The Token (#10): Shepard (13 page)

I lower the bags.

Ralph and company are standing, their hats literally in their hands. “We're sorry, mister, we—”

“Don't you be including me in the ʻwe,ʼ Ralph!” his companion shouts.

Low groans come from the ground.

“I suggest a hospital,” I say quietly and with more civility than I ought to.

Their nods are quick, and I move the bag with the pickles, pleased that the jar miraculously didn't break. “I also suggest a better sense of hospitality is in order.”

Ralph's friend beats him over his balding head with the hat. “You damn fool”—he whacks him again—“I told you not to call the Stanley brothers!”

I begin to walk away, and the old man calls after me, “You hurt these fellas, mister!”

My body turns only halfway, my stare imprisoning him for a handful of seconds. “And what were they planning to do to me, Ralph?” My voice is quiet, but I make sure every word carries.

Ralph twists his hat.

I do not wait for a reply. I catch a glimpse of Emily the cashier running out. She screams over the two brothers who thought they would teach a non-local a lesson about breathing the same air as they.

The adrenaline fades as I carefully place the groceries in the trunk.

I casually walk around to the driver's side. My ears perk when I hear far-off sirens.

Time to go. I turn over the engine and roar out of the parking lot of
Good Food.

Future stops at that particular store are probably no longer an option.

I hum a little tune all the way back to the cabin, and Marissa.

Marissa

I wipe a filthy hand over my brow. The place was
gross
.

Now the surfaces gleam. I got after the bedroom first. I tell myself it was the most important. When actually, deep down in places I can't admit to myself, I want to have sex with Shepard again. I sigh.

He'll be back with food soon. And I'll beg to contact my boss. I know Green River College won't be phoning me. Lots of students miss out on that transitional week after finals but before the new term begins. I'm flooded with guilt over potentially screwing my chance for France because I want to get romantically involved with a French mobster.

Whom I don't really know.

Heat rises in a hot flush, causing my face to feel as though it's catching fire. I pinch my cheeks, trying to stop the reaction, but it's no use. I just feel more titillated by my erotic memories of Shepard and me—ashamed. I've let all this get out of hand. He was part of something evil. Something that's after us both now. I can't seem to reconcile the Shepard I know with the image he's conveyed of what and who he was to
la famille
.

So I cleaned obsessively. Running away from the
what ifs
. Plowing through the cabin as soon as Shepard took off. It's not big—maybe six rooms counting the bathroom. But the space was dirty enough and big enough to distract me from my negative thoughts.

And it's obvious that a renovation hasn't touched this place since before World War II. But it's got a certain charm. It's funny how awful it looked with the layer of grime, and now, after a thorough dusting and with every window in the tiny place flung open—it's livable.

Smells of pine and the scent of late summer grass wafts through the cracked windows. I breathe deeply, reveling in a fresh scent. A new place. My eyes travel the confines of the conjoined rooms. The thick, squat  entrance door opens to a sparsely furnished living area with a threadbare rug. I kneel, flipping over the corner.
Karastan
, a faded label reads.

I sit on the back of my heels and gaze around the room from the new vantage point. A plump couch anchors the center of a room. At least it was covered with a sheet. Rich, deep violet sets off dark-walnut ornately featured trim at the back, sides, and feet of the oversized loveseat. A more modern, mid-century La-Z-Boy recliner is a few feet away. It’s flanked by a sturdy, solid wood end table with drawers and a slotted side pocket meant for magazines.

I stand, move to the end table, and pull the brass chain on an old, stained glass lamp that rests on top. The type of lamp that has the scary, non-polarized plugs and a cloth cord. A fire begging to happen. Soft light snaps the place into warmth immediately.

A cuckoo clock ticks loudly inside the space. I
have
to know what time it is. The obnoxious bird has blasted out of the door several times now. Every hour, on the hour.
Not sure how badly I have to know the time,
I think with a smirk.

I walk through the open pass into the small kitchen, and an original window looks out over fields of pasture grass, barely hanging on to a semblance of green from the harsh end of summer.

