Chapter 3
Three
Sierra
Of all the people to stop by to check on me, of course it’s my ex.
“Oh, Logan. Hi.” I try for a beaming Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader smile, but I fear I look like I’m baring my teeth at him like a rabid coyote. “Funny running into you here.”
Logan stands in front of a large pickup truck, the fading light and dust giving his surprisingly attractive build a photo-filtered look.
He used to be a skinny, lanky dude back in high school, but he’s clearly blossomed since then.
He’s filled out in the best way—broad chest, narrow waist, and good lord, those forearms. As a climber, I’m used to seeing and appreciating well-formed forearms—mine aren’t too shabby either.
But Logan’s are beautiful, shapely, and well-framed with his rolled-up sleeves.
I want to run my fingers from his elbows down to his wrists.
His widening eyes drift over the wreckage that is now my beloved Clunker. I try to step in front of his line of sight, as if my five-foot-five frame can possibly block out the twelve-foot—and steadily growing taller—pillar of steam pouring out of the hood.
“Are you okay?” he asks finally. “Do you need help?”
I blink. It’s a desert mirage. A mirage of a hot guy coming to save me. Which is absurd. Men don’t help me, apparently not without sexual favors demanded in return. And I’ve had enough of that today, thank you very much.
“Sierra, are you okay?” he asks again.
Am I okay? My home sits less than a foot from falling off a steep, rocky cliff, and cars keep speeding by like they’re auditioning for the Indy 500.
If one could look past the clear engine catastrophe, looks-wise, Clunker has seen better days too.
Ancient and rusty, paint worn thin in places, slightly dented above her left tire.
She looks haggard, covered in a thin film of dust, and—oh great—so do I.
Every girl daydreams about the day she runs into her ex again.
I imagined a hot cocktail dress, or being in the middle of a climbing photoshoot for Outside Magazine, or wearing a quail-egg-sized diamond so flashy it temporarily blinds him.
Perhaps all three scenarios at the same time. But instead, I get this.
We’re not okay, I want to say. But then what? I clearly deserve this. Turns out the universe still thinks I’m not absolved of my sins. It’s like a fine irony wine that, in my twenty-four years of life, both the worst days of my life occurred in the same place, nearly seven years apart.
“I’m fine,” I say lightly. “Thanks for stopping, but I’ve got this under control. Good to see you again.”
Liar, liar, van on fire.
Logan’s jaw tightens, his posture stiff and uncomfortable as I feel. He looks past me at my van. “It’s starting to smoke,” he says. “Is that a fire?”
“Oh, fuck.”
That was a joke, universe!
I race to the back and pop open Clunker’s trunk.
Somewhere, somewhere in this disorganized mess, I have a fire extinguisher.
I rummage under the sink, but no luck. There’s a pop, then a loud hiss.
White slop coats my windshield, and the smoke and fire dissipate in another huff of steam.
Logan appears, a fire extinguisher in his hands. White gunk drips from the head.
My hand closes around my own fire extinguisher—it’s buried next to my one pot and lid. I retrieve it, just in case Clunker gets any more ideas about how hot she is.
“Thanks,” I say weakly.
He stays silent, his expression unreadable, as his eyes drift over all my worldly possessions.
My twin-sized bunk with my worn Goodwill sheets and discount comforter, my chipped laminated countertop kitchen with the tiny sink and one-burner electric stovetop, the open cabinet with my collection of pasta and ramen noodles and random supplies ready for his perusal.
My pile of climbing harnesses, ropes, and other gear, which I didn’t have time to untangle before my hasty escape from Dave.
I usually take such good care of my gear too, and this is not how I want to present myself.
Any climber worth their snuff would be appalled.
I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’ll give him a piece of my mind if he thinks he can say anything about the way I live.
“Well, thanks, Logan. I’ve got it from here.” I smile my most charming smile—complete with sweat beading on my upper lip.
He laughs then, shaking his head. At least he sees the hilarity of the situation.
His laugh is strangely contagious. I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
The laugh goes on a tad bit longer than I think is appropriate or polite, then he groans, a surprisingly sexy sound from a man who looks appalled by what he’s witnessing.
