Out Of The Blue Page 8

  It didn’t escape my notice that the Cobra is parked not too far from the supply store. I can only wonder what he’s in town for. And I do wonder. It takes up way too much of my time. It’s been days, and that dick of his is still never far from my thoughts. This is what happens when you have a complete lack of a social life. Maybe Jess was right; this man-fast is making me as thirsty as a fifteen-year-old incel.

  “Fine,” I exhale tiredly, “but make sure you send someone to help me unload the bags.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He grabs a pen from behind his ear and scribbles something down on a notepad. “Kinda short-staffed this week.”

  Just my luck.

  When I step out of the store, the vintage Mustang is still there. Shane Hughes is still that one word in The N.Y. Times crossword puzzle I can’t figure out for the life of me, an annoying mystery begging to be solved. One that makes me hot and sweaty even though the last thing I need is to get hot and sweaty over anyone, let alone a man so out of reach he may as well be a mirage.

  I won’t allow myself to like him because I’m not in the self-harm business. That would be inviting a world of disappointment to waltz right in. But having him play the lead character in all my dirty fantasies isn’t out of the question. In fact, it’s the perfect solution. And I have the material taking up a lot of my hard drive already.

  Naturally, I go looking for him because my interest is piqued and I’m a glutton for punishment. I don’t have enough to do that I need to add stalking to my list. On my way to The Local Cup to grab a latte, I walk by an outdoor restaurant and catch sight of the mirage himself out of the corner of my eye. He’s impossible to miss with his dark salted hair, tan skin, and sharp angular features. Even the scruff covering the lower part of his face can’t hide his near-perfect bone structure or the semi-full lips. If he fails as a writer, he can always get a job as a professional lip model. If there is such a thing.

  That’s when I notice he’s not alone. He’s having dinner with a woman. And not just any woman––a drop dead gorgeous one with a perfect figure. Her long black hair is silky. Her eyes are equally dark and almond shaped. Her cheekbones are high and her mouth heart shaped.

  If I were to guess, I’d say she’s Native American, but who knows. Whatever she may be, together they make every other power couple look ordinary.

  I never even considered whether he was married or engaged. Huh, that’s weird. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, but that’s not uncommon these days. And I am one-hundred percent getting lover vibes from these two.

  Hello, disappointment, my old friend. I feel let down even though I have absolutely no right to feel anything. Part of me is glad I got to witness it, though. It’s another reminder that as fun as fantasies are, they’re best kept as fantasies.

  She brushes away a tear, clearly upset and on the verge of more. Reaching across the table, she takes his hand. He squeezes it and reaches across with the other, wiping another tear away on her stunning face. This woman makes suffering look sexy. I knew I was way out of my league.

  I’m so absorbed in watching this drama play out that the sound of my cell phone ringing startles me. Frazzled, I hit accept without checking who’s calling.

  “Is there a reason I haven’t received any of the pictures and videos I expressly asked for?”

  Bloody hell… Cruella.

  “Um… who’s this?” I say, trying to buy time. Cupping my ear to hear better, I ditch the coffee plans and head for the pickup truck.

  “You know who this is so don’t play games.”

  “Mrs. Izkov?” My voice is hitting that strange high note again, and fear is chum to people like Cruella. I physically cringe.

  “Miz. It’s miz. But that’s not why I called, is it?”

  “Right. The pictures. Yeah, we’ve been really busy taking care of the animals… and… you know, Aidan has been working so hard that we just… forgot.”

  I mean, is she going to buy this steaming bag of lies? Probably not. Why am I even protecting this lazy you-know-what is the real question. If anyone deserves to be thrown under the bus, it’s Aidan. But some corner of the non-cynical part of my psyche still believes he just needs time to see the error of his ways. Mona really is rubbing off on me.

  “Do I strike you as some kind of an idiot?”

  “No. No, you do not,” I swiftly answer. I won’t mince words, this woman legit scares the crap out of me and not much does anymore. I certainly don’t need to make an enemy out of her.

