COMING NEXT TO THE STAGE… #2
The tiny flame flickered, reflecting in Colt’s eyes and casting ghoulish shadows across his face.
My brain stuttered before words shot out of me at full volume. “You wanna start a fire? Are you nuts?”
He didn’t even flinch at my outburst, just closed the Zippo with a click and smiled. “Relax,” he said. “No fire yet. I gotta get warmed up first.”
“Warmed up?” My voice cracked. “Colt, everything in this place is nine kinds of flammable. If you start a fire in here, the whole thing could come down on our heads.”
He pushed to his feet and shook the sawdust off his jeans. “Then our problem’s solved.”
“What problem?” I pressed, breath hitching. “Why’re we even here?”
Colt stepped over the duffel, scooped up a crowbar, and gave it a twirl that should’ve made me feel better but somehow made everything so much worse.
“They’ve been buildin’ this place up faster than feral cats birth kittens,” he said.
“If we don’t slow ’em down, who will? Grab that sledge, why dontcha? ”
Against my better judgment, I did.
“Why do we need to slow them down?” I asked. “And why does it matter? It’s all the way across town.”
Colt shot me a serious look. “This town ain’t big enough for both Mazzy and me. I don’t want nothin’ of his sharin’ my air.”
The sledgehammer was heavy, weighing on my arm down like it was an anchor. The metal end of it scraped against the pavement as I scurried along. “And what if he shows up? What if he catches us? He’ll b-be-be mad.” I winced at the stutter.
Colt held the crowbar with both hands, stretching it out like it was a royal scepter. “If these can break wood, they can definitely break bones.”
“You wouldn’t,” I breathed, horrified.
“You sure?”
I gaped at him, mouth hanging open, as he moved past me—boots crunching through sawdust and grit. Swinging one arm out, he pointed at a partially framed hallway.
“We’ll start with that. It’s load-bearing.”
“How d’you know?” I demanded, following him despite every instinct screaming leave, leave, leave.
He blew a breath upward into the fringe of brown hair poking out from under his Stetson. “Cal, we grew up ‘round barns and sheds that got tore up every storm season. I know a support structure when I see one.”
I frowned while muttering to myself, “Shouldn’t I know it too?”
Despite the question not being aimed at him, Colt was ready with an answer. “You learned Macbeth. I learned what keeps a roof over our heads. We are not the same.”
“Hey,” I protested weakly. “Macbeth is a classic.”
“Sure is,” he said while marching straight toward the doomed hallway. “And if this place collapses, you can classically recite a soliloquy all the way down.”
I groaned but tailed after him anyway, hauling the sledge behind me. Every few steps, the metal head bounced off an uneven spot on the concrete. The resulting sound echoed off the beams overhead and made me jump like the world was already falling in.
Colt stopped between two walls of unfinished boards, set the crowbar down, and rolled up his sleeves. When he took up the tool again and twisted his hands around it, the muscles in his forearms flexed.
“Colt, I wanna go-g-go home,” I blurted, voice pitching embarrassingly high.
“You can stay right there,” he retorted without even glancing over. “And maybe take a swing or two once you quit hyperventilatin’.”
“I’m not hyperventilating,” I insisted.
I absolutely was.
Colt wiggled the crowbar deeper to test it, and the wood groaned.
“Colt…” I tried again, this time quieter—part warning, part plea.
The crowbar struck the stud with a crack that reverberated through the cavernous building—a warning shot if I’d ever heard one.
I took a stumbling step backward. “This ain’t fun,” I said, voice trembling. “It’s scary. I’m scared.”
That finally stopped him.
Colt straightened, let the crowbar dangle from one hand, and walked toward me until we were nearly chest to chest. He cupped the back of my head, and I relaxed in his grip.
His nails scratched lightly through my hair, just enough to loosen the knot in my spine.
Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
He pulled back far enough to meet my eyes, and his expression softened.
“Callie boy,” he murmured, “I got you, all right?”
I responded with a wobbly nod.
“Tell you what,” he continued, thumbing the edge of my jaw as if brushing away my worry, “why don’t you just lean on that there hammer and gimme somethin’ pretty to look at while I take this fucker down?”
I nodded again, shamefully limp in his grasp, and Colt huffed a soft laugh—fond, not mocking. He pressed another kiss to my forehead, then released me and turned back to the wall with a renewed sense of purpose.
I swallowed hard and planted both hands on the sledgehammer handle, leaning against it like he’d told me to. Good thing I had the extra support because my knees had turned to jelly.
Colt took his position in front of the battered studs, stance set and shoulders loose. He rolled his wrists once, gripped the crowbar near the base, then lifted it to his shoulder like a major leaguer preparing to swing away.
He inhaled and drew the crowbar back a tick further. Then a stranger’s voice barked from across the room.
“Police! Drop the weapon!”
My hands flew up in immediate surrender. The sledgehammer toppled out from under me and hit the concrete with a rattling knock.
“Don’t shoot!” I blurted, voice leaping three octaves.
Colt froze with the crowbar still raised. Then, with the world’s most defeated groan, he let it sag back onto his shoulder.
“Aw, shit,” he muttered.