Complicated Page 28

  It was Monday night and I was in the produce section at the grocery store when the first thing happened.

  That being Shari walking her cart up to mine and crying, “Ohmigod! Your eye!”

  This, or a version of it, had been the refrain all day (and from the workers at the shelter, Babycakes, and the folks who saw me at Sunnydown).

  I was learning that a black eye didn’t start out black. It started kinda faded purple.

  It got a deep, ugly, horrid black that defied concealer after a few days.

  “Andy winged me with an elbow accidentally,” I told her, also a constant refrain that day (though I didn’t share that with others in front of Andy). “It looks worse than it is.”

  That last was true. It hurt the first few days but now it was just a dull ache I barely felt at all.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured, studying my eye before she brightened. “Did you hear?”

  I heard a lot of things. I worked in a salon.

  So my reply was, “I don’t know.”

  “About Hal.”

  Hal?”

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “Hal . . . uh, what’s-his-name. I don’t remember his last name. I kinda don’t want to, he’s kinda a jerk. But I’ve met his wife Ashlee in passing. She’s nice. Not sure you know her, I think she gets her hair done at The Cutting Edge.”

  She was rambling and I was tired, in heels and hungry so I cut in to say, “I don’t think I know him,” in a hopefully not rude effort to get her to move this along.

  “He’s one of Hixon’s deputies.”

  Oh boy.

  “He found the gun that killed Faith’s husband,” she declared.

  I stood still and stared at her.

  “It’s really good he did that. Apparently, he spent ages workin’ hunches on his free time, out with metal detectors with a couple of his buddies on game trails, hiking trails, roadsides. And he found it on a stretch of road over in Sheridan County.”

  “That’s excellent,” I told her.

  “Yeah.” She grinned. “One step closer.”

  I hoped so, for Faith (and, damn it, Hixon).

  “And, well . . .” Shari’s look turned cautious, “you probably heard Shaw moved in with Hixon. Permanent-like.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Yeah?” I murmured.

  “Is it okay to talk about this?” she queried. “I mean, I know you two aren’t an item anymore but it didn’t last a long time and . . . hey, by the way, you gonna go out with Mrs. Swanson’s Owen? She’s telling everyone she’s gonna set you two up.”

  Crap.

  “I’m just kinda . . . doin’ my own thing at the moment,” I replied.

  She nodded like she, a woman who was now thirty-six, hadn’t been married to her husband since she was twenty and she had any concept what “doing her own thing” as a single gal really meant.

  Then she kept talking.

  “Well, as you can imagine, Hope is beside herself. But think she’s finally gettin’ smart, ’cause, see, everyone knows this wasn’t Hixon’s idea. It was Shaw’s. He’s real mad at her.” She leaned in. “Real mad.” She leaned back. “I thought, when I heard, that she’d be spreadin’ it around that she blames Hix. But apparently, Shaw threw such a fit at havin’ to go back to his momma’s yesterday, Jep had to get involved. He came into town. Sat down with his girl. Told her the way of things and the girls went back. But Shaw didn’t. And all day today, all Hope’s sayin’ is that her boy needs his daddy at his age and she thinks it’s good, Shaw havin’ time with his father, learnin’ to be a man before he goes off to be a marine.”

  “Well, I hope that all works out,” I said, and I did, but I’d rather not be talking about it.

  “Girls won’t be far behind, I reckon, they learn the full truth about their momma,” Shari predicted.

  “Well, I hope with that they never do,” I shared, and I hoped that too, a lot.

  “Me too, but,” she shrugged, “things got a way of gettin’ out and Hope’s on the back foot now. She’s scramblin’. Losin’ Hix like she did. Losin’ her son like that. Folks knowin’ why and they’re bein’ nice enough, but she’s also feelin’ the cold shoulder. She’s got a lot to make up for, pain she’s caused. So now she’s got Julie Baker spreadin’ around how proud she is of Hix, this sad business with Nat Calloway and how far they got when they started with a whole load of nothin’. Julie’s spreadin’ it wide how Hope always knew what a good policeman he was and how she isn’t glad how he got the reason to prove it, but she’s still glad the county knows for certain we’re in good hands.”

