Chapter 8
Chad
P layful vulgarities spill from Iggy’s mouth so casually you’d think we were old high school pals shooting the shit. I’m trying to hide the effect of it, but her dirty mouth combined with the plump pout of her bottom lip gets my heart pumping, and fuck if I don’t want to grab her, run her up to my bed, and tear her clothes off.
But that’s not being a good friend, and we’ve both agreed, a friend is all she needs right now.
“We’re here!” I shout and bolt out of the truck so fast I forget to cut the engine.
I leave it running and hightail it inside. I’ve already given my niece a heads-up. She knows we’re coming, but there’s no harm in announcing our arrival, especially if it’ll give me a chance to walk off the tightness in my pants.
“Darcy’s excited to meet you,” I say a few minutes later, when I return to turn off the truck and help Iggy with her suitcase. “I live just up there.” I point to the stairs leading up to the apartment above the detached garage.
I roll Iggy’s giant, gold suitcase up the walk to the front door, and she follows behind me, but when my hand lands on the doorknob, I hesitate. People usually only have one of two reactions when they first meet Darcy and Haisley. They either assume they’re sisters and start talking down to Darcy like she’s an overgrown tween; or, if they realize she's Haisley's mom, they start grilling her on how old she was when she got pregnant and where the father is, etc., like they’re entitled to that information. Yes, she’s a young mom, only seventeen, but she’s a fine young lady who shouldn’t have to be the bigger person every time a stranger can’t keep their fucking curiosity in check.
Iggy doesn’t bat an eye. She shakes Darcy’s hand and bops the baby on the nose. “You have a lovely home,” she says, calling it a dreamy fairytale cottage, which is exactly what I thought when I first saw it.
“Oh, no,” Darcy says. “This isn't–”
“Let me show you to the guest room,” I cut in, grabbing the handle of Iggy's bag and leading the way down the hall.
But instead of following me, she asks Darcy if she's sure it’s alright that she stays. “Just two months, and then I’ll be out of your hair. I won’t stay a day longer, I swear. And if I start driving you crazy, give me the secret signal, and I’ll vanish. You won’t see me for the rest of the day.”
“What’s the secret signal?” Darcy asks, tilting her head up at Iggy with a big grin on her face. She likes her already, I can tell. Who wouldn’t?
“We have to agree on one,” Iggy says. “How do you feel about a classic? The double bird. You do this–” she flips the middle fingers of both hands at Darcy, “and I’ll know you’ve had all of me you can take. I won’t ask any questions. I’ll just go.”
Darcy turns red in the face and hides her laugh behind her hand, but she agrees to the secret signal.
“This is it,” I say, pushing open the door. Iggy wanders in a couple of steps before shooting me a puzzled look over her shoulder. She explores further, disappearing into the closet first then the bathroom. Her head pops out.
“This isn't Darcy’s room?”
“Nope. It's the guest room.”
“But it's the master.”
“Darcy likes the one by Haisley,” I explain. It's not like she couldn't have taken this room if she wanted to, but she refused it.
I leave Iggy to settle in and head to the kitchen to rustle up an early dinner. I missed lunch, and I’m starving. I’m guessing Iggy has to be hungry too.
A quick rummage through the fridge, and I’ve got my menu sorted: shrimp scampi over linguini and a baby green salad. I’m no trained chef or anything, but I’ve been cooking for myself since I was ten. I can whip up a decent meal for a special occasion, like say, welcoming someone new to the home.
It’s almost too comfortable the way we all settle in around the kitchen table, a four-top that now has an occupant for each side, kinda like it was meant to be. Iggy’s changed clothes, still in all black: black leggings and a slouchy black top with a spidery pattern in silver thread. It’s nice passing food around, sharing a meal, and chatting and laughing about nothing. By the end of it, my exhales start coming out like soft sighs.
“So, how do you know Chad?” Darcy asks. I straighten up in my chair, but before I have time to wonder what she’ll say, she’s already answering.
“I picked him up at a bar a few weeks ago, took him out back, and showed him a good time,” Iggy says, matter-of-factly. Well, she’s honest , I think as my face grows warm, and I take a big swig of my water.
