Playing with Fire

“Thank you.” My voice broke. Panic ran through me, and my blood turned cold. “Please keep me posted.”

I killed the call and slammed my phone on the counter, letting my head drop. I wanted to scream. To break something. To lash out.

Not again, Grams. We’ve been through this dozens of times before.

The routine of looking for her everywhere, finding her at a neighbor’s house or downtown—blabbing to someone incoherently—and removing her from the scene as I apologized from the bottom of my heart always wore me down.

I could feel West’s sharp gaze on my back. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was watching me. A couple of customers showed up, asking for tacos, nachos, and slushies, and West served them, manning both our stations without making a big stink about it.

I looked down at my phone again and texted Marla.

Me: Where could she be?

Me: Can U check the shed, please?

Me: I’m going to call Sherriff Jones. Maybe he heard something.

I dialed up Sheriff Jones’ number, pacing back and forth.

“Grace?” By the commotion in the background, he was at the fair with his family.

“Sheriff Jones? Sorry to call you so late. Grandma Savvy went missin’ again.”

“How long has it been?”

“Ah, a few hours.” Probably less, but I knew he wasn’t going to take it seriously. Grams went missing often and was always found a couple miles away from home.

“I’ll call my guys. Grace,” he hesitated, before sighing. “Try not to worry too much. It’s always like that, isn’t it? We’ll find her before the night’s over.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for your help.”

I hung up, tears prickling my eyeballs. As always, I didn’t let them loose. I hated this part. Where I had to beg people for help. I couldn’t blame Marla. Grams had sneaked out of the house plenty of times while she was under my watch.

I sank onto an upside down crate, clutching my head in my hands.

“Is this an I-wanna-talk-about-it crisis or mind-your-own-fucking-business crisis?” West grumbled above my head, sounding more annoyed than concerned.

The former.

“The latter.”

“Thank fuck.”

“Jerk.”

“Let me know if that changes.”

“You bein’ a jerk? Fat chance.”

“Don’t insult the chance. It did nothing wrong.” He wiped his sweat with the bottom of his shirt, still eyeing me in his periphery. I was an odd, out-of-place creature he couldn’t decide what to do with. An unhappy female.

“I didn’t insult the chance. I insulted you.”

“Still sarcastic. That’s a good sign.”

I needed to be out of this place and look for Grams, but the entire Contreras family was at the fair, and by the time one of them could come to replace me, my shift would be over.

Thirty minutes had passed without any news on Grams. I was completely out of it by the time West put his hand on my shoulder. It was heavy and warm and strangely reassuring. Like I was floating in the air, feet above the ground, and he anchored me back to gravity.

“That’s enough of your sulking ass. Give me the keys. I’ll close up and drop them in your mailbox. I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but you should be focusing on pulling it out, not burning time here.”

I shook my head, finding that all I needed to burst into tears for the first time since my hospital stay was him acknowledging something was wrong. People had stopped giving a crap. In Sheridan, I was just another statistic. Basket case grandmother, junkie mom. That was why Sheriff Jones hadn’t even attempted to pretend he was going to leave the fair and help me look for Grams.

No one cared.

Hot, fat tears slid down my face. I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, horrified that I was crying in front of him, and even more upset that I was probably smearing my makeup.

West regarded me with calm curiosity. Something in my gut told me he wasn’t used to comforting women. He usually handled them when they were conveniently cheerful and trying to please him.

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Really. We only have thirty minutes left.”

“Exactly,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes is nothing. You’ve been as useful as a nun in a brothel since that phone call. Spare me the moping and get the hell outta here.”

I eyed him from my spot on the crate. Was it irresponsible of me to consider his offer? I knew if Karlie and Mrs. Contreras were aware of the situation, they’d tell me to leave the food truck’s keys with him, no doubt, but if something went wrong …

West read my mind, groaning. “Not gonna do anything shady. Give me your address.”

I continued blinking at him.

He bit his inner cheeks, seething. “Not gonna come for your ass in the middle of the night either.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” he said, point-blank. “Trust is putting your optimism in another person, the very definition of being dumb. You should believe me because stealing from the register would get me nowhere. And because this is Texas, and there ought to be at least one motherfucker in your household with a loaded gun willing to blow out my brains if I decide to climb up your window uninvited.”