an artist.”
She shrugged. “My major was sculpture.”
“In college?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you go?”
“The Art Institute in Chicago.”
Wow. Impressive.
I turned my attention back to the angels and stared at the face of the one closest; he looked fierce, but not angry. “How long did these take you?”
“Three months.”
“Are the wings—”
“Made of silver, yes.”
“They must be—”
“Worth a lot.”
I huffed a laugh at her ability to finish my thoughts. “What are the bodies made of?”
“Copper. The bone structure of the wings is also copper.”
I thought about that, copper bodies and silver wings. Eventually both would oxidize, but neither would rust. The copper would turn green, and the silver black.
Absentmindedly, I said, “Unless they’re polished, their colors will fade.”
“Like a person.”
“Pardon?” I returned my gaze to her profile.
“People need to be polished, to be stroked, touched,” her tone was abstract, “and when they’re not polished, their colors fade. They fade, they change, warp, become something different.”
She overwhelmed me in that moment, her words, the enormity of her talent. Here I thought I was courting an auto mechanic with a few peculiarities.
Instead, this woman was an artistic genius. Picture pieces snapped together and Shelly Sullivan came further into focus.
“Incredible.” You’re incredible.
“Thank you.” She accepted the praise easily, assuming I meant the statues, her attention affixed to the right-most angel. “I’m not finished, but almost.”
“They look perfect to me.”
My eyes were drawn to the angel with si
lver knives for wings, a knot of unease in my stomach at the sight of the blades. She’d said she didn’t own any knives. I supposed maybe Shelly didn’t consider sculpting supplies actual knives. Plus, I saw they weren’t of the sharp variety. More like glorified butter spreaders.
The knot eased, leaving me with a sense of . . . unworthiness.
Yep. That’s what it was. I didn’t like it. I pushed it away, clearing the thought from my mind.
She was saved from responding by the hum of a lone engine in the distance. From the sound of it, the vehicle was still on the main road, and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a bike or a souped-up car.
We both jumped into action. Shelly made for the GTO, turning off the lights and withdrawing the keys. I jogged to the roller door, pulling it down halfway until she exited, then closing and locking it.
“Come with me.” Shelly reached out her hand and I grabbed it. She steered us to the side door of the shack. Once there, she unlocked it, and pulled me through.
The room was dark, but I could see outlines of furniture, the space much larger than I remembered. Soon, the sound of galloping paws and excited barks greeted us, followed by dark outlines of the beasts themselves.
“Brace for impact,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
She didn’t need to tell me twice. I turned to the side, spreading my feet apart, and opened my arms for whichever of the two mammoths pummeled me first.
One swirled around Shelly’s legs, wagging its tail excitedly. The other leapt on me and licked my beard and neck.
“Down, Laika.” Shelly reached for the dog around the chest and I tried to help, which allowed Laika to lick my face more fully.
“This dog has made it to first base.” I laughed, turning from the dog’s ardent attentions.
Shelly laughed too, wrestling with the canine. But as soon as Laika was within her grip, the other dog aggressively stuck its nose in my crotch.
“And this one has made it to third.” I struggled to push its head—which was as big as a horse’s—away.
Shelly was laughing so hard she snorted. And then she snorted again, presumably finding the first snort hysterical.
Of course I was laughing too, and I almost forgot about the sound of the engine that had spurred us inside until the dogs suddenly grew stiff and alert. In the quiet, our eyes locked and I was certain we’d both heard the same thing.
An engine, coming up the drive. Shit.
Laika and the other dog were barking again in earnest, adding a snarl or two, and running for the front door.
Shelly started after them, but then there was a thud as some part of her connected with a piece of furniture. “Shit!”
“Hey, hey,” I whispered, coming to her side. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I just stubbed my toe.”
“Where are the lights?”
“Should we turn on the lights?” Her face was directly in front of mine, our mouths two or three inches apart. Despite the situation, my body took note of her closeness. And the dark.
The sound of the engine cut—or at least I thought it did. It was hard to tell with the dogs causing such a ruckus and my mind turning to more agreeable matters.
“You’re right. I don’t want you answering the door.” I slid my arm around her waist, bringing her tighter against me . . . for her safety. Yeah. That’s why I did it.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Laika and her friend kept barking and snarling. I doubted anyone outside could hear us.
“They might’ve seen you behind the wheel when we left.” Best we ignore them and make-out instead. “Let the dogs handle it.”
These dogs sounded terrifying. No one owning sense would dare enter with those two beasts making such a ruckus.
I could just decipher the lines of Shelly’s face, the movement of her eyes. She searched the darkness, her brow furrowing.
“You sound different.”
I slid a hand up her arm, over her shoulder to cup her jaw.
Her eyelashes fluttered. “There might be a man with a gun outside, and you want to kiss me?”
“I always want to kiss you.”
Shelly shivered and she turned more completely against me. “Beau—”
“You driving my car was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I lowered my head, pressed the flat of my tongue against the junction of her shoulder and neck, and swirled it against her skin, giving her a small bite.
