Page 14

Chapter 14

Fleur

B arbeque invades my thoughts for the entire week since the Fourth of July community event. Some of the best-smoked brisket I’ve ever had.

Adam said his mother told him I was welcome anytime, and that she’d be happy to smoke more meat for me. I’m so obsessed with the food. I almost took him up on the offer right there on the spot.

With some additional work projects and my own farmhouse slowly entering the finishing stages, I haven’t seen Adam much since the Fourth. It may be for the best. He was rattled by Liam being there. Questions distract me when I talk with him and threaten to blurt out of my mouth. What’s the deal with him and his brother? Why is he being secretive? Probably not the best move on my part if I hit him with an interrogation.

Today we have three new check-ins at the bed-and-breakfast. All the rooms need to be turned around. The Floral Room, The Art Room, and The Writing Room are three of the five here at the B each one decorated to live up to its name.

Dusty pink wallpaper with an explosion of unique flowers line the wall of—you guessed it—The Floral Room. When I first cleaned the room, I wondered how anyone could stay in the room without going batty from the wallpaper, but the more I’m in it, the more peaceful it feels. Soft, muted pastel colors create an enchanting whimsy.

In contrast, The Art Room is bold and brash with straight lines and dark frames housing art I’m not sure I’ve seen the style of before. The room has a masculine tone.

The Writing Room is bland in comparison to the other two. Matte white walls with white linens and furniture. One piece of art hangs on the wall that says: Start with a Blank Slate. The blank walls are void of color. Very blank.

As I scurry to the laundry supply closet to gather towels for the new rooms, the smell of chocolate wafts through the house. Mrs. Northgate is baking her dessert for the bar, and I secretly hope she made extra. She mentioned deciding between chocolate pie or fudge. Either way, I’d be happy to sample anything she cooks.

I scramble through my cleans. Spraying and wiping, disinfecting, then spraying and wiping some more. Surprisingly, cleaning often gives me a sense of relief from the loneliness. The out-of-control feeling abates when I’m knee-deep in toilets or fresh linens.

Voices from downstairs signal the first new check-ins have arrived, and I quickly close all the doors after the final mints are placed on the pillows. After dumping the old linens and towels down the chute, which I still find oddly satisfying, I head down the stairs to start some of my tidying of the main breakfast area.

Careful to stay out of the way—I don’t want to scare away the guests with my frizzy hair and tired eyes—I take the back service stairs. They aren’t very wide or grand in opulence like the front steps leading down into the main foyer. Nope. These are narrow little buggers with stained old carpet the color of my reddest lipstick.

I pass stacks of books and new linens still in their plastic pouches. Travel-sized shampoo and lotion from an old brand the bed-and-breakfast used to stock sit inside baskets lining the steps. It’s like Russian roulette. You never know what could bring you down.

I dart off the last step that leads into the kitchen and walk right past the back door filled with Mr. Northgate’s work boots and a pile of items that need to go outside.

When the back door opens unexpectedly, I startle, falling backward into something that topples over with a loud splintering crash and rattles through the kitchen. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Please don’t have broken something important.

Please don’t let it be expensive.

“Goodness, Fleur. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Mr. Northgate’s friendly voice is drowned in concern. I open one eye, looking at him and wincing.

“You frightened me. I’m so sorry, I—” I turn around to see a pile of sweaters and coats on the floor. But I grimace at what’s underneath. A beautiful oak coat rack is now split at the top. Several pieces lie around the main post, and I slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh no!”

I’m on my knees in an instant, reaching for the pieces and cradling them in my arms like an idiot.

“What was that sound?” Mrs. Northgate pushes through the swinging kitchen door from the other side of the room, and her eyes widen.

“I gave Fleur I fright, I’m afraid. Walked straight through the door as she was walking past.”

“I’m so sorry. If you tell me where you got this, I’ll have it replaced.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Northgate says. “It was an accident.”

“Besides,” Mrs. Northgate chimes in, “Ed made that.” Thankfully, her tone doesn’t hint at being upset, but something more like pride laces the timbre of her voice.

My eyes drag over the smooth finish and the beautiful details. “You made this? Well, now I feel even worse.” I pull my hands over my face, rubbing my forehead. Mr. Northgate chuckles as he kneels to examine the breaks.

“Don’t. I made a bunch. Gave them to family and friends—all that. Looks like I can easily repair this. Don’t sweat it.” He gives me a sweet smile, his dark brown hair peppered with gray falling in front of his face as he leans down further to inspect.

