Nothing For The Weak (Red Creek Nights #1)

1. Samuel

SAMUEL

WHAT IF I WERE ALLERGIC TO ORANGES?

Six and a half pairs of eyes fixed on me the moment we pulled into the farm.

The old folks, standing in line in front of the still-closed store, turned toward our car in such perfect sync you’d think they’d choreographed it.

Not that I could blame them. Having a police car roll up right in front of you does that to people.

The gray hair of the six women and one man with a white gauze taped over his right eye swayed in the wind as they stared.

They looked like a picture from old times—better times, they would probably say—a sharp contrast to the bright green of the orchard behind them.

The woman at the front of the line tilted her head to get a better look at who sat in the passenger's seat (spoiler: it was me), and soon enough, the others followed her lead.

Like vultures hungry for gossip, they all wanted to be the first to know what was going on, so they could bask in the glory of being the source of rumors that were, of course, nothing but rumors.

And for the next fifteen seconds, I was going to play along.

I opened the passenger’s door slowly—taking ten seconds for something that needed two, just for the dramatic effect.

The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath my sneakers.

The orange trees swayed all around us, their crowns glowing in the first streaks of morning sunlight.

A warm gust of wind caressed my skin, and I imagined it tousling my hair, as if I were the main character of some TV crime show, with someone off camera holding a wind machine.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and squinted up at the sky as if the first sunbeams of the day were too blinding to face, even though the sun still hid behind the farmhouse that all the old people were so neatly lined up in front of.

All eyes followed my every move, twitching with anticipation.

I knew what they were doing. They were building their stories, inventing explanations for why a police officer had escorted a young’un like me.

Maybe I was a criminal on probation, a runaway who needed the authorities to make sure I would do as I was told, or a cadet too stupid to wear his uniform.

Either way, everything they could come up with was nonsense. They just didn’t know it yet.

I rested my right hand on the roof of the white Ford, turned to the driver, and said in my loudest, most cheerful voice, “Thanks for driving me, Dad .”

My father blinked at me, then at the townsfolk behind me, his eyebrows knitting together behind his round glasses.

“Maybe you were right about wanting to take the bike.”

“This was a lot more fun,” I chuckled.

His frown gave way to a smile. “Want me to come inside in uniform when I pick you up?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary?—”

“That’s for the police to decide,” Dad cut in, putting on his best authoritarian face. Our joint laugh broke through the feigned tension. “Give it your best, Sam. And say hi to your boss for me.”

“I will.” I straightened up, shut the door behind me with a firm thunk , and tapped twice on the roof like I’d seen it so often in the movies without ever really knowing why people did that.

All eyes were still locked on me, but now, as Dad drove away, his tires stirring up yellow dust, the murmuring set in.

I knew what they saw: a skinny guy with slender arms and a soft face.

I didn’t check off any of the boxes that a “real man” around here was supposed to.

If I had actually been escorted or detained by the police, that at least would have given me some serious vibes, attaching different labels to me than the ones already circulating.

I forced my gaze downward to avoid their scrutinizing stares and made my way past the line toward the front door of the store, where I was going to start working in a minute.

The only man in the line, the one who could only stare with his left eye thanks to the other one being patched up, cleared his throat as I passed him—a polite warning that line-cutting wasn’t tolerated, even after a dramatic entrance.

“Sir,” I said, nodding to him. “Good morning.”

He returned the greeting, though his swallowed-back voice made it clear he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me.

I picked up my pace, eager to get away from all the judging eyes. My left arm rushed forward as I reached the entrance, knocking three times. No one came to my rescue. I knocked again, five quick little whacks against the wood.

My hand was still up in the air when a woman my age—the only person I’d expected to be here already—appeared in the darkness behind the display window on the left, glaring as if she’d personally drag me out into the field and ensure I was never seen again if I knocked once more.

I waved and put on the brightest smile I could muster to show I wasn’t just another impatient customer.

