I don’t think I’ve breathed the whole way here.
Not even when that truck slipped out of sight, and I was back in the middle of a sleepy small town, surrounded by people, buildings, normalcy.
I kill the engine and stare at Blake’s sprawling house.
I’m okay.
But I won’t feel okay until I’m not alone anymore.
It takes more effort than I can believe to peel my clenched fingers off the wheel, my knuckles aching and ligaments sore.
I manage, pushing out of the car. I scramble to the front door, darting nervous looks around, feeling far too exposed in the open.
And I’m grateful when he answers mere seconds after my frantic knock on the door.
Grateful, yet frightened as I look up into his confused frown and blurt out, “Blake, I think I just saw the man who set the clothing shop on fire.”
10
Dance to Your Tune (Blake)
Surprises just keep showing up at my door.
Last time Peace crashed on my doorstep, she showed up with her massage table and soft words threatening to split me open.
This time, she looks terrified, shivering, flushed.
And on the verge of tears.
I’ve been thinking about her ever since that call-in last night, and the soft, low way she sang her little heart out for me.
Aching to see her.
But not like this.
Not with the words, “Blake, I think I just saw the person who set the clothing shop on fire.”
Everything in me bristles. I reach for her without thinking.
It’s instinct, this feral urge to protect her from someone she’s already escaped from.
Still, I slip my arm around her shoulders, stepping out on the porch. I put myself between her and the line of sight from the street, darting my gaze around suspiciously as I usher her in.
“Come on,” I say. “Inside. Did they hurt you?”
She shakes her head, scrubbing her ridiculous purple knit gloves against her red nose and gulping audibly, her hair bouncing from under her rainbow knit cap in shimmers of purple and red.
“No, but he tried. Chased me through the forest and then tried to run me down in this big truck. I…I didn’t get the color, like, maybe dark blue or grey or even green, I don’t know.”
“Hey. It’s okay. You’re with me now.”
I nudge the door closed behind her, then sink down before her in the entryway, gripping both her hands. Even through the gloves, I can feel how cold they are, chilled to the bone, and I rub my hands over hers slowly for warmth, staring into her too-wide eyes.
“I want you to close your eyes,” I say—and she does, instantly. “Count to ten, and the whole time, don’t think about anything but the truck. Tell me what you see.”
She takes a few shaky breaths, then I see her lips mouth one.
Then two, a hesitant pause, then three, four, five, all the way to ten.
The whole time her breath slows, the tension in her heaving shoulders relaxing.
She’d been gripping my hands for dear life, but now she eases up.
I count with her, silent, mirroring the shape of her lips.
She actually smiles, weak and shaky. “…you did that just to calm me down. You put on your radio voice.”
I half-smile. “I got a radio voice?”
“Yeah. Whenever something’s wrong, you talk this certain way.” She shakes her head. “Like you really believe everything’s going to be all right. No matter what. And it just soothes, wraps me up real warm like…”
Like you’re holding me. It’s on the edge of her voice.
Fuck.
I can’t help a strangled sound.
Holding her right now doesn’t sound half bad, but I have to focus. Some random asshole tried to kidnap her or hurt her or worse. Nothing’s more important than that right now.
“Glad it helps,” I say, squeezing her hands. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, opening her eyes. “The truck was hematite, almost. Really dark grey, almost black, but shimmery, too.”
I’m trying to think of anyone in town who has a truck like that, but that’s the kind of flashy thing most people around here don’t bother with.
Trucks out here get put to work, not lounge around looking pretty.
Something with a nice finish like that, it’d take too much effort to keep it perfectly polished and sparkling.
Means I’m drawing a blank, and I don’t like it one bit.
Standing, keeping my grip on her hands, I step back slowly, guiding her to the couch. “C’mon. Sit down, I’ll make you some cocoa, and you tell me what happened.”
She nods, biting her lower lip, the red of it looking so swollen with the cold it’s like an overripe cherry. When I let her hands go, she sinks down on the sofa, peeling slowly out of her winter gear.
“Sorry for the ambush,” she says hesitantly. “My first instinct was to find you.”
“Nah, glad you did,” I say, stepping into the kitchen to rummage in the cupboards. I can still see her through the doorway, watching me with wide, curious eyes while I pull down mugs and a tin of cocoa powder. “But how’d you know someone set fire to the shop?”