Busted

by Diane Kelly

  Consulting the GPS, I noted we were still on course, two point three miles from our destination. I directed Trey down a shortcut, a long-forgotten fire road that ran between a horse paddock and a cornfield. I was enjoying Trey’s company, thinking how I wouldn’t mind spending more time with him, when I remembered our time would be limited, why he’d come home. “How’s your dad doing?”

  “Really well,” Trey said. “The doctors are amazed at how quickly he’s recovering.”

  I looked out the window so Trey wouldn’t see my disappointed expression. Selfish of me, I know, to hope his father’s recovery would be prolonged. I didn’t want Trey’s father to suffer, but I’d already had more fun with Trey tonight than I’d had in the entire year I’d been back in Jacksburg. I’d like a little more time with him before he returned to his job in California.

  With night now approaching, the sky morphed into a pastel tie-dye of pink and purple, the clouds having been blown to the east, now dropping their rain on the Piney Woods of east Texas and the casinos just across the state border in Shreveport.

  The GPS counted the distance down to zero. Trey pulled the car to the shoulder and we looked around at the dusky, barren landscape around us.

  “Nut Job,” Trey murmured, thinking aloud. “What could that mean?”

  I looked about at the grass, the caliche, the trees. Two scrubby mesquites. A gnarled live oak. And a tall pecan. “Bingo.”

  Trey followed me over to the tree and we searched around the base. Nothing. Not even fresh dirt indicating the cache might be buried. Our eyes traveled up to the lower branches. Nothing hung from a lower branch or perched in a forked limb near the trunk.

  The night had grown too dark for us to see further up into the tree with any clarity. Trey pulled a small flashlight from his pants pocket. He stepped up next to me, so close his arm brushed against mine, setting my nerves on edge. He shined the light up into the tree. At first we saw nothing, but as he slowly scanned the beam around, our eyes caught something square lodged in a V in the upper branches.

  “They didn’t make it easy on us, that’s for sure.” Trey handed me the flashlight, still warm from his hand. I kept the beam steady on the cache while Trey jumped up, grabbing a lower branch with each hand, pulling himself into the tree, his shoulder muscles and biceps flexing visibly through the fabric of his shirt. I imagined what it would feel like to be enveloped in those arms, held closely to his chest.

  The limbs shook under Trey’s weight, sending a bombardment of pecans to the ground below him. I stepped back to avoid the barrage of nuts.

  “Sorry about that!” he called down to me.

  Trey perched halfway up the tree, looking at the branches above him, considering his options. The branches higher up were smaller and could be too thin to support his weight.

  “Careful up there,” I warned.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Smart ass.”

  Trey grinned down at me before cautiously picked his way higher. “Got it.” He tucked the white plastic box under his left arm and eased his way back down the tree, stopping to sit on a lower branch, one leg curved around the trunk of the tree for support, the other dangling down.

  I looked up at him. “Impressive. You part chimpanzee or something?”

  Trey swung his free leg. “Rock climber. Go whenever I can. I’m planning on climbing El Capitan in Yosemite next summer.”

  “So you’re a thrill-seeker?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  CRACK! The branch on which Trey was sitting gave way and he tumbled out of the tree, dropping the box and grabbing at the lower branches in an attempt to break his fall. He fell forward, right at me. There was no time to get out of the way.

  Hwump! The air left my lungs in an instant rush as my back hit the soft, wet dirt. Next thing I knew, I was lying on my back with Trey on top of me. And I had no complaints whatsoever.

  Trey’s face was only inches from mine, and his lips looked soft, warm, undeniably kissable.

  “You okay, Marnie?”

  Other than having the wind knocked out of me, I was fine. “Yeah,” I said once I managed to catch my breath. “But if this is your idea of a come on, you might want to think again.”

  He chuckled and pushed himself back, crouching over me now, straddling my legs, his thighs mere inches above mine. I looked up, straight into his silver-flecked eyes. He gazed back at me, making no further move to get up.

  I want this guy. I want him bad. And I want him now, right here in the mud and gravel and grit. But I wasn’t exactly a sex-on-the-first-date kind of girl. At least I hadn’t been the last time I was on the dating circuit more than a decade ago. “You gonna let me up?”

  He ignored my question, continuing to stare into my eyes. “There’s something incredibly sexy about a woman who can take a hit like that.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in the dirt, no doubt doing a number on the brand-new blouse Savannah had given me. “What can I say? I’m built tough.”

  His lips pulled into his now-familiar cockeyed grin. His gaze strayed from my eyes to my lips, up the round curve of my freckled cheek, and back to my eyes, taking in my features, appraising. The grin and the look in his eyes softened, telling me he liked what he saw, a strong woman, a street-wise woman, a woman who could handle anything life threw at her. Well, almost anything.

