She cleared a spot on the counter for Gracie to stash the groceries, and put a kettle of water on to boil. A copper kettle. On an old vintage stove from the fifties. Serena loved that kind of detail.
“Want some tea?”
“Oh, no thanks. I really just want to—” Gracie wandered over to the picture window and took a photo with her phone. “Refresh my memory,” she said with a cheeky smile.
“So that wasn’t a guilt carry, it was a ploy carry.” Serena grinned at her to take the sting from her words.
“Rude, right? My only excuse is that I’m a wannabe artist and everyone knows how neurotic and diva-ish we can be.”
Serena bit her lip to keep from showing her amusement. As far as she knew, Gracie didn’t know that Serena was an artist herself. “Oh yeah, artists are impossible. Why would you want to be one of those nut jobs?”
Gracie glanced at her curiously, then snapped another photo through the window. “You know some artists?”
“Back in San Francisco, sure. Seems like another world now.” That was for sure. In this quiet space, with the tea kettle just beginning to sigh, San Francisco seemed like nothing more than a memory. “So let’s see that sketch of yours. I want to make sure my view is properly represented to the world. I feel very proprietary about it now that I’ve lived here for a few weeks.”
“You know the legend about this place, right?” Gracie dug into her messenger bag and pulled out a sketchbook.
“Griffin told me. Luckily, legends are made to be broken.”
“I thought those were rules.”
“Those too. I’m pretty sure that legend is no threat to me.”
“It’s a legend, not a swamp creature.” Gracie smiled as she handed over the book.
Serena glanced down at the page. “Wow. This is great, Gracie.”
“Really? Thanks.”
She automatically switched into “art teacher” mode, since she’d done plenty of that work over the years. “The perspective is a little off right here, you could use some more foreshortening. But the composition is very nice, I like the way you’ve set it at a slight diagonal so everything’s just a little bit off-kilter. It makes for a more dynamic mood, which goes along with the heavy strokes here, contrasting with the lighter touch around the mountains in the distance. Which goes against the grain of what we’d expect to see. It’s almost as if the window frame here is working hard to keep the mountains from becoming more substantial. Or as if the mountains are temporary, like clouds instead of solid ground.” She stared at it a while longer, noticing the verve of the pencil strokes, the quirky confidence of the way a jaunty tree poked at a goofy angle in the upper right corner. “Really nice work. You have talent.”
She looked up to find Gracie staring at her with a dumbfounded expression. “Um…are you some kind of art critic?”
“Absolutely not. I despise art critics. They’re all men who have no idea how to react to art created by a woman.”
Gracie’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Really?”
She shook herself back to her “Rocky Peak” self--the bartender, not the artist. “Or so I’ve read. No, I’m no art critic, but I am an artist. I paint portraits.”
“Portraits of who?”
“Rich people and criminals. Sometimes they’re both.” She grinned at Gracie’s confused expression. “For money, I paint portraits of wealthy people who like the old-school way of preserving themselves for posterity. I also moonlight as a police sketch artist.”
“Really? That’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard.” Gracie propped her chin on her hands.
Serena laughed that off.
“I’m not joking. I’ve barely left Rocky Peak, and I’ve never been to a big city like San Francisco. You are literally the most fascinating, glamorous person I’ve ever spoken to.”
“Glamorous?” Serena dryly gestured at her oversize red flannel shirt and black fleece leggings.
“Well, I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to fit in. But in your real life you’re a glamorous big city artist who goes to cocktail parties and gallery openings. Right?”
“Maybe.” All that felt so distant, like an outfit she’d worn for a while and outgrown. Rocky Peak felt more real to her now—maybe because she was here for a purpose. To find her father.
Gracie would have been seven or so when Serena’s father disappeared. She probably didn’t know anything helpful, but Serena liked her and sensed a kindred artistic spirit.
“Can I see some more of your sketches?” she asked her.
“Sure! This is what I’m working on now.” Gracie took her sketchbook back so she could leaf forward to another page. A manly figure stood astride a rooftop like some kind of colossus. The sketch was entirely in charcoal, but even so she recognized the shape of Griffin’s head and his incredible musculature as seen through the single layer of a t-shirt.
“Griffin?”
“Yes. I’m glad he’s back so I can sketch him. Athletes make great models because everything about them is so defined. I’m actually trying to convince him to pose for my sketch class.”
“You’re taking a class?”
“It’s really just a group of us who get together and sketch the same thing. We don’t have a teacher. Occasionally we pool our money for a nude model, but I’m working on Griffin to do it for free.”
Serena’s mouth went dry at the thought of Griffin stripped of all clothes, posing for her paintbrush.
Yeah, that might be enough to get her creative juices flowing. Some kind of juices, anyway.
“Good luck with that.”
“You could probably help us talk him into it,” Gracie said with a sly, sidelong look under her lashes. “From what I’ve heard, anyway.”
So Gracie was trying to sneak in some busybody questions while she was here. “I see what you’re up to, little Miss Rockwell. You will get no inside dirt from me. And besides, I’m not in the business of pressuring nude models. I have the utmost respect for them.” In fact, she’d taken a turn posing nude for an art class once. It was a quiet, respectful and chilly experience.
