Chapter Three #4
“Fine by me,” Rueben said, even though he’d driven to town in the older pickup truck he bought with his own money after the accident.
He still drove a ranch truck whenever he conducted official business, but the logo on the doors had made him a target once.
He wanted to minimize his chances of a repeat incident.
“It will save me a trip on Monday,” Keegan said.
He hadn’t quite found his niche on the ranch and just helped wherever he could.
Most of the time, he acted as Cash’s personal assistant, but he volunteered in the barns, the fields, and especially Harry’s kitchen.
“Will your truck be able to haul the weight?”
Rueben narrowed his eyes. “She might not be much of a looker, but she’s dependable as hell.” That’s what the seller had claimed when Rueben responded to the Marketplace ad, and she’d lived up to the hype so far.
Keegan held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not insulting your girl.” The twinkle in his eyes contradicted his conciliatory tone.
“He’s totally dissing your truck,” Randy said. “But nice haircut, Keegan.” He looked at Rueben next. “And you too.” Then, he turned on his heels and headed to the back of the store.
“Thanks,” they called out in unison.
The compliment effectively ended their mock war, and they resumed the hunt for the perfect summer sandal.
They both liked the leather braided flip-flops with the comfortable support.
Keegan chose a light gray pair, and Rueben picked black.
The line to check out was surprisingly long, so Keegan fished out cash from his wallet and handed it to Rueben.
“You pay for the shoes, and I’ll drive around back to pick up the order.”
Rueben arched a brow. “So now my truck is good enough to drive.”
“This again,” Keegan muttered with a playful eye roll.
Rueben retrieved his keys and swapped them for Keegan’s sandals. “Don’t put a single scratch on her.”
Keegan smirked as he took a few steps backward. “How would you even notice?”
Rueben searched for a witty comeback, but his usual sass evaded him. He released an outraged gasp instead, causing several people to look in his direction. Rueben covered his heart with a pair of gray flip-flops. “You wound me.”
Keegan’s laughter echoed in Rueben’s heart long after he left the building.
The line inched along because there was one issue after another at the counter.
One customer had an item without a tag, another wanted to haggle over why one brand wasn’t on sale when another similar item was, and the register ran out of receipt tape.
Rueben was on the verge of returning the sandals to the shelves and walking out when a display of prepaid cell phones at the checkout counter caught his eye.
If he bought one of those, he could talk to Seth anonymously.
He could pay cash for the phone and minutes.
The number would come up on Seth’s cell phone records, but someone would need a subpoena or warrant—he was never sure which one—to get the call log.
All they needed to do was avoid drawing attention to themselves and giving someone legal reason to go for those records.
Just the thought of buying the phone made Rueben feel guilty as hell.
Was he really willing to risk their chance at justice to hear Seth’s voice?
Of course not. He closed his eyes and recalled Seth’s various voice tones and pitches he’d stowed in his bank—memory and spank—after their weekend together.
Seth’s voice got softer when he was sleepy, silky and firm when he dominated Rueben in bed and gravelly first thing in the morning.
It could be another three years before he experienced those tones firsthand, but Rueben could at least hear them through the phone.
Was that too much to ask? An unforgivable crime?
Rueben convinced himself the answer to both questions was no by the time he reached the front of the line, but his conviction wavered when he paid for both sets of sandals with his debit card and bought the phone and minutes with cash.
“For a friend,” he’d said, though the cashier hadn’t asked why he had separate transactions.
Rueben collected the bags and receipts from the clerk, then spun around to leave the store.
He made it two steps and froze because the ginger guy from the diner was leaning against a porch post and watching him through the open door.
The man’s eyes were green, nearly as light as Finley’s.
The expression in them was friendly and curious.
Rueben couldn’t just stand there all day, and he didn’t want to anyway.
He squared his shoulders and urged his feet to move.
The stranger straightened to his full height as he drew near and smiled, but Rueben strode past him.
“Stalker much?”
“You don’t give a guy much of a choice, Mr. Sanchez.” His voice was smooth and dripped with charm.
Rueben stopped so suddenly that the guy nearly slammed into him. He whirled around and pinned a menacing scowl on his face. “Who the hell are you?”
The ginger man took two wise steps back. “I’m Oliver Hawkins.” He said his name like Rueben should know it.
Oliver Hawkins. Oliver Hawkins. It sounded a little familiar, but recognition eluded him, and he didn’t really care. “The name isn’t doing anything for me.”
“Yet,” Oliver replied. “Maybe we can grab a drink later and discuss why I drove from Denver to talk to you.”
Nothing in his expression or voice came across as suggestive, but it still made Rueben feel gross.
He had to be one of the reporters who’d called him the previous month.
“Hard pass, Mr. Hawkins. I’m sorry, but you’ve wasted your time.
” Rueben turned and continued around the side of the store.
Keegan and safety waited for him at the loading docks.
“This is your chance to tell your narrative with your own voice, Mr. Sanchez. I’m an investigative journalist with the Denver Post.”
Ahhh. He recognized the pitch. This was the guy whose newspaper wanted to do a podcast about Salvation Anew.
Rueben walked even faster. “Hell no.” Rory was the only one he trusted to share his story with real integrity, but he’d avoided doing the deeper interviews that some of the crew had already filmed.
He’d get there someday, but on his terms.
“The national media will swarm this small town when the trial starts. They will exploit your tragedies and turn your molehill-sized misdeeds into mountains for their own gains.”
Rueben stopped and whirled again. If he weren’t careful, he’d make himself dizzy or wrench something.
“And you’re different how?” What did this guy know about his tragedies and misdeeds?
Sure, he’d done research, but those articles would’ve barely scratched the surface of his history.
They sure as hell wouldn’t have told the truth.
“You beat them at their own game and strike first,” Oliver said. “I don’t want to exploit you, and I don’t need to rely on sensationalism. I’ve got sixteen years of journalism experience and accreditations I could show you.”
Rueben exhaled long and slow. “You sound sincere.”
“Thank you. I am.”