“Wait, you’re that woman?” Darcy asks.
“What woman?” Iggy and I ask at the same time. I’m not in the habit of sharing the details of my romantic life with Darcy. So I’m genuinely curious who she thinks she’s talking about.
Darcy glances back and forth between us before she gives me her sheepish answer. “Weren’t you trying to run into someone at Under the Volcano? You kept saying you needed to stop by on your way home, like every day, for weeks. I thought you were looking for someone special…” she trails off, blushing. “You usually just go on Fridays, don’t you?” she asks.
“Yep, I go on Fridays,” I say, answering her last question to avoid her first.
“ Every Friday?” Iggy asks and raises an eyebrow at me, but it’s Darcy who answers.
“Without fail. That’s where he goes to practice his pickup lines,” she says.
“How do you know that?” I ask, not hiding my surprise.
“Babs told me,” Darcy says with a shrug. Luís’s wife, of course she knows what I'm up to.
“Big mouth,” I grumble under my breath.
“Today’s Friday,” Iggy says, perking up. “Are you going tonight?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. I’d much rather stay here. I’m having a good time. But Iggy doesn’t like it. At first she protests, then she questions why not, and finally, she flat out insists.
“Yes you are. We made a deal. I’ll help you practice, like we agreed, and then you’re going.”
“Why don’t you go with him?” Darcy suggests with a sly smile.
Iggy and I have established that we are just friends, I know that, but it doesn’t stop the hopeful spark from lighting up my chest. I’d love to take her back to Under the Volcano. I know exactly which song I’d play on the jukebox when I ask her to dance. Friends can dance, can’t they?
“No.” Iggy shakes her head in a firm and decided no, not even considering it for a second. It stings of rejection even though I know it shouldn’t.
“No bars for me. Judge’s orders.” Darcy and I both glance at her horn monitor. Oh yeah, that. Iggy flushes a deeper pink and her shoulders stiffen, but she recovers quickly. “If we’re done here, you and I have homework.” She stands up from the table and extends a hand to me. I take it, and every nerve in my body sings at the sensation of her palm sliding against mine. She tugs, and I lift from my chair to follow after her, the dumb bunny once again.
I want this woman so fucking bad I can’t see straight. But even if she weren’t in a tough spot, and even if it wouldn’t make me the world’s worst human being to hit on her when she clearly just needs a friend, it’s like she said, she’s only here for two months. Then she’s gone.
“ C ome on, whip it out,” she says as soon as we’re settled side by side on the couch. I took one end. She could have taken the other, but nope. She takes the middle seat facing me and tucks her feet up under her.
“Excuse me?” I ask, eyes bugging. Did I hear her right?
“That little notebook of yours. I know you’ve got it shoved in your back pocket. Let’s see it.” She extends her hand, and I press myself flat against the backrest. I wish she’d been asking me to unzip my pants instead. I do not want to show her my notebook.
“Forget it. Let’s start fresh,” I suggest.
“No. You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into what you want to say. That’s the best place to start. Let me look it over.” She extends her hand further until it’s hovering above my lap, and I don’t know if it’s her proximity or the thought of her flipping through my private musings that has my heart racing, but it’s thumping loud in my ears as I reach behind me and pull out the little moleskin notebook. I close my eyes and grimace as I place it in her open palm.
“Be gentle,” I grumble, then shoot her a wary glance.
She flicks her tongue out and chuckles. “Don’t be nervous,” she says, and I’m reminded of the fact that demons can taste things humans can’t, feelings in the form of scents in the air. I don’t know the extent of it, but I feel my wariness spike. “You’re in good hands. I promise I will be so, so gentle,” she assures me with a soft purr, and why, just why does everything out of her mouth have to fill my head with dirty thoughts?
She winks at me and then starts skimming my notebook. I clock every little facial movement, from the way her brow lifts and the way her lips twitch, to the way she glances sideways when she’s chasing a thought. I eat it up, staring right at her. She’s reading, she won’t notice. I could do this all night, just find her things to read and sit here soaking in the view.
I want to touch her.
