Rescued by that New Guy in Town

by J. L. Salter

  Hazzard didn't speak as he drove toward town, but he checked his mirrors a lot. Seemed unusual for late at night with hardly any other traffic on the road. Who was he checking for?

  For many years, since I-40 had been complete from Knoxville to the east side of Nashville, Highway 70 was mainly used for local traffic. We passed a non-descript sedan heading the other way and I suddenly thought of the corporal's pumpkin pie. Don't know why my mind works like that. My stomach grumbled loudly.

  "Uh, you want to stop anywhere?" When he asked, his hand opened, palm up.

  "What do you mean 'stop'?" My right hand reached toward the door pull.

  "Well, you know. Grab a coffee or something to eat."

  I couldn't believe my stomach gurgle transmitted that far. The answer I almost blurted out was, "Yeah, I'm starving." But my instincts — and all those warning lectures from Momma — kicked in. "No, thanks. Just want to get home and get out of these shoes and this…" I looked down toward the same expanse he'd been surveying.

  "Okay. Just checking." As best could be discerned in the darkness, there was a slight smile on his nicely shaped lips. "I've kinda worked up an appetite."

  After we reached the city limits, Adams Street was about half a mile ahead. I wondered what he did for a living. No clues in the truck, unless being messy was a profession somewhere. "Adams is just up there." I pointed.

  Hazzard nodded. He evidently knew local geography despite his out-of-county license. We reached the intersection — a blinking yellow light at that time of night — and he looked both ways before turning. "How far up Adams?"

  Fact is, I didn't really want him to know but there was no other way to get home. "Little over half a mile. Turn left on Fleming Lane. You'll see storage buildings off to the right."

  It didn't take long to drive that distance and I spent the time studying Hazzard. I wondered what he'd look like when dressed and groomed normally. Wondered, very briefly, what the etiquette was for saying good night to the guy who kind of rescued me but kind of frightened me the entire time we'd been together… then kind of drove me home. Hmm. Definitely not a kiss.

  Hazzard turned on Fleming Lane and squinted into the darkness. "Which place?"

  It was a spacious subdivision from the 1980s — the trees just reaching serene maturity. "All the way to the end, 506, right at the tip of the cul-de-sac." Didn't need to point, but my shaking hand did so anyway.

  He chuckled softly. "I had you figured for an apartment somewhere."

  Lots of people figured me for an apartment. What was it about a single woman that just screamed "apartment" to most folks? Good grief. "Renting here was affordable."

  He looked around, though not much was visible around two a.m. "I wouldn't figure this neighborhood for affordable."

  "Well, I don't have the entire house."

  "Oh."

  That shut him up. I didn't need to explain that my landlord kept his unspecified junk in two of the three bedrooms and the entire garage. The house was about seventeen hundred square feet, but I didn't have access to much more than eleven hundred.

  Hazzard pulled up to my address but kept the engine running. "I'm actually familiar with these properties. You're almost surrounded by a forest out here. It's a nice neighborhood and seems real, uh, settled. You know, for you and your housemate."

  Oh, he was fishing for more info on me. Not a chance. I just tugged on the door handle I'd been clutching for most of the ride home.

  "You have a way to get your car tomorrow? And purse?" He tapped a hairy knuckle on the steering wheel.

  "Yeah, I can get the Mayor's secretary, Mizz Cowan, to let me in — she's had the armory key for most of October." Reda was more than an acquaintance but less than a buddy. I'd been one of her three "right-hand-women" during that entire festival business.

  "Cowan. I might know her." His head nodded as though he was pretty certain.

  That surprised me. I wondered how this newcomer could know Reda.

  He stopped knuckling and yawned hugely. Nice teeth, from what I could see. "Okay. Well…"

  I got out of the seat and stood in the open doorway of his pickup. With the light from the lamp pole near my driveway, I could see two large mounds in his truck bed. Wonder what he has all covered up with those tarps? I shivered again from the cold. "Oh, your jacket…"

  "You can wear it in, if you want. It's still cold between here and your door." He acted like he wanted me to keep it.

