Thatcher doesn’t acknowledge Jane. Just speaking to me. “There’s a small town a mile up. We’re all heading that way.”
“Alright, sounds good.”
Jane is radiating embarrassed heat. But where other people tend to shy from it, she steps further into the light. Like that will be better.
“Thatcher,” Jane greets. “I’m just going to come out and ask. Did you hear what we were talking about?”
His brooding, stern face is exactly the same. But he finally looks at Jane. “I did.”
Jane crosses her arms, not breaking eye contact with him.
I’d like to make some posters, hoist them high, and they’d have an arrow to Janie and they’d say: that’s my best fucking friend.
“And?” she asks him.
A gust blows through.
Thatcher unrolls the sleeves to his red flannel shirt. “And if you need any kind of oral assistance,” he says, using her words which just entrances her more. “Then I can call someone for you. Nate or—”
“I can make my own phone calls, thank you,” she says breezily. “That’s all.” She rotates on the tips of her toes, facing forward, and only I’m able to see her wide eyes that pretty much shout what just happened?
Thatcher looks to me. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
He stays an awkward beat longer before leaving.
When I turn back to Jane, she says, “He offered to find a guy to go down on me.” She pauses. “It’s actually sweet. Why do I think that’s sweet?” She touches her forehead like she’s running a fever. “Merde.”
I think a lot. How Farrow can’t stand Thatcher. How Thatcher can’t stand Farrow. How I’m always going to take Farrow’s side in that rivalry.
But if Jane is into Thatcher, it’d complicate everything. So I just need to know… “Jane, do you have feelings for—”
“No,” she denies quickly. “No.” She shakes her head. “We’re on a smooth trajectory, Moffy.” She clasps my hand. “Don’t you feel it?”
There’s a leaker and a stalker out there, and I’m still on a bus with Charlie. “If by smooth, you mean an asteroid is headed our way, then yeah. We’re on the smoothest trajectory there ever could be.”
Jane laughs, but the noise fades fast and she points at the wheat field. Orange speckled light in the distance. “That must be the town up ahead.”
37
FARROW KEENE
We cut through a dirt path in the wheat field, leading us towards a small Kansas town.
Notifications ping and buzz on multiple phones. Cell signal must’ve returned. As we walk, I check my texts since I sent one to my father this morning. The first time I’ve texted him in years.
I said: if you’re harassing Maximoff in the belief I’ll return to medicine, tell me now. We can talk about it. It took me an hour just constructing that text. Because my first draft said fuck you.
He hasn’t replied yet.
I pocket my phone, and Maximoff slows next to me.
Wheat brushes our arms on either side of us. I hold his gaze for a long beat. Like me, he’s not afraid of the fog or the dark. I wouldn’t care if he were. But there’s something extremely fucking sexy about this shared fearlessness.
I begin to smile, and I increase my pace. Seeing if he’ll keep up. His lengthy stride instantly matches mine, and soon, we’ve added plenty of distance between the others and us.
His forest-greens flit to the Philadelphia Eagles hoodie I’m wearing. Shit, I love being his first. Even for the simple, little things. He’s been basically eye-fucking me for the past hour, but more sensual than a rough, quick fuck.
If eyes could make love, his eyes would be making love to me.
Maximoff catches sight of my growing smile, and he rakes a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t know why the fuck you’re smiling.”
“Sure you don’t.” I tilt my head at him, my gaze descending his build. “It smells like you.”
Maximoff rubs his mouth, then jaw, trying to hide a smile. “Fantastic, I’m assuming.”
“Settle down, wolf scout. There’s not a merit badge for smelling good.”
He almost laughs. “You’re admitting I smell good?” He touches his heart. “It’s almost like you’re obsessed with me.”
I nod a couple times. “Man, it’s cute how badly you want the tables to turn.”
“They have,” he combats.
I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for a half second, about to answer but my phone buzzes. A new text.
I check.
Call me tomorrow. – Dad
Curt, to the point. And also vague as shit. I flash the message to Maximoff.
