Lock and Key (16 page)

“Of course I do. You used to waitress on the weekends and in the summers.”

“That’s right.” Erica let out a small laugh. “They sold it to me about five years ago, and I made a few changes.”

“Just a few? It looks great. And this—” I held up my hazelnut latte, “—smells fantastic, and the muffins and cookies look irresistible.” My eyes swept over the glass case chock full of a delectable array of baked goods coated in powdery sugar, white glaze, chocolate, and jam. Small sandwiches burst between squares of crusty bread and beckoned from their trays.

“We bake everything here daily,” said Erica.

“I think I need one of those cookies right now.”

“I’d recommend the chocolate chip with pistachios and dried cranberries or the lemon ginger spice,” Erica said. Her eyes widened at something behind me as she bent over the display case. I followed her gaze. It was Lock. He stirred his Super Grande Brazilian Roast at the opposite counter and stared at us. My heart skipped a beat. Yes, he was an impressive specimen. Even in a relaxed pose there was something primal about him. Either he was ready to pounce or to shield you. I wasn’t sure which.

“Grace? Which cookie would you like?”

“Oh, um, I can never say no to chocolate.”

A slight smile creased Erica’s mouth as she reached into the case with a slip of wax paper to grab one of her jumbo gourmet cookies for me.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said.

“Come back another time, and we’ll catch up, okay? How’s Ruby doing?”

“She’s… okay.”

“Give her my best,” Erica said.

“I certainly will, thanks.” I stuffed several dollar bills in the hand-painted tip jar by the cash register.

“Thanks, honey. You have a good afternoon now,” Erica said.

Lock had moved to a low table by the large bay window of the Meager Grand Cafe. I put my handbag down on a round walnut-colored chair and sat next to him on the low brush textured grey sofa. Our eyes trailed the light traffic on Clay Street and the pedestrians who strolled by enjoying a day out in our tiny town.

I was pleased to see the large red sign for Pepper’s Boot Shop still hung outside the family owned store of wonders that sold all manner of boots to farmers and ranchers and trendy young folk. Mom had taken us there and bought us our first pair of real leather cowboy boots when Ruby was a freshman in high school. “Good quality is worth the price,” she had declared as we tried them on and pranced up and down the narrow aisles of the store. “Can’t keep wearing those cheap imitations, they’re bad for your feet. Nope. My daughters are going to look good and feel damn good about it.” The three of us had squealed with laughter and gone out for lunch afterwards, our precious shopping bags in hand. That was a good day. A very good day. In fact, that was when my leather boot obsession began.

The tiny fifties-era post office still clung to its corner on the winding end of the road. Marla’s sandwich shop which once only catered to the retirees who went for an early morning breakfast and then headed back for lunch, still stood alongside dear Pete’s Tavern next door. In between were a few new shops I had never seen before—an organic produce co-op, a vintage clothing store, and a boutique called “Lenore’s Lace” with purple gothic style lettering on a dramatic black banner which flapped in the breeze.

Steve’s Auto Repair had survived as had Kellerman’s Hardware and Grocery along with its classic red brick facade. The aging firehouse endured on its own in the distance. There was now another gas station in town, all shiny and modern, but how could it possibly compete with the grand old Prairie Pumper still holding court on the corner of Clay and Anderson?

I settled back into the couch next to Lock. An elderly couple from the next table glanced over at us then went back to chatting quietly. A young couple in their early twenties with matching dyed black hair murmured over their laptops at the small table on Lock’s side.

“You okay?”

I nodded as I sipped at my latte.

“Was it a bad idea coming out here?”

“No. It was very thoughtful, thank you. I don’t think I would have come out here on my own otherwise. It’s actually good to see the old town refreshed and revived. This cafe is terrific.”

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

“Erica and I were pals in high school.”

Lock nodded. “She’s good people.”

“I sort of remember you too back then, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lock sank back into the sofa and rubbed a hand down his jeans over a long, muscular thigh. “What do you remember about the high school me, Grace?” He took a sip of his coffee.

“You would slink around the hallways, hide your eyes behind your long hair. Mostly I remember your book covers.”

