Chapter 9 #2
I pulled into the small access lot near the reservoir and parked beside a weathered sign warning about algae blooms, fishing limits, and rattlesnakes. The water lay still beyond the scrub, reflecting the sky in dull blue sheets. Wind moved lightly across the surface.
I turned off the engine and sat for a second.
One week in Santa Fe.
A job.
An apartment.
A cactus.
A cat with a bell.
A coffee shop addiction.
A group of women who had decided I was their problem.
And Mason.
I shut that door fast.
Not literally. Mentally. Forcefully. With both hands and a chair wedged under the knob.
Whatever had happened between us had been heat, exhaustion, bad timing, and proximity.
A desert fever. A stress response with excellent shoulders.
It did not mean anything. It could not mean anything.
Men like Mason came with history, scars, and women who looked like they belonged in country club photographs.
I came with student loans, a feral cat, and exactly one cactus.
So I grabbed my field kit, locked the work truck, and walked toward the water.
The reservoir didn’t care who I was trying not to think about.
That made it my favorite thing in Santa Fe so far.
My phone buzzed.
Not the county phone. My actual phone.
I pulled it from my back pocket, expecting my mother, a spam text, or maybe another depressing notification from my bank pretending there were “insights” to be found in poverty.
Instead, Regan’s name lit up the screen.
REGAN.
Under it was a contact photo I absolutely had not chosen: Regan grinning at the camera with Bandit in her arms.
I stared.
Bandit was wearing the fancy green collar with the tiny bell, front paws dangling, face locked in a level of betrayal usually reserved for fallen governments. Regan looked victorious. Smug, even. Like she had personally conquered the feral kingdom and expected a parade.
Regan: We bonded.
I blinked at the screen.
Me: WHAT.
Her reply came immediately.
Regan: Don’t worry. AI generated it.
I zoomed in on the picture.
Bandit’s rage looked extremely real.
Me: Why are you in my phone as a contact?
Regan: Easy. When you passed out, I lifted your finger and unlocked it. Put in all my contact info. Also Daisy’s. Also Savannah’s. Also the coffee shop. Also the vet.
I stared at the message for a full five seconds.
Me: Girl. Do you have boundaries?
Regan: Nope.
At least she was honest.
I looked at the contact photo again. Bandit’s ears were flattened, his bell collar shining under the light like insult jewelry.
Me: He looks like he’s filing charges.
Regan: He tried. I denied the paperwork.
Me: That sounds illegal.
Regan: Welcome to the family.
I set the phone facedown on the tailgate, then immediately picked it back up when it buzzed again.
Regan: Be ready next Saturday by 4 p.m. Sending someone to pick you up.
Me: For what?
Regan: Desert black tie.
Me: What does desert black tie mean?
Regan: Wedding.
Me: Whose wedding?
Regan: Mine.
Me: You’re already married.
Regan: Vow renewal / wedding reception / emotional hostage situation. Details don’t matter. You’re going.
I laughed despite myself, then typed back.
Me: No. I don’t feel comfortable. I barely know anyone.
Her response came in all caps.
Regan: YOU’RE GOING. I BETTER SEE YOU THERE.
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly strained something.
Me: Bossy much?
Regan: Yep.
Three dots appeared.
Regan: All the girls are expecting you.
Then another message.
Regan: You can meet my hubby. And all the guys.
I knew better than to ask.
I asked anyway.
Me: Mason?
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Regan: Yep.
I stared at that one word longer than necessary.
The reservoir wind moved over my sweaty neck.
Somewhere near the southern bank, a bird called once and went quiet.
My sample bottles sat in the cooler, labeled and sealed.
My field notes were halfway complete. I had dirt on my knees, sunscreen in my eyebrows, and a sudden, very inconvenient memory of Mason’s body under my hands on that motorcycle.
I put the phone facedown on the tailgate.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, the samples had been dropped at the lab, my field notes were uploaded, and my shoulders had that dusty, sun-tired ache that came from doing actual work instead of slowly fossilizing under fluorescent lights.
It was strange how quickly a life could start to build itself out of small routines.
Work truck returned to the county lot. Cooler cleaned.
Boots kicked off by the door. Keys in the chipped ceramic bowl I’d found at a thrift store for three dollars.
Judith the cactus still alive on the windowsill, which felt like a personal compliment.
Bandit in the spare room, bell collar jingling faintly as he stalked from one end of his temporary kingdom to the other, furious that indoor life had come with walls.