  “Good. Because I would hate to give you the wrong impression. I want pictures and videos. You will send them starting tomorrow.”

  “I can do that,” I say, nodding at no one. After which, the line drops.

  The feed delivery truck shows up at two o’clock on the nose the following day. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the driver is alone and I have to unload an entire pallet of feed bags. No use in whining about it so I grab the dolly and get to work under the broiling August heat.

  The Mustang drives up just as I’m getting started. Wonderful. I get to have an audience when I struggle with the bags. The sun is especially cruel today, so I squint and pretend not to see him. Shane slides out of the driver seat and lowers his glasses, staring directly at me. This doesn’t look good. His expression spells trouble.

  He slams the door shut with enough force for the driver of the delivery truck to notice and make a face. Then he crosses over to the porch of the guesthouse, takes his sunglasses off, and places them on the green Adirondack chair. His Rolex watch soon follows. Then comes the leather strap he wears on the opposite wrist.

  I’m spellbound watching him strip. This is the state of affairs these days. I get turned on watching a man remove accessories. He’s taken, I remind myself and get back to work, jumping into the open back of the truck.

  The glare he sends me while he marches over is chock-full of hell, fire, and brimstone. He’s wearing an army green t-shirt and jeans, but it’s like 90 degrees, so he must be roasting. I’m sure that’s adding to his mood.

  “Where’s Aidan?”

  I stop what I’m doing and wipe the sweat beading above my mouth with the collar of my t-shirt. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  His attention darts to the driver who’s still kicking back in the cab of the truck. “Wait here,” he tells him, leaving no room for argument. Then he stalks off, heading straight for the trailer.

  Naturally, I climb out of the back of the truck and quietly follow. There’s a promise of fireworks and I, for one, don’t want to miss a minute of the show.

  Shane rips open the door to the Airstream and all hell breaks loose.

  “Hey…” I hear Aidan loudly mumble. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t think they sounded like they’d just woken up. But it’s Aidan, so I know he just woke up.

  “What the fuck… who the fuck is this?” Shane very distinctly shouts. Pretty sure they heard him in Utah.

  Then I hear, “Melissa was just leaving.”

  Ummm, Melissa?

  “You’re not allowed to have any visitors, Aidan! What part of the judge’s orders did you not understand? Did you understand any of them?”

  “She’s my assistant.”

  “Your assistant always jump into bed with you?”

  So much for leaving the trappings of fame in L.A.

  There’s a pause. Then, “You wanna do the time in county lockup, that’s your business. What you will not do is dick around and abuse the goodwill of that kid and the old lady.”

  Umm, kid? Old lady? Mona can run circles around these two insufferable jerks in her panties and bra with one arm tied behind her back.

  “Starting tomorrow, you’ll do double the work to make up for lost time.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Another heavy pause. “Look, man, I’m trying to help you, but you seem hellbent on destroying your life… I dunno. I dunno what to do with you anymore.”

  “Fuck you, Shane.”

  “You’ve
already done that.”

  The door bursts open and smashes loudly against the side of the trailer. I leap back, startled and out of breath. Shane fills up the doorway and stares at me for a beat, expression locked under key. Then he marches toward the truck.

  Kid? That he thinks of me as a kid would be funny if it wasn’t so painfully offensive. He has no idea who I am, what I’ve experienced in my life. I’ll never understand why dour people assume happy people are simply less intelligent or immature. Last time I checked, wearing your suffering on your sleeve doesn’t win you any diplomas.

  And why am I a kid? Because I still have the ability to smile and enjoy my day? Being happy in spite of life is not a superpower. We can all get there if we try.

  In the words of my best friend, super shiny silver lining. He’s broken the spell. I’m no longer intimidated. Just like that, I’m back to me at almost-thirty again. A grown-ass woman.

  By the time I get back to the truck, he’s already jumped in the back, lifting bags of feed and placing them closer to the edge to load onto the dolly.

