"What is?"
"Look. Over there." Instead of answering, he pointed across the street at a coffee shop. "They're still open."' He draped an arm around my shoulders, and we walked toward the glowing light behind the curtained windows. His line of questioning still rang inside my head, but right as we got to the door, he stopped us, turned his face, and slowly kissed me on the temple. Twice. A little moan escaping from his lips.
Woo boy…
It was cozy and dry inside the coffee shop. It had to be after ten, but the place was crowded. Mostly single patrons behind books or laptops. Patrick and I grabbed a table at the back.
"Something to warm you up?" he asked, passing me a menu of miscellaneous hot beverages.
"I'm not in the least bit cold."
"I'll say."
We definitely had the flirty banter thing down.
He echoed my quiet, private laugh, and the next thing I knew, his hand cupped my knee under the table, thumb sliding across my bare skin.
Heat radiated through my body and I lifted my eyes to his. "Suddenly, not only am I not cold," I said, "but I'm feeling—"
"Maren Colepepper?"
A stylishly dressed woman stood at our table. She was tall and thin and had wavy dark hair past her shoulders. Her features were angular and she might've been overly bronzed for this time of year, but her face was pretty, very pretty. I pictured her in another setting, wearing thick, sparkly baby-blue eyeliner, two coats of blackest-black mascara, and my favorite Guess sweater that she'd borrowed but never returned.
"Katie!" I nearly blurted. "Hi."
Katie Cunningham. My ex-best childhood friend. The girl who'd not only loaned me my first training bra (she hadn't needed it anymore), but also helped me memorize all the US capitals and edited my first fan letter to George Will at the Washington Post. Katie and I hadn't spoken since September 27th of our senior year. To this day, I didn't know why. Would it be too weird to bring it up right now?
I scrambled to my feet, not sure if I should hug her or shake her hand or punch her boob. I did the decent thing and gave her an awkward hug. She felt bony and smelled expensive.
"Wow," I exclaimed. "How are you?"
"Fabulous." She ran her fingers through her hair, a dozen shiny bracelets clanking together. "So fabulous. And you look just…fantastic."
Okay, now I knew she was lying. I was soaked to the skin, flushed and breathless, and my eye makeup was probably dripping down my neck. That might've looked sexy to Patrick, by no way would Katie think I looked fantastic.
"I heard you were back in town. We should catch up." Her gaze shifted from me to Patrick, who was also on his feet. "You said you were working tonight."
I glanced at him. Thanks to his wide eyes and clenched jaw, he seemed almost as distraught as when I'd mentioned the shooting at SPI over dinner.
"I didn't realize you two…" Katie's words faded. Then she took a long pause and folded her arms. "Maren, when we were in school, you used to tell me how strange Patrick was."
My spine stiffened. I had no recollection of saying any such thing, but unfortunately, it did sound like something I might have said back then. I was kind of tacky.
"He lived next door to you, and you totally ignored him. Isn't that true, Patrick?"
I couldn't bring myself to look at him. Okay, I want to die now. Just kill me—whoever you are up there who can hear my inner thoughts—kill me now.
"Maren and I were just talking about that. Weren't we?" Patrick said, fixing me with those hazel eyes. "So now we're catching up on the last fifteen years."
"Huh." Katie only blinked at him then turned back to me. "I heard you got fired from The Book," she said. "That must be just awful. I'm so sorry."
Yeah. She didn't sound sorry. I might not have seen her in ages, but I knew when she was being fake. She'd worn the same bogus expression the night she was crowned prom queen. A month before prom, she'd started dating Reed Kilpatrick—the guy who she'd said smelled like cheese at the bottom of a sweaty sock, the guy who'd also conveniently been in charge of tallying the prom queen votes.
"Aw, thanks so much," I said, taking my own stab at faux gracious.
"And you're back with your parents." She tilted her head, plastering on an expression of sympathy.
"Yep."
"Your mother's blog is so…" She pursed her lips in thought. "Entertaining. You must love how she discusses you so openly. You're the center of attention like always."
I was starting to feel a little sweaty and anxious, and had no reply.
"Piper is still living at home too, right?"