He hissed when I cracked the door.
“Good to see you too,” I said.
His green eyes narrowed from the windowsill.
He was living like a king now with a scratching post, three toy mice, a bag of expensive food, ear drops, medical records, and the tiny bell collar that made him sound like an angry Christmas ornament every time he moved.
He had used the litter box, eaten all his food, ignored every toy except the crinkle fish, and still behaved like I’d ruined his civil liberties.
I refilled his water and checked the food bowl. “You know, some cats would be grateful for a window, medical care, and climate control.”
Bandit turned his back to me.
“Right. Excellent talk.”
I shut the door before he could make a run for the living room and shred the new-to-me furniture I had somehow acquired through what I was beginning to understand was the Royal Bastards’ community outreach program.
My truck had been towed into town two days after Regan’s spa weekend, and while I’d been at work, a small army of men with motorcycles, pickup trucks, and opinions had descended on my apartment.
Dolores went to a garage.
My old thrift-store couch went to a dumpster.
So did the wobbly table, the cracked lamp, and one mattress I had found online for free and then immediately regretted after seeing it in daylight.
By the time I got home, there was a clean secondhand couch in my living room, a coffee table without structural trauma, a bed frame, a real mattress, and a little bookshelf Savannah claimed she’d “found.” No one asked for money.
No one left a receipt. Regan just texted me a thumbs-up and a photo of Bandit looking personally offended by a feather wand.
Apparently, my landlord is “connected” and let them all in.
Which I’m sure violated my lease and a few state and local laws.
I should have been annoyed—I was annoyed. I was also sitting on the couch every night, so my moral outrage had limits.
I showered off the reservoir dust, changed into shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and made coffee even though it was almost six because adulthood had no rules if you paid rent. My phone buzzed while I was standing in the kitchen stirring French Vanilla creamer into a mug like it was medicine.
Lena: How’s your new life, desert girl?
A second later, FaceTime rang.
I answered before I could decide whether I looked presentable, and Lena’s face filled the screen, all glossy dark hair, winged eyeliner, and the kind of lighting that made me suspect she had purchased a ring light for casual emotional support.
Behind her, her apartment in California looked exactly as I remembered: plants everywhere, bright throw pillows, framed concert posters, and Hank, her giant elderly rescue dog, snoring on the couch like a man with a mortgage.
“You look alive,” she said.
“Barely. But the county truck has air-conditioning, so I’ve upgraded from tragic to functional.”
She grinned. “Show me the apartment.”
I flipped the camera and gave her the tour, which took approximately twenty seconds because I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a spare room currently occupied by a hostile cat. “Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Office-slash-Bandit containment unit. Judith.”
“Who is Judith?”
I pointed the camera at the cactus on the windowsill.
Lena stared. “You named a cactus Judith?”
“She has strong opinions.”
“She’s adorable.”
“She’s judgmental.”
“Relatable. Now show me the cat.”
I opened the spare room door carefully and aimed the camera toward the windowsill. Bandit sat there wearing his bell collar, tail flicking, eyes full of cold murder. The second he saw me, he hissed.
Lena gasped. “Oh my God. He’s horrible. I love him.”
“He’s adjusting.”
“He looks like he wants to speak to a lawyer.”
“He probably has one. Regan gave him a rabies shot, flea treatment, toys, food, a collar, and medical records. I’m one embroidered blanket away from him having better health care than I do.”
Lena laughed. “Regan is the biker queen?”
“Apparently one of them. I’m still mapping the hierarchy. It’s complicated. There are wives, sisters, old ladies, a coffee shop, a wedding, and several men who look like they were assembled in a garage during a thunderstorm. And this guy—Mason… well never mind.”
“Mason?”
I turned the camera back to myself too quickly.
Lena’s eyes widened. “Oh. Mason.”
“No.”
“That was a yes face.”
“It was not.”
“You got red.”
“I’m holding hot coffee.”
“You are holding iced coffee.”
I looked down.
Damn it.
Lena sat up straighter, delighted in the way only a long-distance best friend could be when your denial started bleeding through the screen. “Tell me everything.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“Women who say that are always hiding either a body or a man.”
“Statistically, I object.”
“Emotionally, I’m right.”
I leaned against the counter and took a sip from my very much iced coffee. “He was the one who drove me to Santa Fe when Dolores died.”
“Dolores?”
“My truck.”
“Of course.”