  “What are you doing?” my lips finally spit out.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says as he jumps down from the back of the truck and slings a fifty-pound bag of feed over his shoulder.

  “Unloading. You don’t have to… I got it handled.”

  I struggle to lift a bag out of the back of the truck, pulling and dragging it over the edge. It falls to the ground and kicks up dust. Because Life has taken it as a personal challenge to find new ways to embarrass me in front of this man.

  Shane takes hold of my shoulders and gently moves me aside. Picking the feed bag up with ease, he dumps it on the dolly.

  “I was working on that,” I say weakly. I was, though.

  An unremarkable car tears down the ranch driveway and we both stop to watch. It pulls up to the trailer and a woman, the notorious Melissa I’m assuming, comes out of the trailer and gets in the back. Then the car takes off, back the way it came.

  “Can we pretend that didn’t happen?” he says, still staring in the direction of the now-departed Melissa, jaw clenched like someone has his picture-perfect family jewels in a vise.

  When I fail to answer in a timely fashion, he turns to look at me and the worry surfaces, the stony mask slipping away. “Please.”

  I guess I should applaud the love he has for his brother in spite of whatever went down between them. And something definitely did. The worry breaks me. No matter how shitty he’s been to me, I can’t be shitty in return.

  “Melissa never happened,” I tell him, choosing my words carefully. He doesn’t get a free pass to insult me and Mona because of his personal issues with his brother. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Then it dims and he goes back to grabbing bags.

  “Jules called me,” I add. This gets his attention. “She wants pictures of Aidan working with the animals. For the PR campaign.”

  He nods. “I’ll handle Jules. Is the door to the feed room open?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Go open it and I’ll be right there.” This man is way too comfortable giving orders, but I’m too hot and too tired to argue with him. It’s a lost cause anyway, so I do as he suggested. I go open the feed room door.

  A few minutes later, he enters the barn pushing the dolly stacked with feed bags, sweat dripping down his temples, the veins on the back of his hands popping off, his t-shirt molding itself to his chest like it’s a contest to see who can look better in a t-shirt. Surprise! He wins.

  I’m not too proud to admit that I’m enjoying the show. Not even a little. In fact, all that’s missing is a recliner and a tub of buttered popcorn. I don’t even hide it. It feels good to be a grown-up again.

  “No. Really. Let me help you,” I say without even a pretense of meaning it. Instead, I sit on a bale of hay, legs crossed, enjoying the entertainment for a change. I should probably make a small effort to sell myself as the kind of woman who can #doitall. Surprise! I can’t. I welcome with open arms any help I can get from a man.

  “Make yourself comfortable, shirina.”

  What the table flipping hell did he just call me? That’s the second time today he insulted me. He even had the gall to do it in a language I don’t speak. Which means I can pretend I didn’t hear him. Meanwhile, he stacks the bags of feed all by himself while I watch. All ten bags.

  “You insisted.” I check my nails. Yep, still dirty. I get my phone out and pretend to look at that.

  His lips twitch, desperate to curve up, but he fights the feeling.

  “Don’t fight it, Shane,” I want to tell him, “Go with it.” But I keep my trap shut. I’ve learned the hard way that people don’t want to be helped. They want to stumble through life and make their own mistakes. No matter how long that lesson takes to be learned. I’m speaking about myself, of course.

  Finished, he brushes his hands together.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot one last bag by the barn entrance. “You missed one,” I say, my eyes still purposely glued to my phone.

  Watching me, he exhales. I can feel his searching eyes burn the roots of my hair. He takes his t-shirt off and wipes his sweaty face with it. Then he shoves one end into the waistband of his jeans and walks off to pick up the last bag.

  As hard as I try… I can’t resist. Peeking up, I watch his naked broad shoulders, the lines of thick muscle and bone move as he picks up the heavy bag. The show is even better without the binoculars.

