Page 11 of Freeing Lark

Or blind.

Or both.

His room was silent except for the sound of his breathing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Bullet’s last word again.

Pray.

Hoot closed his eyes. He still didn’t know what Bullet had meant, but always felt there was more to it. For years, he’d struggled to make sense of it, to no avail.

But every time the dream came, it left him asking the same questions. He still didn’t know whether he believed in karma.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty. If karma had decided that Bullet’s life was worth less than his own... then karma was dead wrong.

CHAPTER 4

Hoot knew from experience, there would be no more sleep after waking from the dream. Therefore, he pulled his achy body from bed and put on shorts and a tee. He’d finish his workout before the sun was fully up, then make his way to Flour Power for a robust espresso to kick-start his workday.

Hoot had long ago accepted there were two kinds of mornings. The ones that began with coffee. And the ones that required coffee to survive.

Today belonged firmly in the second category. The nightmare had left him hollow.

Even after ninety minutes in the gym—deadlifts, pull-ups, rowing until his lungs burned and his shoulders begged for mercy—the dream clung to him like wet clothes. Exercise usually cleared his head. Today it had merely dulled the edges.

Bullet’s grin kept replaying. Karma’s definitely putting that one in the plus column. Then the gunshot.

Hoot tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his truck as he rolled down Main Street in Bell Creek. He hated dreams. They were liars. They took real memories, twisted them into impossible stories, then somehow managed to leave the emotions intact.

By the time he parked outside Flour Power Bakery, he still felt like he’d lost someone… again. He hated that most of all.

The cheerful little bell jingled as he pushed through the front door. Warm air wrapped around him, scented with fresh bread, cinnamon, vanilla, and strong coffee. It smelled like comfort.

The décor looked like someone had trapped 1974 inside four walls and refused to let it leave. Macramé plant hangers dangled from exposed beams. Bright teal tables shone, each surrounded by chairs in a rainbow of contrasting colors: teal, red, yellow, purple, and orange. Hanging above the tables were whimsical lights, each one shaped like an orange mushroom. The whimsy never failed to surprise him.

But the counter itself was the true statement piece. The construction consisted of numerous strips of wood, each individually painted with a distinct color from the spectrum of the rainbow, creating a visually striking piece.

It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, it somehow worked. Probably because Marilyn Lenzer somehow worked.

The owner floated out from the kitchen carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls as though she’d personally invented happiness. He’d never seen that woman without a smile on her face. She was the quintessential grandmother to everyone. At well into her sixties, Marilyn still wore flowing skirts, embroidered vests, stacks of bracelets that clinked whenever she moved, and enough turquoise jewelry to stock a gift shop.

“Why does fresh coffee taste like dirt?” she asked. One of the quirks about Marilyn was that she always greeted customers with a joke. “Because it was just ground.”

He offered a conciliatory, “Good one.”

“Morning, sunshine,” she called.

Hoot looked around. “You talking to somebody behind me?” Nobody but her could ever call him that. There wasn’t a thing about him that screamed sunshine and daisies.

She laughed. “One of these days you’re going to smile before your morning espresso.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I like a challenge.”

He shook his head. “You would.”

Marilyn disappeared behind the display case humming something that sounded suspiciously like Janis Joplin. Hoot headed for the counter.

“Rough morning?” Cammie looked up from the espresso machine.