“All right.” He sags, the tension gone from his face. He shakes his head ruefully, as if he can’t believe he’s in this terrible situation of having to rescue his scandalous ex-girlfriend.
Me too, Logan. Me too.
“I’m going to tow your van to the mechanic’s,” he says. “I’ve got a hitch for towing.”
“That is so kind of you, but I’ve got this.”
He shakes his head again. He seems to be fighting another laugh, which feels great. Come on, universe, at least give me the cocktail dress to balance out the horror of my ex laughing at how pitiful I am.
“Sierra,” he says gently. “I’ll say this the nicest way I can. Your van is fucked. I can’t leave you on the side of the road like this.”
I pull my sweaty hair away from my neck and start to braid it absentmindedly, thinking through my options.
His eyes track my motions. Back when we were together, his hands always seemed to find their way to my hair, playing with the ends when we talked, brushing it away from my face when we kissed, winding it around his fist when we… well.
I drop the locks and clear my throat. Maybe this isn’t a disaster yet.
Logan isn’t chasing me out of town with a pitchfork yet—he’s helping so far.
As tempting as it is to keep turning him down, I know better, especially since it could reverse the strikes of a looming disaster.
It would be so much worse if more people who despise me came upon me. Or the local cops.
“If you could get me off the highway,” I say finally. “I would really appreciate it.”
Logan nods. He jumps into gear, backing his truck up to my van, looking more burnt marshmallow than engine at this point. Will insurance cover this? I know I shouldn’t have gotten the cheapest option. God, do I even have comprehensive coverage?
Logan hitches my van to his truck, and then, like a gentleman, he opens the truck’s passenger door for me when we’re ready to go.
“Thanks, Logan,” I say, and swing myself up. His name seems to linger on my tingling lips.
Logan climbs into his seat and starts the car. Some quiet indie music plays over the stereo. Déjà vu spreads through me, and I feel myself relax, as I always did back in high school when Logan would take me to stay at his parents’ house whenever my mom went on a bender.
“How is your mom?” I ask as we take off. I immediately regret it. I don’t want to resurrect the past.
“She’s doing great. Retired early.”
Uneasiness spreads through me. Oh no. Did my actions traumatize her so much that she quit school counseling altogether? “And your dad?”
“Great. He’s retired too. Started cycling seriously, goes miles and miles every day up all these crazy hills. He’s insane. Fitter than all of us kids put together. What are you doing here?” He clears his throat. “I mean, what brings you to Sagebrush?”
“An engine fire, apparently,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just passing through,” I add. “Well, I was. I’ll find my way out of here again, regardless of what the mechanic says, don’t worry about that.”
Logan frowns, about to answer, when I interrupt: “Is that it?” We turn up a side dirt road to a large rusty metal garage.
“Yep, best mechanic out here.”
I didn’t have a car the last time I was here, so I decide to take his word for it. “Is it someone I know?” I ask hesitantly.
Logan doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t think so? Samuel Torres? I think Sam graduated several years before we did.”
Samuel Torres doesn’t ring a bell in my memory. “All right.”
***
“Jesus, what a mess,” are the first words out of Sam’s mouth when he sees Clunker. “Yours?” He nods at me.
“Yep, that beauty’s mine. Prognosis, Doctor?”
Sam wipes his greasy hands on a towel as he squints at my poor baby. “It’ll take some time even to diagnose her. Let me get your contact info, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Logan chats quietly with Sam while I climb into the back of Clunker to collect my stuff. I bite my lip as I assess what of my home to take with me. Maybe Logan can recommend a cheap motel, or, more unlikely, direct me to a nearby hostel.
On second thought, I don’t want him to get any ideas. Men seem to think that bringing up hotels is an invitation to join me at them. Damsel in distress I may be, but I don’t want him to think I’m that grateful. I’m already indebted to him.
Logan suddenly lets out a deep laugh. Startled, I glance out the passenger side window. Not just his face, but all of him transforms into a dangerously attractive man with a beautiful laugh.
Anyway. Focus. I need a place to stay.
I have less than a thousand dollars in my bank account, and I need to save most of it for Clunker.
Staying at a hotel will quickly wipe that out.
From the last time I lived here, I know the nearest camping supplies store is in Sedona.
