Burying Water
Page 26
“Jesse, what are you . . .” When I start heading toward the Ferrari, holding the pipe like a bat, she figures it out pretty quickly and starts to run. “Jesse. No! Please!” She cries out in pain and I turn to see a grimace contorting her face. I instantly lose my momentum. The pipe clatters to the ground with a hollow ring.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse,” she pleads, her face flushed. “Just take your car and leave. If you don’t, he’ll start to get suspicious and ask questions. I don’t want him asking questions. Not about you. I’ll be fine, until I can figure something out.”
This girl just doesn’t get it. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Alex.”
She looks up at me, a sad smile tainting her lips. “Maybe it does, for me. For now.” Her fingers lift to smooth over the light stubble on my chin, the scratching sound somehow soothing to me. She sighs. “I should probably lie down. I have eight days without Viktor, at least.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m used to being alone.”
“Not like this, you’re not.” My eyes inadvertently glance down to see a dark bruise on the top of her left breast. What did that ass**le husband do to her? It doesn’t matter right now. I know exactly what I want to do. “Can you handle packing a bag?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Water
now
“Can I buy the quilt in the window?” the middle-aged woman asks, her green eyes glued to Dakota. I understand why. Dakota oozes charisma—she’s a natural, exotic beauty, wrapped in simplicity. She’s wearing a blue-and-white maxi dress today, with just enough jewelry to make her look glamorous without even trying.
“Yes! You may.” Dakota practically sashays over to the window—it’s as if she puts on a show for customers sometimes—and pivots the hanger to turn the quilt’s front inward. “This is made by our very own Ginny Fitzgerald.”
“I’ve seen them at the quilt fair before and a friend of mine has one. They’re all very distinctive. This one, though,” her brow pulls together in thought, “I don’t think I’ve seen one with anything besides the tree and landscape before.”
“Perfect. Water will ring it up for you,” Dakota says, climbing up onto the window display ledge to begin removing it. I automatically adjust my stance and wait as the woman walks down the aisle, credit card in hand.
“My daughter will love this for her room.”
“I have one of Ginny’s quilts on my bed. It’s pretty,” I offer as I swipe the card through the manual credit card machine—something else that Dakota hasn’t gotten around to upgrading yet.
She sighs. “Yes, well, my husband and I are divorcing and I can’t afford to pay the boarding costs for my daughter’s horse. She’s absolutely devastated. I hope this little gift might make her a bit happier.”
I hand her the receipt. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve. She’s been obsessed with horses since she could barely talk. One of her first words was ‘ors,’ ” the woman reminisces, a faint gloss coating her eyes now. “My ex-husband bought her the horse for her eighth birthday—without consulting me, of course,” she rolls her eyes, “and now he refuses to help pay for the cost to keep it.” She tucks her wallet into her worn leather purse, the straps cracked where it hangs off her shoulder. “He needs his money for his new girlfriend.”
While this woman is divulging way more than she needs to be to a complete stranger, the wheels in my brain are churning. This feels far too coincidental to be ignored.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how much are you paying to board your horse now?”
“Eight hundred dollars a month!” she exclaims. “And plenty of places cost more.”
“Whoa.” How much could Ginny get away with charging?
“I know. I looked into something cheaper, but they’re all full or at least a forty-five-minute drive away. You’d think with all the ranches around these parts, I’d be able to find something nearby. I just don’t know what to do. We’re staying with my mother right now, on the south end of Sisters, until I can figure things out. But I can’t see how I can take care of a thousand-pound animal on top of my daughter and me.”
“How much were you looking to pay?”
She looks at me with a questioning frown.
“I may know of a ranch. A really good one that I think would price reasonably.” I pat the quilt. “This lady’s ranch.” I hold my hands up cautiously. “I can’t promise anything, but maybe it could work.”
She bites her lip. “Zoe would be so happy. She’s been crying for days, since I broke the news to her. My name is Teresa, by the way.”
I grab a piece of paper and a pen.
And cross my fingers that I’m right about Ginny.
Amber pulls up to Roadside, a western-themed bar on the side of the highway just outside of town. It’s modeled after an old red barn, and apparently it’s the best place to have some fun around here.
Before I open my door, I smooth my hair down against the right side of my face one last time. Amber helped me style it so both my scar and the short patch of growth on the underside are covered.