“But this is Griffin,” Gracie said. “His body is his temple and all that. He’s not shy at all. He even posed in ESPN’s Body Issue.”
“That is not the point—what year?”
Gracie burst out laughing, while Serena chuckled along with her. Except she was quite serious about that question. She planned to google it immediately, whether or not she knew the year. “Rockwell body issue”—how hard could it be?
8
“So—I googled you,” she told Griffin later, when he was settled into his usual seat at the Last Chance bar, a bowl of peanuts at his elbow, along with sparkling water in a tankard. “And I just have to ask—was that uncomfortable, the way you straddled that motorcycle completely butt-naked?”
His mouth fell slightly ajar. “Fuck. You saw that?”
“Saw it? I plan to blow it up into a wall-size poster. That shot is hot.”
He grinned, lifting his drink to hide behind it. “Thanks. I got heat for it, that’s for sure.”
“From the other riders?”
“Yeah. Motocross isn’t that kind of sport. We’re not a glamour sport, like skiing or football. We’re grind-it-out mud-warriors.”
“Yes, I noticed the strategically placed mud on your torso. Someone had fun with that job.”
His smile took on a nostalgic tinge. “Maybe.”
“What’s the story with that tattoo?” she asked. “It looks tribal.”
“That’s some Maori artwork that a friend of mine did. He’s a tattoo artist from New Zealand, and he was doing some research into the history of his tribe. Pretty interesting. I saw one of the books he was reading and really liked that particular design. He did the tattoo, but only after he initiated me into the Maori people.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Nah. Okay, I hung out with his family in Christchurch for a while. That did it, and they gave him t
he go-ahead.”
She squinted at him curiously as she dried a load of freshly washed glasses. “You really did all that just for a tattoo?”
“It’s a great tattoo, isn’t it? It’s the only one I have. Don’t plan to get any more. It hurt like hell.”
She laughed at that. “I thought you were this tough biker dude. How many injuries have you had?”
“Didn’t you just google me?”
“Yes, but just so I could see your naked body.” She was joking, but even so, a channel of vibrant awareness opened up between them. It sent prickles right to her core. “I did notice a few scars.”
“Well, if you’d actually read the article, you would have seen a whole list of my injuries. When I first started, I racked them up like some kind of stuntman with a death wish. Now that I’m older I don’t get injured any more. I don’t make as many mistakes.”
“Hm.” She tossed the dishrag over her shoulder. “So I guess you didn’t retire due to injury?”
“Is that what you heard?” She found that answer a little cagey, which made her even more curious.
“I haven’t heard anything. Believe it or not, you aren’t the only topic of conversation in town. There’s the weather, the snow, road conditions…”
He laughed, the deep green of his eyes lighting up. “Hey, when you live in the mountains, weather is about survival.”
“I get it. I’m excited about the winter, actually.”
Good lord, was she really going to stay the winter? What about her apartment, her agent, her upcoming commissions?
She shoved all those thoughts aside. Until she found something about her father, she couldn’t bear to leave. She’d just gotten a sort-of clue, the pendant from Betsy deVane. It hadn’t led to anything yet, but it still could.
“How are your winter driving skills?”
“Adequate for San Francisco.”
“In other words, worthless. What are you doing tomorrow? The bar’s closed, right?”
“Yes, and my laundry’s piling up and I haven’t bothered to wash a single dish since Jake left. It’s housework day.”
“Good, then it’s nothing you can’t cancel. Driving instruction, noon tomorrow.”
His bossy tone of voice put her on edge. “I just told you I already have my day planned out.”
“This is important. Driving up here in the winter is no joke. I already spent some time with Nicole, teaching her. She’s a lot more prepared now. She can vouch for my skills. Call her.” He held out his phone, but she waved it off.
“I’m sure you’re a good driving teacher, but you don’t understand the desperate state of my cabin.”
“I’ll help you with that, then we’ll do some driving.”
She stared at him, momentarily forgetting the glass in her hand. “You’ll help with my laundry?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Dishes too?”
“Whatever you need. I’ll be your house slave for the day. It’ll be a nice break working inside a house instead of on top of one. We just got the roof fixed, so the pressure’s off.”
“So what you’re saying is, you’ll be at my beck and call in the house…”
“And you’ll be at my beck and call in the car.” He lifted one wicked eyebrow and finished off his drink. “You in?”
Am I a human woman with eyes and nerve endings? She wanted to say. Instead she smiled demurely. “How are you with a toothbrush? The floor could use a good scrubbing.”
It was a good thing Serena looked so damn attractive in her cleaning clothes—bandanna holding back her red hair, form-fitting leggings and an oversize men’s shirt spattered with dried paint. That made cleaning her house a hell of a lot more fun.
“You are bossy as hell,” he complained as she handed him a scrubby sponge for the dishes. “That little soap thingy isn’t enough?”
“These dishes have been sitting here for a week. You promised.”