  That made me want to give it back, despite the temperature. "No, thanks anyway. It's not that far, but I appreciate it." I took off the heavy denim and resumed shivering immediately. Should've kept it.

  "Change your mind?" He seemed too hopeful.

  I don't need your stinkin' jacket. "No, I'm sure." I handed him the garment and started to close his truck door. "Oh, by the way, in case I haven't thanked you yet…"

  "You haven't." Big smile. A bit too big. He put his jacket on the seat beside him.

  "I mean, I'd intended to thank you earlier for getting me out of that cage and bringing me home, and all."

  He nodded and chuckled again. "Plus, I talked that cop out of taking us both downtown."

  "Yeah, but we still ended up with tickets!" A small grin slipped out even though I hated getting citations.

  "Oh, right, that summons." He leaned over and retrieved his from a back pocket. It was already curled from the contour of his rump. "Mine's for Wednesday morning at eleven." He tapped its edge on his steering wheel. "When do you report?"

  I looked at my empty hands. Where was my ticket? No pockets in this get-up. I turned around slowly like it might be behind me somewhere. "What on earth did I do with it?"

  Hazzard turned on a secondary light and picked up his jacket. "Here it is. Guess you were sitting on it."

  I reached for the ticket, but his large hand got there first. I could tell his eyes scanned it quickly. Between shivers, I held out my hand and he flipped it over into my open palm. I stole a quick peek. Wednesday at eleven. Crud! I clutched the ticket and wrapped my arms around my body again.

  "Okay, I'm heading on home. Can you get inside?" He flipped off the dome light. "I mean without your keys?"

  Chapter Six

  I went blank for a second. Ellen had one copy of my house key and my brother had another. Where did I hide the spare? "Uh, yeah. I've got one tucked away near the porch somewhere." I wished I'd left the porch light on.

  "Need any help finding it?" He yawned. "I've got a flashlight someplace."

  "Not necessary. I know where it is." Generally speaking. "Thanks, anyway." I shut the truck door. A bit harder than it needed, but one never knew with pickups. "Good night, Pirate."

  "It's a shame your housemate won't just let you inside." He grinned. Somehow he knew that I lived with a pet. "Good night, Witch."

  I walked briskly toward my porch and knew he was watching. Let him look. It was the last he'd ever see of me. As I reached my stoop, I realized I'd better find that key in a hurry. Two reasons: I was freezing and I didn't want Hazzard to have an excuse to get out of his truck.

  Potted plants! Yeah, I kept the spare in my gallon pot with the white mums. I ran my fingers along the top of the soil, around the entire perimeter of that container. Nope. Maybe the three-gallon pot with yellow mums. The yellows had died because a mangy neighbor dog repeatedly urinated on them. No key and my fingers felt damp. Yuck. Uh, surely not in that heavy five-gallon pot where I saw that enormous spider a week ago. Couldn't grope around those purple mums in the dark — not with that spider. It had probably waited its entire disgusting life just to take a chunk out of my fingers.

  I looked back toward Hazzard as I heard him get out of his pick-up. I panicked. Only one thing to do: dump the largest pot onto the stoop and listen for the key. Well, that may have been easy enough with a gallon pot, and doable with the three-gallon size, but not so much with the fiver. Got the heavy clay vessel about up to my knees before I lost my grip and it smashed to the stoop's surface with a loud
pow! It shattered into probably a thousand potshards. That explosion had completely masked the sound of the key landing… wherever.

  Four seconds before I began sobbing, Hazzard appeared beside me with a flashlight. Now he wore his denim jacket that I wished I'd kept. "More problems?" Another sly grin.

  I had to think fast. "Uh, somebody must've moved it. Used to be in that small pot."

  He played his light beam over the disaster area, then leaned way over and peered closely. "Is that it?" His beam was smack dab on the back of the biggest black spider I've ever seen — squatting directly over my house key!

