Turn Me Loose (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  “Seems to me,” Rochelle said slowly, “that that’s about the most important thing of all. But that might just be me. I’d say that caring about people, individual people, is pretty much the biggest part of being a human being. Maybe the best part.”

  “Well, that’s how I saw it, too. Still do, I suppose. Which made it the kind of divorce you’d call ‘irreconcilable differences.’ And maybe you can see why I didn’t feel like telling you all about it. It wasn’t the kind of thing that fills a man with pride. Put me in a pretty dark place for quite a while, if you want to know the truth. And maybe I came out of it not quite such a nice guy.”

  She was quiet for a long minute, and then she said, “Guess I’m not the only one who’s complicated.”

  “Nope. But it’s like I told you. I don’t want easy. Except, you know—I lied.”

  She took her hand off his knee in shock, and he reached his own hand out and set it back there again. “I mean,” he said, “that we’re complicated, sure, but it’s easy, too. Having you here . . . it fits. It’s easy. Like when you work and work at a jigsaw puzzle, trying to fit pieces in. Then you find the right piece, and it just slips on in. So easy. And that’s not about sex,” he added. “Although I wouldn’t mind that, either.”

  She laughed, sounding a little breathless, and he said, “So what do you think? Ready to turn around and go home? Or out to dinner? Because I’m hungry and you’re beautiful, and I’d sure love to take you out and show you off, if that isn’t an archaic construct itself. I’m probably betraying my unevolved nature again, talking like you’re mine. Even though I like to think of you that way. Since I’m confessing and all.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the image of you doing a jigsaw puzzle.”

  He smiled, feeling so much lighter. “I had to go back a few decades for that one. So what do you say?”

  She sighed. “You’re going to make me give up all my mad, aren’t you? And it was such a good one, too. If we don’t fight, does that mean we don’t get make-up sex?”

  This, he was completely sure about. No question at all. “Oh, yeah,” he told her. “We get make-up sex. In fact, didn’t you have some things in mind you wanted to do? Assuming you don’t think fidelity’s an archaic construct, because that one’s a deal-breaker.”

  “Mm.” She’d snuggled a little closer, had switched hands so she had one free to stroke the back of his neck. The other hand was moving up his thigh, and he had a feeling that he was going to be one hell of a happy man tonight.

  “If it’s an archaic construct,” she said, her mouth at his ear and both hands going places they shouldn’t, not while a man was trying to keep a truck on the road, “it’s one of my favorites.”

  BY ACCIDENT

  The dust bloomed out behind the pickup as the man took a curve in the gravel road at practiced speed. Another turn, and he was bumping up a rutted side road that was going to be nasty in the rain. But the man at the other end of the road wasn’t going to have to worry about that.

  He pulled over halfway up in the shadow of a cut bank and parked. Blocking half the road, but nobody was going to know. He ran down the road a couple hundred yards to check. His truck wasn’t visible from below. Good.

  The air was autumn-cool today at last, a low massing of gray clouds promising rain within a few hours, making the man grateful for his jacket, although he was pumped enough on adrenaline right now that he probably wouldn’t have felt the cold anyway. And rain was good. Rain was perfect. Rain would wash away any tracks he or his truck had made in the gravel, if anybody cared to check for them.

  Slow, he reminded himself, heading up the hill again. Methodical. Which was easy, because he’d thought this out. But now, it was time to act.

  The harder you work, the luckier you get. He hadn’t often been accused of working hard in the past, but then, he hadn’t had nearly as much incentive. There was another one like that, too. What was it? Fortune favors the bold. Yeah, that was it. He wasn’t about to wait around and have his fate taken out of his hands.

  He passed his truck and pressed on. Two more curves, and the little blue-and-white single-wide came into view, a dusty truck parked outside next to a metal shop. And in front of the open shop door, on the concrete slab? An old black Camaro, at an angle now, its front jacked up, its tail facing the road. The shriek of heavy metal shattering the country quiet. And a pair of blue-jeaned legs ending in work boots extending out from under the car.