  God, Hope Drake was a piece of work.

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmured.

  Shari gave me a close look that shifted to a horrified one.

  “You aren’t okay with talkin’ about this,” she said, aghast at what she thought was her insensitivity.

  She was sweet and she was right in what she’d said earlier.

  Hixon and I weren’t an item anymore. We never officially were. It was just me who was an idiot bent on proving that fact repeatedly with all men.

  So she shouldn’t feel bad.

  “It’s just that I’ve been on my feet all day,” I lied, twisted from my cart and lifted up a foot to show her one of my pumps that I could run a marathon in, even right then (okay, maybe not right then but if pressed, I could maybe walk a 5K). “And I just wanna get my groceries, get home and get these off. But Andy ate me out of house and home so I have to restock or go hungry. And from what Andy and I put away this weekend, I can’t put that off and just buy some fried chicken at the deli. I need something green or my body is gonna shut down.”

  “I hear you,” she replied and smiled. “Though I don’t because I only wore heels to my prom and my wedding, but those were enough. So I also do and I’ll let you go.”

  “Thanks, babe. And it was good to see you, Shari.”

  “You too, honey. Give that brother of yours a hug from me when you see him again, and you should bring him for another day in the salon sometime. I wasn’t there any of the times you’ve brought him but all the girls say he’s great and I’d love to meet him.”

  “Good idea. I’ll talk with Andy about that.”

  “Great. Get done with your shoppin’, get yourself home and I’ll talk to you later.”

  She raised a hand, gave me a wave, put it back to her cart and motored off.

  I grabbed my salad fixins, fruit and wheeled my cart into the small sea of aisles that were half the number of any King Soopers in Denver, but still managed by some miracle to have all the stuff.

  I did this trying to put all Shari had shared out of my mind.

  And failing miserably.

  They got the gun.

  Good.

  That meant at least that crazy drifter wouldn’t shoot anybody else (I hoped).

  Also, Hixon’s son had turned his back on his mother.

  I had no idea if that was good or bad, but in one way or another, no matter the reason, any child doing that was bad.

  And Hope was back-peddling.

  I had no idea how that would go.

  All I knew, and I knew it well, was that Hixon Drake had one hell of a temper, so if he reacted the way he did to spending time with my mother, him discovering his wife ended a two-decade-long marriage over a piece of expensive jewelry, well . . .

  She was screwed.

  I was in the coffee and tea section when the next thing happened.

  And it was a lot worse than Shari gossiping about Hixon and Hope Drake.

  I also had my mind filled with what she’d said, much of it about Hixon, so my mind was filled with him.

  Therefore I was not prepared for the man himself to make an appearance.

  But this he did, saying from close to my side, “Greta?”

  I turned my head from perusing the tea selection and stared up at him standing right there.

  At my side.

  God, that thick, dark hair with its minimal, but awesome, s
ilver flecks, his height, those broad shoulders, his pool-blue eyes.

  It was hateful he was so beautiful.

  He didn’t stare at me.

  His eyes narrowed on my shiner and his face turned to granite.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered.

  “Hixon,” I whispered back.

  Suddenly, and honest to God I didn’t know how it happened or how it happened so fast, I didn’t have hands to my cart and head turned to Hixon Drake.

  I had my back pinned to shelves and Hixon Drake in my space, his thumb curved around the bottom of my jaw, fingers splayed along my cheek, tilting my head back, his face in mine, his eyes sweltering, his voice an enraged (loud) rumble.

  “What the fuck?” he near-to bellowed.

  “I—”

  “Who did this to you?” he demanded to know.

  “It was just a—”

  His hand slid from my jaw to clamp, firm but still surprisingly gentle, around the side of my neck. “Why didn’t you report this to me?”