  I jumped back and nearly banged into the side wall of my little porch. Unsteadily, I ventured back and tried to look without looking. Yep. The meanest, ugliest spider in middle Tennessee was holding my key hostage. "Uh, yeah, I think so."

  Hazzard straightened up but kept his beam steady on the spider clutching my key. "Well, I'm glad we found it."

  I know I sputter a bit at times… like now. Couldn't believe he expected me to reach down there and slide my key out from under the spiky talons of that deadly arachnid. So I stalled. "Well, um. Yeah, let's see."

  Another grin. "You want me to get it for you?"

  No, I didn't. I wanted him to take his brigand carcass back to that truck and drive out of my life forever. I just shook my head but all I could think was, How quickly do you die from rabid spider bites? and Would Hazzard grope me during the drive to E.R.?

  "Tell you what — you hold the light real steady and I'll negotiate with your spider." He extended the flashlight.

  It was difficult to stop shivering long enough to grasp the heavy three-cell light; holding it steady was impossible. Hazzard crouched down, leaned in really close and exhaled — like he was trying to clean a mirror — directly on top of the spider. That eight-legged varmint cringed like it'd been poisoned. And while it was distracted, Hazzard just flicked with his left hand middle finger like it was a rubber replica from a novelty company. The spider went flying about five feet, into the boxwood hedges. I was sure there'd be future trouble about this — spiders were known for revenge.

  Hazzard picked up my key, rubbed it on his tightly fitted pirate shirt — just to the right of his navel — and then held it out for me. I looked past the key at his ring finger. No ring.

  "Uh, I… um." How did I explain that I couldn't touch things spiders have crouched upon? So I didn't speak. I just bathed the key in the beam of his flashlight.

  He peered into my face, though he couldn't see much with the shadows. "How about if I unlock the door for you?"

  I just nodded. No way I was going to handle that key. Might not ever touch my doorknob again either. He took the light from my shaking hands and quickly unlocked the door. Then he opened it, stood back, and waited for me to enter. Very awkward. One reason I didn't want him on my porch was because I couldn't handle an uncomfortable moment at the door. Still shaking from the cold, I paused before entering.

  Either he read my mind or picked up on my body language. "Well, I'm outta here."

  Good. That eliminated my uneasy feeling that I owed him an invitation to step in out of the cold. "Yeah. It's late."

  "I'll just put your key on the floor inside and you can decide later how to disinfect it." He smiled again.

  I wish he hadn't, because suddenly I didn't want him to leave. I liked his handsome smile. But I just nodded. He reached around the doorframe, leaned way in, and dropped the key to the entryway's tile floor with a plock-der-rop sound. Keys never land flat — an edge hits first, the key will bounce slightly, and then it will fall over. Plock-der-rop.

  In those seconds he faced away, I noticed the expanse of his back; his shoulders were a mile wide. Hazzard had some meat on his bones. As he turned around, he nearly lost his footing, having taken such care not to step inside. But he steadied himself adroitly, needing only a hand against the porch wall. That hand was hardly fourteen inches from my head… and he left it there.

  "Good thing you didn't topple over. I don't think renter's insurance covers buccaneers." I tried to smile, but my lips shivered too much. His hand hadn't moved yet. I wanted to look at it, but if I turned my head, I was afraid. Afraid of what? Not sure. Something might happen. As long as I keep his eyes in sight, it wouldn't happen. What wouldn't happen? Whatever might happen if I turned away for even a second.

  About the instant I'd decided to turn and look at his hand — hang the consequences — Hazzard pulled it back and resumed his proper distance in the center of my small porch. Now I'll never know what might've happened.

  "So…" He was obviously stalling.

  But what for? With my teeth nearly chattering, I took a guess. "Uh, thanks again for all your help tonight. You know… the cage, the cop. That killer spider."

  Hazzard smiled. "All in a pirate's day." He extended his hand.

  I had to stop and think whether it included the finger which flicked the spider. No. So I grasped it. His skin was warmer than it should have been in that cold air. Large, firm, warm hand. We didn't really shake — other than my shiver — our hands just remained clasped. It felt good. I'd need a thesaurus for that feeling also.

