Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  “A stranger that you made out with for hours last night,” he adds. “Daphne, it’s totally fine. I don’t care. She means well.”

  “All right. Just wanted to get that out there.” I clear my throat and pull my shoulders back.

  It’s quiet for a few beats.

  “What kind of music do you like?” I ask, reaching for the radio and scanning stations. The presets are set to mostly country, oldies, and talk radio.

  “Classic rock. But you’re driving. You pick,” he says. “Your rules, remember?”

  I decide to be nice and tune in to a classic rock station. The Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want comes on the radio, and I wonder if I’m going to associate this song with this moment for the rest of my life.

  Probably.

  There are a lot of songs that have latched on to epic moments in my life, good and bad. I can’t listen to Louie Armstrong’s version of La Vie En Rose without thinking of the night Pierre kissed me outside a little café in Bordeaux just before midnight. The song was piping through outdoor speakers as his hands found my hair and his lips pressed onto mine with such feverish passion that the world stopped spinning.

  Buena Vista Social Club’s El cuarto de Tula reminds me of the night I met Weston, the football player. There was a live band playing on an outdoor stage at some Cuban bar in downtown Miami, and when I asked him what this song was, he didn’t know, so he ducked inside the bar to flag down the owner to find out for me. When he came back out, he took me by the hand and twirled me beneath the streetlights when I told him I wished I knew how to salsa dance. We laughed and then he wrapped me in his arms in a single second that felt like sweet eternity.

  The Darkness’ I Believe in a Thing Called Love was practically the soundtrack of my entire relationship with my high school boyfriend, Corbin Dietrich. Every time I hear it, all I can think about are those never-ending summer nights, picnics at the falls, school formals, Friday night football games, and aimlessly cruising around Rixton Falls in his shiny black Firebird with the windows down. Corbin left for college the summer before my junior year of high school, and I never heard from him again. I heard he’s married now, with a kid on the way, and I often wonder if he thinks of me – of us – when that song comes on the radio.

  The GPS instructs me to take an exit a quarter of a mile ahead, and I check my mirrors before getting over. I spot him checking the mirrors as well, though he’s trying to be sly about it.

  “No backseat driving,” I remind him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw you checking the mirrors.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Just the fact that you had to double check my mirrors tells me you don’t trust me driving,” I say, slightly teasing. “If you’re having reservations about this, I’m more than happy to drop you off at the nearest gas station so you can call a cab to take you back to Seaview.”

  “Zero reservations,” he says. “And I checked the mirrors because I’m your co-pilot. I’m fifty-percent responsible for a safe arrival at our destination, and these California drivers are crazy.”

  “I’m from New York. We invented crazy drivers. Ever heard of the New York State Thruway?”

  “I’ll see your thruway and raise you one New Jersey turnpike.”

  “This isn’t a competition,” I remind him with a smirk in my tone. “Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”

  Reaching for the radio knob, I turn up the volume and focus on the road. Cristiano stays quiet as the mile markers pass, and the music droning from the speakers does very little to drown out thoughts of last night. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still feel his weight over me, the pressure of his mouth against mine, and the feel of his hand cupping my jaw. Even the tingles radiating down my spine. It’s like they’re right there where I left them.

  Turning off the radio twenty miles down the road, I pull in a deep breath and prepare to address the hot pink polka-dotted elephant in the room.

  “Can we talk about last night?” My brows meet as I turn to him for a second.

  He sits up, dragging his palm along the stubble on his chiseled cheek. His gaze narrows at me and his lips press flat.

  “All right,” he says.

  “It’s just, if we’re going to be spending the next few days together,” I say, “after last night . . . after yesterday, really . . .”

  I don’t know where I’m going with this other than the fact that I want to prove to him I’m not crazy.

  And I want to make sure he isn’t either.

  “Let me start over,” I say, waving my hand in the air like I’m erasing a chalkboard. “You ever have one of those days when everything goes wrong and you’re not feeling like yourself?”