  My head twitched in confusion.

  “Report . . . what?” I asked.

  “I’m the sheriff, Greta,” he bit out. “A man takes his fist to you, you call the fuckin’ sheriff.”

  “A man didn’t—”

  “Who did it?”

  “Hixon, it was just—”

  He got nose to nose with me. “Who fuckin’ touched you?”

  God!

  It was infuriating how he never let me speak.

  “Step back,” I demanded.

  “Greta, tell me who did this to you,” he growled.

  “Take your hand off me, Sheriff, and step back!” I yelled.

  He stared into my eyes and didn’t move.

  “Back!” I shouted.

  He stepped back and took his hand from my neck but he did it putting his other one to my cart and holding it steady, angling his body, me imprisoned by the cart, his frame and the shelves.

  “Talk to me,” he ordered.

  I was at that moment very aware we had an audience.

  I didn’t look from Hixon.

  “It’s not your business.”

  “A man harms a woman in my county, it’s my business,” he forced out between clenched teeth.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Now he was letting me finish sentences, but he still didn’t listen to me because he didn’t refer to that with his next, he just continued on with what he had to say.

  “And I’ll make this clear to you right here, I don’t give a shit you’ve blocked my calls, any man harms you, Greta, you, you tell me and I deal with it for you first as a man then as the sheriff.”

  Um.

  What?

  No. No. No.

  He wasn’t going to put his dibs in to look after me after he stood in my house and gutted me.

  “Step away,” I ordered.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Step away!” I yelled.

  He dipped his face in mine and roared, “Talk to me!”

  “My brother did it! All right! He doesn’t like rain, freaked out, elbowed me in the face.”

  He slid back an inch and stared at me in surprise.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. He’s fine. Now step back!” I screeched the last.

  “Your brother?” he asked a whole lot more calmly.

  I wasn’t so calm.

  He didn’t get to pin me against shelves like some alpha-male run amuck and ask me questions he should have asked me when he was sleeping in my bed and eating breakfast at my kitchen island.

  “My brother,” I bit out. “Now, Sheriff, you don’t get to do this. You made things clear in my living room and, I don’t know, say just now, jumping to conclusions I’d be stupid enough and also slutty enough to get myself another man about a week after you dumped me before we even had a date and then letting that man hit me without turning his ass in to the cops.”

  “That’s not what I thought.”

  “What’d you think?”

  God!

  Why had I asked?

  I needed to get out of there.

  “Your mother is connected to Kavanagh Becker and he’s not a nice guy but he is a guy who has a posse of equally not-nice guys.”

  “I’ve never even heard that name in my life.”

  “Okay, sweetheart, but it doesn’t make that fact any less true.”

  Sweetheart.

  Oh shit.

  I was going to cry.

  I hadn’t cried since it happened.

  I couldn’t cry.

  “Step back, Hixon,” I whispered.

  “Greta.”

  “Step back!” I shrieked.

  He stepped back.

  I snatched my purse out of the seat of the cart, turned and ignored the onlookers we had (especially the sheer number of them) as I ran out of the grocery store, leaving my groceries behind, leaving my cart behind, probably leaving a healthy dose of my dignity behind, thus focusing on the fact I had leftover pulled pork in the fridge.

  I probably couldn’t eat it without throwing it up.

  But in case I managed to pull myself together, at least I wouldn’t starve.

  The ringing of the doorbell came first.

  When I ignored that, the knocking came.

  When I ignored that, with only intermittent spurts of respite, it just kept coming.

  Finally (and by “finally” I meant this lasted probably five minutes, but that was a long five minutes) , I moved and stood on the opposite end to the door at the picture window at the front of my house and peeked through the windows.

  From my angle, I couldn’t see who was at the door.

  But I could see a Bronco in my drive.

  Not at the curb this time.

  Oh no.

