Complicated

by Kristen Ashley

  “I hope so.”

  But I didn’t actually hope so and not because I never hoped for anything important.

  I knew she wasn’t done.

  But I did think she’d eventually give up if I had the strength to continue going my own way.

  She played all her angles but she wasn’t a big fan of expending too much time and effort getting blood from a stone.

  “Toodle-loo!” someone called from the front room. “Y’all here?”

  “That’d be mine,” Lou murmured and moved to the door, shouting, “In the back, Agnes! Coming right out!”

  She stopped at it and looked back at me.

  “I never said this because it was too fresh but you really should know it. Keith messed up, girlfriend. I never met her but just your stories make her sound like Tawnee the Hun. I know with things the way they are with Bill that if you love someone, you put up with all the shit that comes with them. I know a lot of people wonder why I put up with his shit but the answer is simple. I love him. And I’m sure Keith loved you. He just didn’t love you enough.”

  “Thanks, darlin’,” I whispered.

  She wasn’t quite done.

  “One thing Hixon Drake is right about, you’re worth getting a second job to buy you a big-ass ring if that was what you wanted. Although I’m pissed at him for what he did to you, at least we agree on that.” She gave me a smile. “And I know that mostly because you’re the kind of woman who’d never want that. You’d like getting it. But that isn’t what’s important to you.”

  She was right.

  I liked diamonds.

  But I had a sneaking, confusing, scary suspicion I’d move into a trailer if Hixon Drake lived in it, and after I’d moved out of my mother’s when I was twenty, I’d sworn I’d never go back for any reason.

  “Don’t make me cry,” I ordered. “I didn’t wear my waterproof mascara.”

  She grinned. “Okay, I won’t. I’ll just say I no longer hate you because you’re gorgeous and have a great ass. I hate you now because you get to have a scene in the grocery store with a hot guy pinning you against the Celestial Seasonings, getting all wound up on your behalf, shouting in your face then calling you sweetheart. As I’ve said, I’m pissed at Hix. But I wasn’t even there, I just heard it from seven sources, and I still know that was hot.”

  “It wasn’t hot,” I shared truthfully. “It was kinda scary and more than kinda annoying.”

  “Yeah, I get you thought that then. But now . . .” She shook her head. “I’m pissed at Hix but I might find my way to unpissed if that gives any indication of how much that man feels for you. And not to give you reason to forgive his badass self for acting like such a huge dick, but I’ve known Hixon Drake for years and I’ve heard more about him than is healthy for anyone outside Brad Pitt, and he’s not the man to cause a scene in a grocery store, Greta. If he lost it in the manner half the women of this town are tittering relentlessly about at this very moment that says something I don’t wanna hear about Hixon Drake right now. That man isn’t sheriff. He lives and breathes the responsibility behind that badge. So pinning a woman against the tea selection in a grocery store is not the way he’d go.”

  She paused.

  I braced.

  Then she gave me the rest of it.

  “But he saw you with a shiner and he went that way. Yeah,” she said contemplatively. “That might help me find my way to unpissed.”

  “Now you are being scary and annoying,” I returned.

  She rolled her eyes, puckered her lips in a kiss my way and walked out the door.

  Gah!

  Lou.

  That Friday night, through the applause after I sang Billie Holiday’s “He’s Funny That Way,” I murmured, “Thank you,” into the mic.

  Billie, by the way, was one of the artists I didn’t like to sing because you just didn’t sing her songs, seeing as you could never do them justice. These, in my estimation, included Barbra Streisand, Dolly Parton, Tina Turner, Céline Dion, Whitney Houston and Adele (but that wasn’t an exhaustive list).

  However, my pianist, Elvan, the man who set my set lists—lists that would be crowd pleasers for Gemini—made me.

  It didn’t hurt too much.

  But he always gave me something after he gave me a toughie.

  And this time he rewarded me, leading the boys into Annie Lennox’s “Cold.”

  I loved that song. It fit my voice perfectly. And I loved to wrap it around the icy-hot beauty of the lyrics.

  So I was smiling when I felt my eyelids get lazy as the drummer did his thing and the others came in and I fell into the song, standing at the microphone, swaying, my hands suddenly weightless, floating around my hips as my head drifted, the only constant being aiming my lips to mic.

  I was finishing the first verse when something caught my attention and I focused slowly on it, seeing with some surprise Gemini standing close to the stage, something he never did. He didn’t sift through the crowd while anyone was performing. It wouldn’t do for the host to interrupt a performance in any way.

  But as I caught sight of him standing right there, blocking people from seeing the stage, his eyes shifted.

  I followed their direction and saw Hixon sitting at the end of the bar, his eyes locked on me.

  And somebody kill me, the minute my eyes hit his, they were caught.

  Trapped.

  Captive.

  I couldn’t look away. Even as I sensed some members of the audience shifting, twisting in their seats, turning to look to see who I was singing to.

  But I was singing words about a woman who wanted to swim in her man’s eyes.

  And I wanted that.

  I wanted my shot at that.

  I wanted my shot to swim in the blue of Hix’s eyes for the rest of my life.

