Page 33 of Rolling Thunder

She walked across the dark pasture, enjoying a night breeze ruffling her hair. The stars were brilliant above her, and she stopped a moment, looking back at the glow of the light in the windows of the old trailer. “Quit drinkin’. Started seeing things more clearly. We’re only as sick as our secrets.”

She’d spent her teen years watching her mother snort, shoot, and pop anything she could get her hands on. In defiance, Kayla had refused it all. Even on the worst morning of her life, when she’d come stumbling home bruised and broken, sobbing for her mother’s sympathy. What she’d gotten was a cynical look through cigarette smoke and her mother’s bony hand pushing a pill across the table at her.

“Take this. It’ll calm you down. What did you think was gonna happen, Kayla?”

She shook her head, leaning up against a scratchy wooden fence post, trying to remind herself she was now twenty-four. She was here on the farm, and no one was hurting her.

“I don’t want your fucking drugs, momma!” Her sixteen-year-old-self had cried. And she’d been telling herself all this time that she was different because she only drank. Was she so different? She was still drinking her way through her pain because she couldn’t cope. Was that any better than what her mother did? The idea of a future formed in her mind. Evan, Bill, and her horses. That was a life she didn’t have to drink her way through.

CHAPTER 13

It was a nice house. She was suitably impressed. From her modest background, this nearly looked like a mansion. The driveway was stamped concrete in an intricate tile pattern. It was beautiful; almost too beautiful to drive on.

As she swung off the bike, she noted the sign hanging in the front yard. It was a promotional photo of Evan and another man. The other man was a blond surfer type, flashing a magnetic smile. He stood back-to-back with Evan, whose arms were crossed, deadpanning to the camera, with dark shades on.

Under Renovation by Dan Pelletier and Evan Holton, as seen on Beachfront Salvage! the sign boasted. She chuckled, pointing at the picture on the sign.

“Were they holding you hostage, or do you just hate pictures?” she asked.

“Both,” he replied, which made her laugh harder.

“Honestly, Dan is the people guy. I should never have even been involved with the TV show, but they said they…liked my look.” He air-quoted with sarcasm. She laughed harder, and he couldn’t help but join her, as he unlocked the door. “I keep hoping they’ll fire me from the show and save me from the torture. I like wiring houses. I like working with Dan, but I’m only doing this because I owe him a favor.”

“I have a hard time picturing you on a reality show. It must be some favor.”

“It was,” he said, slightly more somber, and she had the sense that she shouldn’t ask about that.

“When Dan pitched the idea about helping people rebuild after the hurricane, it gave what we were doing real meaning. So that makes it worth it.” He opened the front door.

The house had an expansive, cool interior with custom-tiled floors.

“We’ll keep these floors. They’re salvageable. The crown molding is good. The walls have to be painted, and we’re tearing out the whole kitchen. We’ll bring in some other guys to do the appliances. There’s a huge garage with some stuff that isn’t up to code, so that’s my big project right now. But check this out.” He led her toward the back of the house.

She followed him in awe. She’d seen him in his element on the bike, but she’d never seen him in any kind of professional element like she was now. He was competent, organized, and he really was on TV if the sign were to be believed. She hadn’t looked up the show yet, but now she felt like she’d have to try to find an episode to sate her own curiosity about him.

The back glass doors opened to a palatial semi-outdoor area. There was a roof over the part nearest the house, offering a shady, cool place to sit. There were Spanish-style arches with columns in this section, which was more like a porch. The next section opened into a never-ending lanai enclosing the pool. The pool was a custom-job, looking like many different rectangles all spliced together, with one corner being a hot tub.

“Woooow,” she said softly. “So, this is how the other half lives, huh? You get to swim in the pool while you’re working on the house?”

“Wouldn’t want to let something that nice that go to waste,” he replied. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it. She had on a bikini under her clothes for just this reason. She didn’t mind admiring him in swim trunks in the broad daylight. She’d hardly gotten to fully appreciate him outside their brief, passionate moments. He had a full sleeve tattoo on his left arm that led into a huge piece on his upper back. Thanks to Canyon Bill, she could recognize David Mann art—a biker roaring through a desert on a motorcycle racing with the spirit of a cowboy on a galloping horse. Above it, stylized into the clouds, was the word FREEDOM. Before she could ask him about it, he leaped into the pool.

He turned back just as she was doing a little shimmy out of her jeans, and he whistled. She looked down at him in the pool. It was almost a perfect mirror of her other life, her other self, which she hated. She turned away from him, hoping to hide the grimace she was sure was on her face.

Suddenly, he was one of them, the faceless, soulless men who threw money at her to take her clothes off on a stage. She dug in her jacket pocket for a cigarette, hoping to shake it off and calm her nerves. What she really wanted was a drink. The alternative was to face the reality that he didn’t know what she did at night to make ends meet and he would probably hate her for it. Or he would like it, and she would hate him for it. Either way, it was almost destined to destroy anything good that could happen here.

“Don’t you want to get in?” he asked.

“Just thinking we need umbrella drinks,” she lied, blowing out a stream of calming smoke.

“Dan’s probably got beer in the fridge.”

“Perfect.” She padded back inside and checked the freezer, ever hopeful. It was empty. There was beer in the fridge, but better yet, there was also a bottle of tequila. She grabbed it, glanced over her shoulder to make sure he couldn’t see her, and upended the bottle. The swig she took burned her throat and flipped her stomach, but it was also heaven. She stood, breathing deeply, trying to get a handle on herself. One more.

An engine outside got her attention, and she looked out the front window. A big black SUV had rolled into the driveway behind Evan’s bike. Somehow, it seemed menacing. She shoved the bottle of tequila back in the fridge and retreated to the pool area without the beer.

“Someone’s here,” she said, pulling her clothes back on. He climbed the pool ladder looking like a girl’s wet dream, his hair wild and water dripping off his tattooed muscles. She wished she could admire him, wished she hadn’t just been reminded why she shouldn’t even be dating him. “Big, black SUV.”

“Show producers come in an SUV sometimes, but we aren’t filming at this house until next week,” he said as he toweled off and pulled his clothes back on. She followed him out the front. As they emerged, the electric window lowered, revealing a slimy-looking guy with a pencil mustache.

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