Bounty (Colorado Mountain 7)

I had it, though. That’s what he said. What the critics said. What the folks who bought my album said. What Grandad said, and that was the good thing.

Granddad got to see me do it before he died.

And I didn’t end it until after he was gone.

I closed the magazine, grabbed the rest of them and went up to the cashier with them, my can of WD-40 and my bag of bite-size Baby Ruth bars (the latter the real reason I’d come in, perfect for nighttime munching while reading in bed and not requiring fridge, stove or microwave).

The cashier gave me a look when she saw the magazines.

“Lacey Town fan?” she asked.

“Big time,” I answered.

Her next look took in my clothes. It registered surprise, for Lacey was not rock or folk or alternative, she was R&B, like her dad, but the cashier said no more and stuffed my purchases in a plastic bag.

I headed out of the store, hit my truck, dumped the bag and then made the rounds. I had time to kill before I went home and now I had a mission that would kill some of it.

Small grocery store in the middle of the town that did have a magazine rack, but that rack didn’t carry Twang. All the way down to the other end of town, doing this window shopping, getting used to my new place. I hit that convenience store and went through almost the same conversation with the male cashier as I bought out their Twang.

I did this even knowing people would eventually know who I was.

So why I was doing this, I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I’d window shop every day, hang out in Carnal, become a fixture like Jim-Billy clearly was at Bubba’s and have my identity discovered (perhaps) within moments.

But I’d be around. They’d see. And someone would remember me. The cat would get out of the bag, I knew it. And in getting to know the people around me, forming relationships eventually (I hoped), I’d have to come clean.

I just didn’t want to be Justice Lonesome for a while.

Just a while.

It’d be soon enough when I had no choice but again to be me.

I was walking back with my plastic bag filled with Twang when I noticed the red Camaro I saw parked outside of Bubba’s was sitting in a parking spot not outside of Bubba’s but outside what looked to be a tailor that specialized in sewing patches on leather (if the plethora of announcements sharing that fact that were taped to the windows all around the door were anything to go by).

I would have ignored the Camaro except it wasn’t parked and empty.

A pregnant 70’s pinup was sitting behind the wheel, hands wrapped around it, the car not on, her eyes staring vacantly out the windshield.

I passed the front of the car, holding my bag close to my chest with one arm, waving at Krystal with the other hand.

Krystal didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Even though I walked right in front of her, it was like she didn’t see me.

This made me stop and slowly approach, still waving.

Only then did she move, but not because she saw me. Because her head dropped down in a disturbing manner to rest on the wheel between her hands.

Damn, something was wrong.

I thought quick, made a decision, moved to the passenger side and rapped on the window.

“Hey, Krys!” I called.

Her head shot up and she turned it to me.

Mascara running, just beginning, not yet a mess but on its way—she’d dropped her head to start crying.

Shit.

I’d been around her once and you would blow me over with a feather if you’d told me she was a crier.

This did not say good things.

She did not call back a greeting. Instead, her hand went to the ignition.

Shit, shit.

I pulled open the door.

She again jerked her head my way.

“What’re you doin’?” she demanded to know as I angled my ass into the seat.

I slammed the door and turned to her.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she totally lied.

She’d done a quick swipe as I got in, this I knew because she had mascara wings at the sides of her eyes.

“You’re crying,” I pointed out.

“I don’t cry,” she retorted.

I looked to her temples and said softly, “I saw you, Krys.”

Her lips thinned, probably in order not to confirm or lie again.

I shrugged one shoulder. “You want me to go, I’ll go. I get needing your space when something is up. You don’t know me very well and I get you wouldn’t want to lay anything on me if something is going on that’s deep or heavy. But you’re also pregnant, upset, you’re a sister and I don’t want you driving until you’re together. So you can take this time to get it together and then I’ll leave you alone so you can go where you’re going. Or you can take this time to lay it on me and I’ll listen and then leave you alone.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Eventually, she snapped, “I’m pregnant.”

“I know,” I replied.

“Pregnant bitches do stupid shit, like cryin’ for no reason.”

“I’ve never been pregnant,” I told her. “But I’ve heard that. Let’s just not let you do more stupid shit when you don’t have it together and you’re behind a wheel.”

“I can drive my own ass home,” she declared crabbily.

“I’ve never been in a car with you so I don’t know that for certain, but I’m guessing it to be true. Still, I think I need about another two minutes of you being nasty for me to know you’re all good so I can let you drive home.”

She glared at me until all of a sudden the glare melted and a tear washed a black streak halfway down her cheek.