  He’s got marks on his back, what appear to be shrapnel wounds. Some of the guys I worked with in the past, firemen and LEOs, served, and many came back covered in the same wounds.

  He turns to make his way back and I forget to look back down, too taken by the sight of a few more scars on his chest, a more noticeable one on his side. He pauses briefly when he sees the look on my face and then continues into the feed room.

  “Were you in the service?” comes out of me without thought.

  “Sixteen years,” he says, standing in the doorway of the feed room. “Lieutenant Colonel Hughes at your service.”

  A strange moment passes between us. I can’t explain it other than an understanding.

  “Thank you for unloading the bags… and your service,” I say, dropping the attitude.

  “It’s the least I can do.” He’s back to being serious again. Then he walks out.

  “You answered!” my mother screams into the phone.

  I pull it away from my ear. “You’ve been blowing it up for two weeks. Is this urgent? Because I’m very busy.”

  Mona makes a face at me and silently mouths, “Be nice.”

  She places a well-cooked rib-eye steak in front of Darby. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. Other than that, he couldn’t care less about what’s going on around him. He really is the best boyfriend she’s ever had. Quiet, respectful, and acts like he’s in another world when Mona and I talk.

  I stare out at the sinking sunset. Another great one to add to my list.

  “I’m coming to L.A. in a few weeks, and I’d like to see my daughter. So yes, I guess it is urgent.”

  She can’t come here. Under no circumstance is she allowed to be anywhere near the criminal in residence. “Um, I guess that could be arranged…”

  “Great! Great news. That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll call when we’re leaving Haiti and I have my flight booked. See you soon!”

  “Uh-huh, yeah, great. See you soon.” Eye roll. I end the call.

  “She’s really trying,” Mona says, passing me the steamed green beans.

  “To be a pain in the ass? Yes, she is.”

  “Maybe she’s changed.”

  Dear, dear Mona. Always so hopeful.

  “This is the same woman who guilted a twelve-year-old into sending her all the money I’d been given from my grandparents––who I never see because they’re living on social security in North Carolina––for birthdays and holidays. Because the kids in Guatemala were dying. I had nig
htmares for weeks thinking I didn’t get her the money in time to save them.”

  Mona makes a cringe face. “She’s somethin’ special…”

  “She’s special, alright.” Nobody knows how to self-promote better than my mother, and if she met Aidan, she would seize the opportunity faster than I could stop her. “I don’t think I can get out of seeing her, but she can’t come here. Don’t get tricked into giving her our location in case she hunts you down on social media.”

  “Sweetie, you’d have to get up earlier than a gamecock to get one over on me.”

  “I sincerely hope you mean a male chicken.”

  She smiles at Darby who happily smiles back. “Up for interpretation.”

  Chapter 8

  Days go by without any sign that Aidan is ready to make an effort. I guess tomorrow means whenever in Hollywood talk. Fine with me. As a matter of fact, the peace of mind this brings has me hoping he keeps it up for the foreseeable future. I mean, why should I care if he gets shipped off to county lockup?

  Then I think of the worried look on Shane’s face. Maybe I do care… a little. I don’t know what he told Jules. As long as I don’t get any more threatening phone calls, I’m good with it.

  Mona and I brought Legend home this morning. It took the better part of a day to get him acclimated. Tom treated the anemia caused by an infestation of ticks he had on him and a minor infection. He had his feet trimmed by a good farrier while he was in the clinic. It’s on us to get him healthy again, though. The weight he’s gained, a few pounds, is mostly water weight. He was that severely dehydrated. The road to his real recovery is long and it starts at home with frequent small meals that his weak and fragile system can handle.

  It’s midnight when I finally tuck into bed, much later than usual. The sheets are cool. The AC hums a sweet lullaby guaranteed to put me to sleep in no time. I literally say, “Ahhh,” out loud. I’m almost out, sleep ready to claim me, when… I hear a strange caterwauling coming from the paddock directly behind the farmhouse.