In The Weeds, page 13
“You guys cannot do that thing you do where you hide in the bushes in camouflage and jump out with baseball bats. You could give him a heart attack, and Dane told you he’d arrest you if you do it again.” She makes an amused sound under her breath that she does her best to hide. “I don’t have the bail money for you this month.”
I brace my hands on the edge of the dresser and flex my fingers twice. She’s right. Dane did threaten to arrest us after the last time.
And I’m pretty sure we used the last of Stella’s face paint.
“Okay.” I tap out of my text messages. It would take too long for Luka to get here anyway.
“Okay? That’s it?”
“Mmhmm,” I hum. Comet and Vixen poke their heads into my room, see the look on my face, and quickly scamper away.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothing.” I keep my voice carefully neutral. I’m planning on going down to the bar and slamming Carter’s face into a basket of french fries fifteen times in a row. Then I’ll have a burger with a beer and come home. Maybe I’ll get one of those veggie sandwiches Evelyn seems to like so much.
“Okay,” she blows out a deep breath. “Okay, I don’t believe you. But okay.”
“Okay,” I parrot back, looking for my car keys. I could have sworn I left them on top of my dresser. I stomp out of the bedroom, almost mowing down Evelyn on my way into the kitchen. She grabs at my arms to keep herself upright, a startled sound spilling out of her.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says, her nose against my neck. I slip the hand not holding my phone from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back, palm dragging down her spine as I make sure she’s steady. I suck in a sharp breath when my fingers graze bare skin. Her shirt must have gotten caught between us.
She answers with a shaky sigh against me, fingertips digging just slightly into my skin. Her nose nudges up, the brush of her lips just below my ear. My entire body goes rigid.
“Beckett Porter, do you have a WOMAN OVER?” Vanessa’s voice shrieks through the phone directly into my ear.
“Gotta go, Ness.”
“Do not hang up, you—“
I hang up the phone and slip it into my back pocket, leaning back and looking down at Evelyn plastered against my front. She’s cleaned the dirt off of her face and all that’s left is a rosy glow from a day spent outside, her hair curling at the edges. I thumb a strand behind her ear.
That’s twice today I haven’t been able to keep my hands off of her. I feel trapped between holding her at a safe distance and tugging her closer. A pendulum swinging endlessly back and forth.
I step back and clear my throat. I scoop my keys off the kitchen counter and try to scoop some of the feelings playing Plinko inside of my chest back where they belong.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yep.” My lips pop the last letter of the word, irritation slithering through me when I think about Carter. That fucking idiot. I frown and glance at the two chairs on the back porch, our dinner plans never discussed but a new habit, all the same. “Want a veggie sandwich while I’m out?”
“You get mad about veggie sandwiches, huh?” She digs her finger into the line between my eyebrows and I cuff her wrist with my hand. She’s so small, my fingers easily overlap. “What’s got that look on your face?”
“Someone was a dick to my sister,” I explain. I let our hands drop between us, indulging and swinging our arms back and forth once. Her skin is so soft. “I’m going to go take care of it.”
Evelyn blinks at me. Without a second of hesitation, she reaches for the discarded sweatshirt slung over the back of one of the dining room chairs. She pulls it over her head, arms punching through the sleeves, her hands lifting her long ponytail to pull it from the collar.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a little mesmerized and a lot distracted by all that hair.
She slips her feet back into the shoes she kicked off right at the end of the hallway and gestures towards the door with a nod.
“You think I’m going to let you go alone?” She shakes her head decisively. “I want that veggie sandwich. I’m coming with you.”
CHAPTER TEN
EVELYN
Angry Beckett is … an experience.
Tense forearms, a deep groove in the center of his forehead. Hard eyes and his mouth in a flat, severe line. He keeps taking deep breaths during the drive into town, letting them out slow. His hands flex on the steering wheel and he mutters something about beach blonde sonofabitch under his breath.
Frankly, it’s working for me.