  Best of all? Those legs were lying on top of a rolling creeper. Which would raise the man’s head a good six inches off the ground.

  Miles Kimberling. Spending a Saturday afternoon working on his car. Alone.

  It was almost too much to hope for. The man approached cautiously all the same, his steps even quieter now. No dog barking, but then, if Miles had had a dog, the plan would have been different.

  His thought had been to get Miles to collect his own semiautomatic, then get him up in his own truck with a story about needing a driver. Miles would have been too scared to say no, he knew. Pussy. As if he’d ever take somebody like that into any sort of sticky situation. He’d have had Miles set the gun down on the seat, and then he’d have taken him out to the lonely stretches beside the Clearwater River, where Miles would have had an accident. An accident called, “Shooting himself in the head and rolling into the river.” Because he’d been worried about the girl. Best case? Because he’d been ridden by guilt over what he’d done to her. He was the type who’d be guilt-ridden, for sure. Anybody would say so. The weak, pathetic type with a guilty conscience that would weigh him down and never let him get away with a thing.

  Miles had said he hadn’t slept with Heather. How likely was that? Nobody turned it down when it was free. Or almost free. Anybody could have had her for a pill, and for a few of them? She’d been willing to do anything. He’d put that to the test himself often enough.

  And with the kind of extra luck that came to guys who took it, Miles would even turn out to be the father. Case closed.

  Nothing like water to conceal fingerprints that would tell another story. Could be the body would never be found. It was a tricky river.

  But he wasn’t going to have to do all that, not if he was lucky. And he was always lucky these days. He’d have to cancel his ride out, which was already in place, but that was better, too. Another person who wouldn’t be getting cold feet and a conscience.

  Was it risky? Sure it was. But doing nothing was riskier. Act now, and act fast. Because Miles was losing his nerve. One more visit from the cops, and who knew what he’d be saying? He suspected that Miles wasn’t high on the cops’ list right now, which would make this two birds with one stone. A suspect revealed, and then a solution. And a sure-enough warning to all the others. They’d know. They’d all know.

  Fortune favors the bold.

  He was inching along now, not that Miles could have heard him, not with Metallica blaring a few feet from his head. “Fade to Black.” Appropriate.

  The man stopped at the back of the car and paused for a couple seconds, assessing. No chocks under the back wheels. How easy was this?

  He lifted both hands into the air, heaved in a huge breath, and coiled the dark energy within himself like a spring. And then he released it. He shoved with both gloved hands at the trunk of the Camaro, putting all his body weight behind it. The car rocked forward, then slipped off the jack and crashed down hard. The front bounced once, twice, then came to rest on the concrete.

  The man pulled his work gloves off and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. He didn’t walk around the car. He didn’t have to. The legs had jerked once, but now, they weren’t moving. That told the story. And, even as he watched, a thin crimson trail appeared from beneath the car and snaked its way onward, bright across the white concrete.

  “Should have chocked the tires, man,” he said aloud. “Safety doesn’t happen by accident.”

  THUNDERSTORM

  The rain s
tarted on Saturday night, and it started with a bang. Travis was at the pizza place with Rochelle again, because he’d wanted to give her a romantic evening, and he wasn’t a great cook. His sister was still staying with Stacy, Rochelle was still staying with him, and that arrangement suited him fine. Tonight, they were here drinking wine, talking a little and being quiet a little, and he was enjoying all of it.

  It was what he’d said. Easy.

  When the first drops of rain pattered against the window beside them, a sudden gust of wind shaking the frame, she looked out at it and said, “Supposed to get a thunderstorm.”

  “I heard,” he said.

  Her slowest, sultriest smile bloomed, then, and he watched the candlelight flicker over her face, on her throat, over the soft skin to that dangerous valley his undisciplined eyes kept trying to fall into. She’d chosen to wear that red wrap sweater tonight, the one he hadn’t seen since their first time together, and he was deeply and profoundly grateful for her decision. As he lost the battle not to stare, she smiled some more, took a leisurely sip of wine, and swallowed it down.

