Reaper's Fall
I nodded toward it.
“You see that?” I asked Gage. He glanced over at the store.
“Huh. That’s different.”
“You boys want the special?” our waitress asked, and I’m man enough to admit she scared the hell out of me. Not only was she suddenly damned close, she’d snuck up on us without making a sound. I stared at the neon eyeshadow, mesmerized.
Shit. Maybe she wasn’t human.
“We’ll have two specials,” Gage said, offering her one of those smiles that made women’s panties drop. “Could use that coffee now, too. Been a long day.”
She offered him a sickly sweet smile, and I sighed, wishing I was back in Coeur d’Alene with Mel.
• • •
By the time the waitress finished taking our order—it took a while, given how chatty she was—a cherry red Mustang convertible had pulled up outside the restaurant. The car was a beauty, but it was the driver who really caught my attention when she stepped out into the street, all long dark hair and sunglasses. Deep red lipstick, pale skin . . . I couldn’t peg her age from here, but based on those curves she wasn’t a teenager.
Then she walked around to the back of the car and leaned over to open the trunk, clearly outlining the silhouette of a perfect ass wrapped beautifully in a skinny, knee-length skirt with a slit up the back.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gage said, his voice soft. “Who is that?”
“That’s Tinker Garrett,” our waitress said, sneaking up behind us again. “She owns the little tea shop across the way.”
There was something snide and nasty in her tone. Gage and I shared a glance.
“She doesn’t look like she owns a tea shop,” Gage said, leading her on. The waitress sniffed.
“She moved to Seattle after high school,” she said. “Thought she was hot shit. Then her husband dumped her and she came crawling back to town. That shop of hers can’t earn enough to stay open—not enough people pass through here. If you ask me, she’s up to something.”
Gage glanced at me, mouth twitching. I leaned toward the woman, asking a follow-up question in a tense whisper.
“What kind of thing do you think she’s up to?” I asked, eyes wide. “Do you think it’s . . . nefarious?”
Gage choked on a cough. Nice. Holding down that laughter was probably killing him.
“I have my suspicions,” she sniffed. “She dresses like a whore, you know. And I heard she goes dancing sometimes down in Ellensburg. Likes to pick up college boys. What do they call that? Being a mountain lion? Shameful.”
Gage turned away, shoulders shaking.
“Good to know,” I said seriously. “We’ll stay clear of her.”
“You do that,” the waitress replied, nodding sagely. “God knows what kind of stuff she’s selling in that place. I’ll bet those chocolates have drugs in them. Marijuana.”
I glanced out the window again, watching Tinker Garrett’s perfect ass twitching as she walked away.
Somehow she didn’t strike me as a drug kingpin. Cougar? Now that I could see.
MELANIE
The week after Chase’s accident was strange. He survived, but he had a long recovery ahead of him. Everyone in town seemed sort of gloomy and unhappy, although they’d really pulled together to support him, too. There’d even been a group of kids who set up a lemonade stand down the street from us as a fundraiser. Sometimes I got tired of living in Coeur d’Alene—it wasn’t a big city and it wasn’t exciting like Seattle or Portland, but when something like this happened, we all liked to help. Kit had even organized one of those online fundraiser things to help with his medical expenses.
Contributing to the gloom was the fact that I hadn’t heard from Painter for several days. I’d sent him a couple text messages at first, but stopped after he didn’t respond.
“You think he lost his phone?” I finally asked Jessica. It was Thursday night, and we’d built ourselves a study nest in the dining room. She’d found an old table on Tuesday, dragging it back home to show me, proud as a kid with her first buck.
Now it was so covered with books you’d never have guessed it hadn’t been here for months.
“Yeah, I’m sure he lost his phone,” she said, typing aggressively on her laptop. “He’s totally been meaning to call—you know, because he has such a great history of staying in touch—but he’s completely forgotten how to use text, email, social media, or any other kind of telecommunication.”
“Shit, you don’t have to be a bitch about it,” I snapped, glaring at her. She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Sorry—Taz hasn’t called me or anything, either. Guess I’m feeling hostile toward men. Bikers. Fuck all of ’em.”
“Did he say he’d call you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Don’t they all?”
• • •
On Friday I broke down and walked by Painter’s apartment. No signs of life. I was feeling all sorry for myself, so after that I went down to the coffee shop to indulge in one of their brownies with all the thick, fudgy frosting. I was halfway through it (staring at my phone, willing him to message me) when I had my big revelation.
This was fucking ridiculous.
Here I was, a twenty-year-old woman with all the potential on earth, and I was sitting in a coffee shop stuffing my face because of a man. All I needed was to start singing “All By Myself” and buy a cat to complete the stereotype.
What the hell was wrong with me?