Not that there’s much Beckett does that doesn’t work for me.
Watching him in the fields this morning was like a glass of water set just out of reach. The flex and release of his arms as he thrust his shovel down. The spread of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw. It didn’t help that I know what his body looks like under all of those clothes. The way his hard chest tapers down into narrow hips, the stacked muscle across his abdomen that I definitely sunk my teeth into during our time together.
“Where are we going?”
His truck slows as we hit the edge of town, a painted wooden sign welcoming us to downtown Inglewild. It makes me smile every time I see it. The difference between downtown and the rest of it must be two square blocks. Beckett turns left at the firehouse and rumbles down the street, his gaze focused out the front windshield. I feel like maybe I should turn on some guided meditation, calm him down before he finds whoever it is he’s looking for.
“Beckett,” I try again. “Where are we going?”
I’m starting to think his plan is to drive his truck right through someone’s living room.
“The bar,” he answers. Two words. Nothing more. I watch his jaw flex and pop.
“Who is at the bar?”
“Carter Dempsey.”
I nod like that name means anything to me. “And what are you going to do to Carter Dempsey?”
Beckett smoothes his hand over the gear stick and slows us to a stop. In a series of practiced movements, he maneuvers his behemoth of a truck into one of the parking spots that borders the main road. Never in my life have I been so turned on by parallel parking. Beckett shifts into park and levels a look right at me.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Okay, well. That is probably not a great idea. He kicks open his door and strides across the street like he’s off to happily murder someone. I struggle to get my seatbelt unbuckled and follow after him with quick steps, jogging to catch up with his furious walking.
“Did you want to get ice cream instead?”
He shoulders his way through the wide wooden door, keeping it open with his palm so I can slip in beneath. “No.”
“They had a new flavor a couple of days ago.”
Chocolate waffle cone with little bits of butterfinger mixed in. Layla and I got three cones in a row. He grunts at me and heads towards the long counter that stretches across the middle of the space. It’s dark, even during mid-day, and no one is standing behind the bar, the place empty except for a man slouched in a booth in the corner. He raises a hand in greeting as Beck stomps his way to a stool, kicking out the one next to him in what I assume is an invitation.
“Jesse working today?”
“No, it’s Carter,” the man in the corner answers. “Though I don’t know where he disappeared to.”
I trail after Beckett to the old mahogany bar, cataloging the ornate tin detail layered across the ceiling. If Carter has a lick of sense, he’ll disappear out the back of the bar. I take the seat next to Beckett and he pulls me closer with his foot between the bottom rungs of the stool, handing me a paper menu.
I curl my fingers around it and stare at him. “Will we be eating before or after you commit a crime?”
A smile barely touches his lips. “After.”
“I imagine that might be difficult with blood on your hands.”
His lip quirks up further and he nods towards the bathroom. “They have soap.”
Alright, then. I glance down at the menu, one edge ripped clean off. “What would you recommend?”
Sea-green eyes slant in my direction. “Thought you’d like the eggplant thing.”
I hum and tilt my head as I look at the description printed beneath. “You’re right. But I’m getting french fries.” I refuse to eat a side salad after a full day of manual labor. Or, you know, ever.
“Okay.”
He keeps his boot below my stool as we wait, his gaze not wavering from the small half-door that leads to the back kitchen. His knee bumps into my leg every couple of minutes and it’s nice, despite the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. It’s nice sharing a space. It was nice spending all day out in the fields with him. It was nice coming back to the house with the tea kettle on the stove and muffins from the bakehouse in a pretty green box on the kitchen island. The cats lounging across the furniture and Beckett’s boots discarded at the door. It was nice seeing him come down the hall, hair still wet from a shower, jeans low on his hips, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. It was nice being pressed against him, his skin warm and his breath a gentle puff against my ear.