“You look great,” Amber assures me as we make our way toward the set of black double doors under the wide covered porch. I don’t believe her, but I bite my tongue.
“Hi, Dean.” She flashes him that wide white-toothed smile that she has perfected. It suits the fat curls in her hair and her outfit. With her tight blue jeans and a fitted plaid shirt and cowgirl boots, she looks every bit like a western-themed china doll.
I’m dressed the same—with Amber’s guidance—but I don’t think I look anything like a doll.
“Hey there, Amber,” the beefy guy offers, one of his cowboy boots settled on the rung of his stool, his black leather hat sitting low on his face.
Everyone knows Amber Welles.
Much like everyone seems to know Jesse Welles.
“And . . . Water.” He scans my ID and then looks at my face, his pale blue eyes sparkling. “Cool name.” He hands it back to me and we step into an all-wood interior—the walls, ceiling, and furniture all made of golden oak—decorated with countless strands of colorful Christmas lights and fake blow-up cactuses. Even the air carries a hint of a woodsy smell, though it’s competing with beer and sweat.
The upbeat twang of a country singer comes from a stage at the far end. The live band is loud and everyone’s voices are raised, creating a buzz of laughter and conversation.
“I can’t believe he ID’d you.”
I frown. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because I went to school with Dean and he knows I wouldn’t sneak an under-ager in.” She smirks. “I think he just wanted your name. Don’t be surprised if he comes around later to talk to you. I heard he’s single again.”
I hazard a glance over my shoulder to see the giant bouncer chatting up another set of girls coming in. He’s attractive; I’ll admit that much.
Nothing like Jesse, though.
“Happy birthday, Bonnie!” Amber cries out, reaching out to hug a short blond girl with plump, man-made curls to match hers and a tiara in her hair. I’m assuming because it’s her birthday, and not because she normally wears a tiara. Though, based on what Dakota alluded to about Amber’s friends, maybe she does.
The table that this Bonnie girl is sitting at—a long, solid picnic table of glossy light wood, in a row of similar picnic tables—is full of girls who look like Amber and Bonnie and guys who look like Dean. Many of them ease out of their seats to come around and give Amber a hug, as if they’re seeing each other after a long absence. Given that Amber works more than she socializes, that’s probably true.
Amber reaches out and takes my arm, pulling me into the friend fold. “This is Water.” She begins introducing everyone. I’m lost by the second or third name, though everyone there instantly grabs on to mine with comments about how “unusual” and “cool” it is.
I simply smile and nod and say, “Nice to meet you,” all while trying to keep my hair from falling back off my face. They all take their seats again and someone’s boyfriend hands me a glass of beer.
Do I even like beer?
I quietly watch Amber and the others squeal and giggle and chatter on, their eyes roaming around the bar, pointing out people they know from high school who either still live in the area or, like many of them, decided to come back for the long weekend. Some of their comments are benign; many are laced with gossip. “Remember when she . . . ?” “I heard that he . . .” The kinds of whispers and attention that I don’t want directed at me.
So I stay quiet and drink my beer, the cold, fresh liquid pouring down my throat with relative ease. I do like beer after all.
“Amber . . . you didn’t tell me your brother was back in town.” Bonnie’s eyes are wide as she stares behind me. Like a well-timed orchestra, every head in my row turns to the door—mine included—to see Dean and Jesse facing off.
“He just got back,” Amber says, not sounding too thrilled.
“Who’s he with?” a redhead—Kerry or Terry or Tory—asks, as Jesse pushes through the doors with a guy on his heels. A guy who, even wearing a plain black T-shirt and fitted jeans, doesn’t seem to fit with the sea of jeans and cotton in this place. Maybe it’s the flashy gold watch on his wrist.
“Don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. Must be a friend from Portland.” Amber’s eyes are on her brother’s friend as they head toward our table. “I guess we’re going to find out.”
Bonnie is on her feet instantly—as fast as she was when we approached, if not a little faster. “Jesse!” She throws her arms around his shoulders.
He obliges her with a small smile and “Hey, Bonnie,” his arm curling around her waist.
Amber leans in next to me and drops her voice. “They dated back in high school for a bit.”
“Really?” My chest burns with envy as I watch her finally pull away but not step back. “What happened?”
Amber takes a drink, her eyes flickering between her brother and his friend. “Same thing that always happens. I guess my brother got bored and dumped her. She’s a nice girl.”
