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“Before Alex Ferguson took over Man United, Aston Villa was the more successful club. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t!” Dylan chirped. “Did you, Cal?”
“Nope.” Cal perked up. “Did you know there was another pilot with Amelia Earhart when she disappeared? His name was Fred Noonan.”
“I knew that!” Dylan snapped her fingers. “He was hot.”
This vandalism bullshit didn’t fly with me. No matter how angry people were.
Who could have done this? Randy. Randy could and would. He was my most outspoken adversary in town with plenty to lose if the deal went through.
“You keep talking about boring shit.” I turned around and marched straight down Main Street. “Be right back.”
“Hey, where are you going?” Dylan called out.
“I have a sucker punch with Randy’s name on it.” He’d be at Dahlia’s Diner, eating his sad, discounted senior meal. Randy and Lyle had a Thursday routine.
“Row, no!” Dylan yelped. “What are you doing? He’s like a thousand years old!”
“You don’t even know that it’s him,” my mother pointed out, her voice becoming fainter as I put some distance between us.
I didn’t care at this point. Someone was targeting me, and I needed my pound of flesh. Once upon a very long time ago, I had been someone’s punching bag.
Never again. Lesson learned. These days, I always hit back, and twice as hard.
They hollered my name as I zipped down the street, past the food mart Randy owned, the auto shop, and the gift shop not one soul had stepped into since 1998. Dahlia’s Diner appeared before me in all its modesty. Neon-red roof, glass bricks, and red door with an open sign nailed into it. Christmas lights adorned its roof, flicking on and off. I spotted Randy through the window, sitting in the corner, digging into his biscuits and gravy. I was about to slap the door open and rearrange the organs in his face when I heard a voice behind me.
“Don’t you dare open that door, Ambrose Rhett Casablancas.”
Cal.
My steps faltered, my hand already on the handle. I didn’t turn around to face her. “Go back to your date,” I hissed out, remembering that she was here with Fuckface.
“You don’t know that it’s Randy. Even if it is him, he’s an elderly gentleman who is dead afraid of losing his family’s only source of income. Have you no conscience?”
I didn’t grace the question with an answer.
She sighed. “All right. What about a beating heart, got one of those?”
Yes, and you need to stay the hell away from it.
Her words washed through me, going in one ear and out the other. But the touch of her fingertips as they fluttered between my shoulder blades did not go unnoticed. There was a jacket and a Henley between us, and still, where we touched, my skin tingled, coming alive. It was a weird sensation. Like being awakened from a long bout of sleep.
I inhaled sharply, clinging desperately to my anger. She thawed me where I wanted to stay iced. The last thing I needed was another complication in my life. And Cal made me feel…she made me feel. That was the main problem.
“I won’t be bullied again.” I ground out the words.
I had always pretended to be untouchable. Athletic, popular, successful, talented. I had been a great student, on the rowing team—letterman jacket, a sports car, and an harem of fangirls. I never showed weakness and didn’t plan on starting now.
“Again?” She tilted her head to the side.
Nice going, asshole. One touch, and you start spilling secrets.
“The coyote,” I mumbled, then scowled, twisting my head to glance at her. “And why do you smell like the apocalypse?” She didn’t smell like her usual green apples and white musk.
“Semus has been peeing in my shoes to make a point ever since I got back.” She sighed, not even a little self-conscious.
“Semus is your cat?” I clarified. Please let it be the fucking cat. If it’s a stalker, I’ll get a life sentence.