I guess I can hitchhike to Sedona, buy a tent and a sleeping bag, then stay the night at a campground.
Is it even legal to hitchhike in Arizona?
I never see anyone try—only those signs warning not to pick up hitchhikers posted next to the state penitentiaries.
It’s already dark. Could I even successfully hitch a ride with a non-creepy person and make it to Canyon Outfitters before they close? I doubt Uber operates out here.
I might have to bite the bullet and pay for one night somewhere.
I pack what I need for an overnight stay, then toss all my clothing and shoes into my oversized trash bag because—who am I kidding?
—Clunker won’t be ready to drive again tomorrow, or anytime soon, and who knows what I’ll need.
I stuff my climbing gear into a second bag.
If I can’t pay the bill to resuscitate Clunker, I don’t want to have to break into her to retrieve my most valuable—at least to me—worldly goods.
“All right, all ready to go. Thanks so much, Sam,” I say as I climb out of my van. “Logan, I appreciate your help.” I hesitate. “I can reimburse you for the tow—”
Logan looks startled. “No. Where are you going to stay?”
“I’ll find a place,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Is the Ponderosa Pine Inn still in business?”
“They tore that old junk heap down years ago,” says Sam. “Built up a luxury hotel in its place.”
“A luxury hotel? In Sagebrush?”
Sam casts a confused look at Logan. “When was the last time you were here?”
“Seven years ago,” Logan answers for me. “Before Billy Blackstone.”
“Ah, that explains it,” says Sam, as if that really explains anything. “The Desert Mesa Motel is probably the next closest, though they did jack up their prices. I can call ahead and explain that you’re a local. They might be able to cut you a deal if they have any rooms available.”
“It’s cool,” I say. “I mean, if you want to, I’d appreciate it. See ya, Logan. Talk to you tomorrow, Sam.”
I hurry out into the late afternoon, the shadows of early March casting coolness across my heated skin. A car kicks dust up as it drives by, then blessed silence.
“Sierra, wait.”
My back and shoulders tighten. I spin around and will my muscles to relax. “Logan, hi again.”
He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Listen, I could never let a friend pay for a hotel room when I have a place for you to crash.”
“Friend?” I repeat.
Logan flinches at my incredulous tone. “You don’t think… All right. We’ve got history—that’s stronger than friendship.”
I hesitate. “You don’t still live with your parents?” I’m not ready to face his mother.
“Oh, no. I haven’t lived with them since high school. I have a house. One of those old, rundown pueblos off Main Street, do you remember those? Fixed this one up ourselves.”
Ourselves. Oh god. “You’re married?”
“No, I live there with Seth.” He watches my face carefully. “Come home with me. It’ll be like old times. I mean, when you used to hang out with us at my parents’, before, you know.”
No, I don’t know. Before we decided to forever wreck our precious friendship by having sex? Or does he mean before our breakup? Or before I self-immolated in a blaze of bad decisions and had to leave town?
“We can order pizza, make popcorn, watch a bad slasher flick. Catch up. You look like you’ve lived a very adventurous life, Sierra.”
I snort. That’s one way of putting it. Logan, as well as the rest of his family, has always been embarrassingly kind.
“I want to hear all about it,” he adds.
Still, I hesitate. I’m a spark, and he’s a short fuse; together we’re explosive.
It was why we dated, broke up, got back together, and repeated it ad nauseam throughout high school.
We didn’t use to be like that—we used to be best friends.
Two peas in a pod, whatever that means, because I never see only two peas in a pod… usually there are like three or four.
Anyway, once sex and jealousy came into play, our relationship became a dangerous inferno. I don’t ever want to relive what happened and all the consequences that stemmed from it.
Logan knows me, though. Despite everything and the years apart, he can still read me, and I shiver when he says immediately, “We don’t have to talk about what happened. Light topics only. There’s no reason for you to stay in a motel, Sierra. I insist.”
I sigh. He seems sincere, and it would save me at least a hundred bucks. “All right.”
He grins. “There you go. I’ll let you choose the pizza toppings too. Pineapple, right?”
Surprised, I laugh out loud. I’d forgotten about that. “Naw, I only ordered that to mess with you and Seth. Seeing your disgusted faces was worth it. Come on, let’s go.”