“My book covers?” He nodded and took another long gulp of coffee. “I could never stop doodling.”

I shook my head. “Oh no, no, no. What regular kids did was doodle on their brown paper book covers or write the lyrics to their favorite songs like I did. I still remember etching “Born to Run” on my Chemistry cover. You, however, created mini murals on yours full of wild imagery, a real opus of colors.”

A smile curled his lips. “You saw one up close?” he asked. “You were a year ahead of me. We didn’t have any classes together, didn’t run with the same crowd.”

I let out a laugh. “Yeah, you spent most of your free time on the smoking patio, can’t say I did.” I said. “No, I think the first time I noticed them was at an assembly. We were both late getting to the auditorium, and you and I ended up standing in the back next to each other. Your book cover caught my eye. It was a comet flying with space aliens and horses with wings. Something like that.” I grinned at him. “It wasn’t rainbows and unicorns, but it definitely was some sort of cataclysm in the galaxy.”

Lock rubbed his hand over his face and continued to look out the window. His lips twitched.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I like the words you use,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Opus, cataclysm, that about sums it up,” he nodded. “For shit’s sake, how can you remember something like that?”

“Like what?”

“A detail from over twenty years ago—a freaking book cover that belonged to a kid you didn’t know, never even talked to in high school?”

“I liked high school, Lock. I still remember a few things from back then. And your book cover was so unique and unusual. It… dazzled me. I always looked out for your book covers after that. You were a little spooky back then, though. So yes, I remember.”

He chuckled. “Spooky?”

“Not spooky scary or weird. Spooky as is in something deep and big was going on behind those bleak eyes and long hair,” I said.

His dark gaze held mine.

I cleared my throat. “Then you started playing football, and you grew out of spooky real fast.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“You filled out, got taller.”

“You noticed that, did you?” His features relaxed, his mouth turned into a sensuous smile that made me sit up.

I rolled my eyes. “Me and all the rest of the girls, Lock. It was hard not to.”

“That’s what eating three square meals a day does for a growing boy,” he said.

“Things were bad on the reservation before Wreck brought you to Meager?”

“We didn’t have much on the res. Wasn’t much to have, but there were good people there. The last two years there with my dad were tough though, let’s just put it that way.

I was sure Lock was putting it mildly. His eyes had gotten hard once more. Time to change the subject.

I knocked my knee against his thigh. “I like your Fat Bob, by the way.”

“You do?”

I nodded from behind my coffee cup.

“I’ve got an Ultra Classic Electra Glide at home,” he said.

“Holy shit, really? A CVO?” My eyes widened. I knew my Harleys, not only from my years with Dig at the club, but all the years I had worked at the Harley Davidson stores around the country. The Electra Glide was a pricey custom Harley with premium features. It was a beautiful touring bike, sleek, powerful.

“I decided to spend some money on myself for a change a few years ago and sprang for a brand new bike. Then I bought the Electra Glide too for longer trips. What the hell have I been saving for all this time, you know? I’ve been riding my own choppers for a while and I’ve got quite a collection, what with Wreck’s old bikes,” he said.

“Good for you.”

“I’ll consider giving you a ride, if you keep being nice to me.”

Oh goody. Flirty Lock was back.

“Can I be your fender, baby?” I asked.

A shadow swept over his features for a moment. “You’re no fender, Grace,” he said, his voice low.

I squirmed in my seat. Yes, at my age I certainly was beyond being the chick on the back of a member’s bike, there just for the ride and the good time. I was never that girl anyway.

“Yep, those days are long gone,” I said and broke off a piece of cookie. I sunk back in the sofa and enjoyed the buttery chocolate melting on my tongue.

He leaned into me. “No, Grace. What I meant was that you were never a fender from what I’ve heard. You were straight up fine girl to classy Old Lady,” he said. “Still are.”

My eyes snapped up to meet his penetrating gaze. It was almost painful, as if he were looking for something inside me.

Do you see it, Lock? What is it?

That animal-like arousal he inspired in me stirred again, that needy ache stretched between us.

Lock’s gaze went back to the window. “When’s the last time you saw him, Grace?” he asked, his hand rubbed over his head.