Her lips, until now pressed together like they were about to burst any second, shifted from ready-to-scream to something that resembled a smile. With a few clicks and creaks, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, barely enough for me to squish through.

“Sam,” she said as a greeting, her voice deep and hoarse, as if she hadn’t had her first cup of coffee yet, and talking to her before that wasn’t the best idea.

“Good morning, Grace,” I replied as cheerfully as possible as I slipped through the door, past her, into the cool store before she locked up behind me again.

The ceiling lights were still off, and the only illumination came from the pale morning sky seeping in through the windows.

Over the years, I’d been here dozens of times, both with my parents and on solo produce runs.

Still, since I had never thought about this place as a workplace, my eyes couldn’t help but take in everything in sharper detail than before: the creaky wooden floors with their worn-out coat of gray paint, the ceiling fan coated in dust and spiderwebs, the old cash register on the scuffed counter.

“Good, you’re here already,” Grace said, turning her back toward me, like she wanted to show off the prominent white Farley Farms logo emblazoned on the back of her green overalls.

“I need you to help me restock. If these geezers don’t get their oranges sharp at seven, they’ll probably die or something. ”

“Ready and at your service,” I replied.

“Leave your pack here,” Grace ordered, already disappearing through a small opening behind the counter.

I did as I was told, throwing my backpack into a corner, and poked my head into the backroom to see where she had gone.

Never in a million years would I have thought I’d ever need to go to the back of a store that I had visited so often.

Working here was never the plan. But as Dad had put it three weeks ago: ‘A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. ’

The room was lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked on top of more cardboard boxes against the walls, but Grace walked right past them, through yet another door, and out of the building.

I followed her, quickening my pace to keep up with her as she led me into the backyard.

It was fenced in by the farmhouse we just came out of to the west, eight green tractors parked to the south, and two barns to the east. The right barn’s giant double doors were flung open, revealing more than twenty men gathered inside, chatting and drinking coffee.

Two guys about my age stood outside, leaning against the walls.

The one on the left wore the same green overalls as Grace and wiped the back of his right hand over his forehead with a sigh.

The other brushed his hands over his worn-out, light-blue jeans before tucking a silver necklace beneath his long-sleeved beige shirt, which had the lettering ‘California sun’ printed on it.

He squinted his right eye, laughing at something the first guy said, when his gaze met mine—catching how I observed him.

It didn’t linger long enough for the other to notice.

It wasn’t even mean or judging, just observing.

But he saw me staring, and that was enough for me to force my gaze back on Grace.

If I learned one thing from living in this town, it was to be careful.

One glance could turn into a rumor, and whether or not those rumors were true, they’d always come back to bite you in the ass.

Grace yanked open the creaking door of a small gray shack wedged between the two barns. Inside, orange crates were stacked on top of each other, at least two hundred of them, if not more.

“We’ll only need ten crates for now,” Grace said, lifting three from the stack on her left at once. “Let’s get this done first, and then I’ll show you the rest on the fly. Cool?”

“Sure,” I said. Even if it wasn’t, what else was I supposed to say? No, could you give me a detailed tour right now? First impressions mattered, and if I had to stick with this job longer than I hoped, I didn’t want to mess it up from the start.

I tried to mimic her grip and go for three crates, but the second I lifted them, pain shot through my joints, and I let them drop with a soft thud that rattled the stack.

Why did I think that I could do what Grace just did? She had grown up on this farm. I, on the other hand, had barely lifted anything heavier than laundry.

I tried again with one crate, and even though it was still heavy, I managed to lift it. My shoulders hunched under the weight as I followed her, rushing back toward the store’s rear entrance.

With a huff, I made it inside and dropped the crate on the counter beside the register. The twenty steps it took me to get here felt like two hundred.

“No, over here,” Grace said, pointing to a wobbly rack on the far side of the room, the one that was, of course, farthest away from me.

But I couldn’t show any weakness yet.