The cabin itself is placed on the top of a slight knoll, taking advantage of all that pastoral view speckled with large evergreen trees. I can just make out the small blue ribbon of a river or creek in the distance as it cuts a swath through the thinning green. I instantly want to hike around and see this new place.

On turning away from the view, I walk to the fridge for the millionth time. Thank God there was dish soap here and the old kitchen sink faucet worked. I'd washed a few glasses, and the water tasted fresh.

Shepard said it was an old well feeding the house. A cistern cover marked the spot just under the porch. The old well had been giving the house water since just before the turn of the last century.
I guess that's good enough for me.
I'm not thirsty, at least.

The fridge is an ugly titty pink. I grip the handle, and its surface is metal topped by clear Lucite with silver stars embedded in the layers. My exhale is tired as I open the fridge, see nary a crumb, and close it again.

My stomach howls.
I'm so hungry.

I open the fridge again. Close it. Willing food to appear.

It doesn't happen.

Spying a cookie jar in the corner, I move toward it, knowing full well there isn't going to be one edible thing in there, but since I haven't eaten in eight hours, looking is better than thinking about food.

And wondering what in the hell is taking Shepard so long.

Did he get lost? Hurt? Worse... did
la famille
catch up with him? My stomach tightens. Is he even now leading them straight to me?

He wouldn't do that.

I twist my hands.
Maybe, for all I know, this has been an elaborate ruse to get me somewhere secluded for who knows what.

My hands are slick as they pick up the lid of a fat-blue-chef cookie jar. Photos are stacked inside like hidden recipe cards.

What?
I forget my hunger, the dangers that pursue me—everything— and with the photos gripped in my fingers, stride quickly to the small nook table at the end of the kitchen.

I jerk a metal chair away from a 1950s table trimmed in aluminum strip metal and slowly sit down, fanning the photos over the Formica surface.

Men and women stare back with grim expressions. I see Shepard in their faces. His history.                            

My head jerks up at a noise from the front door. I leave the photos on the kitchen table and race out to the front room.

Shepard fills the doorway.

Relief makes me sag, but in the next moment, my relief turns to concern. His spotless clothes are slightly soiled, his face looks flushed, and … I see his arms filled with groceries, and I walk over to him to help.

“Hey,” I say, searching his face for clues why he looks so flustered. Or something. Flustered really isn't Shepard.

“
Non
,” he replies quickly, hiking the bags.

Blood covers the bottom of the sacks, and as I watch, a single ruby gem drips on the floor I just cleaned.

My eyes meet his. “What in the fuck is going on?” My voice is low, hoarse with sudden fear.

He lifts the bags higher, moving rapidly toward the kitchen. “You will be happy to know that the pickles have survived the encounter.”

I follow slowly. “What encounter?”

He puts the groceries on top of a drain board that's part of a large, white farmhouse sink.

Shepard turns, and I grip his arms. His shirtsleeves are damp with his sweat.

“What's happened?” My eyes feel kind of bulgy in my head, and my heart is racing. I need to know it's not
la famille
. They're like the French boogeyman now.

As though reading my mind, he says instantly, “It is not
la famille
.”

My hands drop. There's a dry click when I swallow. “Then what?”

“Humanity.” His reply is cryptic.

“Quit with the riddles. You come back with our groceries and they look like—they look like you beat someone with them.”

His dark eyes meet mine. “That is true.”

I jerk backward. “What?” My hands move to my chest.

Shepard tells me of the old guys by the entrance to the only grocery store in town. Then the strange checkout with his purchases, though that entire event sounded like normal minimum-wage behavior to me, and ending with the two losers who tried to beat the shit out of him.

“Why would the old guys call two thugs and have them beat you up—”

“—
try
to ʻbeat me upʼ.” His lips lift at the corners.

I cross my arms. “Whatever. Why?”

“I do not know,” he says, crossing his feet at the ankles and leaning against the sink.

A slow smile begins to spread across my face. “You saved the pickles?”

His grin matches mine. “I did indeed.”

I move into the line of his body, relieved that he survived. Relieved Shepard came back, relatively unhurt.
He came back.

