2. Chapter 2
Rocco
The woman with sunlight braided through her hair is a problem.
Not because she ignored the unloading instructions printed in bold across three separate pages of the vendor packet.
Half the vendors have ignored those. One drove onto the grass twenty minutes ago and nearly backed over a decorative barrel filled with pumpkins.
Another demanded to know why his propane tanks could not be stored beneath a fabric-covered table.
Those are ordinary problems that are predictable and solvable.
This woman looks at me as if she recognizes me. It’s strange. But it’s also intriguing because there’s a part of me that wants to know more about her. A lot more.
I don’t know what makes quartz ethical. I know the woman selling it has packed enough into one case to injure herself if she tries lifting it again.
Her tires crunch across the gravel behind me. She parks in the designated vendor area and returns at a quick pace, her long cardigan moving around her legs. Silver bracelets slide down one wrist when she reaches for the case.
“I can take that.”
“I already have it.”
“It’s heavier than it looks.”
“I noticed.”
Her gaze travels over me, pausing at the shoulder supporting most of the weight. The inspection is quick but too perceptive. I adjust my grip and carry the case beneath the white canopy marking her assigned space.
The laminated credential hanging from her neck turns as she follows me.
LORALEE TILSBY
Her business name is printed beneath it in smaller lettering.
LUNAR LIGHT HEALING
I set the case on the ground beside her folding table. “Leave the lane clear from now on.”
“I thought we established that.”
“We established that you moved your vehicle after being told twice.”
Her mouth curves. “Do you always count everything?”
“Yes.”
She removes the credential and untangles the cord from one of her braids.
Her hair is darker near the roots, with pale gold woven through its length.
Small silver leaves are tucked into the loose strands, although I can’t determine whether they are clips, jewelry, or another item with alleged energetic properties.
I expect the silver leaves to make her look whimsical to the point of absurdity. Instead, they accentuate the warm gold threaded through her hair and leave me staring at the soft curve of her neck longer than any security assessment requires.
“I’m Loralee,” she says.
“I read the badge.”
“That isn’t the same as introducing yourself.”
“Rocco.”
Her eyes meet mine again. Green, with flecks of amber catching the late-afternoon light. Her demeanor changes with satisfaction, as though my name confirms information she already possessed.
“Rocco,” she repeats.
My name sounds different in her voice. Softer and more intimate than one word spoken between strangers has any right to sound.
I look toward her vehicle rather than ask why she seems pleased. “What else needs moving?”
“All of it.”
“That wasn’t an offer.”
“Then you shouldn’t have asked.”
I return to the parking area. She follows, reaching the rear hatch as I pull out a second folding table.
“You don’t need to unload everything,” she says.
“I need this area cleared before the next vendor arrives.”
She pauses for an uncomfortable and awkward few seconds, then lifts two smaller boxes to carry toward her booth.
I remove the remaining tables, the padded crystal cases, and a narrow wooden shelving unit wrapped in blankets.
When I reach for the portable massage table, the weight shifts unexpectedly and pulls at my right shoulder.
Pain catches beneath my shoulder blade. Sharp at first, then familiar. I lower the table before the reaction reaches my face. Loralee stops several feet away. Her attention moves to my shoulder.
I straighten. “Where do you want this?”
“Inside the privacy screens.”
“The screens aren’t up.”
“They will be.”
“What is the table for?”
“Private sessions.”
I look at the padded surface and then at her.
Amusement warms her eyes. “Not that kind.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your energy did.”
“My energy doesn’t speak for me.”
“It has a great deal to say.”
I lift the table again, using my left arm to take more of the weight. “Where?”
She points toward the back corner beneath the maple tree. “There, please.”
I carry it into the booth and set it against the low timber fence. The ache in my shoulder spreads toward my neck, but it will loosen once I move around. It always does.
Loralee places her boxes beside the table. “Old injury?”
“No.”
“That answer arrived very quickly.”
I turn toward her. She stands close enough that I can smell something warm and faintly herbal beneath the cold mountain air.