  What I didn’t want was for him to know that.

  But I couldn’t look away.

  Fortunately, as they had wont to do, the song ended, I tore myself out of his spell and forced a smile at the audience who were clapping somewhat more enthusiastically than usual. My mind hazily attempted to try to remember what song was next, hoping it wouldn’t get me into more trouble.

  Unfortunately it was the nature of the beast for a lounge singer like me that the next song wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t have lyrics about swimming in someone’s eyes.

  It was Eva Cassidy’s “Fields of Gold.”

  And I managed to sing that and the next four songs of my set without once looking at Hixon.

  I exited the stage concealing my haste (I hoped), expressing my gratitude and saying I’d be back. And I sat in my tiny dressing room backstage (yes, hiding) terrified that Gemini was going to come back like he had just a few weeks before to tell me Hix was out there waiting for me.

  When the knock came and Gemini swung in, I was holding my breath.

  “He left, beautiful,” he said softly. “Spoke with me briefly. Said he enjoyed the show but was concerned he was making you uncomfortable. So he asked me to tell you that you look gorgeous and then he left.”

  I blew out a breath but it wasn’t a complete relief.

  No.

  Because Hixon might have gone but he’d left only to be thoughtful and only after saying something sweet.

  “Not my place, you didn’t ask, heard about the grocery store incident,” Gemini began.

  Of course he did.

  Everyone had.

  “So I don’t know what’s happening. I just know you could do worse. And what I know about that man, not sure you could do better,” he finished.

  I wasn’t sure either.

  “It’s complicated,” I whispered.

  “It always is,” he replied kindly. “You’re fabulous out there, as usual. Keep it coming, Greta.”

  “For you, always, Gemini.”

  He gave me a small smile and ducked out.

  I looked to the mirror.

  Drew in a breath.

  And then I went out to get a sparklin
g water and work the crowd.

  Late the next morning, I hustled to the door as the doorbell sounded.

  I opened it and stopped dead seeing a man standing there holding a huge vase filled with roses the extraordinary color of deep blue with creamy calla lilies and dreamy baby’s breath tucked tight amongst the azure petals.

  “Greta Dare?” he asked.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I answered.

  He shoved the flowers my way. “Delivery.”

  I took them.

  “Enjoy,” he muttered, turned and jogged to and down the steps of my porch.

  I stared after him then slowly backed out of my door, closing it.

  It felt like I wafted to the kitchen island where I set the flowers down, and it felt like it took a year for me to lift my hand to nab the small envelope poking out of the arrangement.

  I slid my finger under the flap, holding my breath.

  And I withdrew the card.

  It was a plain white card that said two words and nothing else.

  Dive under

  I looked back at the arrangements and stared at it.

  Those blue roses.

  I’d never seen blue roses.

  Dive under.

  The lyrics to “Cold” hit me and I started trembling.

  God, Hix could be hot and sweet and classy and . . . and a lot of things quoting two words of a song called “Cold.”

  I snatched up my phone, engaged it, touched the screen until I got to where I was going.

  Unblock this Caller.

  “Shit, shit, damn, damn, shit, shit.”

  He survived the surgery, but I’m sorry, Ms. Dare, he sustained significant head trauma during the accident. We’ve induced a coma until the swelling in his brain goes down and then we’ll have to see. However, it’s my sad duty to inform you that you should prepare. With the trauma he sustained, it’s my opinion that the young man you knew very well might not be the young man who wakes up.

  I switched off my phone, it emitted its weird electronic click, and I threw it with a clatter on the island.

  I walked out of the room.

  But I did not throw away those flowers.

  It was the next Saturday.

  Which was, like it always was, the day after Friday.

  It had been a home game for the Glossop Raiders.

  A home game I did not take Andy to.

  Also a home game I did not walk out of with Hix at my side.

  I had not unblocked him.

  I had also not received more flowers.

  And he had not been sitting in the audience that night (or the night before) as I sang wearing a dress he’d seen on my laptop and had approved of with a look on his face that made me wish I’d had it right then so I could model it for him.

  They had not found the drifter that killed Faith’s husband and things had settled in to the point that no one was even talking about that or Hope and Hixon anymore.

  Now, Hixon and I were still a topic of conversation after I sang that song to him at the Dew (after which, for days, that was all anyone had to ask me about, except Lou, who just kept rolling her eyes at me, and I hadn’t even told her about the flowers).

  I’d just arrived home from singing. It was late. I was tired. I loved my house but I was wishing for the first time since I got over Keith that I wasn’t coming home to it with it being dark and empty. And I was wondering for the seven-millionth time if I should not only unblock Hix but do it and text him that the flowers were beautiful and I had a hankering for chicken tenders from the Harlequin.

  I let myself into my kitchen, automatically moving toward my island to throw my purse and keys there before I would go back to switch on the light and lock the door when someone grabbed me from behind.

  My entire body went chill as I opened my mouth and screamed.

  A hand clamped over it and then I was forced forward, fast and hard. The hand left my mouth and became a fist caught agonizingly in the back of my hair right before my face slammed into the edge of the counter of the island.

