20. Ransom
20
RANSOM
I guide the three of us through the backwoods. We cross the old railroad. Chaucer slows when we leave the dirt and click along pavement instead.
Claire’s body sways against mine. She bumps against me in time with each one of Chaucer’s steps. I’m trying not to like the feel of her so much.
I lead us into a gravel lot. We’re outside a tavern with a big, painted sign that says: Maeby’s Tavern .
Chaucer is panting happily when I bring him to a halt. There’s a dog bowl, so I bring that over. He snorts and accepts it.
“Where are we?” Claire asks, eyeing the dark windows of the tavern suspiciously.
“Watering hole. Hop down.”
I extend an arm to help her down. She slides off the horse. Her dress rides up her thigh and I get a handful of soft, warm Claire as she gets to her feet.
Her hands catch on my shoulders. Those gray eyes meet mine briefly before she seems to realize how close we are. She steps back, pushing her dress down her thighs. I catch her glancing around.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’re south of the railroad. None of your friends are gonna catch you here with me.”
“I’m not…” Her mouth twists. “I wasn’t worried .”
It’s a lie, but it’s a sweet one.
I tie Chaucer to a post. Claire’s eye’s narrow. “You can’t leave him here! That’s a…” She looks around quickly. She drops her voice. “ That’s a million-dollar horse .”
“These are good people. He’ll be fine.”
Claire doesn’t look convinced. She rubs her hands over her arms as though she’s feeling for fleas.
I hold out my hand. “Trust me.”
She hesitates, but…she takes my hand.
Claire Preacher is holding my hand.
I could die now and be perfectly happy.
I guide her into the tavern. The second we step inside, we’re met with a burst of loud music and the warmth of too much body heat all in one place. They’ve got a live band going—some kind of folk rock, with a violinist with braids in her hair and a rough-voiced singer, pounding his feet in time with the beat.
Maeby’s Tavern isn’t anything fancy—holes in the upholstery, dusty old photographs on the wall, the constant smell of stale beer. But it’s my hole in the wall.
I check Claire for her reaction, expecting a sneer. Instead, I just see this wide-eyed curiosity that makes my heart flip.
“Grab a booth,” I tell her over the music. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
Claire nods and vanishes over to the booths. I head to the bar. Miss Maeby herself is manning it. She’s got this stringy blonde hair she lets run wild around her shoulders and a roughness about her that makes people think twice before messing with the bartender.
But when you get on her good side, there’s no better place to be. She’s got a cackling laugh that’ll light you up.
I lean against the bar and wait my turn. When she comes around to me, I order: “Two of your best, ice-coldest beers, please.”
Maeby side-eyes me. She pulls out two Cokes, uncapping them, and pushes them in front of me.
“You’re really cramping my style here, Miss Maeby.”
“ Dance , sugar.”
I take the two sodas. Claire picked out the most hidden booth she could find, but I spy her watching the dancers. I move in across from her and set our drinks down on the table.
She wraps her hands around her bottle and leans in close.
“That’s Maeve Belladonna Katherine,” Claire says with this hushed reverence in her voice. “Belleflower Queen of ‘94.”
I can’t help but grin. “You know your queens, huh?”
Her eyes turn to slits, and I wager I’ve said something personally offensive. “Don’t you?”
I shrug. “Guess I only have eyes for one queen.”
She blinks. She always looks shocked when I say nice things about her. Don’t know why. She’s had a lifetime of people telling her she’s the cream of the crop.
Guess it sounds different coming from me.
She presses her lips together and I can see her fighting off a smile. She looks away, watching the bar instead. “I wonder what she’s doing here. Most queens?—”
“Don’t end up in a shithole like this?”
Those smart eyes flash to me. “It’s strange. Admit it.”
“That’s her story to tell. But I’d watch yourself. She tends to bite the head off anyone who asks about it.”
Claire’s lips protrude, softly confused by that. It’s a cute look on her.
I switch gears. “Wanna dance?
She shakes her head. She’s curled her hair and her tight curls bounce around her shoulders when she does.
“What?” I press. “Afraid you’re gonna step on my toes?”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “I could dance circles around you.”
I’m going to hell for it, but—I can’t help it. I love getting Claire fired up. Something about that scowl of hers sends a heat through me I can’t quite put a name to.
Maybe it’s something about how, when we’re going toe-to-toe like this, it’s the one time Claire and I are ever on equal footing. So I poke the bear. I extend my arm over the back of the booth, tilt my head towards the dance floor, and tell her: “Show me your moves, cowgirl.”
If there’s anything that can get Claire going, it’s a challenge.
She gets to her feet, grabs my arm, and tugs me out of the booth. We head up to the patch of floor where they’ve moved aside tables and chairs. The lights are low, the band is fiery, and people are jumping around to the music.
Claire slips in close to me. She drapes an arm around my shoulders, looks me in the eyes, and fits her hand into mine.
Aw, crap.
Are we ballroom dancing?
I wasn’t prepared for this one. But I’ll take it.
I move us together, sweeping her across the dance floor. We move well together, but her gaze falls to the ground. Her eyebrows knit together, a look of deep concentration etched over her expression.
“Claire!” I call out over the music. She blinks up at me, startled as a baby deer at the sound of her name. I give her a wink. “Are you having fun?”
“What?”
“ Fun ! Are you having it?”
She scowls. “Of course.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
She twists our hands and flips me her middle finger. I nearly keel over laughing.
That settles it. Riling up Claire is the most fun I’ve had in months.
And I think she’s having fun, too. There’s a smile creeping out like sunshine from behind the storm clouds of her blue-gray eyes.
I give her a spin. When I pull her in, her back is to my front. I drop my hands to her waist. “Loosen your shoulders,” I tell her. “You ain’t on a horse. Relax.”
I can feel it—the effort it takes for her to power down. All those tight-gears in her muscles, all that mechanical training locked in her brain…Claire slowly shuts it off and lets go. Her body works to the music instead, gently melting against mine.
I take her cues. This is her dance. Where she goes, I go.
She tosses her head back against my shoulder. She has her eyes closed. For once, she’s not focused on everyone else. She’s just listening. Moving how she wants to move. Enjoying herself.
I could watch Claire unravel all night long.