I’ve always felt a pull towards Beck. That’s no secret. But it’s worse now. Deeper. I like spending time with him, seeing the bits of himself he does his best to hide. His routines and his order and begrudging commitment to a family of orphaned cats. His loyalty and his quiet caretaking.
I like him.
The longer I’m here, the easier it is to ignore everything else. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.
After ten minutes without an appearance from the mysterious Carter, Beckett sighs and stands from his stool, uncurling his big body from his hunched over position. I hear him mutter something about useless fuckwad under his breath again. He rounds the edge of the bar. “You want a beer?”
“Cider, if they have it.”
He squints down at the tap handles. I smile as he bends slightly closer to the labels, his head tilting in confusion.
“Do you need glasses?”
He wraps his hand around one of the taps, tipping a glass beneath and filling it with amber bubbles. He doesn’t answer me.
“Because it looks like, perhaps, you might need glasses.”
I think about him in a pair of thick black frames, slipping low on his nose as he sits in the big leather chair by his fireplace, one of the cats on his lap and a book on his knee. My whole body breaks out in goosebumps.
“I have a pair I wear sometimes, but only for reading,” he mutters. He grabs another glass for himself and pours a beer. He glances over my shoulder at the man in the corner. “You need anything, Pete?”
“Tequila on the rocks, young man.”
Beckett nods and grabs a bottle off the back shelf. A slow curl of heat unfurls at the base of my spine as Beckett lines up a glass, forearm flexing. The last time I had tequila, Beckett had licked a line of salt from the inside of my wrist and then knotted his fingers in my hair, urged my head back until he could taste it off my tongue.
He glances up at me as he pours, eyes knowing.
I try to smile around the lump lodged in my throat. “This is familiar.” My voice comes out in a gritty whisper.
It’s as close as we’ve ever come to talking about that weekend. He nods and slides the glass of tequila down the bar. “I’m not bringing it to you, Pete,” he calls over his shoulder.
The old man in the corner chuckles. “Figured as much. Seems you’ve got your hands full as it is.”
Beckett moves back around the bar with his beer, his steps slow. His chest brushes against my shoulders as he slips behind me. I feel every single place our bodies touch. When he sits, he’s closer than before, his boot back on the bottom rung of my chair. He tugs once, the metal screeching as it drags across the floor. Pete muffles a laugh in the sleeve of his coat as he collects his glass, returning to his secluded spot in the corner of the bar. I turn my face to Beckett and watch as his tongue wets his bottom lip.
“Haven’t had tequila since,” he tells me and I don’t think we’re talking about alcohol. The lick of heat sparking along my skin turns into an inferno. I spread my legs slightly on the stool until I can press my knee to the side of his thigh. I let myself look at him, delighting in all the details I can collect when I’m this close. I tuck them into my palm like secrets. The barely there freckles dusted under his left eye. The straight line of his nose, a little dip in the center of it. The curl of hair behind his ear.
“Neither have I,” I say. A whisper. A confession.
I watch the strong line of his throat as he swallows. “Did you—“
He doesn’t finish his question. The door behind the bar swings open and a man slightly shorter than Beckett strolls out. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt that’s ripped at the bottom and light wash jeans, an armful of clean glasses balanced against his chest. His bleach-blonde hair falls into his face as he ducks through the door, a washcloth tucked through his belt loop. He’s kind of cute in an unassuming sort of way. He’d probably be cuter if I didn’t have Beckett sitting right next to me, hands curling into fists.
This must be Carter, then.
He hesitates as soon as his gaze lands on Beckett, his eyes cutting to the exit and back to the hulking man about to take two fistfuls out of the bar top.
“Beckett,” he greets, wariness in his voice and with good reason. The warmth that was creeping into Beckett’s expression while we waited is gone now, and his jaw looks tight enough to snap. “I see you helped yourself.”
He nods at the drinks in front of us. Beckett doesn’t say anything. Carter shifts on his feet. He actually does have a puka shell necklace on. I thought maybe Beckett had been exaggerating.
