Chapter 3 – GLENNA #3
And I’m not smashed against his hard chest. I’m not so close I can see the stubble he missed under his chin or his weirdly soft looking pit hair.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gives me a look, and then he actually backs off, slowing down to talk to his clients. I plow ahead. It wasn’t a lie. It does hurt less not to have my whole body jostled with every step. I think I underestimated the impact of shock, though. I’m not entirely steady on my feet.
I watch where I walk, and I try to focus on my breath instead of the pain. The sun is past its zenith, and we’re surrounded by beech, paper birch, and white pine, so it’s cooler.
After a minute or two, I hear Cash hustling to catch up. He’s got a bunched-up shirt in his hand. I glance back. The man who shot me is down a flannel.
“For a sling,” Cash says, smiling again. My belly goes blub-blub like a goldfish because it’s only human. And also stupid.
“Stand still,” he bosses.
I sigh and stop to let him tie a damp shirt around my neck, trying to ignore his fingers brushing my neck, bracing my elbow, guiding my arm through the fabric by my wrist. He’s obviously trying to be gentle, but he doesn’t have a gentle touch. He’s brisk. Certain.
My cheeks burn. There’s no way you can tell I’m blushing. We’ve been hiking. Of course my face is flushed.
I don’t know why Cash is gaping at me with such a shit-eating grin.
I lift my chin and set off down the mountain again. The sling does help some. After a quarter mile or so, Cash ducks off again, this time into the undergrowth. He comes back with a decent walking stick.
“Here.” He hands it to me.
It helps a lot. I’m a little lightheaded, and I don’t know if it’s from blood loss or shock or hunger. I had a huge breakfast, and I nibbled good ol’ raisins, peanuts, and M&Ms—what my mom called GORPM—on my way up the mountain. I’m always starving after a burst of adrenaline, though.
I don’t think I lost too much blood. There’s a stain the size of an apple on Cash’s T-shirt, but it’s drying now, so the tourniquet works.
Maybe it’s no worse than a scraped knee, and all it needs is some antibiotic ointment and a bandage.
That would be cool. Dad buys our insurance from the state exchange, and we have crazy high deductibles.
I don’t really have a savings cushion. I was putting a little aside every month, but when Toby moved out, I had to take over his half of the bills.
My stomach cramps again. I force myself to take a deep breath.
It’ll be fine. Bright side. Silver lining.
I’m not dead.
It’s only a flesh wound.
It’s obvious that Cash Wall feels like a complete asshole. Probably for the first time in his life. That’s a win.
I stumble over a root, and it’s fine, but I let out a whimper. It’s quiet. Hardly audible.
Cash’s face drops into the most hangdog expression I’ve ever seen on a man. I mash my lips together to stifle a smile. Yeah. It’s awesome.
“You don’t need to enjoy this so much,” he grumbles.
“What? Being shot?” I guess I didn’t hide the smirk as well as I intended.
“You know what.”
“Getting my camera broken?”
“Go ahead. Rub it in. You can’t make me feel any worse.”
“I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings by luring your unsuspecting clients into believing I have a rack.”
He glances over and winks. “Well, you do have a rack.”
Oh, lord. I walked into that one. “Seriously? You can’t see anything, pervert. There’s a sling in the way.”
“I can picture ‘em.”
I roll my eyes.
“Been picturing them a long, long time,” he says. “Bet they’re pretty as hell. Fit right in my mouth like a lollipop.” He accentuates the word by popping his lips at the end.
I glance behind us. He’s keeping his voice down, for once, and the others are keeping their distance. I don’t know why I care if they overhear.
“That’s a new low, Cash Wall. Sexually harassing the woman you just got shot.”
“You’re not thinking about the pain now, are you?” He smirks.
“You’re a pig.”
“I’m a man, and you’ve got the prettiest little titties in Stonecut County. How am I not gonna notice?”
He’s so full of crap, and so damn backwards. “You know that if you didn’t live here in Mayberry, you’d have been cancelled a long time ago.”
“Nah, I’m a perfect gentleman. Ask any female in town.”
“Cancelled like Firefly .”
“Is that a TV show?”
I put my nose in the air. Of course, he didn’t watch Firefly . There are no trucks in outer space.
“Never saw it,” he says.
“‘Cause it got cancelled after one season. Like you would be in any other town.”
“They’d love me in any other town just as much as they love me here. I’m the all-American boy.”
“All-American perv.”
“It’s not perverted to notice you have the perfect female breasts.”
“You actually think that’s a compliment.” I shake my head. “And don’t call women ‘females.’”
“Why not?”
I do not have it in me to explain. My arm hurts, and I think I have to pee. And fixing Cash Wall isn’t my job.