"For now," I said.
"Wow." Her tone was flat while she shook her head. "Things have changed so much—for the good and bad, it seems." Her gaze returned to Patrick. "So, are you two on a date…or…?"
I didn't know what to say. Patrick must have thought I was a spineless jellyfish to not defend myself or my family. And how could I blame him?
"Well…" I began, still waiting for a mental prompt.
"Earlier, Maren was telling me how guilty she's always felt for blowing me off all those years," Patrick said. "I've been letting her make up for it tonight, in any way she wants."
"Really?" Katie put a hand on her hip, tipping her chin sideways at me.
Patrick moved closer to my side. "It's pretty pathetic, but she had this huge, all-consuming crush on me when we were kids. Couldn't eat or sleep, just stared at the ceiling, thinking about me, wondering if someday we would ever—"
"I did not have a crush on you," I said, after a surprisingly girly giggle.
"Ahh, that's right." He slid a light hand down my spine, settling it on the small of my back. "You didn't have a crush on me. It was the other way around." His gaze locked on mine, and his mouth curved into a slow smile, making me feel like we were the only people in the room.
"Anyway, I left my boys with the nanny, so I've got to dash." Katie's voice dragged me away from Patrick's pretty, pretty eyes, the touch of his hand warming my entire body. "Really, Mare, let's get together. Have lunch? Maybe I can help you find a job."
I didn't bother explaining that I already had one.
"I'll call you at your old house number since you're there, 'kay?"' She sent a steely glance at Patrick then waved her fingers and walked out the door.
"Yikes," I said, gagging on the cloud of perfume lingering behind her. "She's turned into a mean girl."
"She's always been like that. I never understood how you could be such good friends with her."
"High school's brutal. I had a circle of friends, and social convention deemed I stay with them. Katie was the leader, I did whatever she said."
"I'm surprised you didn't flip out and defy her on purpose just to break away."
"Are you kidding? I didn't have the guts. I was terrified she'd ostracize me." I bit my lip and stared at the exit. "I guess that happened anyway. Two weeks into senior year, she cut me off. Hey, thanks for saying that to her, about me feeling bad about ignoring you. You didn't have to, but it was really nice."
I kept my gaze on the door and folded my arms, trembling slightly from nerves, or maybe I was finally chilly. Hopefully in a few minutes, Patrick would be warming me up again. "You kind of saved me," I added, "even though it clearly pissed her off."
When I pulled my eyes away from the door, Patrick was frowning down at his phone, absorbed in whatever he was reading. He was right beside me, his hand still on my back, but I wasn't sure he'd heard a word I'd said.
"Don't worry about it," he finally replied, dropping his phone into his pocket. "It stopped raining. I'll take you home."
Without another word, he ushered me from the coffee shop to his car. Not a single detour into a dark alleyway for another exchange of ice cream flavors. Back at my house, he walked me to my front door and gave me a peck on the cheek before disappearing through the hole in the rhododendrons.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I tapped my foot against the leg of my chair in time with the rhy
thm of my pencil tapping the desk. It was a habit, one I did while preoccupied or anxious. When my tapping became louder than the clicking of the keyboards around me, I dropped the pencil and spun a full circle in my chair.
I hadn't slept well last night. Or maybe it wasn't that I hadn't slept well, I hadn't slept much. Running into Katie, plus my date with Patrick ending way too soon, equaled major frustration.
"Colepepper." Chip's beckoning index finger.
I pushed back from my desk and headed toward his office. "What's up?"
"I've got another assignment."
I laughed and rolled my eyes. "Don't tell me, a protest at Sierra Pacific." When Chip didn't echo the laugh, my stomach dropped.
"Sorry, kiddo, but looks like the same group is back and we need a presence out there. And since you're our current expert…"
Crap. Here we go.
"Hey." Chip grinned. "It's nice to be needed, eh?"
I laughed again then blew out a resigned breath. "Absolutely. Anything new I should know?"
"Just one thing, and this is very important." He waggled his eyebrows. "If you hear a gunshot, duck."
