Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (8 page)

This was the form my happiness chose as Molly, Cassady, Samuel, and I journeyed west into the mountains to Cloud Lake and the glorious chimneys and squirmways awaiting our exploration. I had Samuel almost all to myself for two more days, before we’d return and spend Saturday with his parents in Lyons.

We left Boulder before the sun was up, and thankfully, after a restless two nights’ sleep, I didn’t have to drive. Cassady steered our company SUV with Molly in the front. In the back, Samuel had situated himself in the middle and pulled me flush against his side, his seatbelt discarded for the moment. I knew for safety’s sake he should put it back on, and he said he would when we neared city limits. But for now I relished my happiness and could only pray there wasn’t a box trap propped above my unsuspecting head.

“What’s running through that mind of yours?” Samuel whispered, toying with the curl tucked behind my ear.

I smiled. “I’m thinking about how happy I am right now.”

“Do I make you happy, Kaye?”

“Yes,” I whispered honestly. Because right now, nothing could overwhelm the contentment I felt. “How about you?”

He brushed his lips across my temple. “So very happy.”

“I meant, what’s running through your mind?”

“I was remembering the summer you literally broke the bank to buy us soft-serve ice cream cones from the corner station. I think I had just turned eleven, so you must have been eight.”

I laughed. “I remember that! I counted out one hundred pennies and put them in a sandwich baggie. The cashier was so pissed.”

“She stood there, sliding pennies into her hand one at a time and grumbling about how we should ride our bikes over to the bank teller and exchange the pennies for a dollar.”

“But I had exact change, of course,” I said proudly.

“No, you were off by two. I had to toss in a nickel.”

“You did not! I had exactly one hundred pennies.”

“Ninety-eight pennies,” he corrected.

I lightly jabbed him with my elbow and he squirmed. “We sound like a couple of kids, bickering over pennies. Molly and Cassady will think we’re dorks.”

“I thought you were dorks back in college,” Molly quipped, pushing her sunglasses up her nose. “Nothing new here.”

“Says the girl who hosted Risk parties in our dorm room to meet guys,” I said dryly. Samuel buried his face in my hair to stifle a laugh as Molly flipped me the bird.

I gazed at his face. Despite his obvious contentment, tired lines crisscrossed the corner of his eyes, around his mouth.

It had been like this Tuesday night and all of Wednesday—this mercurial shifting from serious to playful to serious. I loved seeing Samuel laugh and smile. I hated seeing him even more tired and strained than the days leading up to Danita’s wedding. I hoped, no matter what secrets Samuel and I shared with each other—namely, the other people who’d warmed our beds—we could take them in stride without our feet sticking in the bog.

I’d slept restlessly the past two nights. Every single time Samuel turned, or moaned, or even flinched on the sleeper sofa, I heard him. Naughty, rash Kaye hoped that the quiet thud of footsteps would sound and the empty space on my mattress would sink with the weight of the handsome man who wanted me, who thought I was lovely. But I knew Samuel. He would rather be strapped down and forced to watch a
Dawson’s Creek
marathon than presume to violate the sanctity of my bed without an invitation.

Jolts of longing had tingled through me Tuesday night as he’d grinned over his plate of salmon, brown rice, and sautéed veggies, exclaiming that I always was much better in the kitchen than him. He beamed with pride as I unveiled my complete first edit of our draft memoir and placed it in his lap like a Christmas present. My stomach flipped. And my heart—oh traitorous heart!—pulsed out of my chest when he tugged me to his side so we could read through my comments together. He
had
to hear how loudly it pounded, because it was deafening to my ears.

“Is this okay?” Samuel had asked, smoothing hair from my face as he flipped open the much-abused, much-loved hard copy of our story.

“Mmhmm.”
More than okay
. “Are you sure you aren’t tired?” I asked, dubiously examining his drooping eyes, his subtly shaking hands.