Orange, maybe. Clove. Her cardigan hangs open over a fitted black shirt, and several pendants rest against the soft curve of her breasts.
One is shaped like a crescent moon. Another holds a stone the same green as her eyes.
There is nothing fragile about her. She has a softly feminine body, beautiful hands, and the self-possession of a woman comfortable taking up exactly the space she occupies. My body notices all of it.
“You should finish unloading,” I tell her.
“You finished it for me.”
She smiles as though she has won something. “Thank you, Rocco.”
The directness catches me off guard. No teasing. No mystical observation. Just gratitude offered in a way that makes leaving feel more abrupt than it should.
I nod toward her booth. “Security briefing at six. Vendor pavilion.”
“I’ll be there.”
“On time.”
Her bracelets chime as she places one hand over her heart. “Mystic’s honor.”
“That’s a new one I’ve never heard.”
“First time for everything, Rocco.”
I can’t suppress a grin and her laugh follows me as I walk away. I make it thirty yards before looking back. Loralee is watching me. She doesn’t turn away when our eyes meet. Neither do I.
A radio call from the eastern entrance breaks the moment. I press the button at my shoulder and continue toward the soundstage.
“Rocco.”
“Go ahead.”
“Delivery truck at Gate Three. Driver isn’t on the approved list.”
“I’m coming.”
The festival grounds occupy most of the town park and two blocks of the adjoining street.
Artisan booths fill the center section. Food vendors line the western edge, where their generators, propane, and cooking equipment can be monitored without placing open flames beneath the trees.
The children’s area sits near the library parking lot.
Live music will run from noon until nine on the temporary stage.
On paper, the arrangement is sensible. In practice, seven thousand people, temporary structures, cash-heavy vendors, wandering children, cooking fires, and alcohol service create risks no map can eliminate.
The mayor mentioned that Cady Springs has held an autumn festival for years without serious trouble.
That history made several committee members reluctant to hire private security.
The mayor changed their minds after two neighboring towns experienced coordinated vendor thefts, several fights, and one incident involving a firearm.
Blackridge Protective Services is not here because Cady Springs suddenly expects violence. We are here because believing something cannot happen is not a security plan.
At Gate Three, I verify the driver’s identification and discover the approved vendor has subcontracted delivery without notifying anyone. The supplies are legitimate, but the oversight costs twenty minutes and another reminder that procedures exist for reasons.
By the time I finish, two tent crews need access to the same lane, a volunteer has misplaced a ring of storage keys, and one of my employees has found an unsecured electrical panel behind the stage.
Problems arrive in patterns. Most people see individual inconveniences. My job is to recognize when they begin connecting.
The shoulder pain becomes a steady pulse as I cross the grounds. I rotate my arm once and feel the joint catch. Cold weather sometimes aggravates it, particularly after several nights of poor sleep. I can manage both. I have managed worse.
The vendor pavilion is already half-full when I arrive for the briefing.
Folding chairs face a low platform where the festival coordinator stands beside a projected map.
Vendors talk over one another while unpacking information packets they should have read before arriving.
I remain near the rear exit and scan the room.
Two emergency doors. One blocked by a stack of unused chairs. A narrow center aisle. Six extension cords running beneath the refreshment table.
A man in a red jacket without a visible credential stands near the eastern wall. I watch him for several seconds before he turns, revealing a volunteer badge tucked beneath the jacket. Harmless, as far as I can determine. I still memorize his face.
Loralee enters at five fifty-eight.
She has changed her clothes, or added to them.
A wide rust-colored wrap covers her black shirt, and her hair is now twisted over one shoulder in an elaborate braid.
Silver leaves catch the overhead light. She carries a notebook beneath one arm and a paper cup in each hand.
Her eyes move through the pavilion and find me immediately.
I’m not standing near the entrance. I’m partially obscured by several vendors, but she looks directly at me without searching. A small smile touches her lips. Then she walks over.
“I brought you coffee.”