After saying good-bye to Kim, I headed through the rainy morning toward the Taurus, definitely not imagining what could be lurking in the misty corners of the parking lot. While driving, I punched buttons on the radio, searching for a song to take my mind off things creepy and/or sexually frustrating. I stopped on a country station playing Taylor Swift. I leaned an elbow on the armrest and smiled. This was exactly what Piper had suggested my remedy should be to shake off Scott and Joey and all the other New York shiz. After my run-in with meanie Katie, the lyrics felt hauntingly apropos. So I turned up the volume and sang along to the lyrics about how haters gonna hate.
By the time the song was over, I was laughing outright and halfway to the lumber mill, feeling much more like my happy self.
The same guard stood at the gate of SPI, and he waved me in without sending even one glance toward my credentials. No wonder this place was having security issues. Learning from past mistakes, that morning before leaving home, I'd thrown a change of work clothes in the trunk, as well as a pair of wellies. Once I parked, I kicked off my high heels, slid into my red and pink plaid, knee-high rubber boots, then—holding my brand new waterproof notebook and fine point Sharpie close to my side—leapt over puddles, swearing to all that was holy that I was not going to end up face-first in one of them today. Especially not in front of my fellow news professionals.
Speaking of… Mark Swanson walked over, hands stuffed in the pockets of his gray overcoat.
"Back again. Colepepper, is it? Plan on staying conscious this time?"
I wanted to whack his Adam's apple with my fake Bottega Veneta crocodile shoulder bag. But I refused to damage even a ninety-dollar knockoff because of him. So I pulled back a toothy, red-lipsticked, camera-ready smile. "I'll do my best."
"Right-o. Holler if you need help, sweetheart."
Grrr, that guy. I'd talked to him twice, and I already couldn't stand his open patronization toward me. But I wouldn't let him get in my way, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let him scoop me again.
It wasn't the exact group of "Buck and the gang," though they looked the same. More people this time, in fact, all gathered near the chain-link fence. Even Aaron Sorenson was here. I spoke to him for a few minutes. He'd tried to see SPI's foreman again but had been turned away. I felt bad for the guy; he seemed so earnest. I was as environmentally aware as the next girl, but standing out here in the drizzle with a bunch of hippies seemed like a lost cause.
But I was there to do a job.
"Excuse me, sir," I said to a man who might've been my pal Buck's twin. "Can you tell me why you're gathered today?"
"Sure, darlin'. And you can call me Darbs."
"Darbs." I uncapped my Sharpie. "That's your name?"
"Nah, it's what I'm called."
I smiled. "Got it. So, what can you tell me?"
"We just want love. Know what I'm sayin'?"
Awesome. "Love. Okay." I glanced at the weather-torn sign in his hand. "You're upset over the way SPI is storing their logs?"
"We're upset about all of it. Yeah, see, one of them bigwigs back there's up to no good, right? We seen it. Sneakin' around at night."
What's this?
"Sneaking around?" I asked, scribbling that down. "What do you mean? You've seen someone?" Was he wearing a hood, and did he happen to have a bullet hole in his forehead?
"Yeah, yeah." He pointed toward the fence where just two days ago, that Carissa woman had chained herself to the green chain. "We seen 'em back there. Sterling, Felix, and me, we seen 'em."'
"Sterling?"
"Yeah." He called over a short, bald man in a long raincoat. "Tell the lady what you seen that night."
"It was all shady-like, ya know?" Sterling said.
"Hmm," I said, trying to practice patience, my gut telling me I might be onto something if I could keep him focused. "And?"
"I used to work here back in the day, doin' clean up, so I know there ain't nothin' Monday nights, or most any nights now. That's why I knew somethin' was up."
I lifted my eyebrows and waited for him to continue. "Because the mill was running on a Monday night?" I prompted, even though that was hardly front-page material.
"Exactly, ya know. That's all wrong. It's a law or somethin'. Can't do it, legally, so whatever's happenin' here at night, it ain't no good."
"Yeah, man," Darbs chimed in. "We need to save the trees and what not. Right?"
"Right!" Sterling made a fist and thrust it into the misty air. "Yeah!"