  “Know what’s fun to do in a thunderstorm?” she asked him, setting her glass down but not releasing it, her fingers still caressing its stem.

  “No, what?” he asked, although the thud of his heart was giving him a clue. His eyes were torn, now, between her neckline, that smile, and that hand.

  “Somebody gave me the ride of my life in one of those storms a while back, as I recall,” she mused, looking past him at the reflections in the watery window glass, her face soft with the memory. “Lit me right up while the thunder rolled over me, and, man, did that ever feel good. I’d kinda like to do it to him, you know? If he had any desire to lean back in the seat of a pickup, give up some of that power of his, and let a woman have her way with him. Because when the windows are steamed all the way up and the radio’s playing way down low, when the lightning strikes and you get that flash, when you get to look down at her head in your lap and your hands all tangled up in her hair, and . . .” She took a final swallow of rich red wine, draining her glass, and shrugged. “Well. You know. I’m thinking that if you wanted to put me in that truck of yours and drive me up above the golf course, we could find a place to park and see if it’s something you could handle. Or . . .” Another hypnotically slow stroke of a crimson-tipped finger around the rim of her glass. “Not. Whichever you like. Whatever you like. You know. Whatever you like.”

  He was raising his hand for the check before she’d finished talking, and he didn’t think he’d ever signed his name that fast.

  And, no, it hadn’t been something he could handle. The truck had rocked and swayed in the wind and the rain, and so had he. She’d made him slide over on the bench seat “to give me room,” and then she’d climbed over him, changed her mind halfway across, taken his head in both hands, and taken his mouth like it was hers. Like there was nothing on earth she’d rather do, like she was going to suck his soul right out of his body. All the promise of the night in that one kiss, and he was already gone.

  He’d managed to get his hands on some of his favorite parts of her, because that wrap sweater had surely been made for his hand to slide inside, and straddling him had made her skirt ride right up her thighs, and that was all more than good. But that was about as far as he’d gotten, because once she’d set in to rock his world for real, his mind had gone on vacation, and the rest of him had been fully occupied.

  There were women who didn’t enjoy oral sex, he knew. Rochelle wasn’t one of them. Tonight, she’d given it her all, and Rochelle’s all was something else again. She wasn’t shy, she wasn’t squeamish, and she’d been right. When the flash of lightning lit up the truck, showed him his hands twisted in her hair and her gorgeous mouth around him . . . he’d been gasping, and she’d had to slow down, or it would have been over right then.

  But she had slowed down. She’d made it last until, finally, his head had been back, his eyes had been squeezed shut, his ears had been filled with the pounding rain and the keening wind, the slow soft music and his own harsh breath, and he’d had both arms stretched out, gripping the seat back for all he was worth, just trying to hang on. All he’d been able to do was feel, and climb, and try to breathe.

  And by the time she was taking him all the way there? The truck could have blown down the hill, the flood could have carried them away, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing to stop it. There’d been no place but this cab, nothing in the world but her mouth, and no force on earth that could have held him back.

  Afterwards, she’d scooted over behind the wheel and driven them back to his place through the rain, because he might still have been a little shaky. By the time they’d gotten home, though, he’d recovered. And then he’d set out to show her how grateful he was.

  Some people said the first time was the best, and no question, the first time had been spectacular. He wasn’t sure which time this had been, because he’d lost count, but it had been right up there. He wasn’t sure they’d gotten to “best” yet, either, but one thing you could say about Rochelle—she was a very, very hard worker. He’d be willing to bet they still had some milestones to hit.

  On Sunday morning, he drove her home with a stop at the grocery store, and they cooked breakfast together and ate it with Stacy and Zora. Family time, and some more coming up, because he was going to meet her parents today. And all of that worked for him, too. He was pretty far gone.