  I grunted at the impact and blinked, shaking my head, feeling my limbs loosen as my brain struggled to stay conscious, and that fist in my hair pulled me up.

  I felt the arm fixed around my middle and I heard a man say in my ear, “I just wanted to listen to you sing.”

  I cried out as down I went. My face slamming full-frontal into the top of the island this time, I felt and heard a terrifying crunch, and I was yanked backed up.

  “That’s all I wanted,” he ground into my ear. “I just wanted to listen to you sing. To tell you I like how you sing. To get close to the lips that make that sound. And who’re you? Who’re you to act like you mean something? Who’re you, but an aging lounge singer in a club in the middle of nowhere, acting like a diva? Acting like you matter.”

  He started to take me down again but I twisted at the same time I brought my foot up and aimed as best I could.

  I stomped it down. I was wearing high-heeled sandals, and it seemed my heel caught his toe because he made a high-pitched noise and his arm at my middle loosened.

  I yanked viciously free of that hold, but he still had his fingers in my hair so I was reeled back when I tried to dash away. I whirled around, my neck bent to alleviate the pain of his hand still in my hair, but my eyes found him.

  I clenched a fist, aiming up.

  I planted it with everything I could muster in his throat. He made a foul gurgling noise and his fingers slipped out of my hair.

  I was terrified out of my mind, acting on instinct that was a drive, its sole purpose being to incapacitate him, and I got close. I put my hands to his shadowy shoulders, seeing it was the creepy guy from the Dew Drop.

  I lifted a knee with all my might and slammed it between his legs.

  He emitted a tortured moan of agony and coasted down to his knees, falling to the side, and I vaguely heard a thunk that might have been his head hitting the leg of my island.

  But just then I realized I still had my keys in my hand.

  So I took off.

  I bleeped the locks on my car as I flew across the kitchen to the door he’d left open and turned my ankle in my damned heels when my feet connected with the concrete of my driveway.

  I didn’t go down and I didn’t waste time closing the door behind me. I kept right on sprinting so I hit the door of my car with too much momentum and the rest of my body collided with it.

  I just pulled back, my hand slipped off the handle once, I caught it the next time, got it open, hauled myself in, closed the door, hit the locks, and then fumbled around turning on the car and putting it in reverse, actually hearing the tires squeal in the drive as I backed out.

  My head was bouncing around on my neck as I cut the wheel at the end of my driveway. I threw my Cherokee in drive and tore down the street, heading straight to the sheriff’s department.

  But my stomach sank when I caught sight of it and saw the lights on at the front but nothing else. No one beyond those big windows.

  And it came to me this was Glossop, not Denver. The police stations didn’t stay open all night.

  They didn’t need to when only one man got dead not of natural causes or by his (or her) own hand in over fifty years.

  “God!” I shouted, swinging into the side parking lot and coming to a jolting halt when I slammed on the brakes, staring at the lineup of five Ram trucks looking parked precisely and ready for action but with no one around to activate them.

  I looked stupidly down to my passenger seat then my lap and realized I might have kept my keys but not my purse, which held my phone.

  But I’d left a creepy creep in my house.

  I’ve heard more about him than is healthy for anyone outside Brad Pitt.

  Lou’s words came to me and they came with the fact that not only did I know Hixon had moved to those not-so-great-not-exactly-the-projects apartments on the west side of town, something everyone knew.

  He was also the sheriff.

  Not to mentio
n the man who’d put in his bid to look after me.

  On these thoughts, I reversed out, put my foot down and drove like the woman possessed by fear and adrenaline that I was.

  I entered the apartment complex and saw his Bronco right away.

  So I parked with the hood of my car butted up against a small stand of trees next to it, got out, ran behind my car, the Bronco, some silver car and to the side stairs that surely had to lead to Hixon since his car was parked to the side, not to the front like some other cars were.

  I clambered up the stairs, not getting far before I slipped on one and went down to my hands and knees, this digging my keys into my palm so hard I cried out at the pain and dropped them through the slatted stairs.

  I was pulling myself up when a light from above me came on.

  I threw my head back and watched the door at the top of the stairs open slowly then it was thrown open, the storm was thrown open and Hixon was standing at the top of the stairs wearing nothing but a pair of simple, light-blue pajama bottoms, his hair a sleepy mess.

  He looked down on me for not even a second before, for some reason, he bellowed, “Shaw!” and came down the stairs in great leaps, taking them three at a time.

  I had one hand up on his railing, mostly hanging from it, knees to the slats, but then I wasn’t hanging from it and my knees weren’t on anything at all.

  I was hauled up with his hands under my arms and then I was flying, my legs went careening, and finally I was caught snug in a hold at his chest as he ran (yes, ran) up the steps, taking them two at a time.

  “Dad,” I heard as Hix prowled into the dark room.

  “Lights on. Get the icepack. And get dressed,” Hix ordered.

  “Holy shit, what happened?” the other male voice in the room asked just as a light went on and Hix carefully set me down in an armchair.

  I saw a pullout bed open, covers mussed, and a cramped room.