  He shrugs. “I guess?”

  “Well, yesterday was one of those days. For me. And I didn’t mean to bite your head off in the airport. Or at the hotel. Let me just apologize for that because it wasn’t me at all.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the kiss,” I say. “I’ve never cried from a kiss before. I’m embarrassed, honestly, and it’s been bothering me all morning. I really need you to know that I’m not usually this big of a . . .”

  “Hot mess?” he finishes my thought.

  Exhaling, I turn his way and offer a sheepish hint of a grin. “Yeah. Hot mess.”

  We’re focused ahead, and I change lanes the second we get behind an elderly couple in a Buick driving an irritatingly ten miles under the posted speed limit. We’ve got to make good time.

  “Is this weird for you at all?” I ask. “I mean, after yesterday. After last night . . .”

  I glance at Cristiano, whose gaze narrows my way. His brows meet and he shakes his head.

  “No, Daphne. It’s not weird for me. But it’s weird that you’re making it weird.”

  “I’m not trying to make it weird, I’m simply asking a question.”

  “We made out last night,” he says, exhaling. “It’s not like we fucked. If you don’t make it a thing, then it won’t be a thing.”

  His phone rings, and he has to contort himself in this cramped little car in order to retrieve it from his left pocket.

  “Hey, Joey,” he answers. “Yeah, still no flights. I found a way back though. I won’t miss your big day . . . I’ll be there . . . promise . . . how you holding up? You doing all right?”

  I try not to eavesdrop but when he’s sitting twelve inches from me, it’s kind of hard not to.

  “Don’t stress,” he says. “Like I said, I’ll be there. Everything’ll be fine. Hoping to get back Friday night. We can all go out. Maybe get a beer or something to calm your nerves.”

  He chuckles, and then he ends the call.

  “Cold feet?” I ask.

  “Who the hell knows,” he scoffs.

  “Is it just me, or is everyone our age either having weddings or babies?”

  Cristiano nods, his mouth drawn up in one corner. “Feels like it.”

  “Do you want to get married?” I ask. “I mean, do you ever see yourself getting married someday?”

  Without hesitation, he sits up straight and looks my way. “Yeah. I do. Guess I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  “How crazy is it that in this day and age, marriage is considered old-fashioned?” I muse.

  “How about you? You want to get married someday?”

  I shrug my shoulders, hands clasped on the wheel. “Maybe? I don’t know. Depends on the day. Somedays I think I do. Other days I’m one hundred percent sure that I don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be with someone. I believe in love and soul mates and all of that good stuff, but marriage?”

  I stick my tongue out.

  “I made a pact,” he says, staring wistfully ahead. “This girl I grew up with. If neither of us were married by thirty, we were going to marry each other. Have kids. Settle down. All of that. Kind of always thought it’d be her. But she’s with someone now, so I don’t think it’s ever going to happen.”

&
nbsp; “I know we just met, but I honestly can’t imagine you settled down living the quiet married life in the suburbs,” I say. “It’s probably for the best.”

  His gaze falls to the dash. “Yeah. You’ve got a point.”

  “You want kids though?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I think so. Maybe ten years from now. One or two would be nice. You?”

  Releasing an audible half-groan, my shoulders slump. “I don’t know. Maybe one. Maybe ten years from now. There’s just so much living I want to do, you know? And if I have a baby, I want to be able to give it my undivided attention. I want to give it all of me, and I can’t do that if I’m staring out the window wondering what it’d be like to be snorkeling in Fiji or skiing in the Swiss Alps. I hope that doesn’t make me sound selfish.”

  “Quite the opposite,” he says.

  “I grew up in a big family. There were six of us altogether, my parents, two sisters, and a brother. The house was always noisy and chaotic and people were always coming and going. I used to lock myself away in the storage room in the basement, flip on a radio to drown out the noise, and just paint and draw for hours.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “I studied art, yes,” I say. “I have my MFA in Drawing, though I love oil painting just as much, if not more. I was actually interviewing for a job at a fine arts college in Seaview this past week. Anyway, I heard you tell my sister you have four brothers?”

