Читать книгу The Hotter You Burn - Gena Showalter - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

HARLOW PACED BACK and forth in front of the library’s front door. Old wood planks creaked and whined, a warm breeze actually cool against her damp neck. Her mind churned.

How dumb was she? Suzie Quaid had walked into the library, and Harlow had nearly erupted into flames of jealousy. All because Beck had smiled and turned on the charm. But the great he-slut of the Southwest always smiled and turned on the charm. He’d even softened the hard-as-stone Ms. Cavanaugh.

Why should Harlow care that he’d stayed true to form and paid attention to the girl once voted Most Likely to Become a Professional Jell-O Wrestler?

Beck might be gorgeous, and nice, and gorgeous, and charismatic, and gorgeous, but he still wasn’t the man for Harlow. He would never be the man for her. Even temporarily. Especially temporarily. Learn the bliss of being his woman, only to lose him? No, thanks.

Her eyes remained on the prize: stability. Falling in love, creating a home and starting a family. Her desires would never align with his. Best to tend to his garden, as owed, and then move on.

Right on time, he sailed out of the library and smiled his most devastating smile. He handed her the books he’d checked out.

“Catch you later, honey.” He ambled away, whistling a happy tune. Sounded like “Baby Got Back.”

Seriously? That was it? He was just going to leave her here?

Had he made a lunch arrangement with Suzie? Or maybe dinner—followed by bedroom dancing?

Irritation flourished, and in an effort to distract herself, Harlow hugged the books to her chest. The three hardbacks had to weigh a thousand pounds each, and her arms began to shake. As she motored forward, she did her best to remain in the shadows. Mr. Porter and Mr. Rodriguez were no longer playing checkers. Jessie Kay Dillon and her sidekick, Sunny Day, occupied the chairs, drinking whiskey from a bottle and scoring men as they walked past.

Jessie Kay whistled. “Oh, baby. I’m giving you a ten. You look like you’re into commitment. Come give me a taste of that!”

“Oh, sugar, sugar,” Sunny called. “I bet you’ve got a healthy relationship with your mom. Marry me?”

While the guys soaked up the attention, Harlow did her best to escape unnoticed.

She failed.

“Look who just entered my territory.” Sunny fist-pumped the sky. “Catfight, anyone?”

Keep walking. Harlow wasn’t male, but she was given a score anyway. Both girls held up big fat zeros.

I wrote the word slut all over Jessie Kay’s locker on more than one occasion. I dated Scott, Sunny’s ex-boyfriend, only to dump him a day later. This is deserved.

Bad choices, nasty results. No exceptions.

“You’re lucky we don’t have negative numbers, Glass,” Jessie Kay shouted.

Maybe if Harlow tried being nice for once, she’d see better results? “You look real pretty today, Sunny,” she said, flashing a smile. Forced, yes, but also sincere. The blonde was a knockout. “And Jessie Kay, I think you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

Sunny gasped. “You dirty, rotten bitch. How dare you imply we’re ugly!”

Ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. Would no one ever give her the benefit of the doubt?

Her five-step plan might need a little tweaking.

Head down. Shoulders in. Gait fast. When she turned a corner, she noticed Mr. Brooks struggling to hang an oversize 10% Off sign in the window of his antiques shop.

Harlow hurried over. “Here, let me help you.” She placed her books at her feet and reached for the sign.

Mr. Brooks nearly fell over in an effort to keep her hands off his property. “Trying to steal from me again, Harlow Glass?”

“No, no. I just wanted to—”

“Desecrate the sign and stake it in someone’s yard. I know.”

“Give me a break,” she practically begged, picking up her books. “I’m not that girl anymore. I just wanted to help you.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. Now get. Get!” He kicked at the air.

“Fine. Enjoy your back strain.” She tromped off, spotting the elderly Mrs. Winthorp carrying a bag of groceries across the street.

Their eyes met. Mrs. Winthorp turned and walked in the other direction.

Nice.

Maybe Harlow should have stayed in school rather than choosing a home-study program. By the time she’d dropped out, she’d already changed, and the kids would have been forced to spend time with the new Harlow and eventually, they would have grown to like her. Physically, however, she’d been unable to sit still for long periods of time. She’d been in too much pain.

Her fingers itched to rub her scars, the habit ingrained. Think about the attack, feel the proof she’d survived it. But all she could do was squeeze the books tighter.

By the time she’d been strong enough to venture outdoors, her friends had wanted nothing to do with her.

They just need time, her mother had told her. You’re a good girl who was raised in a volatile home, and that’s my fault. I should have left your father the moment he showed his true colors. But I didn’t, and you paid the price. Now I’m going to make it up to you. As long as there’s breath in this body, I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of you.