“You’re a nature brand,” she announces as she closes my notebook and drops it on the coffee table. “Would you say your ideal audience is hikers and campers?”
“I’m not picky,” I reply, not entirely sure I understand what she’s asking me.
“Well, get picky, because we need to define your target audience. If outdoorsy women are exclusively your thing, then your passion for nature metaphors might serve you well. When you picture your perfect woman, what do you see?”
Well, that’s an awkward question because a month ago, I would have said I pictured a certain librarian or any local lady with two or more generations living in Winter Bliss. But now? I glance at her and quickly look away. “I’m just looking for someone who will stick around.” I shrug.
Her face scrunches, and for a second, she’s giving me the exact same look Luís gives me when I say something like this. “You’re not adopting a puppy you want to let off the leash,” she says. “What kind of attributes, looks and personalities, are you attracted to?”
“All kinds.”
She snorts.
“No really,” I insist. “I honestly think I could be happy with anyone. I’m not the romantic type.”
“Not romantic?” She scoffs at me. “Your notebook is full of poetic allusions, metaphors, and odes to the sunset. Do you know yourself at all?” Her head tilts so far sideways she looks like the judgy cat that frequents the ranger station. I’ve named her Lady Sable, and she only gets treats on Thursdays.
“Those are just pickup lines,” I say.
“What about this?” she snatches up the notebook, flips to one of the last pages, and reads aloud. “ Seeing you is like breathing in my first breath of morning air. The feel of you in my lungs sets my head spinning, but I’ll keep gulping you in, taking every breath I can get until my lungs burst. And still I’ll want more. That’s seriously not about someone? That’s just a line?” She gives me a doubtful look even as one hand presses against her chest. I don’t think she knows she’s doing that.
“That one might have been about someone,” I mumble, dropping my eyes to the toe of my boot.
“Okay, great! Let’s get this woman in the sack. Next time you see her, you’re going to have the perfect line. Something on brand but not too complicated. Is she outdoorsy?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I answer, and she comes back at me with another question, then another and another. She tries her best to pry details from me, but my answers don’t satisfy her. When she gets frustrated, she changes up her strategy by asking me some hypotheticals.
When I land back on, “I’m not picky,” she growls at me, like seriously bares her teeth and makes a little rumbling sound. I can’t even describe what it does to me. I just know it makes me want to pounce on her. So I have to fight the urge.
“Alright forget her,” Iggy says, waving her hands in the air as if to clear a ghost from the room. “She’s obviously some kind of an enigma. Let's use me as an example. What’s the first thing you noticed about me?”
“How stunningly gorgeous you are.” The answer slips out of my mouth far too easily.
She flashes me a smile so big and full of teeth, I can’t help but chuckle. The look on her face is all gloating pride with not a hint of modesty. I like it. I like her.
Yeah, I just really like her.
“In this scenario, where you’ve noticed a sophisticated, stylish, and stunningly gorgeous demoness at the bar–” I chuckle again, this time at the extra adjectives she snuck in there. “You’d walk up to her, your target audience, and say, “Hello gorgeous, can I buy you a drink?” That’s it. That’s all you say. It’s quick, simple, and to the point. That's good copy. I could plaster that on a billboard alongside your face and sell just about anything bar related, some fancy glassware, an expensive bottle of bourbon, you name it.”
“But that wouldn’t work on a woman,” I scoff. “It’s too simple.”
“Oh really?” She lifts a brow at me. “I guess you’ll find out tonight when you test run it,” she says, then proceeds to instruct me on exactly what I should do to make the line work, step by step. “Now try it,” she says and motions with her hand for me to proceed.
“Now?”
“Of course now. You need to practice before you go. It was part of our agreement. Go ahead.”
I twist sideways on the couch until I’m facing her. My knee bumps against hers and neither of us pulls back. The point of contact tugs at my gut and sends warmth coursing through me. For a moment, that’s all I can think about.
I let out a slow breath. Then I stretch out my arm along the back cushion. My hand strays off course and my fingers brush against a strand of her hair. I want to tuck it behind her long, pointed ear, but I force my hand to the back of the couch and grip the cushion tight. I lean in a little, just enough that I get a whiff of her shampoo and maybe a nightbloom perfume. I suck it in. The last rays of evening sun are streaming through the window, turning her pink complexion a shade orange and reflecting golden light in the deep pools of her black eyes. I stare.