  “Yep.” He sighs. “Bet my house was a hell of a lot noisier than yours. Anyway, speaking of noise and peace and quiet and all that, I’m going to catch a quick nap. Someone had me up late last night, and we should switch off every three to four hours. Figure we’ll need to stretch and grab gas or food or whatever. It’s more efficient this way. And safer.”

  Chuffing, I let him have his way. He’s clearly taking this whole safe arrival thing seriously. And I have to admit, it’s kind of nice having him here, even if he is an obnoxious, overprotective know-it-all.

  Chapter 7

  Cristiano

  The click of the car door wakes me, and for a split second, I forget that I’m trekking across the country crammed in some Micro Machine-sized car. Reaching for the door handle, I give it a tug and swing the door wide.

  I don’t know what state we’re in or exactly how long we’ve been driving now, but I see red mountains in the distance and desert sparse with cacti and other greenery. My eyes focus on a sign by the road that says welcome to Fort Reed, Arizona.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Daphne shoves the gas nozzle into the side of the car and smiles wide. “You took quite the nap. Welcome to fabulous Arizona.”

  I rub my eyes, and my stomach growls. The bright mid-day sun nearly blinds me when I step out from under the awning above the car.

  “Think you can man this thing while I head inside and grab some food?” she asks.

  I make my way toward the gas pump, watching the numbers tick by slowly, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Daphne drags her feet through the dusty gravel parking lot as she heads in, her blonde hair blowing in the tepid breeze. There’s a slight chill in the air, but the sun provides enough warmth that it’s not so bad.

  Making my way around the car, I check the tires, kicking them and pressing them and making sure they’re all properly inflated. The gas pump clicks once the tank is full, and I turn my attention that way to complete the sale.

  By the time I’m done, I climb into the driver’s seat, preparing to take my turn behind the wheel. Attempting to get comfortable here is no easy feat, especially when my knees are jammed under the steering wheel despite the seat being moved all the way back.

  Groaning, I remind myself that it is what it is, and then I check my phone. A few friends from back home have sent texts, asking if I’m all right and if I’ll be there for the wedding. I assure them all that I wouldn’t miss it for the world, and I tell them not to sweat it. I’m coming home. I’ll be there soon.

  It hits me a few minutes later that Daphne seems to be taking an awful long time, especially considering the fact that we’re in a bit of a hurry here, so I glance at the gas station storefront to see if I can spot her inside.

  Only she’s standing out front, next to a newspaper rack, surrounded by a couple of men in flannel, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.

  Their backs are to me, but I can see her face. She’s smiling, nodding. Her mouth is moving and her arms are full of snacks and beverages. She takes a step toward the parking lot but they move with her, blocking her almost. From here, I see her smile fade for a second, and then she gazes my way.

  Before I have time to think twice, I fly out of the car and make my way toward Daphne and her new friends.

  “What’s the hold up here?” I rest my hands on my hips and glare at the cowboys. They turn to me, their tanned faces weathered and their expressions unwelcoming.

  “Who the hell are you?” one of them asks, head cocked.

  “I’m with her,” I say. “Who the hell are you?”

  “They were just asking if we needed anything, directions or whatever. I told them we have a GPS and we’re fine,” she says, words rushed. She releases a nervous titter. “Anyway, we should hit the road.”

  I shoot the assholes a look and slip my hand on the small of Daphne’s back, escorting her back to the car.

  “Anybody ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” I chuff when we climb inside.

  Her arms are full of chips and candy and bottled waters, and she begins organizing it neatly in every cup holder and cranny she can find.

  “This should last us a while,” she says. “I guess the Pittz Pit Stop has never heard of bananas or dry roasted almonds. It was nothing but junk in there.”