“Broken things can be fixed,” Mrs. Northgate singsongs as she pulls chocolate fudge out of the blast chiller.

Can they?

I hope they aren’t only talking about the coat rack.

It’s late by the time I end up leaving work.

Wind whips the leaves across the road. They dance and tumble into my headlights before disappearing into the darkness surrounding the Natchez Trace.

During the day, the Trace is picturesque, and the fifty-mile-per-hour speed limit creates a leisurely drive. Bicycles and hikers are often on the road, exploring the historical sites along the way that veer off into the numerous hiking trails.

At night, though, it’s different. There are zero lights, and towering trees line the two lanes weaving through the state. An eerie tone settles on the road. Few cars drive the Trace at night, trying to avoid the chance of hitting a deer or falling asleep at the wheel. But it’s the fastest way home and I’m tired.

Movement to the right of me brings three deer hopping across the road several feet in front of my car. I lift my foot off the gas, slowing down to make sure there aren’t any more.

When I determine there are none, I step back on the gas. A sudden burst, a pop, then a hiss scare me, and I jump, swerving to the right. Gasping, I fist the wheel and jerk to the left, correcting my loss of control.

No. No, no, no. Crap. Adrenaline shoots straight to my chest and my heart thumps rapidly.

The car wobbles as I slow to a stop, pulling off on the nonexistent shoulder.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, hands shaking, still clutching the wheel.

Flashlights aren’t something I typically keep in my car, but with several late-night hardware runs for Adam and the all too scarce lighting around this town, I came to the conclusion keeping one in the glove box was a necessity. Reaching across the console, I fumble with the glove box and open it to retrieve the flashlight.

I step out of my jeep, darkness only broken apart by the stream of white from my flashlight. The air is thick with silence, and the night has swallowed the expected nocturnal noises. Creepily absent. Lovely.

The shadow of my car is cast along the road as I move around, inspecting my tires.

I deflate—or should I say my left front tire has.

Squatting down, I move the light along the rubber until I come across the large nail sticking out of it.

“Damn it.” I whack the light against the spot where the nail punctures through, and I shake my head when the light flickers.

A twig snaps from deep in the trees and I freeze. Suddenly, my mouth is dry, and I tense as I look around before standing on shaky legs. Heading back for my car, I lean in over the driver’s seat to snatch my phone from my purse.

No service.

Great.

Another well-known fact about the Natchez Trace—cell phone service is about as shotty as the restrooms. My shoulders slump as I look around the empty road and void woods. There’s nothing around here.

All the tricks to get a signal don’t work. Waving my arm in the air. Marching my phone across the road and walking several feet in each direction does nothing to give me those bars I so desperately need.

Resigned, I step back to the car and comb through any knowledge my father tried to impart to me when I learned to drive. Because learning to drive wasn’t gas, brake, and stay in your lane. No. It was a full-fledged breakdown of the car parts, oil changes, and spare tire equipment I’d be stupid not to have in my vehicle.

I dig around, attempting to locate the jack, when two lights reflect off my car mirrors.

Thank goodness.

Turning on my heels, I watch as a car barrels toward me, going much faster than the well-patrolled speed limit posted. The relief I was feeling for a moment sprints away, and I’m left with the roiling of unease as the car slows to where I stand.

Lifting my hand over my eyes, I squint at the car still blaring its lights in my direction and count four silhouetted bodies inside. The phone in my back pocket is useless right now, but I pull it out anyway, the weight of it offering a false comfort.

All four doors open, and my gaze jumps first to the driver, whom I don’t recognize. His hair is dark, but as he strides forward, it takes on a red hue, his sharp nose moving with his head as he scans me from head to toe. A sneer seeps across his mouth, the beer belly he sports jiggling with each chuckle.

“Well, boys, look what we have here. You havin’ car trouble, sweetheart?”

The nickname grates in my ears. The nickname my mother gave me and that Mrs. Northgate uses frequently sounds vile on his tongue. Another man rounds the front of their old beater Chevy. He tugs at his leather vest and raises his chin at me.

I recognize him. The man from the diner with Adam. His name was some sort of football move?—

“Blitz,” another man calls from where he’s climbing out of the back seat, “I claim this one, man. You got the last one.”

Blitz. That’s his name. It’s as if he realizes he’s seen me before at the same time I pin his name down because his mouth lifts into a wicked grin.

