“So, Doc,” Clay said as she led him out front, “you know of a good place where I can get my tattoos removed?”
“Wh—” She turned to him, then cut herself off, and he saw, with regret, her body loosen, sink in on itself a little. “You’d have to go to Richmond.”
“All right.” He nodded, wondering what the shit he was doing. He had that weird sensation that he sometimes got of being just a shell, with nothing on the inside but hollow space. It was a feeling a lot like regret, except it couldn’t be—not for this, not for what they’d begun in that exam room. But maybe, just possibly, he was feeling it for her. Empathic regret. Like she hadn’t meant to take up with someone like him.
“I’m sorry, Andrew.”
“Don’t be.” He looked around and saw her car, parked alone up ahead under that fucking unlit streetlamp. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh, you don’t nee—”
His expression must have stopped her, because she just shrugged and let him walk beside her to her door, which was—surprise—unlocked.
“Got to start locking your door, George.”
“Why?”
“Don’t remember what happened last weekend?”
“How would locking my door change what happened?”
He shook his head and smiled. “You people and your small-town delusions.”
She ignored that and asked, “You hungry?”
“I’m…” He hesitated, taking in all the shit crowding his insides, and realized that, yes, there was, in fact, a big, yawning hole there. When had he last eaten? “Yeah,” he finished with a smile. “Wanna go to the Nook?”
“Come home with me,” she said, probably with more of an undertone than intended, and his pulse hitched back up a notch.
“Yeah?” he asked in something close to a whisper.
Her eyes took an age to get to his, but when they did, any misgivings he might have had dissipated. She was an adult. A woman, not a kid, and not one of the MC hangers-on who’d been coerced or forced by necessity to mingle with the bikers. To put out for the bikers.
“Let me make you dinner,” she said, and right there, in the middle of Main Street, where anybody in the whole world could see him, Clay Navarro came dangerously close to crying his eyes out like a little boy.
“No, I… Thanks, George. Thank you, but you don’t want—”
“Shut up, Andrew,” she said, knocking the air out of his sails. “Get in.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he said. “I should get my truck and a shower.”
“You remember where it is?” she asked.
Oh, I know, he thought, half listening to her directions before heading back to his room at a jog, anxious and excited with a good dose of guilty.
The guilt grew as he showered and changed, taking in his grim surroundings. George Hadley was a good woman, a clean woman, and the last thing she needed in her life was Clay’s brand of filth. What the hell had he been thinking?
He considered not going but went anyway, telling himself it was because he didn’t like to keep a woman waiting, but underneath he knew that wasn’t it—not really. He wanted to go, damn it. He wanted a little of her pristine existence to rub off on him, polish him up, and get rid of some of his grime. It was selfish, especially considering how dangerous his situation was, but…but he’d tell her in person. He’d tell her he couldn’t, and then he’d stop by the store for another bottle of booze and come back to this shithole, where he’d drink and maybe even jerk off for the first time in months.
He’d get through this, just like he always did—and he’d do it without dragging her with him.
* * *
George put down her empty glass and looked at the clock—an hour had passed since she’d left Andrew Blane in the street in front of the clinic. An hour in which he’d no doubt gone back to his place and decided not to reemerge. She’d even stopped off on the way for beer and a bottle of wine. She’d panfried a couple of trout from up the road in Madison and steamed some green beans from the garden—then, considering his size, made the whole package of rice. Would four cups be enough?
Only now it was an hour later and he still wasn’t here, which meant he wasn’t coming, and all the anticipation had fizzled into something hollow and tight and much too large for her chest.
That was the problem with removing the layers and layers of protection she’d built up over the years—things hurt.
George sat in her kitchen on one of the overstuffed armchairs beside the cold wood stove and let herself tear up for about thirty seconds before nipping the self-pity in the bud. Whatever the man was, whoever he was, he was messed up in ways George wasn’t equipped to handle.
She’d do best to forget about him entirely. Maybe she’d run into him in town and tell him to come back to her practice, because they were better off as doctor and patient. He needed the job done, and she was qualified, so she might as well be the one to do it.