  Stacy seemed to have perked up since their tutoring session. She’d come by his office again on Thursday afternoon, and they’d worked a little more. She was plenty bright, just panicked right now for some reason, that’s what he’d say. It wasn’t that uncommon, and he didn’t quite see what Rochelle was so worried about. Although he’d never have said that.

  Well, maybe being around Zora had helped. His sister had enough breezy attitude to rub off on anybody.

  He asked, once they were sitting around the table and he had his coffee in front of him, “So how did the midterm go, Stacy? That was Friday, right? You nail that ANOVA?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I think I did all right. Thanks a lot for your help.”

  “Anything else you need,” he said, “just ask. I’m not so good with the life sciences, maybe, but that math and physics stuff? I’m your man.”

  “He is,” Zora said. “If it’s boring, he’s got it.”

  He lifted his coffee cup in ironic salute. “My epitaph.”

  “So,” Zora said as she attacked her French toast and grilled bananas with an enthusiastic sigh, because Zora had the metabolism of a hummingbird. “Much as I appreciate the awesome accommodation, you do realize, Travis, that you haven’t even asked me why I’m here. Pretty sad performance for your girlfriend, don’t you think?”

  “Ah . . .” he said. “In what sense would that be?”

  She sighed. “Thought I told you. I do not want to know. But as a brother, maybe? I mean—” She gestured to Stacy. “Here’s Rochelle, living with her beloved little sister. And you can barely be troubled to say hello to yours.”

  “I’ll take that,” Stacy muttered.

  Zora said, “Quiet. You’re messing with my point,” and Stacy smiled.

  “Right.” Travis took another sip of coffee and eyed Zora. “So, in my persona as a concerned, loving brother, what are you doing here? Oh, wait, I remember. It’s because of the hills. Which I know you’re going to tell me about, since you basically came out of the womb talking and haven’t shut up since.”

  “Nice,” Zora said, not the least bit abashed. “Yep. Mom told me where you were, what you were doing, and I looked it up, and there are some amazing shadows here. Some amazing colors. So I came,” she said simply.

  “She takes pictures,” Travis told Rochelle.

  “I am a photographer,” Zora said loftily. “Well, normally I’m a temp, but if we’re counting hours spent, I’m a photographer.”

  “Hey,” Stacy said, “at least you don’t work the drive-thr
ough at Macho Taco. Count your blessings.”

  “And I have a brother who could totally be supporting the arts right now,” Zora said. “Want to buy my plane ticket home, Travis?”

  “Nope,” he said, cutting himself another bite of French toast. “You want the nine-to-five, though, I might have a spot for you coming up.”

  “Yeah?” She eyed him dubiously. “Doing what? I cannot wait. Maid?”

  “No,” he said calmly. “Graphic artist. Got a new project starting up this winter, and we’re going to be hiring pretty soon. You want to brush up on those computer graphics skills, and we’ll get a little nepotism going.”

  “With two weeks of vacation a year,” she said.

  “That’s the idea.”

  She sighed. “No, thanks.” She reached for another slice of bacon. “See,” she told Stacy, “it looks like a good deal, and it sucks your soul.”

  Travis smiled. “Yeah, regular jobs are like that, huh, Rochelle?”

  “You do tend to have to go to them every day, yes.” She poured herself another cup of coffee. “So how’s the new project going?”

  She was asking for once, and he knew that wasn’t easy for her. Thinking about his life after December, because just maybe, she was starting to believe that she’d be part of it.

  He smiled at her. “You mean those weekends with my wife? If my ‘wife’ has a gut, a beard, and an alarming amount of body hair, that is. It’s going good. This baby is going to fly.” He laughed, suddenly filled with surging optimism. “Wait and see.”

  “Yeah?” she asked. “That’s great. Really.” And then she dropped her eyes and stared down at her coffee cup.

  Zora was looking back and forth between them. “What?”

  “Rochelle thinks I’m going to leave her,” he said, and Rochelle’s hand jerked, the coffee splashing out of her cup and spilling across the table. She uttered an exclamation, set her cup down, and jumped up for a sponge.