“And he doesn’t like nice girls?” While Bonnie introduces herself to his friend, Jesse’s eyes scan the table. Until they settle on me.
Amber leans in until she’s whispering in my ear. “He’s never been into the rich, entitled girls. Don’t get me wrong—Bonnie’s nice and she’s one of my best friends, but she’s spoiled and she can be fake sometimes. They were a bad fit from the start. Clearly she still has a thing for him.”
Almost on cue, Bonnie tosses her long locks over her shoulder and throws her head back to laugh over something his friend said, her eyes on Jesse.
Yes, clearly.
I guess the question is, is he still not into rich, entitled girls?
That makes me wonder if, with my diamond necklace and my sparkly dress and one ridiculously high heel, I once fit that description.
Aside from a quick glance my way, Jesse seems into their conversation. I try not to watch, but it’s impossible. That is, until his friend comes back from grabbing drinks at the bar and catches my eye. He stares at me until I duck my face into my beer, feeling my cheeks burn.
Several people around the table try to strike up a conversation with me with a “Hey, Water . . . ,” followed by a question. I answer them the best I can, with a smile.
And, always, a lie.
As my lies start piling up faster than the people filtering through the door, I begin to get uncomfortable. I can’t be honest with these people. I can’t be honest with anyone except the Welles family, Ginny, and Dr. Weimer.
I excuse myself to grab a glass of water at the bar because the beer is making me feel light-headed. If I was ever much of a drinker, I definitely am a lightweight now.
“Hey, Water.” A wall of chest and bright blue eyes meet my gaze when I turn around. “We didn’t officially meet. I’m Dean.”
“Hi,” I say with a nod, stepping back so I don’t have to tip my head back and risk my hair falling.
“You having fun?”
My gaze drifts around the rustic bar, taking in the various animal horns. “Yeah. I like this place.”
“You from around here?”
Good question. I don’t know, though I have to assume not, seeing as I haven’t run into a single person who recognizes me. If I say no, then I have to get into a long conversation of lies. So I settle on, “I am now.”
He eases a boot on the bar rail. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I would have remembered you.”
Just as I start to shrug, someone shoves me from behind and I tumble into Dean, my face mashing against his chest. He ropes one strong arm around my shoulders while the other stretches out somewhere behind me. “Hey, watch it or you’re out of here,” he warns the guy.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse,” she pleads, her face flushed. “Just take your car and leave. If you don’t, he’ll start to get suspicious and ask questions. I don’t want him asking questions. Not about you. I’ll be fine, until I can figure something out.”
This girl just doesn’t get it. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Alex.”
She looks up at me, a sad smile tainting her lips. “Maybe it does, for me. For now.” Her fingers lift to smooth over the light stubble on my chin, the scratching sound somehow soothing to me. She sighs. “I should probably lie down. I have eight days without Viktor, at least.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m used to being alone.”
“Not like this, you’re not.” My eyes inadvertently glance down to see a dark bruise on the top of her left breast. What did that ass**le husband do to her? It doesn’t matter right now. I know exactly what I want to do. “Can you handle packing a bag?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Water
now
“Can I buy the quilt in the window?” the middle-aged woman asks, her green eyes glued to Dakota. I understand why. Dakota oozes charisma—she’s a natural, exotic beauty, wrapped in simplicity. She’s wearing a blue-and-white maxi dress today, with just enough jewelry to make her look glamorous without even trying.
“Yes! You may.” Dakota practically sashays over to the window—it’s as if she puts on a show for customers sometimes—and pivots the hanger to turn the quilt’s front inward. “This is made by our very own Ginny Fitzgerald.”
“I’ve seen them at the quilt fair before and a friend of mine has one. They’re all very distinctive. This one, though,” her brow pulls together in thought, “I don’t think I’ve seen one with anything besides the tree and landscape before.”
“Perfect. Water will ring it up for you,” Dakota says, climbing up onto the window display ledge to begin removing it. I automatically adjust my stance and wait as the woman walks down the aisle, credit card in hand.
“My daughter will love this for her room.”
“I have one of Ginny’s quilts on my bed. It’s pretty,” I offer as I swipe the card through the manual credit card machine—something else that Dakota hasn’t gotten around to upgrading yet.
She sighs. “Yes, well, my husband and I are divorcing and I can’t afford to pay the boarding costs for my daughter’s horse. She’s absolutely devastated. I hope this little gift might make her a bit happier.”