With a satisfied nod, she moved to the front door to turn off the porch light. Just as it flicked off, she saw it again—the movement she’d seen, or rather felt, in the woods across the street last night. She narrowed her eyes at whatever it was and then, without conscious thought, pulled open the screen door, letting it slam behind her, and marched down the steps, straight across the street, and right to the man who slid out of the shadows.
“George.”
“Andrew,” she said without a hint of surprise. She’d known it, hadn’t she? “Too scared to come in?”
“Something like that.”
“I won’t bite.”
“No?” he asked, sounding a little disappointed.
“You change your mind, then?”
“Still thinking about it.”
“Well, it’s last call, so you’d better decide.”
She saw the shine of his white teeth before turning back to her house and tromping back up the stairs. With a last, disappointed huff, she pulled open the screen and let it fall behind her.
Only it didn’t slam as expected. Which meant… She sucked in a nervous, edgy breath at the sound of his footfalls, followed by the quiet thud of the door shutting, then the snick of the lock being turned into place. Andrew Blane and his obsession with locks.
* * *
“I hope you like fish. I made trout.”
“Sounds good.”
“Come on through.”
Christ, it was hot in here. “No A/C?”
“In this old house?” She laughed. “No. Ceiling fans are about as good as it gets. I’m too stubborn for window units.”
“Stubborn?”
“No way I’m giving up beautiful, precious natural light in exchange for recycled air, no matter how cool it is. I’d rather be hot and watch the sky out my window.”
“Wow. A purist.”
“Or stupid. Whatever you want to call it.”
After a pause, during which she could feel him look around, taking in their surroundings, he said, “Nice place.”
“Thank you. It needs work, though.”
“Yeah, saw some of your clapboard needs replacing.”
“You haven’t seen the garden yet,” she said.
Oh, but I have, Clay thought as she went on. “I can hardly keep up. The fence is a mess, and the chickens had an unwanted visitor last week. I performed emergency surgery with chicken wire, and it’s ugly.”
Soft music flowed from the back of the house—some kind of girlie folk music, a little high, a little light and slow for his taste, but it suited the place. He followed George through an open hall, beside a nice-sized staircase. He’d seen some of it from outside, but he took it in with a new perspective: hardwood floors, high ceilings, paint that had seen better days, and colorful, threadbare rugs scattered here and there. The farmhouse was loved—he could see that—but it sure needed work. Bits of crown molding were missing, and floorboards whined beneath his feet. She led him back to a big kitchen that spanned the entire rear of the house.
He was shamed by the plates of food waiting for them on the scarred wooden table. He’d stood out there for at least half an hour, watching the house, waiting and debating, sick with doubt at what he was starting with this woman. Starting something he wouldn’t be around to finish.
“Sorry I made you wait.”
“No problem.” She glanced at him, caught his eye, and raised her brows in a way that said she knew more about what he’d been doing out there than she let on. “Beer or wine?”
“Beer, please.”
“It’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
He turned to the old-fashioned-looking appliance, pulled out a bottle of beer—a local brand; what was it with people around here and their locally made crap?—and twisted it open.
“You want one?” She shook her head, and he took a turn around the room, bypassing the open door leading to a big screened-in porch and ending up at the wide back window, which overlooked the yard, where green things fought for supremacy. “Cozy.”
“You think?”
He nodded, taking in the layers of stuff everywhere, so much like the plants out back in their cheerful disarray. Not like one of those hoarder houses, not suffocating. More artfully arranged. Flowers, tons of them, some in vases, some in pots; a couple of lamps, cool-looking marble with ornate, colorful shades; wooden chairs, worn like the rest of the place, with cushions on them—no two prints alike, but all somehow belonging together. A happy chaos.
“Have a seat,” she said, and he looked at his choices—two big armchairs by a wood stove or four wooden chairs flanking a big, scarred table by the window. He opted for the latter, pulling out one of the chairs and nearly screaming like a little girl at the animal who stared up at him, one-eyed and three-legged.
George laughed at his shocked, “Oh Jesus,” and moved to shoo away the cat, who wanted absolutely none of it.
“Go on, Leonard. We humans get to use the chairs now.”
The cat dropped to the floor with a thunk, only to return to his rightful spot a few seconds later, right up under Clay’s chin like he’d been the night before.