She shivered again, twining her arms around my neck. Shelly tilted her chin, offering more access even as her shoulder lifted in an automatic reflex.
“That feels good.” Her voice was breathless. “Do not stop doing that.”
I skimmed my fingertips down the other side of her neck, to her chest, cupping her breast over her dress. “Can I do other things?”
“Yes. All the things. Do all the things.” She was pressing herself against me. The barking dogs, the potential danger outside now forgotten.
She smelled heavenly, like lavender and gardenias and sugar. I took another soft bite of her neck, loving the way her nails dug into the back of my head, loving how she arched and rubbed against me, like she couldn’t help herself.
She groaned, her breath hitching as I tugged on the center of her breast through the fabric.
“Beauford Winston! I know you’re in there.”
I stiffened, my eyes flying open, because I would know that voice anywhere.
“Duane,” Shelly whispered, though she didn’t move.
“Come on, Beau. I saw your car in the garage out back. Open the door and call off Cerberus.”
“I’m here, too,” Jessica hollered. “And I have pie.”
* * *
My twin glowered at me. I was used to his surly moods. His glower didn’t affect me any. Plus, truth be told, I wasn’t too happy with him either. His nosy self had just interrupted a moment. And now, instead of making out with Shelly—or more than making out with Shelly—I was on the receiving end of my twin’s tremendously unsexy frown.
When he was done glowering, he turned softer features to Shelly. “Mind if we come in?”
“Yes. Please come in.” Shelly waved them forward, still looking a little hazy from our earlier encounter.
Before opening the door, she’d put the two dogs in the bedroom. They were still barking, but were no longer snarling.
“How many dogs do you have in there?” As they entered, Duane sent a wary look toward the bedroom door. “Twenty?”
Jess huffed at Duane and then turned her smile to Shelly. “I’m Jessica.”
Shelly stiffened, and I witnessed her panic war with frustration.
But before Shelly could say anything, Jessica continued, “Duane told me not to try to shake your hand, so don’t worry about that. Honestly, I hate shaking hands. I never know how long to hold a handshake. And then, who does the shaking? What if no one shakes? Then I’m just standing there, holding some stranger’s hand. It’s the worst.”
One of Shelly’s almost smiles made an appearance as her gaze moved over Jessica.
Finally, she said, “I’m Shelly.”
“Yes. I know.” Jessica beamed at her, then held up her pie. “I brought pie.”
“You said that already.” I squinted at my brother’s girlfriend.
She was acting funny. Sure, she’d always been a little zany, but this was different. Jess looked excited and nervous; it reminded me of how she used to act around me when we were kids, when she had a crush on me and struggled to string three words together.
“Did I?” Jess continued to smile, her attention never leaving Shelly’s face.
“Come into the kitchen, I have plates.” Shelly waved my brother and Jess forward, flipping on a light by the door.
I didn’t follow. I could hardly believe my eyes. The interior of Mr. Tanner’s shack had been transformed. It was still small, but it was no longer shabby.
The room where we stood, because the front door opened onto a room, was lined with booksh
elves. She’d placed a brown leather couch and ottoman in the center of the room along with a lamp. Furniture was sparse, but it was nice furniture. It looked comfortable, definitely high quality.
A console table stood directly opposite the front door with a large, brass tray on it. I spotted screws and bolts and other various and sundry widgets scattered on its surface, along with a thick brown wallet.
The place used to have visible pipes and electrical wiring; that was no longer the case. The walls not lined with shelves were covered with drywall and fresh white paint. The installation looked brand new. Upon the walls hung a collection of captivating paintings, drawings and prints—all framed and precisely aligned.
“In a minute,” Duane called to Shelly. “I need to speak with my brother.”
“Take your time,” Jess called back, sounding giddy.
Meanwhile, I was dumbfounded by the transformation of the place. It was unreal how much different—better—it looked.
“Looks nice.” Duane was now standing at my elbow and had closed the door while I gaped like an idiot at Shelly’s place.
“It’s completely different.”
“She must’ve done a lot of work on it.”
That pulled my eyes to my brother. “You think Shelly did this?”
“Well, old-man Tanner didn’t do it, and he didn’t hire anybody either.”
I nodded, slowly at first, then faster as I decided Duane was right. She must’ve done it all herself. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she could also perform brain surgery.
“Hey, why’s Jess acting like that?”
Duane wiped a hand over his face. “Oh, good Lord.”
“What?”
“She found out who Shelly was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess Shelly is some famous artist or something? I don’t really know.”
“Jess knows who she is?”
“Yeah, that’s why she’s been pestering me about us getting together. After seeing her at the bar, she looked her up.”
“Huh.” I let that sink in.
After seeing her sculptures in the hut, and knowing the one there was going to Berlin, it wasn’t too farfetched to comprehend that her art was famous.
What did surprise me was that Shelly hadn’t brought up the fact that she was both an artist and world famous.