Chapter Eighteen
Maren
“ M aren.”
I lift my head a half inch, eyes squinting, unsure if it’s dark or light out—but I can see who’s in front of me.
Rob. Crouching at the side of the bed.
Behind me, a sleepy Will stirs, pushes up on an elbow.
“The fuck...?” he murmurs, silver hair sticking up at all angles.
“Back to sleep, Scarlet,” Rob says to him. “Maren,” he repeats. “Come with me?”
I squint my eyes shut, trying to process. “What time is it?” I ask. “Why are you even up this early?”
“I’ve been up. Clearing the roads. Now I’m back. I wanna take you somewhere.”
I can barely process this. I don’t want to get up. It’s too early. I’m tired. I can’t imagine there’s anything worth doing at this hour of day.
But something in the way he asks—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s asking, after what happened last night...
Either way. I get up.
When we get out to the garage a few minutes later, there’s a purple-pink line at the scraps of horizon I can see through the black tree trunks around the house. My phone says 5:05.
Glorious , I think sarcastically, and stuff it in the pocket of the jean shorts I’d pulled on, along with a slightly-too-big, worn-in T-shirt and a pair of work boots.
“There’s no dress code where we’re going, right?” I mumble.
Rob looks back at me and laughs. “Just don’t show up too formal.” He looks me up and down once. Then a second time, a little slower. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
He jingles the keys, and that’s when I realize there’s a car out front I’ve never seen before.
A pickup, with FORD spelled out on the deep red of the tailgate. An F-150—a late ‘80s model, from the looks of it, back before pickup trucks were the size of tanks. Just everything you need in a truck and nothing you don’t.
“What’s this?” I say, running a hand over the hood. It’s in good shape, for as old as it is.
“Family car,” Rob says. “My daddy’s.” He opens the passenger door—just like that.
I slide in the front bench seat, and the engine rumbles to life. It sounds nice and clean. Well-maintained. I wonder if Rob’s been doing it himself, wherever he’s been hiding this all this time.
A thousand different conversation starters flick through my still under-caffeinated mind as we drive.
Are you feeling better?
Are you feeling worse ?
Did you actually clear out an entire stretch of road all on your own, all overnight?
Your dad’s car, you say?
But I can’t seem to get any of them past my lips. So instead, I prop an elbow on the door, rest my head, and watch the scenery pass us by.
The deep green of the forest, still mostly asleep. A few birds twittering, but everything else dormant. It’s beautiful, I think. This forest. I do like it here—I love it here.
And suddenly, the thought of being anywhere else—even a white sand beach or a far-off, glittering city with world-record- breaking skyscrapers—seems like a shame. A punishment, almost.
I glance at Rob, whose hand is easy on the wheel, his sleeves rolled up just to his elbows. He doesn’t look too tired. Eyes sharp and alert. The only indicator he pulled an all-nighter is the little sheen of stubble on his chin, which I prefer there anyway.
We trundle out of the woods, past the rolling fields, as the sky’s edge warms and blooms into a honey-gold sunrise. A little haze clings low to the ground over the leaves of soybean, and my chest catches a little as I realize we’re headed toward Nottingham.
But he doesn’t take us anywhere near the main drag. Or the east side. He splits in between, drives almost to the other side of it—to a small stone building with a gravel parking lot at the end of a chunked-up, unmaintained road. An American flag sticks out, red, white, and bright blue, despite the shabby facade of the building itself.
An engraved stone over the door transom says:
VFW POST 309
Rob swings the wheel and navigates us to the farthest corner of the parking lot, under a tree. Kills the engine.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I swivel in my seat, looking back at the building. Notice a feature I didn’t before—a tri-fold sign, white with uneven black marker writing on it.
brEAKFAST TODAY
$3.50 A PERSON
5:30 UNTIL SOLD OUT
“Starving,” I say.
Inside, it’s a mix of humble and proud. Artifacts, photos, postcards, flyers, and notices: recruitment, Fourths of July, memorial services and award ceremonies. It’s weathered by age but lovingly presented, reverent on paneled walls.