“Wow,” George said with a surprised frown. “Leonard’s a bit of a recluse usually. He doesn’t take to strangers quite so fast.”
Little do you know.
She walked to a counter, where she grabbed a dish and stuck it into the oven. “Brownies,” she said with a little smile, twisting a tomato-shaped timer and putting it on the table between them in a weird parody of some speed-dating ritual.
She sat across from him with a glass of white wine, and he could see, even in this golden, candlelit room, a rosy blush high on her cheeks.
“You’re beautiful,” Clay said unexpectedly with a nervous expulsion of air.
“Oh. Oh, thank you.”
“Thanks for inviting me over. Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in…” He swallowed. Years, he wanted to say, although it wasn’t quite true. Jayda and Tyler had invited him over before he’d taken off. Once. Only once, because he’d seen the look on Jayda’s face when the kids had checked him out, limp and tats and inappropriate vocabulary and all. He’d noticed that night that he couldn’t get a sentence out without an f-bomb or two, which was part of what had kept him alive these past few years. But now that he was out of the MC, well…he was just some cussing, inked-up asshole you couldn’t even have over to dinner.
“It’s been a while,” he finished, and George nodded.
“So. Welcome.” She cleared her throat, held up her glass, and knocked it gently against his bottle. “I’m happy to be able to offer you that.”
He nodded and shoveled in a bite of fish, which, even cold, was delicious. “It’s good.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Why’re you so nice to me, George Hadley?”
“Nice? I’m just normal.”
“You shouldn’t even be talking to me.”
“I shouldn’t?”
Clay shook his head. “No. You really shouldn’t.”
“Why not? You said you weren’t going to hurt me.”
“I’m not,” he said, although for the first time he wondered if that were actually true. “But I could, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, having me around isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
She shrugged, indicating the room. “As you can see, there’s nobody here to complain. Except maybe Leonard, but he’d bitch at Mother Teresa. Although, apparently you pass muster.”
“Oh yeah?” Clay glanced down at the cat, which, as if understanding their words, curled into a tighter ball on his lap and let out a funny, little birdlike trill. “Seems friendly enough.”
“Yeah, right. You can push him off.”
Clay let the cat stay, a vibrating heater. They were quiet as they ate, serenaded by the animal’s engine-like rumbling and the incessant song of the crickets outside.
“What is that noise?”
George cocked her head. “What noise?”
“That… Like crickets, except…loud.” Unbearably fucking never-endingly loud enough to make a person go completely insane.
“It’s the cicadas. They’ve graced us with their presence.”
“This is a good thing?”
“Every seventeen years. That’s how often they get to come out of hiding. And here they are, finally. Alive again!”
“Wow. When you put it that way…”
“Come on,” she said, standing up and heading for the porch, where it was overwhelming—ultra surround sound, with the added ominous rumble of distant thunder—and then down three steps into the backyard, which was bathed in pale moonlight. George took a central path, leading to the far end of the yard and the woods beyond. It was a jungle out here—plants barely held back by metal structures, poles spilling onto the walkway with abandon. The moonlight turned everything the same shade of gray or green, but alive, so damned alive with the buzzing, ticking, humming energy of unseen fauna and rampant flora that Clay had to stop, breathe, get his bearings, gather himself before following her.
Close to the back of the yard, she stopped and turned to look at him, and although the colors were washed out, he could see the excitement on her face, could feel it in currents as electrified as the far-off flash of lightning.
The noise. He couldn’t take the fucking noise. The deep, constant background sounds drove him a little crazier every day. And this woman loved it? They were worlds apart, weren’t they?
“This is not the end yet,” she said. “They’ll get louder over the next week or two. And then… Oh, this is…” She swallowed, pressed fingers to her mouth, and he wondered if she was going to cry. “And then they’re gone. Seventeen years before we see these guys again.” She grabbed his hand, squeezed, and he could barely even understand the level of emotion this woman felt over something so…so inconsequential. So annoying as these loud-ass insects taking over the night—and more than a little real estate inside his brain.
“Not the most pleasant sound I’ve ever heard. So fu—so damned loud,” he said.