She holds out the cup.
I don’t take it. “You don’t know how I drink it.”
“Black.”
“Why is that your impression?”
“Milk would be too comforting. Sugar requires optimism.”
The vendor beside us laughs. I don’t. Loralee continues holding out the coffee.
“What if I don’t drink caffeine?” I ask.
“You do.”
“What if I already had enough?”
“You haven’t.”
“Is my energy telling you that?”
“No.” She smiles more fully. “Observation isn’t exclusive to security specialists.”
I take the coffee.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She sits in the last chair of the nearest row, leaving me with a clear view of her and the room beyond. I tell myself that is why I remain where I am.
The coordinator begins with schedules, parking rules, emergency exits, and weather procedures. I take over for the security portion. Conversations quiet as I step onto the platform.
“My name is Rocco. I own Blackridge Protective Services, and my team will be on-site throughout the festival.”
Loralee raises her coffee in a small salute. I ignore her.
“Wear your credentials whenever you are inside a vendor or restricted area. Do not loan them to employees, family members, or anyone helping at your booth. Cash should never be left unattended. At closing, vendors using cashboxes will have access to escorted deposit routes.”
A man in the second row raises his hand. “We’ve never needed that before.”
“I hope you won’t need it this year.”
“Then why complicate everything?”
“Because predictable routines create predictable vulnerabilities.”
He looks unconvinced, but he lowers his hand.
I continue. “Report anyone entering booths without permission, photographing locks or storage areas, or asking detailed questions about closing procedures. If you see an unattended bag, do not move it. Notify security. If an altercation begins, create distance. Do not intervene.”
Loralee’s mood has changed. The amusement is gone, replaced by close attention.
“Emergency lanes stay clear at all times,” I add.
I finish with radio points, first-aid locations, and evacuation routes. The coordinator takes questions while I return to the back of the pavilion. Loralee waits until the room begins emptying before approaching me.
“Your energy changed up there.”
I finish the coffee she gave me. It is strong and exactly how I drink it.
“My energy did not do anything.”
“You became larger.”
“I stepped onto a platform.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
She tilts her head, examining me with an openness that would feel intrusive from anyone else. From her, it feels like standing too close to a fire. Warm enough to draw me forward. Dangerous if I forget what it can do.
“What did you see?” I ask before deciding not to.
Her gaze holds mine. “Someone who takes responsibility very seriously.”
“That information was available in the briefing.”
“It was available before you spoke.”
I crush the empty cup slightly between my fingers. “Do you tell everyone what you think you see?”
“Only when I believe they need to hear it.”
“I don’t.”
“Most people who need something don’t crave to hear it.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” she says softly. “You aren’t.”
The pavilion has nearly emptied. Outside, evening settles over the festival grounds. Strings of lights glow between the trees, turning the leaves overhead to copper and gold. Loralee’s face is half-shadowed, but her eyes remain bright.
I should return to the perimeter inspection. My team is waiting for final assignments, and Booth 37 still requires a safety review.
That is why I ask, “Are you finished setting up?”
“Not quite.”
“I need to inspect your booth.”
“Tonight?”
“Before opening.”
“Are all the vendors receiving private inspections?”
“The ones with fabric walls, electrical equipment, oils, candles, and a massage table are.”
“My candles are not open flame.”
“I’ll verify that.”
“And the massage table?”
My gaze moves over her face. Loralee steps closer. The silver bracelets at her wrist make a quiet sound, although she is otherwise perfectly still.
“That may require a more thorough inspection,” she says.
Heat moves through me. It’s swift, unwelcome, and impossible to mistake. Her expression remains innocent for approximately one second. Then she smiles.
I look toward the exit. “Show me the booth.”
She walks beside me into the autumn night, close enough that her cardigan brushes my hand. I don’t move away.
By the time we reach booth 37, my shoulder has tightened into a hard, steady pulse. Loralee looks at it once, then toward the massage table waiting behind her privacy screen. Her smile changes. I’m wondering who’s inspecting who.