  Then he cleared his throat.

  I guessed that was his signal for "handshake over", so I released. But Hazzard fooled me — he held on. Not more than a second or two. But long enough to establish, I let you go only after you gave up. Or something. I'd have to think about that later.

  "Good night, Kristen."

  "Uh, it's Kris. Nobody calls me Kristen." Why'd I tell him that?

  "Okay, Kris. See you at the courthouse on Wednesday." Then he turned, trotted toward his truck, and got in. He didn't drive away until I had entered the house and closed the door.

  I forgot to say, "Good night, Hazzard."

  I shucked my pumps and passed a distraught Elvis on my way down the hall. "Where have you been?" was surely the translation of his urgent meow. The warmest place in my house was the bathroom with the ceiling heater on full-blast. An obviously starving Elvis scratched at the door. I needed to rip off that bustier and let the girls out, but first I wanted to establish what the pirate and cop had been staring at for much of the past hour. I shrugged out of the short, black satin blouse and checked the mirror.

  I could have shrieked at my wrecked makeup, still shivering goose bumps, and the tangles in my hair, which had once been an inverted bob. But I readily identified their visual target. Though my bustier had no boning, the tight mesh panels and molded cups did an impressive job of pushing together and upward. Nice cleavage, if I do say so myself. But time to get it off! In back was a plain zipper, not terribly easy to disengage with cold fingers. Poor circulation in my extremities. But I managed. Any bruising? Not really. I could see impressions of the underwires, of course, but it wasn't too much different than with a regular bra. Okay. No structural damage, but they were definitely sore from being squeezed all evening.

  Took a quick look at my tummy and cringed. I'd been trying to lose ten pounds for the past two years with every diet I've seen at the grocery check-out rack, but all I'd done was lose the same three or four pounds over and over again. I groaned and grabbed my terry robe from the back of the door. Then I let Elvis in. Again, he reminded me I was several hours late with his supper.

  I shimmied out of the little witch skirt. It had a short rip through the front of the hem. No doubt that showed even more leg than I'd imagined. Peeled off my patterned pantyhose and inspected the soles. Not completely ruined, but there was the start of a run on the pad of each foot.

  I finally fed Elvis to get him to shut up, then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and trudged to the bedroom. Didn't climb into my bed as much as I just flopped onto it.

  As tired as I was, I figured I'd drop off and sleep like a stone weighing ten extra pounds. Nope. Kept thinking about Hazzard the Pirate. Wondered why I'd never seen him before — Verdeville was more of a big town than a small city. Recent handsome arrivals were usually noted. Wondered about his
"long story", which presumably explained how he'd ended up at the festival alone and drunk. Wondered how he looked in regular clothing. Ha. Even wondered what he looked like without any clothes! Muscular, meaty, broad-shouldered — probably had a scar somewhere. The best look I got was of his face, but even that was masked with garish makeup. Wondered what Hazzard would have done if I had briefly studied his hand on the wall near my face. Would he have kissed me? Would I have let him? Would I have kissed him back?

  With those thoughts in my head, I couldn't sleep. With Elvis following, I got off the bed, wrapped up in my robe again, went to the living space and resumed reading the romance novel I'd started a few days earlier. The heroine was about to fall in love with the handsome rake who'd made such a negative impression when they first met. Ha. As if that ever happened in real life.

  It was the last thought in my head after the longest Saturday of my life… before I fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning on the couch, I woke a lot colder than I would have been in bed. My novel was on the floor with no bookmark. I wondered how many times I'd have to read that long sexy scene to find my stopping place again.

  I got up, used the potty, started my coffee, fed Elvis, and then took a leisurely hot shower.

  Back in my warm robe again, I sat in the wooden rocker and sipped coffee as I looked out the rear window. The back of the rental property bordered a small pond, beyond which was an expansive forest to the west — as far north and south as the eye could see. I had been in the fringe of those woods, but hardly more than a hundred feet. Mainly, I liked watching the pond.