“Hello, gorgeous.” There’s a huskiness to my voice that wasn’t there a second ago. As instructed, I flash her my dimples, but only for a second. I’m overusing them, she said. A little goes a long way. “I’d like to buy you a drink. What do you say?”
“Fuck, yeah!” She slaps her hands to either side of her face and lights up with a brilliant grin. “That was excellent.” She nods and starts fanning herself only to pause and glance down at her crotch. “You got my panties wet.”
“Iggy,” I say crossly as I pull back, fighting off a wave of desire. I want to do more than pounce on her now. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
Her tongue flicks out, and I’m not sure what she’s tasting, but she smirks at me. “You liked it. No need to play the prude,” she says.
“Furthest thing from it. It’s just a lot to hear and not react to. That’s all I’m saying.” A lot . My hands are dangerously close to moving on their own.
“Look, if you were demon, you’d already know how you did. But you’re not. So I’m giving you verbal feedback. When you go to the bar to test out your lines, isn’t this what you’re testing for? Whether or not you successfully get your target lady to cream their panties? I’m just letting you know— that one did the trick . I am decidedly damp.”
Grab her. Give her what she wants.
“I better head out,” I say and jump up from the couch. If I don’t get out of here now, I’ll topple this demoness backward, pull down her leggings, and fact check the state of her panties with my tongue.
I flee the house, climb into the cab of my truck, and stick the keys in the ignition, but I don’t start it. I just sit there with both hands gripping the wheel. Maybe it was a mistake bringing her here. Maybe I should ask around and see if someone else can take her in, someone who isn’t aching to touch her and only seconds away from losing control.
Minutes tick by, but I don’t move until the phone in my pocket buzzes, once, twice, four times in a row. It’s Iggy.
Iggy
You’ve got this!
Those panties are gonna drop like flies. You’ll see.
You’re way too sexy for them not to.
I can’t wait to hear all about it.
This woman might be the death of me, but I can’t move her off onto someone else. I said I'd help her, and I will. I'll just need to keep my distance while she's staying here and steer clear of the house. Starting now.
I start up the truck and throw it in reverse. Where the hell am I going? I ask myself, but I have no clue.
S aturday morning, just as I’m getting out of the shower, I hear a knock at my door. I wrap a towel around my waist, and when I open it, there’s Iggy. She’s wearing an oversized black t-shirt with a faded band logo, and if there are shorts under it, they’re too small to peek out from under the hem. She smiles at me, haloed in soft morning light.
Beautiful.
I take a mental picture, wishing I could print it. “Mornin’,” I say, voice coming out rough.
“Good morning,” she says and then steps around me, inviting herself into my studio garage apartment. I close the door and watch her as she gives herself the tour, looking at everything and running her hands over my things like she owns the place. There’s just something about her obvious nosiness that has me grinning.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, and she finally settles. I have a sofa, but she takes a seat on the foot of my bed.
“How’d it go last night?” she asks, and again she’s looking around, searching for something. Ah, looking for evidence, I realize.
“It was fine,” I say.
She runs her hand along the comforter of the bed I already made, considering it the same way she studied the lines in my notebook last night. Her tongue flicks out to taste the air.
“I didn’t bring anyone home,” I say. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Oh.” Her face pinches. “So, it didn’t go great.” She lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry. We’ll work on it some more. I know I can do better.” Her brow creases, and I don’t know how to feel about her disappointment that I didn’t sleep with someone else last night.
“You were a big help. My night was perfect because of you.”
She perks up at that. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod. Parts of it were perfect.
“Good. Because I need to ask you for another favor.”
Uh-oh . “What favor?” I ask, tensing as I scratch nervously at the back of my neck. What more could she possibly ask of me?
She hops up from the bed, and pulling up her shirt, she reveals that she is indeed wearing some very tiny yellow shorts. It’s like someone drew on her with highlighter, and I have to say, the way her hips curve around, heading south into exquisitely long legs, that’s a part I’d highlight too.