His face is stoic. “Calling him may not help. I feel like you shouldn’t reach out unless it’s about you and him, not the stalker.”
I shake my head. “There is no me and him. There hasn’t been for over three years.” To protect Maximoff, I’d call my father, but I also don’t want to give him the advantage.
I message him: you can talk to me over text.
Just as I send it, the wheat field ends, and we kick up dirt as we walk forward. I change my mind: this isn’t a town. It’s three shingled buildings, two of which look closed. Light flickers in the windows of one.
All people vacated for the night.
I whistle, and the wind carries the sound.
Maximoff gives me a look to follow him. He’s on a mission, and I’m not leaving his side. I sense where he’s headed in an instant.
Signs swing on each building: Lucille’s Drugstore, Antiques & Brass, and Savory Eatery with an additional sign that reads, fortuneteller inside!
Guess which is the only one open.
Maximoff climbs the wooden slatted stairs to the restaurant. Blue paint peels off the old door. I catch his bicep as he reaches for the copper knob.
“You’re not going in first.” I’m not trying to one-up him. He can lead the pack, but I’m still on-duty. And this is still an unsecured location.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he retorts. “Whoever’s inside this restaurant has probably never heard of Loren Hale, let alone his son.”
“Sure, but they could also jump you, and then what?” I’m not backing down.
“They could also jump you.” He’s not backing down either.
“I’m a trained fighter.”
“And I fight a lot,” he combats.
My brows spike. “I have a gun.”
“I have a switchblade.”
I roll my eyes and let out a laugh. “You’re so stubborn.”
He hones in on my lips and piercings. “Same to you, man.” His sudden fuck me eyes are killing me. My muscles burn, and veins pulse in my dick.
I watch him eye-fuck me, his forest-greens traveling lower, lower…I smile. “You’ll see my cock later, don’t worry
.”
“I wasn’t, thanks,” he says dryly, but his breath shallows. His body tenses. Fuck me fuck me is the predominant plea, request and sentiment.
And damn, I want to fulfill that. But we both acknowledge place, time: Kansas past midnight with nine other people.
Speaking of those people, they walk towards us, and our heads turn.
“Fortuneteller,” Donnelly reads the sign. “Dope.”
Maximoff ends up holding the door open, and we watch each person file inside one-by-one. I hang back with him. Omega goes first, canvassing the restaurant, then their clients.
When my boyfriend and I enter together, I scan the eclectic decorations. Lava lamps sit on the scratched bar, orbs inside fishnets dangle from wooden rafters, and an old jukebox plays Johnny Cash. There are only six wooden tables, the place small.
And empty.
Akara taps a bell on the bar.
“Anyone here?!” Sulli calls, noticing a kitchen door, and it whips open.
A withered, gray-haired waitress glides out, tying an apron around her waist. “Hey there. We usually only get truckers around this hour. Take a seat wherever you like.” She gestures to the tables. “My name’s Patricia. I’ll be serving you.”
Maximoff was right. She doesn’t recognize the famous ones, and I doubt she’d care if we introduced them as A-list celebrities.
We all push a couple tables together. I upright a ketchup bottle that knocks over.
Chairs creak as people begin to sit. I choose a spot at the end, and Maximoff takes a seat beside me. Oscar and Jane in front of us. Seating arrangement isn’t that random. We’re the furthest away from Thatcher and Charlie.
Patricia plants her hands on the table. Bent towards Jack. “We only have three things on the menu, boys.” She notices Jane and Sulli. “And ladies. Barbecue chicken, our nightly stew, and sour cream and raisin pie. Only one beer on draft, and we have some cold Fizz drinks.”
“I’ll try the pie,” Sulli says first.
Everyone else orders the barbecue chicken, sodas and water. We begin talking about music as “Folsom Prison Blues” starts booming. Then beads smack an entryway, a figure slinking dramatically through like she’s auditioning to play Madonna.
I balance back on two chair legs, thoroughly entertained.