“Hey now. This here is Adam’s lady friend.” He snorts.

Beer belly scoffs and spits on the ground at Adam’s name. I back up, eyes flitting to the two men standing in front of me and getting distracted by the other two emerging from the back seat.

I hold up my phone.

“Thanks, guys. But I’m all set. Just called someone to come help. Appreciate you stopping, though.” I throw as much sweet crooning into my words as I can.

“Baby, I don’t think you understand,” Blitz says, adjusting the bulge in his pants as he walks toward me. “There’s no cell service out here. I doubt you called anyone.”

I slide around the break light, walking backward to my car. Blitz laughs, his oily wheeze skidding around me and destroying any hope they’d leave.

Narrowing my eyes on him, I turn to jump in my car and drive off anyway, tire be damned. But a hand snatches my hair, pulled back in a convenient long ponytail. He yanks and I yelp, tears stinging behind my eyes.

“Blitz.”

The deep rumble of that voice vibrates through me, and I know it. Liam.

“What?” Blitz barks.

“That’s not very hospitable of us. She’s the new girl in town after all.”

I strain to see over my shoulder as Liam stalks toward us. His footsteps thud against the pavement with every formidable step, black jeans and T-shirt matching his black boots.

His broad shoulders twitch as his thick-set frame prowls forward, and he slaps a hand on Blitz’s shoulder, squeezing. Blitz lets go of my hair, and I can finally turn around fully to face them.

Liam’s hair is pulled up into a bun, eyes narrowed on my cheeks. He glances toward my car, surveying it with a self-assured gaze. With each tick of his jaw, I swallow, and he tracks the movement. Brawny arms cross in front of himself, projecting dominance the other men seem to respect and acknowledge. Except maybe Blitz.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well, what?” I snap.

Liam’s mouth flinches tight at my tone.

“You didn’t answer Trip’s question. Are you having car trouble?” His stance screams nonchalance, but I don’t miss the way his eyes continuously scan our surroundings.

“Me? No. I love sitting on the side of the road with a nail in my tire in the dead of night.”

Liam’s mouth tightens further into a straight line, while Blitz laughs.

“Liam, she’d be a feisty one. Let the guys have some fun.” He motions back to the other men, but Liam doesn’t even glance at them. He holds my eyes as if he is memorizing them.

“Get back in the car, boys,” Liam demands.

They all grumble and curse him while obeying his command. Trip yells back before he gets in the car. “Well, at least let us watch!”

My eyes widen, and my knees quiver. Liam’s nostrils flare as he jerks his head around and yells at them to move it. Stepping forward, he towers over me, and I back up into my open door. My cavalier comments in sarcasm were not the best choice, and I’m regretting them at this exact moment.

As if he realizes my panic, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. Where’s your spare?”

I blink. “My spare?”

“Did I stutter? Your tire. Where is your spare tire?”

“In the cargo area. Underneath, I think.”

Liam moves to the trunk and pulls out the jack and lug wrench. He brings both items to the front and squats down, his muscled thighs straining his jeans as he shuffles around. How does a man like this end up with thugs like that? I look back at the car as one of the men lights up a joint and licks his lips at me. Gross .

“Fleur.” Liam’s voice startles me. “Hold the light for me.”

He works to loosen the lug nuts, then places the jack underneath the car and lifts it until the tire is off the ground. He moves methodically, pulling off the tire and placing the spare on the wheel bolts and tightening.

When he’s finished, he stands, body grazing past me, and I jolt back. He chuckles, setting the flat tire down with a single hand and wiping his other on his shirt.

“My brother must have told you some dark things …”

Because I’m jumpy around him?

I scowl. “No. Your thugs back there told me all I need to know about you.”

Liam’s shoulders stiffen, his jaw working back and forth. “What did Adam say, Fleur?”

I’m confused. Why does he care?

“Said you were working off a debt.”

He snorts. “Guess that’s about right.”

“It’s not about what Adam said anyway. It’s the reaction of the town, the stories about what you all push and sell. You’re thugs, plain and simple.”

I’m shaking. Questioning my decision to answer him without any sort of filter.

His pupils darken, and anger radiates from his heaving chest. He bends down, grabs the tire, and I catch a glimpse of black ink peeking out from beneath his shirt, hovering above his belt line. He moves to the trunk and tosses the tire in with zero finesse or care before striding back to the car and opening the back door.

He pauses. Glaring eyes meet mine. “Fleur, don’t drive on the Trace this late again.”