Feels like Trouble (Lake Fisher 4)

“I hate you,” she says, but again there’s no heat in the words. Instead, the corners of her lips are

tilting up. I don’t know who this person is, but she’s not the woman who has hated me for the past twenty-five years.

This one is nice.

“It’s in the glove box,” I announce, albeit a little too gleefully.

She stares at me. “What is?”

“Your bra,” I say, almost choking on my laughter. “It’s in the glove box.”

She reaches down and opens the glove box and—there it is. It’s nothing more than a wisp of fabric. Trust me, I already checked it out. I might even have rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed it once or twice before I stuck it in there.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes. She grabs it and stuffs it quickly into her purse. She stares silently out the window, but she’s smiling, kind of like she has no idea what she wants to say now.

I turn off the main road onto the little dirt road where my appointment is.

She looks at me, her brow furrowing. “Where are we going?” She grabs the oh-shit handle to hold onto as the Jeep bounces her from side to side. The ruts on the old dirt road bounce us around, no matter how slow I go. “Where are we going, Grady?” she asks again. “Wait. This isn’t…” She looks around. “Is it? Oh, my God, Grady. Turn around! Right now!”

“It’s fine.” I hold up my hands to still her panic. “I have an appointment.”

We drive past the multiple No Trespassing signs, and a few crude handmade signs that say last chance to turn back and we shoot uninvited guests on sight.

“Have you ever been down here?” she asks me.

“Couple of times,” I admit.

“Why?” She glares at me.

“I traded Pete Fallwell for something. Now I have to go and see about my trade.”

This particular road and section of town is called the Molly Fallwell Woods. It’s a couple of hundred acres that are owned by a cantankerous old man and his wife. Pete’s a mean old son of a bitch, and he’s pretty much set up his homestead so that he never has to leave it. Occasionally, you’ll see Molly in town, but never Pete. Everyone in town calls their little section of the world the “Wish a Motherfucker Woods” because of all the signs that say they’ll shoot on sight. It’s like they’re daring someone to try to sneak up on them.

“Are they going to shoot at us, Grady?” she asks, still holding onto the oh-shit handle as we go deeper and deeper into the woods.

I glance down at my watch. “They told me to come at exactly seven o’clock. It’s exactly seven o’clock, so I certainly hope not.”

I pull up in front of the small house in the middle of nowhere. The porch light glows brightly, and the house is small, but the yard is neat and tidy. I almost wish I could wander around and see all the bushes and trees they’ve used as landscaping, but I don’t want to push my luck.

I turn off my lights and look over at Evie. “Do you want to go in with me, or do you want to sit in the truck?”

“No fucking way you’re leaving me out here, Grady.”

I chuckle. “Well, come on then.”

She gets out and meets me at the front of the truck. “Did you bring a gun?” she whispers.

“No,” I whisper back. “Did you?”

“In my purse,” she says. “Should I go get it?”

I’m a little shocked but I laugh it off. I’ve never gone anywhere with any woman who carries a pistol. “Better not,” I say, as we step up onto the porch just as Pete’s big form fills up the doorway.

“Evening,” he says.

“Evening,” I reply. I feel Evie behind me, gripping my shirt, so I reach back and pull her to stand next to me. She clings to me there on the porch, and I’d be a lying liar if I said I didn’t like it. “This is my friend Evie. I hope it’s okay that she’s here. I brought her so she can help me pick one out.”

“Nice to meet you,” Pete says, his voice so deep it’s shocking.