  “Daphne,” I say, starting the engine. My jaw is tight. “Did you hear what I said?”

  She pulls her seatbelt across her lap and fastens it with a satisfying click. “Yep.”

  “Those guys were looking for trouble,” I say.

  Daphne swats her hand. “They were harmless. They were potato farmers from north of Prescott. People in these itty-bitty towns aren’t used to seeing strangers. They were just curious.”

  “I watched you try to walk away from them and they followed,” I say, pulling back onto the main highway. “They weren’t going to let you go that easily. I’m not sure if you’re choosing to be naïve about this or if you truly are naïve.”

  She groans, resting the side of her head against the glass of her window. “Really not in the mood for one of your lectures, Cristiano.”

  Reaching for the radio, she cranks up the music.

  I crank it back down before returning my tight grip to the wheel. “Just, don’t talk to strangers, okay?”

  “Have you always been this overprotective?” she asks. “God help you if you ever have daughters.”

  Fishing through the snacks, she offers me a chocolate bar and a bottle of water.

  Messing with the radio again, she tunes it until she finds a classic rock channel, and then she rolls down her window, sits back, and tears into a bag of red licorice, singing along to the Led Zeppelin tune in between bites.

  Checking the GPS, it looks like five hours from now we’ll be somewhere in Colorado, and if we can make it a few hours past that, we’ll be able to stop for the night and get some rest.

  “FYI, I was perfectly capable of escaping those Deliverance guys on my own, but thank you for taking it upon yourself to come to my unnecessary rescue,” she says, snapping a piece of licorice from between her teeth. She grins wide, her eyes teasing. “It’s cute that you’re protective. And annoying too. And I promise not to talk to strangers again. Though you’re technically a stranger, so where does that leave us?”

  “Sweetheart, we’re hardly strangers,” I chuff. “I think we passed that point when we woke up in bed together this morning.”

  “Whatever.” She pulls another strand of licorice from the bag and stares ahead with a smirk. “Just drive, Amato.”

  Chapte
r 8

  Daphne

  “You sure this is our only option?” I ask as we pull up in front of a giant Victorian house in a creepy little town called Silver Hollow in eastern Colorado. It’s almost nine o’clock and we’ve been on the road nearly thirteen hours today. I’ll never admit this to Cristiano, but driving all these hours really wears a girl out, and these last forty miles, I’ve been struggling to stay awake.

  There’s a wooden sign out front with a giant cross and the words Holy Cross Bed and Breakfast painted in intricate gold cursive. A smaller wooden sign hangs off the larger one, indicating rooms are available. The house is painted in shades of plum and goldenrod and hunter green, and ominous weeping willows fill the expansive lot. The turret to the right of the front porch spans three stories and finishes with a pointed metal cross that points to the darkened skies.

  “I feel like we’re seconds from experiencing our own personal horror story,” I say. “If we get murdered tonight, I’m blaming you.”

  “This keeps us on schedule,” he says. “It’s getting late and we need a place to crash. Next hotel isn’t for another eighty-six miles.”

  I kill the engine and climb out, legs stiff and throbbing. Stretching my arms over my head, my shirt rises up just a little, and I catch Cristiano stealing a two-second glimpse.

  Grabbing our bags from the trunk, we walk to the front door and ring the bell. My heart races, drowning out the sound of some rogue swarm of birds circling the trees above.

  It feels like we’re legitimately standing in some Alfred Hitchcock scene, seconds from meeting an ill-timed fate.

  The porch light flicks on with a hum, and we hear the sound of metal locks and latches clicking on the other side of the door. A second later, an elderly woman with a shiny silver bun on her head and a knit shrug swings the door wide.

  Her lips are turned down in the corners and her beady eyes scan our faces.

  “Are you Mrs. Snodgrass?” Cristiano asks. “I’m Cristiano Amato. I called about an hour ago. We’re passing through and needing a place to stay for one night.”