True to her word, she’d woken Harlow every morning with breakfast and a hug. She’d encouraged Harlow in her studies and praised her every accomplishment. She’d left notes on Harlow’s pillow every night, positive affirmations meant to build her confidence.

You are a bright light.

There is nothing you cannot do.

You are a true beauty, glowing from the inside out.

“I miss you so much, Momma,” she whispered to the sky.

Martha Glass had fallen from a stepladder, and though she’d merely seemed bruised at the time, the impact had knocked loose a blood clot and she was dead by morning.

Harlow’s chin trembled, a lone tear streaking down her cheek, as hot and stinging as the sun. As much as she looked forward to a cooldown in temperature, she wasn’t looking forward to a cooldown in temperature. There were four seasons in Strawberry Valley, but unlike the rest of the world, those seasons were classified as “hotter than hell,” “tornado,” “a brief moment of intense, icy cold” and “the warm-up before hotter than hell.” Her tent often felt like a sauna, but when the snow and ice came, it would feel like a freezer.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she swung around, arm lifted to defend herself. A scowling Scott Cameron barreled in her direction, and she stepped out of his way. He simply angled toward her, giving her shoulder a purposeful shove with his own.

“Watch where you’re going,” he spat.

She stumbled, saved from falling flat on her face by the wall of the post office. “Why don’t you grow a pair of testicles and act like a man,” she called, unable to hold back the words. A girl could be a punching bag for only so long before she had to start punching back, no matter the consequences.

Scott swung around, the muscles in his shoulders bunching, and for a moment she thought he would return to her and...what? Hit her? She didn’t want to think the worst of him, but he wasn’t giving her much choice. In the end, his gaze moved behind her and widened, and he spun to motor on.

Finally, something had gone in her favor, but it only depressed her more. The fact that a guy hadn’t punched her or called her a horrible name was the highlight of her day? Wow.

She made the trek out of town, stopping occasionally to pick up trash on someone’s lawn while mosquitoes—aka flying vampires—attacked her in droves, hungry for a little Harlow dinner. As she slapped her arm to kill one of the fiendish suckers, a prickle at the back of her neck suggested she had an audience. Tensing, she studied the tangled landscape—trees, thick underbrush, dead piles of crispy leaves—but she found no sign of a pursuer.

Her brain must be melting. She continued on, not stopping again until she reached Virgil Porter’s house. A pile of brushwood had blown in front of his mailbox, and Mr. Fritz, the postman, was the cranky sort who wouldn’t make a delivery if he had to step out of his vehicle.

Ten minutes into her work to clear it away, movement in Mr. Porter’s living room caught her attention. Her heart banged a song of panic against her ribs as she met Daniel Porter’s gaze, Mr. Porter’s son.

He’d left for the military a few years ago and, according to whispers, had only returned to Strawberry Valley a few days ago. And oh, wow, he was shirtless, ripped with muscle and tattoos, standing with his hands on his hips, watching her. About to storm outside to rail at her for trespassing?

Harlow grabbed her books and dashed off. About halfway home, her legs began to tremble so intensely she feared she would go down and never get up. Somehow she found the strength to troop onward, on the lookout for scorpions, listening for the telltale hiss of nearby snakes.

At long last, she reached her destination, dropping the books in front of her tent as her arms finally gave out. Her biceps trembled and burned, and she knew they’d be sore tomorrow. Sighing, she sank in front of the tomes and surveyed her home of the past however many months. A small blue tent with a faulty zipper sat beside an even smaller pond. She’d stacked a circle of rocks around a stack of twigs to create a fire pit where she boiled water in the only pan she had. There were gopher mounds everywhere, dirt flung in every direction, but at least multiple oaks offered shade...and branches for birds to poop from.

She imagined Beck showing up for “tea.” Sanitized pond water.

Oh, how far the queen bee has fallen. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. The lap of luxury to this. No real home. No security of any kind. No way to eat or drink whenever the urge struck. No comfy bed or modern conveniences of any kind.

She turned her attention to her new books...and blinked in shock. Gardening for the Super Ignoramus. 101 Ways to Seduce Your Dream Man. The Male Penis: What You Really Need to Know.

But...but...when had the small-town library begun carrying books like that? They’d nearly banned a paranormal romance series about supersexy demon-possessed warriors for being too racy!

She reached for the gardening book, really she did, but her fingers somehow curled around the spine of Seduce Your Dream Man and riffled through the pages—and oh, wow! There were pictures. She ended up “reading” until the last tendril of sunlight vanished.