Grumbling, he set to work on the dishes. “You should at least play some tunes while we work.”
“What do you think the chances are that we actually like the same kind of music?” She bent over the pile of laundry overflowing the hamper. Even though he was focused on the dishes, he saw her reflection in the window and that was enough to get him a bit turned on. Those leggings did incredible things for her legs.
“Probably zero,” he agreed. “You probably like artsy hipster grunge music from the ‘90s. Either that or overly whiny self-indulgent indie rock. Or maybe early Sarah McLaughlin, that sort of thing.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, since from what he knew of Serena, she would hate being pigeonholed.
He called that right. She straightened up right away and shot him a glare from across the room. “And you probably like headbanger crap that’s just a bunch of yelling.”
“Oh yeah.” He flashed her a heavy metal hand signal. “Thrash metal, bring it on. Can’t get enough.” Just to drive the point home, he did the Wayne’s World hair-waving up-and-down head move. It made him dizzy, and he nearly dropped the plate he was washing. Metal wasn’t really his thing, unless he was trying to gear up for an especially hard race.
She laughed as she walked past him with her load of laundry. “No breaking the dishes doing air guitar, please. How about we compromise on the music?”
“This ought to be good. What kind of music do you think we can agree on?”
“None.” Making an impish face at him, she dumped the clothes into the washing machine. “I suggest that we alternate. You pick something, then I pick something. We’ll both suffer equally.”
“I’m all for equality. Who gets to go first?”
“You’re the guest, so you should. Where’s your iPod?”
“My phone’s in my pocket. You can use my Spotify.” He started to take off the big rubber gloves she’d given him, but she forestalled him.
“I’ll get it for you. No need to interrupt your dishwashing duties.”
He found himself holding his breath as she slipped her hand into his pocket. Her fragrance surrounded him from behind—it made him think of a jasmine vine warmed by sunshine. Her fingers were quick and deft and she plucked the phone from his pocket in no time.
He wished it had taken much longer, especially because something soft had brushed against his back—he thought it was her breast. He clenched his teeth against the automatic arousal.
As soon as the first song from his Spotify began to play, she spun around and stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“Lou Reed?”
“I like the classics.”
“I love Lou Reed. I mean, LOVE him. Who’s next on here?” She’d forgotten all about the laundry as she scanned through his music channels, so he reached over and pushed the “start” button.
“Eurythmics? Bare Naked Ladies?”
“It’s been three days since you talked to me,” he quoted sadly.
She kept scanning as Lou Reed played in the background. “You also have the soundtrack of Hamilton.”
“I do.” He rinsed the pile of plates he’d just finished scrubbing and set them on the rack.
“Beyonce. Prince. Kendrick Lamar?”
“He won a Pulitzer, did you know that? I hear something new every time I listen to that album.”
“Johnny Cash? Clint Black?”
“There’s nothing like a good country song when you’re in the mood.”
“And what’s this? Sarah McLachlan?”
“She’s haunting and evocative, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. Amadou and Mariam?”
“Did you know they’re both blind and met at a school for the blind?”
She shook her head at him, laughing. “I do, as a matter of fact. I also adore every other artist on this list, except I’m not much of a Clint Black fan. But where…” She flipped through a little more…”and there it is. AC/DC, come to mamma. I knew it!”
“I wi
ll never apologize for my love of AC/DC. Highway to Hell is singlehandedly responsible for at least five of my wins.”
He finished the last of the dishes and turned around, resting his butt against the sink and removing his rubber gloves. She was still gazing at him with a look of amazement on her face.
“Seriously, you have so many of my favorite artists on here. How is that possible? We’re completely different people! You’re a crazy motorcycle rider and I’m a…simple bartender.”
He burst out laughing. “Serena, I’m not entirely sure who you are yet, but I’m pretty sure ‘simple bartender’ isn’t it. Maybe we’re more similar than you think. Can’t always judge by appearances, you know.”
“So they say.” A clunking sound from the direction of the washing machine made her jump. She hurried over and lifted the lid. “I always do this, I forget to take things out of my pockets and I end up washing the weirdest things...pens, cough drops, keys…” She poked through the mess of clothes, then straightened up, holding something in her hand. “Oh crap, I left this in my pocket. Betsy at the Depot said someone left it in the lost and found around the time my father came through town. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Stunned, rooted to the ground, he couldn’t move a muscle as she brought the item his way. A pendant dangled from her finger. A beautiful glass pendant that he’d last seen around his mother’s neck. “Holy shit. That was my mom’s.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I don’t know where she got it, but she gave it to me not long before—before the accident. I remember thinking that it was a weird thing to give me. What fifteen-year old kid wants to wear a glass pendant?”
“It’s beautiful. It looks like a teardrop.”
He took it from her, the familiar weight of it tugging memories to the surface. There was the good memory, when Mom had given it to him. And then a terrible memory—the time that pendant had gotten torn off his neck.
The time Coach Nelson had beat up Jiggy Rodriguez.
It was mostly a blur, with a few moments etched with perfect clarity.
The Rogue Page 6