To my surprise, her skintight shorts have pockets, and from one of them, she pulls out a clunky, metal bracelet. She presents it to me as solemnly as if it were a key to her chastity belt.
“I need you to be my Community Service Coordinating Officer,” she says. She explains what that is and how she’s already racked up thousands of dollars in fines for non-compliance. And the worst bit, the part that clearly has her scared, is she only has until Monday to start her service or she’s facing jail time.
Her problem isn’t complicated to understand or sympathize with, but the situation it would put me in is far too complicated. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say, turning her down flat. “We don’t take volunteers.”
“It says you do on the website. There’s a listing for a volunteer park ranger.”
“That’s for teachers during the summer, or for retired park rangers to come back and help out during busy seasons.” They’re a huge help, and they do great work. I already know that’s how I’m going to spend my retirement.
“It doesn’t say that,” she says.
I let out a sigh. I can’t be taking her to work with me. I can barely keep my hands off her now. I need to function at work and get shit done. I don’t need to be distracted and tempted all day. I’d crack. “I just can’t,” I repeat.
“You can,” she insists. “I checked. Park Services is an approved institution, and you’re a fulltime employee. That makes you eligible to serve as my CSC Officer. All you have to do is swear in.”
“No. Absolutely not.” I hand her back the bracelet, and I am dead serious. This is not something I can or am willing to do.
How is it then that fifteen minutes later I’m on the phone talking to an automated deputizing system?
“Chad Robins,” I say when the digital voice asks for my name. I give it my address, phone number, and job title. I even swear an oath. It tells me to hold up my right hand while I’m repeating after it, and I do, even though I know there’s no way for it to verify over the phone.
The device in my hand starts blinking red, and the device on her horn blinks back the same red. I’m instructed to secure the bracelet around my wrist. It locks tight, and the digi-voice tells me it will unlock when I’ve logged the required number of community service hours. I can’t remove it until then without penalty. Next, it tells me to touch my device to hers.
She comes to stand in front of me where I’m seated on the bed, placing her bare knees between mine. I want to run my hands up under her shirt. It’d be so easy, and I already know what I’d find there if I did. Those little yellow, skintight shorts, just begging to be peeled off.
She lowers her head, angeling her horn at me. I lift my wrist and clink my time tracking device against her GPS monitor. When both lights turn green, the digi-voice continues. “Your devices are paired. You—Chad Robins—are now the court approved community service compliance officer for—Ignatia Henix.” It hangs up.
“I guess that’s it,” she says, bumping her knee against mine and grinning. There’s a lightness about her. The worry has lifted from her shoulders. It’s nice to see even if I'm already regretting this. “You were about to get dressed. Should I leave?” she asks, giving me a quick up and down. And there’s something in the way she asks that, unless I’m misreading it, hints at a willingness to stay. Is that a proposition? My blood runs warm.
I'm still wearing just a towel, and if she doesn’t leave now, this isn’t going to be some cute tease of a show where she gets a peek at something while I get dressed. I’ll drop this towel, strip her down, toss her onto my bed, and be buried inside her in two seconds flat. “Yeah, you better go.”
She looks disappointed, but not half as disappointed as I am when she turns and heads to the door. “See you Monday,” she says over her shoulder.
“Be ready to leave by 6:20,” I call after her.
“What?” She spins around, and the look on her face is pure horror. “You’re joking.”
“No, ma’am, I am not. Be in the kitchen by six if you want breakfast. I do not run late.”
O n Sunday, I’ve got a personal errand to attend to. It takes me in the opposite direction from my daily routine, out east to Mt. BZB.
When I arrive at the Emberlight Resort, the woman I’m here to see is conveniently stationed at the front desk. She is sophisticated and polished, with a shiny silver manager badge pinned to the front of her light gray blazer. Her tied-back hair is a soft silver-gray with faint streaks of blond. Her eyes are the prettiest green.
“Hi, mom,” I say.
“Chad.” Her brows lift in surprise and she cocks her head at me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Do you have a minute to talk?” I ask. The wide open, brightly lit lobby is quiet, only a few guests trickling in and out. It’s not too difficult for her to step away, and we find a seat.