  He wasn’t trying to share with anyone who saw it that he was there for just a visit and not for an all-night booty call by parking casually at the curb. He also wasn’t intent on sharing with me that he was going to do what he had to do and get the hell out of there and he wanted to do it without the bothersome effort of reversing out of my drive.

  Nope.

  He’d parked in my driveway like his badass and supercool (it sucked, but it was true) Bronco belonged there.

  He wanted to push this?

  Fine.

  I had a few things to say to make things clear too.

  And maybe he might allow me to finish a few sentences for once so I could say them.

  But after I did, we’d be done.

  For good.

  So I went to the door, unlocked it, pulled it open and glared into Hixon Drake’s devastatingly handsome face.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Can I come in?” he asked gently.

  Fuck him.

  And fuck his gentle.

  “Be my guest,” I declared, stepping back and moving away, far away, putting the couch between me and him.

  He walked to the back of it, his eyes never leaving me, and stopped.

  “Greta—”

  “I let you in here because this time I have a few things to say and if you don’t want to listen, you can leave right now.”

  He just held my gaze and said nothing.

  He also didn’t move.

  I took that as indication he was going to listen so I launched in.

  “Not that you deserve an explanation, but it’ll make,” I jerked a thumb at myself, “me feel better to share with you my relationship with my mother is nonexistent. From the moment she nearly killed my brother in a drunk-driving accident, her being the drunk, she became nothing to me but a nuisance I had to throw money at way too often to stop her from interfering with my life. Something, I’ll also share because I’m feeling in the mood that has stopped very recently. She wasn’t liking that all that much, even though apparently she’s found another meal ticket, so she took that out on me and did it through you.”

  Several moments after I quit talking, Hixon asked, “She almost killed your brother?”

  I j
erked up my chin. “That record I told you about. She served eight months. However, if it was up to me, after what she did to him, she’d still be in prison, rotting.”

  Again several moments after I stopped, he asked, “And your brother?”

  “He’s at Sunnydown. He has a TBI. Severe issues with recall. Deficits in attention and concentration. Problems reading and writing. Lack of motivation. He has episodes. Sometimes they’re seizures. Sometimes they’re aggressive. He also has regressive behaviors that the doctors think have nothing to do with the TBI and everything to do with the trauma of having our mother be a mother who was okay being shitfaced and picking up her fifteen-year-old son from a party in the rain. And that also explains the rain. He gets agitated and sometimes harms himself when it’s raining. It rained Friday night. He was spending the weekend with me. He had an episode. I tried to stop him from hurting himself, he caught me with an elbow.”

  I pointed with my whole hand, fingers out straight and pressed together, to my eye and then offered my conclusion.

  “That’s it. So we’re done. Finished. As you said . . . over. Thank you for listening and have a nice night. Don’t worry. I’ll lock the door after you leave.”

  Again with the gentle when he replied, “There’s more to say.”

  “You’re right, there is,” I agreed and then gave him exactly that. “Even if we were together, it would not be your right to pin me against shelves in a grocery store or anywhere. It would also not be your right to detain me in any way if I didn’t so wish, especially after I repeatedly asked you to step back.”

  “I mentioned this the other night, but as I unfortunately conveyed, I wasn’t in a space to be as forthcoming as I should have been since I also unfortunately assumed incorrectly that you already knew. But Kavanagh Becker cooks meth. A lot of it. In this county. And he’s tight with your mother.”

  I stared at him.

  God.

  God.

  My mother.

  “He’s a dangerous man,” Hixon carried on. “He cooks it and distributes it out of this county, but he doesn’t deal it in this county. Regardless, to do what he does and to get as wealthy as he is doing it, he’s good at it but doesn’t keep great company. After your mother and Becker had their fun with me, Becker paid a visit to me at my department the next day and shared your mother is not happy you’ve cut her out. It isn’t a leap, baby, with the games they played with me, the way they both were during that, to think that something broke with that and they came after you.”