But it’s a bar, really. Primarily. The counter stretches the whole expanse of the long, narrow room. The barstools are high-backed, and the liquor behind it mid-shelf at best. Rolling Rocks, one for $1.50, two for $2 , reads a handwritten sign, and a TV plays cable news on mute that no one’s watching.
Of the three booths on the side, two are occupied—older men with shockingly white hair and mottled, sun-browned skin under short-sleeve collared shirts. Some wear ball caps indicating their allegiance: USS Louisville. Vietnam Vet.
Rob takes two steps in, puts his hands in his pockets, rolls his shoulders back, nods. He’s both at ease and not his usual overconfident self—like he’s really taking stock of the place.
“Something smells good,” he says to me.
He’s right. It does. I can’t pick out a single individual food from the aroma, but it’s definitely salty, fried, and breakfast-y.
“Hey, y’all—welcome in.”
A woman a head shorter than me, whose hair makes up the difference and whose eyelashes are practically sticky black triangles, smiles up at us.
“So glad y’all could join us,” she says.
“Glad we’re here,” Rob replies.
I can’t tell from their interaction whether they know each other, or it’s just regular Southern politeness.
“I’m Donna,” she says, answering my question—guess they’re just now getting acquainted. “And y’all are very welcome to take this booth right here.” She indicates the one closest to the door. “Murph’s on the grill today, and he’s cookin’ up a storm. So you just take these—” she hands us each a sheet of paper, “—and check off whatever you want. I’ll be around to collect it. Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I answer for both of us, and give her a smile. A real one. Donna seems like a person it’s hard not to like.
“You got it, missy.” She winks at me and disappears.
Rob gestures to the booth, chivalrous to the end.
“Thanks,” I say, casting one last glance around me as I slide into a seat.
I stare at the wall next to me, where a vending machine for stamps—priced 13 cents each—is stuck with its little drawer rusted permanently halfway out.
“It’s a good breakfast,” Rob says, resting his forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but looks ain’t everything. Nothing fancy, but I’d say it’d give Tuck a run for his money.”
My eyebrows go up. “Well, I’m intrigued,” I croak. I clear my throat, still froggy from sleep, and scrub at the corners of my eyes just as Donna reappears—setting down two thick navy-blue mugs with a faded VFW logo. And a whole pot of coffee.
“You two look like you need one to yourself,” she says. “You need a refill, just holler.”
“Thank you, Donna,” Rob says, and flashes her a smile that sends a natural pink up behind the spots of her maroon-colored blush.
He sets about pouring coffee—me first, then him. Takes a sip, looks out the Venetian blinds to the parking lot, then back at me.
There are plenty of wisecracks I could make. Come here often? Don’t break the bank on this one —the most expensive item on the paper menu is the upgrade to bacon and sausage—but when I open my mouth, something in me says to keep quiet.
“I used to come here a lot,” Rob says. “Breakfast once a week. Great if you’re broke. Hell, great if you’re not broke. But I was at the time, so...win-win.”
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee. It’s not gourmet, that’s for sure—but it’s strong.
“How’d you even...” I look around us again. Of the six or so people here, Donna included, no one’s even approaching our age. We’ve lowered the average by at least thirty years just walking through the threshold.
“It’s a good group,” he says. “I mean, the regulars, sure—but the organization in general.”
He presses his lips together, blows out a breath through his nose.
“My daddy served.”
It’s a simple sentence. And yet it stuns me so much I almost forget to speak.
I’ve never heard Rob speak about his family. Never. Will—sure. It’s the whole cause of his psychodrama. LJ, enough to know he hates them and wishes them all dead, if they aren’t already. Tuck—bits and pieces, at least. A normal suburban upbringing, easy to pacify with a lie about working somewhere in international banking and not coming home too much.
But Rob? Nothing.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Iraq. When I was a kid.”
“Wow,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know where this is going, other than somewhere meaningful.
“You don’t have to act impressed,” Rob says—not unkindly. “For all you know, he was a traitor and a shit shooter who committed fratricide.”
I open my mouth, but his face relaxes.
“I’m just ribbing you, pretty lady. He was good enough at what he did, so I gather. Cared about it a lot, that’s for sure.”
