At five feet and a buck and change, even in black jeans, a motorcycle jacket, and sporting my thickest, darkest eyeliner, I don’t cut an intimidating figure. Today, with my freckled face makeup-free and my brown hair pulled into braids, I’m sure I look like a twelve-year-old who collects stuffed animals and squeals at spiders.
But I don’t squeal at spiders.
I don’t run from my problems, period.
I was raised by a man who lived through the Depression. Gramps was determined to raise a grandchild who could face any hardship head-on—even losing her mom and dad in a car accident when she was barely five years old.
And yeah, so maybe I do like stuffed animals and have a couple on my bed that I’ve been known to snuggle with when I’m lonely, but so do lots of badass people. I watched a documentary once about a Russian oligarch who collected rare Mickey Mouse stuffies and arranged for innocent people to disappear into unmarked graves in the former Soviet Union.
I can appreciate a high-quality stuffed animal and take out a pervert single-handedly.
Hell, maybe I’ll bring Fran the Flamingo along on my stakeout to prove my badassery by snuggling my stuffed bird with one hand while shooting pellets into Streaker Santa’s backside with the other.
I may have fudged the truth a little when I told Emma I didn’t plan to shoot the creep in the butt. I’m going to get his shoulder, too, but after watching him race naked across my property twenty-four nights in a row, I’m morally obligated to shoot him in the ass.
It’s what Jesus would do.
Jesus, my grandpa’s former farmhand—may he rest in peace—could take out a gopher with a pellet gun at one hundred paces. And he thought my ten-year-old fart jokes were hilarious. He would insist that I shoot this pinche in the backside.
“Right, I get that you’re this very tough person.” Emma pushes her glasses back up her nose with a sigh. “But I’m still worried, and I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me join you on this adventure.”
“Oh no, Emma,” I say. “That’s such a sweet offer, but I’ll be fine. And I’ll have my cell with me in case I need to call for help.”
“Service is always spotty in the valley,” Emma says, proving she’s been paying attention to the quirks of her new home in the country. “And my boyfriend, Jeremy, has too much work to do to this weekend to make it up for a visit. I literally have nothing else to do tonight except sit out on my porch and choke on the smoke from Dylan Hunter’s latest I-hate-Emma-Haverford bonfire.”
I wince. “He’s still at it, huh? The appeal to his better nature fell flat?”
“I told him I had asthma, and he laughed in my face,” Emma says. “And yes, I was lying about having asthma, but there’s no way he could have known that. I swear, I’d call the fire department, but the Hunters have lived here forever, and everyone in town is on their side, so I’m sure the chief would just ignore me.”
“Not everyone is on their side.” I touch a gentle hand to her back. “I mean, Dylan’s always been cool with me, but I have no doubt that he can be an asshole when he’s scared. Everyone can.”
Emma snorts. “Scared? Of what? Me? He’s twice my size.”
“No, he’s not scared of you.” I pause, mulling it over for a moment before I add, “At least not in a physically threatened type of way, obviously. He’s probably just scared of change and how much he has on the line right now. I mean, his dad just kicked cancer, and now Dylan is running the entire show at their farm, switching from growing grapes to hops—something I know has caused friction between him and his old man—so…” I trail off with a sigh. “So maybe cut him a little slack? Not a lot, because being a dick isn’t cool, but a little? And try not to take it personally when he’s a jerk.”
Emma’s lips press together before she lifts her espresso cup and drains the last of the rich brown liquid in one dainty sip. She sets it back on the saucer with a firm click. “Okay. I will—on one condition.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that?”
“You tell me what Lawrence Beverly did to get on your shit list. Because I’ve only seen him be nice to you, Lucy. And honestly, if I didn’t know you were a total sweetheart, watching you with him…” Her lips pucker to one side of her face.
“Go ahead,” I urge. “Spit it out. I can take it.”
“Well, I’d think you were the jerk. You’re merciless with him, girl. What the heck did he do to get your knickers in such a twist?”
I shift my gaze to the steam rising from my freshly poured coffee, doing my best not to think about what Lawrence Beverly did to my knickers.