“I’m tired,” he admitted, “but I’m not going to waste our time catching up on sleep. I’m more concerned about
you
and
this
.” He lightly tapped the stitches on my forehead. I once more cursed my stupidity.

Samuel read through my first page of comments and his forehead immediately furrowed. “What do you mean ‘why is Molly mentioned here?’ She used to play in the creek with us, correct?”

I shook my head, smiling. “See, this is why you need me. Molly moved to Lyons
after
the creek games, so she shouldn’t show up until chapter four or five.”

“Well, who was your little friend that tagged along?”

“Are you thinking of Jennifer—cherry ChapStick girl? She played occasionally for Danita’s sake, until she said it was a stupid game and she’d rather be inside with her Barbie Dream House. Then Angel made Jennifer cry because he said Barbie was a ‘hoochie mama.’ It was the first time I’d ever heard that expression. Angel got in big trouble when I asked Sofia what it meant.”

Samuel scratched the back of his neck, completely puzzled. At last his face softened. “Huh. I’d forgotten about that. I’ll have to rewrite it.”

For a solid two hours, I’d listened to the smooth timbre of his melodic voice as he read his manuscript to me, occasionally pausing to make note of ideas or ask questions. Finally, my body betrayed me and I slipped under, conscious only of his warmth, the strength hidden beneath layers of flannel and cotton and skin, and a subtle whoosh of air as he lifted me in his arms and carried me to my bed. And even though he’d left my side, I was hyper-aware of him just strides away, on my sofa…in my apartment…in Colorado…all for me.

And I knew, because he’d do the same, it was time to humble myself and give him the dossier.

I’d sprinted from my office at precisely 11:29 a.m. Wednesday, anxious to see Samuel and anxious to excavate the dossier from my underwear drawer.

He was settled in my big leather armchair, his glasses perched on his nose, dark hair sticking up like a ruffled tomcat. He diligently worked on his laptop and seemed so comfortable in my home, it was as if he’d come with the living room set. His eyes flew up as I whirled through the door, taking in my restless appearance.

He smiled. “Miss me?”

I nodded and hurled myself at his lap, allowing him just enough time to move his computer to my coffee table before I pounced. I flicked a charcoal tendril from his forehead and pecked him there. I wasn’t buttering him up before I gave him my dastardly file of revenge and blackmail material, oh no.

“Give me a minute to change and I’ll whip together lunch.”

“Already taken care of.”

“Oh?” I uneasily sniffed the air for burned food. He gave me a shake.

“I picked up chicken salad from the deli across the street and chopped veggies and fruit. Don’t worry your pretty little head about choking down burned or lumpy stuff.”

“I wasn’t,” I lied through my teeth. As I shed my work attire for jeans and a top that cried whore-nun complex, Samuel called to me from the kitchen.

“Hey, Kaye, where are the napkins?”

“In the cabinet above the refrigerator.” I flipped my head and tousled the wavy layers of hair. Then, like a crashing organ chord in a horror movie, I remembered what I’d hidden in that particular cabinet. “Crap,” I muttered, sliding across the wooden floor in my sock feet.

Samuel leaned against the counter, his long legs crossed, arms folded. A single eyebrow lifted at my panicked face. A little smile played on his lips.

“Care to explain, Trilby, why you have seven bottles of wine stashed above your refrigerator, yet your wine rack is empty?”

My eyes flicked between my perturbed…whatever he was and the contraband in my cabinet. I decided to play it cool. “I wanted to be respectful of your lifestyle, Samuel.”

He nodded, waiting for me to say more.

“It’s not that I think you’re weak or you’ll cave, or anything,” I added quickly. “I just didn’t want to be insensitive, that’s all. And Caroline never drinks around you, so…”

Samuel reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “I know you’re being helpful, Kaye. I just want to make sure you understand you don’t have to go to those sorts of lengths. If we have dinner and you want to enjoy an occasional glass of wine, don’t hesitate because you believe I’ll be offended, or tempted, or uncomfortable. You don’t have to drastically change your life for me.”