I hand her the receipt. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve. She’s been obsessed with horses since she could barely talk. One of her first words was ‘ors,’ ” the woman reminisces, a faint gloss coating her eyes now. “My ex-husband bought her the horse for her eighth birthday—without consulting me, of course,” she rolls her eyes, “and now he refuses to help pay for the cost to keep it.” She tucks her wallet into her worn leather purse, the straps cracked where it hangs off her shoulder. “He needs his money for his new girlfriend.”
While this woman is divulging way more than she needs to be to a complete stranger, the wheels in my brain are churning. This feels far too coincidental to be ignored.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how much are you paying to board your horse now?”
“Eight hundred dollars a month!” she exclaims. “And plenty of places cost more.”
“Whoa.” How much could Ginny get away with charging?
“I know. I looked into something cheaper, but they’re all full or at least a forty-five-minute drive away. You’d think with all the ranches around these parts, I’d be able to find something nearby. I just don’t know what to do. We’re staying with my mother right now, on the south end of Sisters, until I can figure things out. But I can’t see how I can take care of a thousand-pound animal on top of my daughter and me.”
“How much were you looking to pay?”
She looks at me with a questioning frown.
“I may know of a ranch. A really good one that I think would price reasonably.” I pat the quilt. “This lady’s ranch.” I hold my hands up cautiously. “I can’t promise anything, but maybe it could work.”
She bites her lip. “Zoe would be so happy. She’s been crying for days, since I broke the news to her. My name is Teresa, by the way.”
I grab a piece of paper and a pen.
And cross my fingers that I’m right about Ginny.
Amber pulls up to Roadside, a western-themed bar on the side of the highway just outside of town. It’s modeled after an old red barn, and apparently it’s the best place to have some fun around here.
Before I open my door, I smooth my hair down against the right side of my face one last time. Amber helped me style it so both my scar and the short patch of growth on the underside are covered.
“You look great,” Amber assures me as we make our way toward the set of black double doors under the wide covered porch. I don’t believe her, but I bite my tongue.
“Hi, Dean.” She flashes him that wide white-toothed smile that she has perfected. It suits the fat curls in her hair and her outfit. With her tight blue jeans and a fitted plaid shirt and cowgirl boots, she looks every bit like a western-themed china doll.
I’m dressed the same—with Amber’s guidance—but I don’t think I look anything like a doll.
“Hey there, Amber,” the beefy guy offers, one of his cowboy boots settled on the rung of his stool, his black leather hat sitting low on his face.
Everyone knows Amber Welles.
Much like everyone seems to know Jesse Welles.
“And . . . Water.” He scans my ID and then looks at my face, his pale blue eyes sparkling. “Cool name.” He hands it back to me and we step into an all-wood interior—the walls, ceiling, and furniture all made of golden oak—decorated with countless strands of colorful Christmas lights and fake blow-up cactuses. Even the air carries a hint of a woodsy smell, though it’s competing with beer and sweat.
The upbeat twang of a country singer comes from a stage at the far end. The live band is loud and everyone’s voices are raised, creating a buzz of laughter and conversation.
“I can’t believe he ID’d you.”
I frown. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because I went to school with Dean and he knows I wouldn’t sneak an under-ager in.” She smirks. “I think he just wanted your name. Don’t be surprised if he comes around later to talk to you. I heard he’s single again.”
I hazard a glance over my shoulder to see the giant bouncer chatting up another set of girls coming in. He’s attractive; I’ll admit that much.
Nothing like Jesse, though.
“Happy birthday, Bonnie!” Amber cries out, reaching out to hug a short blond girl with plump, man-made curls to match hers and a tiara in her hair. I’m assuming because it’s her birthday, and not because she normally wears a tiara. Though, based on what Dakota alluded to about Amber’s friends, maybe she does.
The table that this Bonnie girl is sitting at—a long, solid picnic table of glossy light wood, in a row of similar picnic tables—is full of girls who look like Amber and Bonnie and guys who look like Dean. Many of them ease out of their seats to come around and give Amber a hug, as if they’re seeing each other after a long absence. Given that Amber works more than she socializes, that’s probably true.
Amber reaches out and takes my arm, pulling me into the friend fold. “This is Water.” She begins introducing everyone. I’m lost by the second or third name, though everyone there instantly grabs on to mine with comments about how “unusual” and “cool” it is.