“You wear jewelry now?” she asks, noting the bracelet around my wrist.
I briefly debate telling her about Iggy, but we’re not that close and it feels a little too personal. “It’s something for work,” I say, which is kinda true or true enough.
“How’s your father?” she asks.
“You know.” I shrug. “Still existing.” She nods as if I've given her a full picture answer. “I’ve invited him for Christmas. I expect him to make every effort to be there,” I say.
“Well, you shouldn’t. He’ll only disappoint you,” she says matter-of-factly.
“I expect you to be there too,” I say.
She presses her lips into a thin line before giving me the same excuse she’s given every holiday since her beloved career in hospitality brought her full circle, right back to this tiny corner of the world. “It’s the busy season.”
“I understand that, but it’s also Haisley’s first Christmas. We’re all going to be there to celebrate with her. No excuses.” She makes another thin-lipped face.
“Have you at least brought photos of my great grandchild to tempt me?” she asks.
“I have,” I smile, and I bring out my phone.
After swiping through a few for her, she takes my phone and studies the image. Her eyes go soft and a faint smile touches her lips. “I should have had a daughter,” she murmurs so quietly I almost don’t catch it. She runs a finger lightly over the chubby cheeks on the screen, then hands me back my phone. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”
“I’ll accept that for now, but fair warning, I intend to keep asking until I get a yes,” I say.
She gives me a light laugh and rises from her chair. I’m guessing our visit is over, but then she surprises me by walking with me out the door. It’s chilly outside and she’s not dressed for it, but she keeps walking with me anyway.
“Any travel plans?” Her breath turns into tiny cloud wisps when she talks. Her tone is casual, but I know it’s a test. You'd think she and I talked a lot more frequently than we do based on how many times I've answered this question.
“Nope, no plans currently,” I say.
She makes a disappointed noise. “You need to get out there and see the world.”
“I’ve seen parts of it,” I say, but by the look she gives me, I know what she’s thinking: if I haven’t crossed an ocean, I haven’t seen anything worth seeing.
“I don’t understand how you don’t feel trapped in that smug little town,” she shakes her head. “Men are just different, I suppose. They don’t feel suffocated by a small life.”
What’s wrong with a small life? I wonder.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“Nope, not currently.”
She nods. We walk in silence for a bit, but I can see she has something else to say. “I worry about you, Chad.” That catches me by surprise, and I'm unexpectedly touched by the thought that she thinks about me enough to worry.
“No need. I’m doing just fine,” I assure her.
“You’re thirty and still single,” she says, and my nose crinkles at the way she says it, like I’m knocking on death’s door. “The older you get, the harder it is to find someone. Especially when you’re so much like your father, anchored in place. Do you know that when he and I met, he told me it was love at first sight?” I don't say anything, but yeah I've heard his side of this story many times. It’s not one of my favorites.
“He got it into his head that I was the only one for him, no one else would do. He was so certain that he eventually convinced me,” she shakes her head, mouth pinching. Despite their twenty years separated, I’m pretty sure he still believes it.
“I shouldn’t have said yes, but as it turns out, marrying him was only the second stupidest thing I ever did.” I glance at her, wishing I knew how to politely shut this down. I’m already itching with discomfort, and I don’t want to hear what comes next.
“When I got restless and begged him to leave with me, he told me children would help me feel more settled, and I let him convince me. Twice. I don’t think he even wanted kids. He just wanted to trap me here in his perfect life,” she says, bitterness thick in her voice.
Inside, I wince over every word. I get the impression she thinks her story about regretting having me and my brother isn’t one I should take personally, but if I'm honest, it stings.
By the time we reach my truck, I’m not feeling all that good. She turns and places a hand on my cheek. It’s icy cold and I want to pull away, but I don’t. “Promise me you’ll try not to follow in his footsteps. I would be terribly disappointed if you ended up as a lonely, self-pitying, mountain-dwelling loon.”
“Yeah. So would I,” I mumble, mostly to myself. I remove her hand from my face and take one last opportunity to remind her why I came. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”