“What...” I don’t know how to phrase the question. But maybe the phrasing doesn’t matter. He knows what I’m going to ask. “What happened?”
“Got killed,” Rob says. “IED. Riding along. And then—” He shrugs.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t gotta be,” Rob says. “But thank you.”
“Was that when—” A second question I don’t know how to articulate.
“Y’all need a minute?” Donna’s back, hovering at the edge of our table.
Rob snaps to life, smiles at her. “Yes, ma’am. I believe we do—well, more like thirty seconds.”
He picks up the ballpoint she left us, makes a few quick checkmarks on his menu, then takes mine. Pauses a split second. And does the same.
“He’s efficient,” Donna says. “I like it. Be right out.” She scoops the pages away and disappears.
“How’d you know what I want?” I ask him.
“I’d never presume to know what you want,” Rob says. “I put one of everything and I’ll let you sort it out once it’s here.”
Can’t argue with that logic , I think.
“Was that...?” He trails off, echoing my question. Then picks back up. “Was that when I turned to a life of crime, you mean?”
I pause. “Not in so many words. But I guess, yeah.” I clutch my coffee for warmth.
“Not directly,” Rob says. “It’d be nice and neat, right? Pretty little villain arc for me. But no. Right after, I was just angry. Because dead sucks. But here everyone was telling me I should be proud—that he died fighting for our freedoms.”
He tips his head to the side. Then the other.
“Okay, so I’m proud. I don’t mind being proud. I sure do like our freedoms. Take regular advantage of the smoking and drinking ones, at least. But then I start looking around me. You know, at actual America, the one that’s in Sherwood. And I see that maybe it’s all kind of bullshit. I mean, I’m a teenager, so everything’s bullshit, right?” He laughs. “But then the bills catch up with me. I see what it costs just to have the privilege of existing here, in a country where you’re free to pay taxes out the nose so some damn glorified rent-a-cops from the sheriff’s office can drive around in Humvees. In a place where the best job a man can get is volunteering to go get killed by strangers halfway across the world. And it just—”
He presses a palm to the table. Not hard enough to be called a hit, but with a little bit of force, just enough to rattle the silverware.
“Well. Then I got angry again. And I think you know where it picked up from there.”
I nod. Because I sure as hell do.
“I would’ve enlisted myself, if I’m honest,” Rob says. “Once I got my head on straight. Stopped fucking around. But by then, I was a convicted felon. So I—y’know. Good enough to rot away in jail. Not good enough to die for my country.” He flashes a little grin. “And I suppose that’s why I sought out alternate means, you could say.”
“Order up!”
Donna sets a platter in front of each of us with portions that could only be called kingly. My eyes go wide at the mess of eggs, toasted bread, grits, every kind of breakfast meat, and butter dripping everywhere.
“Donna, I think I’m in love,” Rob says.
She giggles. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“Maybe a napkin or two?” I say.
“Sure thing, sweetie.” She pulls some out of her waist pack. “Enjoy.”
I whistle under my breath and pick up my fork.
“Don’t act like you’re not equal to it, pretty lady,” Rob says, forking up his own bite. “I’ve seen you put away a lot of meat.”
I bug my eyes at him. “Perv.”
I kick him lightly under the table. He doesn’t kick me back—just taps his work boot to mine. Playing footsie like we’re kids on a first date.
We eat in silence for a little while, because it’s so good, and there’s so much food, and I’m honestly astonished to think that $3.50 even covers the cost of it, let alone turns any kind of profit for the vets.
“He would’ve liked you, Maren,” Rob says, looking across the table at me. “My daddy.”
“Really?” I say.
“An absolute dime piece who can fix a car better than he can and puts up with his son and his son’s idiot friends?” Rob laughs. “Absolutely.”
I have to blush.
“Shit, he might’ve tried to steal you away himself,” he adds. “But yeah. He’d have loved everything about you. No question.”
We clear our plates. Rob goes to the register at the end of the bar to pay our tab, comes back with change, then flicks through his billfold and leaves ten crisp hundreds, tucked under the edge of his plate.
Then he nods at the door. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.”