“But that’s just it, Samuel. I
want
to change my life for you. I want to be supportive and consider your feelings and needs, and all that. If it upsets you that I put up the wine bottles, then I’ll move them back to my wine rack. Or I’ll just get rid of them altogether—whatever you need. You always want to take care of me. Just give me a chance to return the favor, please.”

Some powerful emotion crossed Samuel’s blue eyes, setting them alight. He tugged me to him and folded me into his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. “Why don’t we take care of each other—make it a mutual thing?”

I chuckled against his worn Clash T-shirt, surprised it wasn’t a cleaning rag by now. “What a novel idea.”

As we dug into the chicken salad, I recognized my window to broach the dossier. “Samuel, do you remember number three of our friendship vows?”

He peered at me, instantly alerted to my discomfort. “Sure. Fight for your reputation, guard your back.”

“Well, I have a confession to make.” I took a deep breath. “I have something here in the apartment that violates number three, and it could ruin your reputation if it ever got out.”

He lowered his sandwich, sharp eyes questioning. “Are you talking about my arrest record?”

“Not just that. Lots of records—school, arrest, newspaper clippings, any public record, really. I’m so very sorry, Samuel.”

“May I see them?”

I slipped from the table and fetched the file. I watched silently as he flipped through paper after paper, hissing one minute, stoic the next. At last, he closed the file and laid it on the table between us.

“This is everything?”

I blinked. “Is there more?”

He shook his head, closed his hurt eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “How?” he choked out. “Why?”

“The ‘how’ was Jaime Guzman. Why? It’s complicated.” I explained how I’d approached Jaime for help in getting Caroline out of the way with a healthy dose of revenge on the side. I told him I never intended to make the dossier public and kept it buried in my underwear drawer. Ashamed, I wordlessly watched as he left the apartment. I stared at the door for a full hour, gnawing on a thumbnail, frightened I wouldn’t see him again. Then he returned, noticeably looser.

“What do you plan to do with this file, Kaye?” he asked.

“Shred it, pitch it. Right now, if you’d like. I would have done it sooner, but I wanted to tell you the truth—give you a chance to chew me out.”

He shook his head. “I won’t do that.”

“Why not? I deserve it.”

“Because everything in that file is the truth, things you should have been privy to from the very beginning. It’s my fault those records even exist.”

I exhaled and squeezed his shoulder as I cleared away our lunch plates, sandwiches long dried out. “Samuel, sometimes I wish you’d just get angry at me instead of blaming yourself all the time.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t angry,” he replied, his voice tight. “But it seems like a colossal waste of time to ‘chew you out’ when I’m only here through Saturday. You apologized. We’ll destroy the file, no harm done. It’s behind us.”

I clutched the file in my arms as I led Samuel down the stairs and into my TrilbyJones office where the magical problem shredder resided. I truly hoped he was right, that it
was
behind us and we could leave for our grotto trip with clear air…

Cassady flipped the turn signal and exited the road at a pancake house south of Cloud Lake, not far from the caves, just as the morning sun burned the last of the fog from the sky. Despite the early hour, the parking lot was bustling, and Samuel instantly tensed. Without a word, he slipped on a broken-in Red Sox cap and pulled it low over his forehead, shading his face. But when we were seated across from Molly and Cassady in a corner booth of the packed greasy spoon, he looked torn between good manners and flashing his recognizable face. Manners won out, as always, and he tossed the hat on the bench next to him and smoothed his hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

Sure enough, minutes later a nervous woman, then a second, then a third crowded the table, camera phones whipped out. I tried to duck out of the pictures, praying no photos of me with a messy ponytail and shiny face surfaced on the Internet. Meanwhile, our poor waitress returned with a tray full of pancakes, syrup carafes, and sausage, and struggled to slide around Samuel’s readers. Molly jumped up and squeezed past the women, guiding hot plates to the table.