Chapter 10
TEN
SUMMER
She works in a rhythm the bees sing to.
I can hear their happy buzzing from here, and see how they swirl around her as she pulls wooden panels out of the boxes, and scrapes the combs into a bucket.
Her hands move in steady work, telling me without words that she’s done this a million times.
She probably thinks I’m some sort of whack job now, but her earlier words brought back flashes of memory about that night I’d forgotten. Like cold water, they splashed over me and numbed me to my bones.
“She won’t let ya fall…”
Blood soaked hands filled my vision and I couldn’t see past it. Reality and memory collided in that moment, until all I could do was stare.
Now all I can see is her, and the way she moves effortlessly, surrounded by her bees. How delicately she works so she doesn’t disturb their flow. Tendrils of her hair poke out of the mask she’s got on, and the suit she wears accentuates all her curves, making her look even more scrumptious.
When she’s done, she walks back over to the door where I’m leaning, and goes past me without a word.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, unsure how to go about telling her I’m not insane without sounding like it. “I–”
“Is this why you followed me around yesterday, showin’ up wherever I was workin’? Do you enjoy watching me?” She snaps, ripping the net off her head, and slamming it down on the table.
“Yes,” I answer simply.
Her mouth pops open and shuts, then she does it again. Though her eyes never leave mine, a look of confusion and shock covers her face at my boldness.
“Well… alright then. Just stay outta my way, and–”
“I think you’re hands down the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” It feels good to get that off my chest, maybe saying it out loud will help keep me sane.
She blinks a few times, huffs, and then spins around, doing something with the bucket of fresh honey combs that I can’t see.
“You can’t be sayin’ stuff like that.” She says over her shoulder, not looking at me.
“Why’s that?”
“It’s–”
“Inappropriate?” I offer.
At that she turns around, and I swear she looks right through me, but if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of playfulness in her gaze before she refocuses on her task.
She works as I watch, though admittedly, I’m mostly staring at her ass.
She’s peeled off the top part of the suit and tied it around her thick waist.
My thoughts run rampant with all the things I would do with her. I imagine she’s got the softest skin and love handles to grab on to. Picturing her under me, head thrown back, mouth open. The sounds she would make…
“Well, you seem fine now,” she says, interrupting my thoughts like a bucket of ice water washing down my spine.
“Only because I’m imagining all the ways I’d like to make you come,” the words slip out. I know I should probably have kept them to myself, but damn if they aren’t true, and I really want to see how she reacts.
Her cheeks darken, eyes narrow, and her hands fall away from her hips fisting beside her thighs. “That’s a little forward.”
With a shrug I place my hands in my pockets. If not, I’m not sure what I might do. “It’s honest.”
“Earlier, when we were riding… why’d you go all quiet on me?”
Shit. So much for honesty.
“I just haven’t been up on a horse in a while. I guess I didn’t remember them being so tall.” I lie, easily, and I hate it. Loathe it with all my being, I want to scrub the lie from her brain and pretend I didn’t say it.
“Right.”
“About the imagining, you wanna know–”
“You’re tough to figure out,” she says, ignoring my obvious interest and cutting me off.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you’re obviously interested in me, but at the same time you seem guarded.
Like you don’t want me to see too deep, so you use overly sexual come-on’s as a defense when you want me to stop askin’ questions.
” She says, almost off handedly. It’s alarming really, how effortlessly she sees through my bullshit.
“Not a bad theory. The real question is, are you interested in me?” I need to know for sure if I’m barking up the wrong tree here. I mean, I’m attracted to people, all kinds, but her? She’s got this spark, this effervescence, even when she’s trying to be stern.
“And what if I am, would you answer my questions then? No bullshit?”
“Ask me whatever you want,” I offer with a slow satisfied smile. She doesn’t need to know all of my dark secrets to want to fuck me, but she’s giving herself that excuse.
For now.
She scoffs, unties the suit and bends over, shimmying the fabric down her legs. “Okay, an easy one to start, what’s your type?” Hanging the suit on a hook, she nods to the door and I step back into the field of wildflowers she’s got her bees in.
“You, Honey. You’re my type.”
She stares at me for a minute, like that was exactly what she expected me to say. Then she walks past me, taking care not to let us touch as she leads us back up to the house, and I follow. I see Mrs. Turner waving at us from the porch, and I try talking to Indy one more time before we get there.
“Indy, listen–”
“You said you’d answer my question. No bullshit.”
“I–”
“I didn’t know Indy had help down with the bees!” Mrs. Turner says, like it’s some sort of miracle. Indy mumbles something and her mom swats at her, before turning her smile back my way. “Don’t mind her. She gets crabby when she’s hungry, what about you Summer? You hungry?”
I can’t believe the day’s already gone so fast that it’s time for lunch, but I nod and follow Mrs. Turner inside. There are pictures lining the walls, much like the motel with Mr. and Mrs. Grimes, framed photographs of family, and of Indy throughout the years.
She was adorable, little pig tails flopping while riding a horse, an expression of amazement as she looked at some huge amusement park. There’s even a picture of her first day of school with a huge smile, standing beside a blonde girl of the same age.
My mouth ticks up, because there, on the bottom of the photo in neat child-like penmanship, it says, Melinda Turner and Lucy Tritt.
Melinda.
I can see why she goes by Indy, Melinda seems too formal for her, too serious.
“Come on in, Summer, we don’t bite.” Mrs. Turner says from inside the kitchen.
Imagining Indy sinking her teeth into me…
or mine into her, is a thought I could get behind, but now isn’t exactly the time.
Shaking my head, I walk into the small kitchen and take the seat Mrs. Turner offers.
The cabinets are all a pale blue, with black and white checkered flooring giving the room a vintage appeal.
The appliances look fairly new though, almost out of place.
“What has Indy shown you?” She asks, offering me a plate. “Do you take mustard on your bologna?”
“My… what?” I ask, a little lost with her heavy accent.
“It’s like a pork slice of lunch meat,” Indy huffs, leaning her elbow on the table. “Mama’s makin’ sandwiches.”
“Oh, no mustard, but I’ll take cheese,” I offer, as if I understood anything that she just said. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Turner smiles, turning toward the stove and sliding a perfectly toasted sandwich off the pan.
Indy disappears into a door off the kitchen, and returns with a bag of plain chips.
Throwing them on the table, she heads to her mom's side and takes the sandwich she just finished with, and sets it down in front of her chair.
Mrs. Turner whispers something to Indy when she walks back, and Indy’s shoulders stiffen for a few seconds before her mom puts a plate in her hand and slides another sandwich from the pan.
Coming back my way, she plops the plate down and holds a hand against her hip, the other on the chair across from me. “Need anythin’ to drink?”
“Whatever you have’s good with me,” I shrug. I’d really like more of that tea from last night. Santi wasn’t joking about how good it is.
Indy tosses some ice from the freezer into three glasses, and fills them all with a pitcher of tea from the fridge. Carrying them all expertly to the table, I pop a brow.
“My best friend co-owns a diner with her Mawmaw,” she says, as if that should explain how she maneuvers easily. “I help out occasionally.”