I simply smile and nod and say, “Nice to meet you,” all while trying to keep my hair from falling back off my face. They all take their seats again and someone’s boyfriend hands me a glass of beer.
Do I even like beer?
I quietly watch Amber and the others squeal and giggle and chatter on, their eyes roaming around the bar, pointing out people they know from high school who either still live in the area or, like many of them, decided to come back for the long weekend. Some of their comments are benign; many are laced with gossip. “Remember when she . . . ?” “I heard that he . . .” The kinds of whispers and attention that I don’t want directed at me.
So I stay quiet and drink my beer, the cold, fresh liquid pouring down my throat with relative ease. I do like beer after all.
“Amber . . . you didn’t tell me your brother was back in town.” Bonnie’s eyes are wide as she stares behind me. Like a well-timed orchestra, every head in my row turns to the door—mine included—to see Dean and Jesse facing off.
“He just got back,” Amber says, not sounding too thrilled.
“Who’s he with?” a redhead—Kerry or Terry or Tory—asks, as Jesse pushes through the doors with a guy on his heels. A guy who, even wearing a plain black T-shirt and fitted jeans, doesn’t seem to fit with the sea of jeans and cotton in this place. Maybe it’s the flashy gold watch on his wrist.
“Don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. Must be a friend from Portland.” Amber’s eyes are on her brother’s friend as they head toward our table. “I guess we’re going to find out.”
Bonnie is on her feet instantly—as fast as she was when we approached, if not a little faster. “Jesse!” She throws her arms around his shoulders.
He obliges her with a small smile and “Hey, Bonnie,” his arm curling around her waist.
Amber leans in next to me and drops her voice. “They dated back in high school for a bit.”
“Really?” My chest burns with envy as I watch her finally pull away but not step back. “What happened?”
Amber takes a drink, her eyes flickering between her brother and his friend. “Same thing that always happens. I guess my brother got bored and dumped her. She’s a nice girl.”
“And he doesn’t like nice girls?” While Bonnie introduces herself to his friend, Jesse’s eyes scan the table. Until they settle on me.
Amber leans in until she’s whispering in my ear. “He’s never been into the rich, entitled girls. Don’t get me wrong—Bonnie’s nice and she’s one of my best friends, but she’s spoiled and she can be fake sometimes. They were a bad fit from the start. Clearly she still has a thing for him.”
Almost on cue, Bonnie tosses her long locks over her shoulder and throws her head back to laugh over something his friend said, her eyes on Jesse.
Yes, clearly.
I guess the question is, is he still not into rich, entitled girls?
That makes me wonder if, with my diamond necklace and my sparkly dress and one ridiculously high heel, I once fit that description.
Aside from a quick glance my way, Jesse seems into their conversation. I try not to watch, but it’s impossible. That is, until his friend comes back from grabbing drinks at the bar and catches my eye. He stares at me until I duck my face into my beer, feeling my cheeks burn.
Several people around the table try to strike up a conversation with me with a “Hey, Water . . . ,” followed by a question. I answer them the best I can, with a smile.
And, always, a lie.
As my lies start piling up faster than the people filtering through the door, I begin to get uncomfortable. I can’t be honest with these people. I can’t be honest with anyone except the Welles family, Ginny, and Dr. Weimer.
I excuse myself to grab a glass of water at the bar because the beer is making me feel light-headed. If I was ever much of a drinker, I definitely am a lightweight now.
“Hey, Water.” A wall of chest and bright blue eyes meet my gaze when I turn around. “We didn’t officially meet. I’m Dean.”
“Hi,” I say with a nod, stepping back so I don’t have to tip my head back and risk my hair falling.
“You having fun?”
My gaze drifts around the rustic bar, taking in the various animal horns. “Yeah. I like this place.”
“You from around here?”
Good question. I don’t know, though I have to assume not, seeing as I haven’t run into a single person who recognizes me. If I say no, then I have to get into a long conversation of lies. So I settle on, “I am now.”
He eases a boot on the bar rail. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I would have remembered you.”
Just as I start to shrug, someone shoves me from behind and I tumble into Dean, my face mashing against his chest. He ropes one strong arm around my shoulders while the other stretches out somewhere behind me. “Hey, watch it or you’re out of here,” he warns the guy.