“Who? My dad?”

“Yeah, Raymond Hastings of Montana.”

“A couple days after my 18th birthday,” I said. “Ray took off on a rig heading for Oregon and never came back.”

“Very nice.”

“Yeah, it was something else,” I said. “A wife, two kids. Guess he figured he was leaving us his grand mansion in Meager and his rusty car, so he didn’t have too many regrets. We thought maybe he had gotten into an accident. We checked with everyone we knew, the police, even the trucking company, but there was no accident. Two weeks later he sent divorce papers to my mother and that was that.”

“Very slick,” Lock said.

I took a small sip of my hot creamy coffee. “Did he get married again? Have more kids? Tell me. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

“No, he never remarried,” Lock said. “He lived with a couple different women off and on, but he’s been on his own for several years now. He owned a couple of rigs and did pretty well for himself in the oil boom up north.”

“Really?” I put my latte down, rubbed the edge of the wood table and shook my head.

“What is it?” Lock put a hand on my knee. “Tell me.”

An unfamiliar warmth slid through me at the low, gentle tone in his voice, at his touch.

“It’s just that the man I knew, the man I remember, was always so disinterested in everything around him,” I said. “My parents didn’t even fight much, because he would just walk away, take off. End of discussion. She would rage on by herself, throw stuff around the house. I never thought he had much imagination or desire for anything outside his little box of a life. He was usually quiet, distant. It got worse after my little brother got killed. Ray pretty much checked out after that.”

“You had a brother?” His hand pressed into my thigh.

“Jason,” I said. “He was nine when he got run over on his bicycle by a drunk driver. It was awful. My parents never recovered from it.”

“How old were you?”

“I was thirteen; Ruby was fifteen. Everyone just went their own separate ways after that.” My palm rubbed over my cheek. “Now you’re telling me that he actually created something big for himself, something that must have brought him a lot of satisfaction and self-respect. He couldn’t do that with us? I suppose he had to get away from us to be a better, productive person.”

“Maybe it was just your mom he needed to get away from,” he said.

I shrugged and drank more coffee.

“Marriage isn’t for everybody,” he said.

My eyes met his. “Is that how you feel about marriage?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never met anyone I wanted to make that sort of commitment to.”

“Really?”

“Tried living with a woman once. It fell apart pretty quickly. That was it for me.”

Our eyes went back to watching people cross the street, to cars cruising past.

“I was never under the illusion that my parents had a romantic love story going on,” I said. “They got married young when Mom got pregnant with Ruby.

He gripped my hand in his and audibly exhaled. My gaze darted to our hands that now rested on his thigh. I liked how his tanned fingers were woven with my much paler ones. Holding hands with someone was such a simple thing, but it didn’t feel so simple just now. A peculiar tickle rose from my palm, travelled up my arm, and swirled in my chest.

I liked sitting here with him watching the world go by, recounting our past horrors. For some reason it didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. It was a relief. I eased back into the sofa, my hand still in his.

“I’m going to take you to Montana,” he said.

“What?” My pulse jammed in my throat.

“We’ll go together, Grace.”

“What are you talking about Lock? You don’t have to do that. Just give me the address, and I’ll go.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” he said. His hand released mine and squeezed my knee.

“That’s right, I shouldn’t.” I fought the tears that filled my eyes. “Ruby should be with me to ream his ass. But alas…” I didn’t want to cry over my dad and my sister, and I certainly didn’t want to cry in a public coffee shop in my hometown with Lock.

“Grace—” He pulled me into his chest and stroked my back.

This felt too good, being soothed by this man who could be rough and yet gentle with me. The ache in the hollow of my chest faded, and I couldn’t help but ease into the solid warmth of his body. His lips brushed my forehead and his clean masculine aroma filled my nostrils and stirred my nerve endings. His scent reminded me of Earl Grey tea with an edge of rough thrown in.

Oh hell, I should push him away, sit up, suck it up, drink my coffee, and put my game face on. But I didn’t want to. It felt too good here in Lock’s arms. His steady heartbeat drummed under my ear, and I focused on that.