Now, back to work. She started a small fire with the lighter she’d found—no one would notice the smoke at this time of night—and set a pot of water to boil. After she drank her fill, she called it a day and nestled in her tent. The tear in the top allowed her to gaze up at the stars, diamond pinpricks in a sea of black velvet. One of God’s finest creations, second only to Strawberry Valley. And speaking of Strawberry Valley, it was time to face the facts. Her five-step plan didn’t just need tweaking, it needed scrapping. At this rate, a hundred-step plan wouldn’t work.

If she wanted different results, she had to do something different. The most obvious choice was simple. Finally make the heart-wrenching move to the city.

Panic and heartache instantly converged. No. Not that. Not yet. This was her home, and the man of her dreams lived here. He had to live here. They would fall in love and raise their kids here.

But who would want her? As a military man, Daniel Porter was used to dealing with hostile people and situations. Could he forgive the past?

A few years ago, Jeffery James had moved to town. He’d heard rumors about her, sure, but he had no personal experience with her. Of course, she wasn’t attracted to him, but what did that matter? Love could grow from support, affection and stability.

There was that word again. Stability. The mother ship. The holy grail.

Who could give her something so precious? Lincoln West, maybe. Handsome, sweet and, like Jeffery, she had no real personal experience with him. Plus, he lived in her ancestral home. If they happened to fall in love, she could move back in. And promptly kick Beck out, she thought with a smile.

What she knew about West: he hadn’t dated anyone in town...which was kinda odd, now that she considered it. He wasn’t just handsome, he was handsome, and he had as many admirers as Beck. He just didn’t jump their bones at every opportunity. He was over six foot, leanly muscled and he was nice. He had a smile for everyone he came across, and he worked like a fiend, creating different kinds of computer programs.

She knew about his business only because she’d visited his office in town the day after it opened. His assistant from the city had been there, and Harlow had asked questions, submitted a résumé. And it had been a doozy. Past jobs: zero. Experience: none. Strengths: still searching. She’d hoped to decorate their walls with murals or, barring that, become their receptionist. Surprisingly enough—har har—she was never called in for an interview; she’d listed the number to the only pay phone in town and camped by it for days.

But maybe she didn’t need a job from West...maybe she just needed him.

What kind of women did he prefer?

If the answer was sometimes mousy, sometimes feisty homeless girls, she had this in the bag. If not, well, she would just have to earn his interest another way.

Which shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks to Beck, she was now equipped with an instruction manual.

For the first time in months, she was hopeful as she drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately, it wasn’t West’s face she saw in her dreams...

* * *

WEST AND JASE tried to speak with Beck as he stalked through the house.

“Sorry, guys, but I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”

They asked no questions, and for that he was grateful. He locked himself in his bedroom and plopped onto the end of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his upraised hands, just trying to breathe, align his thoughts, maybe shake off the worst of his emotions. What he’d just witnessed...

He’d followed Harlow, hoping to unearth a few of her secrets. Maybe he shouldn’t have invaded her privacy like that, but he’d wanted answers and she’d been unwilling to give them, and though he’d tried, he’d realized he wasn’t going to get them any other way.

He’d done what was necessary.

Of course, he’d almost veered off track when a brute of a guy purposely bumped into her. In some of the foster homes Beck had stayed in, he’d seen girls and women abused mentally, emotionally and even physically, and it had always infuriated him.

Not on my watch.

Only the thought of going after the guy at a later date allowed him to continue following Harlow.

She lived on his land in abject poverty. People treated her like trash, and she took it, every bit of it, as if she had to do penance. And yet, tired and hungry, she still found the strength to help those who now hurt her.

He wondered how she cleaned her clothes, how she showered, because he knew she somehow managed to do both.

He wondered what she ate, when she ate. He’d spent hours trailing her, and she hadn’t consumed a single bite of food. The only water she’d had was what she’d boiled. He wondered what she planned to do during the upcoming winter months, if she would allow herself to freeze to death before she came to him for aid.

He wondered—and he got pissed. The little girl from the pictures shouldn’t be living that way. The woman she’d become shouldn’t be living that way. He had a home with plenty of rooms. He had a refrigerator filled with food. He had unlimited access to fresh water. He had stacks of blankets, a closet full of coats. Hell, he had everything the girl could ever need or want. And yet she suffered out there?

Her stupid pride, he thought, jaw aching as his molars gnashed together. If he went to her now, she would spurn him. No doubt about it. Time to plan.

He’d hated leaving her out there, almost hadn’t managed it, but he’d consoled himself with the thought that this would be her last night in that tent, her last night exposed to the elements and wild animals. Coyotes, snakes and scorpions lived out there, and the fool woman would make a mighty tasty meal.

So what that she’d survived this long. Tomorrow her life was going to change drastically. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.