“Did you need anything else?”
Beckett remains silent.
Carter sighs. “You just gonna sit there?”
Beckett reaches for his beer and takes a long sip, gaze not budging an inch. Impatient, Carter’s face twists into something unkind. He doesn’t look cute at all anymore. He looks petty and childish, his dyed hair turning to a faded green in the lights overhead.
“Did Harper tell—“
“Don’t say her name,” Beckett interrupts. A shiver licks up my spine. I’ve never heard that tone of voice out of his mouth before, a warning in every syllable.
Carter bristles. “Well, if she’s running her mouth like a—“
Beckett’s hand snaps out, quick as lightning. He grabs the collar of Carter’s shirt and pulls him over the bar until the other man is practically dangling there, hands braced on the edge to keep himself from falling face-first into the draining tray.
“Like a what?”
Carter sputters.
“Go on, finish your sentence.” When Carter doesn’t say anything in response, Beckett releases him. He goes stumbling to the other side of the bar, his back hitting the edge of a table holding his tray of clean glasses. They rattle on impact.
“I know it’s been a minute since we last talked, but let me make it very clear for you. If I hear another word out of your mouth about my sister, I will break every bone in your body,” Beckett doesn't break eye contact, not for a second, his voice deceptively calm for the threat living in each word. “Don’t talk about her. Don’t look at her. Don’t even think about her. If I find out you’ve contacted her with any more of your bullshit, I’ll make what happens next look like an accident. Do you understand me?”
He picks up the menu I placed next to my drink. He glances at it once. Carter edges closer to the door that leads to the back.
“I want a burger. She’ll have the eggplant sandwich.” He tosses the menu over the bar and gives Carter a dismissive look. “Don’t forget the fries.”
We take our food to go.
Beckett is quiet but relaxed on the way back, fingers drumming on the center console. I turn the dial until I find a classic rock station, static bursting between Fleetwood Mac. I roll down my window and untangle my ponytail, the wind picking up the ends of my hair until it’s a hurricane around my face. I can smell the sun and sweat of the day and a touch of my shampoo, the sweet hint of springtime rain in the fields we’re whipping past. Everything is green and gold and bright, bright blue. I laugh and scoop my hair away from my face with my palm and watch as Beckett presses down harder on the gas, a grin tipping at his lips. It lights up his whole face, that smile—the lines by his eyes deepening, his bottom lip a bit crooked.
I release my hair again and close my eyes. I feel like I’m floating, flying. A gentle snip to one of the strings tied tight around my lungs, Beckett’s low laugh whispering through the cab of the truck.
Happiness.
The feeling holds as we settle into our usual seats on the back porch of the house. Cupid joins us briefly before scampering off to the greenhouse. I point at it with a fry as I watch her disappear inside.
“What do you grow in there?”
He shrugs, legs crossed at the ankle and half of a burger in his hand. “Flowers, mostly. The climate isn’t good for them without a little protection, so I built the greenhouse.”
“What sort of flowers?”
He stretches his shoulders and reaches for one of my fries. His knuckles bump up against the back of my hand and I almost tip the whole container into my lap. “Orchids, mostly. I’m experimenting with some poinsettias for next winter, but we’ll see.” He chews a fry in consideration. “I might set the duck up in there.”
“There you go with the duck again. What duck?”
“I told you about the duck.” He did, but I thought he was full of it. “We found an abandoned duck on the farm. The town vet hasn’t been able to find a home for him yet.”
“Is it a baby duck?”
He nods. I sink down an inch further in my seat and shove a fry in my mouth, picturing him sitting in that chair with a baby duck in his shirt pocket.
It’s devastating.
“Did you always want to be a farmer?”
I can’t help it with the questions. Josie tells me I have a curious spirit when she’s feeling generous. Nosy, when she’s annoyed by it. With Beckett, I feel like I’ve only ever gotten crumbs. I want to crack him right open and examine every tiny detail.