  He angled his head slightly and I stopped breathing again. I knew that look.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A LITTLE LESS CONVERSATION, A LITTLE MORE ACTION

  Trey lowered his lips to mine. My eyes drifted closed and I lost myself in the kiss. He kissed me again, letting his lips linger this time, barely touching mine, a feather-light kiss that left me feeling all airy on the inside and wanting more.

  When Trey pulled back, I opened my eyes. He gazed at me a moment more, then stood, reaching a hand down to help me up. It took everything in me not to pull him down onto the ground with me. Once I was vertical again, I walked over to the base of the tree where I’d dropped the flashlight and picked it up.

  Trey retrieved the cache, removing the red rubber band holding the white plastic box closed, then pried open the lid and peered inside. He pulled out the paper log and handed it to me, then stuck his hand back into the jar. When he pulled his hand out, he held a couple of pecans, still in their shells, painted to look like people.

  I shined the flashlight on them for a better look. One had tiny denim pants, a red shirt, and a smiling face, with a tiny scrap of bandana glued to his head, like a biker’s do-rag. The other wore a pink-and-white polka dot skirt, a pink top, and had three strands of yellow yarn glued to her head for hair. Both had tiny pieces of cardboard glued to the bottom, made to resemble shoes, which would allow the nuts to stand on their own.

  “I’ve heard of pet rocks,” Trey said, “but not pet nuts.”

  Only in Jacksburg.

  Facing me, Trey set the box on the ground and held up the nut people, one in each hand. “Which one do you want?”

  I took the male nut. “He’s kind of cute.”

  Trey faked a jealous pout. “I might have to crack him.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re cute, too.”

  “You think so?”

  I gave him a coy smile. “Maybe.”

  “Cute enough to let me kiss you again?”

  When I responded with a nod, he leaned in and gave me another kiss, this one a little more forceful, a little more fun, a little more please-don’t-ever-stop-I-need-this-like-I-need-air.

  When he pulled back, I opened my eyes and again fought the urge to grab him, throw him to the ground, and rip his pants off. A woman has needs and mine hadn’t been met in over a year. Trey’s kisses had reignited those needs something fierce.

  We signed the log and Trey placed it back in the jar. After securing the lid, he tucked the cache into a forked limb in easy reach from the ground. No sense in someone breaking their neck for a pet pecan.
r />   Trey draped an arm lightly around my shoulders. “Coffee?”

  “Heck, yeah.”

  We climbed back into the Lincoln, propped our pecan people on the dashboard where we could keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t get into trouble, and headed toward Hockerville. We made small talk on the way. He wanted to know more about me, so I told him about my days as a criminal justice major at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville. The college town was home to the state penitentiary, as well as the prison museum that housed “Old Sparky,” the infamous electric chair that sent hundreds of inmates into the great hereafter with a final, hair-raising jolt. During my senior year of college, I’d served a stint as a docent at the museum to earn some extra spending money, having the perverse privilege of explaining Old Sparky’s workings to bloodthirsty tourists wanting all the sick, twisted details of the executions and the horrific crimes committed by those put to death. People were fascinated by violence, until it happened to them or someone they love. Then they fought to understand it, to stop it. Futile endeavors, both of them.

  I glanced over at Trey. “What kind of computer stuff do you do out in California?”

  “I program for a company that makes computer and video games.”

  No wonder he’d been so good at all the video games at the bowling alley. “Work on any games I might know?”

  Trey turned off the highway and onto the road that led into Hockerville’s town square. “I started out working on educational software for kids, the kind with math games, word games, stuff like that, then I moved on to more creative stuff. I did some of the programming for Bonzai Surf Bonanza, Demolition Derby, Mall-a-Palooza, Fel—”

  “Mall-a-Palooza? That the one where you fight with other women over clothing and purses and jewelry and stuff?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ve played that.” Selena was hooked on it, and often dragged me into a game with her. Cops have to kill time somehow when people aren’t trying to kill each other. “That game is hilarious. I got into a fight with a grandma over a hot pink thong. She wrestled it out of my hands and ran off wearing the thing.” The graphics on the game were fantastic. You could see every wrinkle on her saggy white rear.

  Trey chuckled. “I can’t take any credit for the concept. A woman in marketing came up with the idea after a weekend trip to the outlet stores in Gilroy. But I did most of the programming on the game, even snuck in a couple of cheats. Next time you play it, try running in circles around the rounder rack. The prices go down each time you complete a revolution.”