He straightens, wrapping his arms around me.

We fit.

“Allow me to wash my hands and get the food put away.” He touches the tip of my nose. “Then I will cook you something that will make your mouth water, Marissa Augustine.”

My mouth is already watering, but not for food.

He quirks a brow. “Really?” Shepard's smile remains, touching his eyes and reaching back to me.

“Did I say that aloud?”

He nods slowly. “You did.”

I laugh self-consciously and look down. My head brushes his chin, and he scoops my jaw, pushing my face up to meet his gaze. Shepard runs his thumb along my bottom lip, and the touch is so light I’d think I imagined it if I wasn't watching him do it.

“Let me clean up and then we will dine”—his dark eyes bore into mine—“and pursue other things.”

Other things.

My lady bits give a hard pulse at that remark, and I step away from his embrace. He clasps my wrist, and I can feel the ready strength in his grip. He gently tugs me to him and presses his lips to the end of my nose.

Shepard turns and begins to empty the plastic sacks.

He pushes the bloodied ones inside one that is clean and sets it aside. The infamous jar of pickles is revealed next, and I giggle behind him.

Shepard whirls back around, holding up the jar like a sword.

I bend over, laughing. When I can finally stand, I'm still covering my mouth. “Oh my God.”

He smiles, turning back around to wash his hands. After drying them on the soft owl-patterned dish towel, he begins to unbutton his shirt. He pulls the material off and lowers it into the bloody sacks. He ties the tops together, and I walk to the groceries that fill the counter. Many items he bought don't make sense.

I mean, they don't make sense to my Top Ramen, mac-and-cheese, Gelato-loving self.

His hand dives into one of the sacks and brings something out, quickly hiding it behind his back. “I have something for you, but I would not suggest consumption.”

I try to grab behind him, and he won't let me have it. “Why not?” I ask suspiciously.

He grins. “I think last February's merchandise has expired, but I liked what it said.”

Shepard brings it around. A lollipop in the shape of a pink heart about the size of my palm is poised between two fingers.

My vision blurs.

Be mine
, it reads in red.

The stick is bent from the bags used as weapons, but the heart is whole. I gaze up at Shepard, so much taller than me, so dangerous—so wonderful in bed.

His neck flushes red. “You don't like it?” He begins to put it back, and I pluck it from his fingers.

“No,” I say, swiping at my wet eyes. It's romantic. “I love it,” I finish in a low voice.

“Unexpected,
non
?” he asks, almost to himself.

I hug him. “Very,” I say against his chest, holding the sucker tight.

“For me as well.”

He holds me for a full minute, and we pull away together. Flustered, awkward. Perfect.

I tuck the sucker into my back pocket and point at some fresh vegetables. “What?”

Shepard clears his throat. “I will sauté those.”

“And this?” I point at an unpronounceable vegetable in a glass bottle.

His brows drop. He whips me around to face the living room. His hand makes a loud sound as he smacks my ass.

I yelp and pivot to face him, my butt on pleasant fire.

Shepard's face is open, tender. “Go clean up. And very nice job, by the way,
ma chérie
, on our accommodations.” His eyes briefly sweep the clean interior.

I rub my butt. “You hit me.”

Shepard jerks me against him. “It is the least of what I wish to do. Now—go clean up in our meager bathroom, and I will fix you a feast.”

How can I argue with that?
I smile as I walk away, and the sounds of food being prepared fill the small cabin. My butt cheek tingles, feeling hot where he gave me a thwack. Shepard's dangerous. He just reminded me of that.

I also loved the way his hand felt. Talk about conflicted.

My feet are light as I make my way to the bathroom. I extract the lollipop and carefully place it on the sink rim and take my time in the shower, using the shampoo and soap Shepard bought, wrinkling my nose at the musty bath towel.

Vague light creases and folds into the shower stall from a highly placed and narrow window of glass block, gradually growing dark.

Steam rises, and I get so clean my fingers begin to prune with all the time I spend inside the shower. I set the razor down on the thick porcelain lip of the cast-iron tub and sweep the curtain aside to step out.