He hated how disappointed she looked at his words, hated even more the way she took her hand away from his, leaving him bereft. For those few seconds when she’d touched him, the noise hadn’t been quite so bad. Like a Mute button, she’d staved off the panic.
He wished she would do it again.
* * *
“Loud? Yes, I suppose they are,” George agreed.
Loud? It was beautiful.
He looked away from her in a way that smacked of avoidance. “How can you even sleep here? I need the A/C on just to drown out the night noises, and now this… Man. I’d go crazy.”
“Oh, I…I like it.” And here it was again, that moment when George realized she wasn’t quite the norm. “Let’s go back in.”
He followed her inside, and they sat and picked up where they’d left off. Only George felt the tiniest bit crushed. She shouldn’t, of course. It was stupid to think anyone would understand her excitement at such silly things.
They sat at the table, a little too close, a little awkward. Leonard hopped right back up onto Andrew’s lap, and George shook her head.
“He’s really into you.”
Andrew shrugged, looking, if she wasn’t mistaken, a little sheepish. Was that a flush on his cheeks? He took a bite of trout, and the flush deepened. His eyes rose to hers.
“This is—oh God—this is amazing. Best thing I’ve had.”
She laughed.
“I’m serious, what did you do to make this so…” He chewed, groaned a little, and swallowed, taking another bite and then another. “This has more…flavor than anything I’ve eaten in months.”
She shook her head and took a bite of her own. “It’s just trout, you know. It’s local, from over in Madison County, but nothing special. I guess the butter’s local too, so maybe that’s what you like about it? Fresh ingredients, I suppose?”
“You’re an amazing cook. That’s what it is.”
It was her turn to blush. Compliments made her feel awkward, and rather than continue to endure his, she deflected. “Sorry about going overboard outside with the cicadas. I…I get worked up about that stuff. I guess I’m just a hippy at heart.” She waved her hand in the air. “It’s…it’s the magic of it. Of these creatures. Of the world, you know?” He didn’t. She could tell, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “They spend seventeen years underground and then, all together, they come out. As one. They sing their song, and they slough off their shells and journey up into the trees. A long, arduous climb. All in the service of nature. Propagation. Beautiful, lovely, natural. This is the world around us. This is beauty.” Lord, how lame. But it was true. And George couldn’t ignore something that moved her so very much.
“I guess I…I see what you mean.”
“Yeah.” She took a bite, not tasting the food anymore. “I’m sorry.”
“What? What for?”
“I get excited. About things.”
“No, it’s fine.” He took a swig of beer, his eyes on the bottle in his hand and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, on hers. “It’s actually refreshing. I mean, you are. Refreshing or… I’ve seen a lot of pretty nasty shit.”
She nodded, waiting for more.
“So you…you’re like this breath of fresh air. Like this clean, perfect, sweet person.”
“Um. No, that I am not.”
“Whatever you are, I’m afraid I’ll…” Another swig, and Leonard the antisocial cat fell from his lap as Clay stood. He towered above her, big and overwhelming. “I gotta go, George. This was—I kid you not—amazing. Best meal I’ve ever had. I just can’t… I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. No, don’t—”
“Look, you’re a… You’re a real nice lady, all right? I just… I don’t… You don’t deserve this.”
“Deserve what?”
“What I have to give.”
“How can you be so sure?” I know who you are, she wanted to say. I know about the Sultans. I know you’ve done bad things, but so have I. Maybe we both deserve a second chance.
“I…gotta go,” he said, putting down his bottle with a final thunk, footsteps pounding down her hall and out the front door with depressing finality.
George considered getting up, considered running after him. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, because he had to want to stay.
Her gaze landed on Leonard, who, offended, licked his paws on Andrew’s recently evacuated seat cushion. You couldn’t force an animal to stick around when he didn’t want to—she knew that. Some creatures, like Leonard, you couldn’t even cajole.
She knew it, but she didn’t like it.
In the distance, a vehicle started up and rumbled off down the road toward town, echoed by the hum of thunder from over the mountains. Would it just effing storm already? George looked down at her plate, where half of an unappetizing fish sat congealed in the hardened butter sauce she’d restarted three times. On the table beside her elbow, the buzzer sounded, a perfect end to this ridiculous parody of a date she should never have embarked on to begin with.