  Too bad the real mall didn’t work that way. “Sounds like a fun job.”

  Trey’s eyes gleamed with boyish glee. “It’s a freaking blast. I basically get paid to play all day. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  Okay, so video games aren’t essential to life, but they are part of the fun that makes life worth living, that helps us endure the daily grind. I’d been a huge Centipede fan myself when I was younger, dropping so many quarters into the machine at the Grab-N-Go that I’d single-handedly financed Chip Sweeney’s bass boat. But the violent video games, the disturbing ones that portrayed brutal crimes as amusement, were another matter entirely. The worst offender was Felony Frenzy, a sadistic and horrifying game in which the player could assume the role of a pimp, a crazed drug addict, or a gangster, and terrorize innocent people, rape prostitutes, slay cops in unbelievably brutal ways. Sick, disgusting stuff.

  I glanced over at Trey. “I’m glad to hear you work on the mild games. Whoever works on those really twisted, violent ones should be taken out to the woods and shot.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  I had to admit my logic was warped. “Guess so. But the parents who buy that crap for their kids must be crazy.”

  Trey shot me a pointed look. “It’s just make believe, cops and robbers played on a screen instead of in the backyard. Playing an animated game isn’t going to turn an otherwise normal, law-abiding kid into a dangerous psychopath.”

  “’Course not. I just don’t like the games that glorify violence. I’ve seen the real thing up close and personal and it’s anything but entertaining.”

  No, there was nothing amusing about searching on your hands and knees through shag carpet, trying to help a bruised and bloody woman find her front teeth after her husband has given her an extreme makeover with the fireplace poker. Nothing fun at all in trying to console the teenaged victim of a sexual assault, her innocence stolen from her at what was supposed to be a fun, summertime pool party. Nothing enjoyable in breaking up yet another gang fight, mere boys intent on killing each other, engaging in all-out wars over worthless turf littered with garbage and covered in graffiti.

  Trey turned away, looking out his window into the dark night. By putting down certain segments of his occupation, I’d probably indirectly insulted him. But I couldn’t help feeling the way I did, and I certainly hadn’t meant to attack him personally.

  After a few seconds, he turned back with a smile, letting me know any unintended slight was forgiven. “You know, you’re like a character from a video game. Tough. Heroic. Sexy.”

  My heart fluttered. I might not be a character in a video game, but Trey sure knew how to play me. “Yup, that’s me. Lara Croft, Tomb Raider.” Minus the waistline. Mine melded with my bust and hips.

  We entered Hockerville’s historic district and drove past the Magnolia Manor, a bed and breakfast housed in a sprawling Victorian. The house was painted a soft sage green, trimmed in pale yellow, and surrounded by a stand of towering magnolia trees with caladiums and white vinca surrounding their trunks. “Beautiful house,” I thought aloud.

  “Ever stayed there?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Went to a bridal shower there once.” No sense telling him the shower had been for me, hosted by Savannah just a few weeks before my wedding. The house was full of ornate antiques, faded portraits of former owners of the manor, and gaudy old-fashioned floral wallpaper. I absolutely loved it.

  A few blocks farther, Trey eased the car into a parking space in front of the Java Joint, a coffee house situated in an upscale white stone strip center that also contained a day spa and a wine shop, neither of which would have been successful in Jacksburg.

  The smell of roasting beans, vanilla, and whipped cream taunted our olfactory senses as we walked in the door. I ordered a white chocolate latte, while Trey decided on a frozen coffee drink. We shared a huge slice of caramel-drizzled cheesecake from the bakery case. So much for watching my weight.

  We sat at a small round table on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, enjoying the cool evening. The night was totally dark by then, the previous night’s clouds replaced by a thin sliver of moon, bright stars, and the far-off pulsating flash of the red warning light atop the water tower east of town.

  We talked more over our drinks, and I learned that Trey had graduated from high school a year before me. We shared many of the same memories. The time a crop duster crashed into the Hockerville water tower, the plane’s landing gear catching on the support beams, the plane hanging upside down while its pilot miraculously escaped unharmed. The time an oil tanker overturned on the highway, the only major artery into Hockerville, forcing the road to be closed for two days straight. An opportunistic farmer created an unofficial detour through his property, charging drivers three bucks apiece to cross his back forty. The time at the Ruger County science fair when a homemade robot went berserk and burst into flame, igniting the cardboard display. The smoke had activated the sprinkler system and flooded the VFW hall. That was the last time the veterans offered to host the event.

  “That poor kid,” I said, thinking back.

  “What a dork, huh? those Those Coke-bottle glasses, knobby knees, superhero underwear.”