"Yeah!" the group gathered around us echoed. I smelled incense and other herbal refreshments wafting off their clothing. The "yeah"s were building as the crowd began bouncing up and down to Darbs's chant. I half-expected someone to start singing "Satisfaction," and how they can't get none.
I tried to squeeze in a few more questions, but when it was obvious I'd lost their attention, I tried to squeeze out from the middle of the pulsating throng.
"Down!"
I turned toward the shouted warning just as something big flew through the air…directly at my face. What was it Chip said about ducking?
Even though my brain had yet to be notified of the pain, an internal signal alerted me that I'd been struck. I saw a flash of white light first, then the view before my eyes changed—much too quickly—from the landscape of the mill, to the tops of trees, to nothing but sky.
Then blackness.
* * *
"Maren. Don't move. Hold on." I couldn't open my eyes, but the voice sounded familiar. My limbs were being shifted, and I felt a heavy weight down the length of the front of my body, cold wetness along the back, almost like I was lying in…
No. Seriously, no.
"Did someone call 9-1-1?"
"They'll be here any minute."
I was finally able to pry open my eyes a slit and scanned my body, focusing on my red and pink wellies, toes pointing skyward.
Aw, crap.
"Maren? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah." I wanted to move but still felt too weighed down. "What happened?"
"You got hit, I think." He called over his shoulder. "Did anybody see what happened?"
"Ugh." I tried to roll over and shake off the hands pinning me in place. "Can I sit up?" The hands helped me into an upright position. No wonder I couldn't move on my own. I was buried under a stack of soaking wet wool coats and ponchos.
"Easy, easy," the familiar voice said.
I lifted a hand to touch my face. Zowie. Without needing a mirror, I knew I had a pulsating goose egg on the middle of my forehead. "What happened?" I repeated.
"They say you got hit by a…by a flying boot."
"Was he wearing a hood?"
"A what?"
Confused, I lifted my chin toward the voice. "Eric?" I blinked, which made the lump on my forehead throb. "Ouch."
"Easy, take it easy." His hands gripped my should
ers, holding me steady. He was crouched on the ground next to me, his long overcoat open. He wore a red tie and another of those crumpled white shirts.
"A boot?" I asked.
Eric pulled back a grin. His eyes were so blue, and freckles speckled his nose. Maybe that was why he appeared so much younger than he probably was. "Mostly the heel of the boot," he said. "That's as much of the story I've been able to gather so far."
"Fire truck is here."
"Can I stand?" I asked, but Eric's grip on me tightened.
"Let's wait 'til the EMTs give you the okay." He smiled reassuringly. "All right?"
I smiled back and nodded, thinking of that scene at the end of Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Matthew Broderick and whoever that girl was started kissing in the middle of the street. Eric's eyes twinkled, making me more light-headed.
A moment later, two EMTs materialized on either side of me. One asked me to count to ten, while another flashed a tiny light in my eyes. The whole thing was humiliating and unnecessary.
"I'm fine," I said, trying to shoo them away and get to my feet.
"No nausea?" an EMT asked.
I snuck a quick glance at Eric then answered, "No."
"Any loss of bodily functions?"
"No!"
Eric chuckled into his fist.
They finally let me stand. The pain was isolated to the bump on my forehead, but otherwise I felt good, if not mildly mortified.
"Keep it iced," the EMT prescribed as he sat me on the tail end of the ambulance. "You probably don't have a concussion, but still, don't go to sleep until tonight."
"It's ten o'clock in the morning," I stated. "I'm going back to work."
"I'd drive you to the office," Eric said, hovering by the side of the tailgate, "but I've got a really important meeting in just a few minutes. I'm so sorry." He peered over his shoulder. "I just happened to be driving by and saw the commotion." The puppy dog concern in his eyes made my stomach feel weirdly fluttery. But a second later, I kind of wanted to puke. Maybe I did have a concussion.
"Don't worry about it. Really, I'm fine." I spotted Aaron Sorenson by the gate, and figured the best way to keep myself from falling asleep or thinking too much about Eric or Patrick or vanishing hooded people, or how I'd managed to wind up unconscious two out of the last three days, was to get busy with work. "In fact, I've got an interview to finish. I'll see you later."
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 7