“Well?” he says.
“I don’t call you ‘male.’”
“I wouldn’t care if you did.”
“Whether you care or not doesn’t make something right or wrong.”
“Then tell me why it’s wrong.” He smirks, so confident I can’t.
And when Toby went off on the subject, he had a really valid point, but there’s a bead of sweat tickling my jawline as it drips down, and I can’t wipe it off because one arm is in a sling and the other’s occupied, and I can’t form an argument now when I definitely have to pee.
“You can’t, can you?” He gives a little sniff.
“Because it’s an adjective, dumbass.” Yes! That was definitely one of the points.
“I used it as an adjective. I said ‘female breasts.’”
He did? He did. But before that— “You said ‘ask any female.’ That’s a noun.” Hah.
“So your problem is, like, about grammar?”
Ugh. He’s enjoying this. He’s just taking a leisurely stroll, having a grand old time being an ass, and I’m sweaty and hurting, and I’m gonna die if I have to pop a squat behind a tree with Cash Wall and three car salesmen listening in.
“My problem is you.” I state the obvious.
“I have been told I’m a female problem.” He winks at me.
I’m gonna hit him with this walking stick. And cry.
His hand darts out, and before I can duck away, he wipes my face with a handkerchief, including the annoying drop that was tickling my jaw.
“How you holding up, baby?” he asks, his voice dropping low. Solicitous.
“Don’t call me baby.”
“How you holding up, female ?”
Not good. The shock’s worn all the way off, and Cash is doing his level best to irk my last nerve, but this pissed-off energy is barely keeping me going. I’m slowing down. And I can’t hold it in much longer now that I’ve acknowledged the pee situation.
“I need a break,” I admit, quietly.
“Okay.” He scans the woods. The trail is narrow here, and the undergrowth is thick.
“I’m afraid if I sit, I won’t be able to get back up.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“That hurt too much.” It’s weirdly hard to admit.
He’s silent for a few steps. I don’t look over. I don’t want to see him looking all guilty again. I’ve always been the kind of person who feels other people’s bad feelings. I can’t watch when people get embarrassed. If it’s on TV, I change the channel.
I honestly didn’t think Cash Wall was capable of shame, but I guess getting someone shot is next level shit.
“I’ll be right back,” he says after a minute and trots ahead.
I have no plans to run off. I keep it moving, barely, as careful as I can to hold my arm as still as possible, when footsteps approach from behind.
The older man with the immaculately coiffed head of silver hair pulls even with me. He offers his hand. “Bernard Wilson.”
I awkwardly take it with my left.
“How are you holding up, Miss, uh—?”
“Glenna.”
“Are you hanging in there? Seems like you’re doing pretty well, considering.” He laughs in that way that demands you laugh along.
I have to pee so bad. I don’t want to talk to this guy. I kind of pick up my pace, hoping he gets the hint.
“What were you doing all the way up this mountain all by yourself?” He laughs again, perfectly at ease. He doesn’t seem to need me to answer for him to keep talking.
“Taking pictures?” he guesses. “My daughter’s an amateur photographer, too.”
I’m bringing in about five hundred bucks a month from my stock photos and footage. So—not exactly an amateur.
“She’s married to Elliott, the numb nuts with the bad aim.” Hah, hah, he chuckles.
It’s not funny. My arm hurts like hell. I know I’m not crying or anything, but how does he not get that? Also, I’m pretty freaking grateful that numb nuts Elliott has bad aim.
“He’d like to apologize to you. Let you know it was a complete accident on his part—bad timing. Bad light. A failure of clear communication.” He glances meaningfully down the trail where Cash disappeared.
What did Cash fail to communicate? Don’t shoot people?
He sighs. “It was an unfortunate accident. And of course, Elliot will make it right. Whatever you need.”
I need this guy to shut up and give me my space so I can hold my pee and suffer in silence .
I give him a wan smile. Usually, men like him will take even the most anemic polite smile as a sign of approval and wholehearted agreement, but this dude must be the manager of the car dealership. He’s not stopping until he gets a “yes.”
“So what do you say? Let Elliott apologize, and we can talk about what you might need to feel whole.”
I draw in a breath, summoning up the little energy I have left to tell this guy to fuck off, but before I can say anything, Cash jogs up the trail, sees Bernard talking to me, and loses his mind.
Cash’s face, which was flushed from hiking, goes tomato red. Not grocery store tomato—side-of-the-road farm stand tomato red.
He charges, chest puffed, and gets right in Bernard’s face. “Get the hell away from her.”
“Pardon?” Bernard bristles.
Cash has his fist hauled back before Bernard catches a clue and realizes the kind of man he’s dealing with. He scrambles backward.