Outside, it’s more properly morning, even though it can’t be later than 7 a.m.
We take a few steps toward the parking lot, but Rob catches my wrist, pulls me back.
“Wait.”
I wait.
“You know...I don’t even know why I brought you here, exactly,” he says. “I guess I just felt like I had to. Maybe an apology for how I acted last night? But maybe now you understand—”
“You don’t need to explain,” I interrupt him. “You don’t need to now, and you didn’t before.”
“Damn. You trust me that much?” Rob grins. “Bad idea.”
“I know you that well ,” I correct. “And yes, it probably is.”
My words hang in the air, and for a second, it’s like time stops.
Then everything flies forward in fast motion and—
He’s seizing my face. Kissing me. Hard, rough, urgent.
Teeth scraping. Stubble burning my cheek.
And I kiss him back, deep, my body going liquid as he takes me by the waist, pulls me around the corner, pushes me to where we’re out of sight enough, maybe, I don’t know or care. I’m tripping over my feet, I’m fumbling—both our hands are fumbling—his belt, my shorts, zippers and buckles and buttons—and he’s breathing hard into my neck and kissing me, kissing me, lifting me up against the wall and pinning my legs open and plunging into me, skin against hot skin.
I breathe as he enters, fingers tense on his shoulders. Breathe him in.
“You’re all I ever wanted, Maren,” he mumbles against my throat. “You’re everything.”
I can barely draw the breath to speak, but the words come anyway. “So take me.”
He does. Aching, desperate, messy and fast, clamping a hand over my mouth when I climax and then following himself, hissing through clenched teeth as he floods me.
Gently, he sets me down, so my back’s still pressed against the cool side of the VFW building, legs shaking, lips swollen from kissing him like I was trying to climb inside his skin.
He leans forward, rests his forehead against mine.
“We better get out of here,” he murmurs at last. “Public indecency—” He pauses, catches his breath. “Not a crime I want on my record.”
He pulls back, and his fingers tighten around my waist. Just enough. I lean forward and kiss him, nodding.
Then stoop to pick up the keys that tumbled out of his pocket. “Can I drive?”
He grins. “Sure.”
We collect ourselves, more or less, round the corner again, and I’m about to make some wiseass remark when—
The skid of brakes. Slam of a car door.
Rob’s head snaps to the road.
“Found ‘em!”
Voices—male. Close.
“Got a visual. Matches the photo.”
“Go!”
Someone’s seen us.
Or seen him.
Rob looks at me, jaw tight.
“Take the truck,” he says. “Get back home.”
“What? No, you’ll—”
He pushes me away from him, almost too rough, his shirt still unbuttoned, his jeans loose.
“I’ll shift , Maren,” he says, almost an order. “Meet you there.”
Right. I nod. His hands fall away, and I watch his body ripple and collapse and reform as the fox takes his place—dusky red, eyes gleaming—and he bolts, to the brush and trees, quick and silent as smoke.
I spin toward the parking lot, heart hammering.
The truck’s thirty feet away.
I sprint.
Keys. Where the fuck are the keys?
They’re in my shorts pocket—they should be, unless I dropped them—
Focus, Maren.
I’m there. I yank the door open, throw myself into the driver’s seat, but my hands are shaking so hard I drop the damn keys in the footwell. I fold down, searching for them blindly, grasping with fingers—
Shouting, footsteps. Squealing wheels, rev of an engine. Coming, they’re coming.
I shove my arm further forward, shoulder banging the dash—
“Over there! This way, you fuckin’—”
“Go!”
I close my eyes, pray—he’s got to be far enough away by now, got to be, he’s fast—when the passenger door wrenches open.
No. Go back, stay back, run away, Rob. I twist up to look at him, frantic—
“What—”
But it’s not Rob.
Hands grab for me, rough and fast.
“Got her,” someone yells.
“No!” I scream. My forearm slams the horn—brief, useless. “Get—let me go!”
I’m fighting, clawing, thrashing. But it’s too strong, they’re too strong—pulling me out by the legs, tearing me from the cab.
I get one solid kick in before something thick and black drops over my head.