Page 17 of Snake

“Let me ask you something.”

She turned back to him. “Okay, ask.”

“Did you understand my meaning, in my supposedly incorrect sentence?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t that what words are for? Being understood?”

Not knowing how to respond, Autumn didn’t.

Cox continued as though she’d agreed with him. “So as long as whoever you’re talking to understands what you’re sayin’, all the rest of what’s supposed to be correct is just pencil-pusher bullshit.”

“Now you sound like a linguist,” she answered. The embarrassed heat in her cheeks evaporated as a smile took them over.

Cox gave her another prize of a half-grin. “I don’t know about that, but I know the difference between descriptive and prescriptive grammar.”

Stunned, Autumn felt her jaw give way, and she gaped at him

He actually chuckled, but the sound was bitter. “Fuckin’ hell, city girl. We got schools here, you know. English class, and math, and science, even history, all that fancy shit. You swoop in here from no place near, thinkin’ we’re all cousin-fuckin’ idiots who won’t know what hit us when you steal the food off our plates. You know that’s why everybody hates you, right?”

It was one thing to know she was hated, to see it in the narrow looks of people she passed, to overhear contempt muttered between people when she came near. It was something else to be told directly to her face, in civil conversation with someone she was spending time with.

Right then, Autumn discovered that her armor was gone. She was bleeding.

“I don’t think you’re idiots,” she said, trying to sound normal and unaffected but hearing the quaver in her voice as clearly as Cox could, “and I’m not trying to steal anything from you. I want the project to be a success, of course, and if it is, yes, my company—and I—will benefit, but so will you. I know MWGP has other projects that haven’t been exactly great for the communities around them, but that’s exactly why I started this project. I hate that part of my industry. I mean Heartland Homestead to help the town and its people—to be a good thing for us all.”

“You didn’t ask if we wanted your ‘help,’ Autumn. And when we told you we didn’t, you did it anyway.”

It was the first time he’d spoken her name. That small intimacy, strangely unexpected, added a full ton to the psychic weight of his words.

He was right.

As a woman in business, in addition to turning her flesh to steel so insults, attacks, diminishments, and condescension bounced off her, she’d cultivated an approach that rolled over every obstacle. Taking ‘no’ from a bunch of—she’d assumed—ignorant bikers who had their mayor residing in their intestinal tract had not ever been an option to her. She was the one with the MBA, she was the one with more than a decade of experience in the industry, she was the one with the great idea and the good intentions, so she’d never considered the Horde’s resistance, or the town’s, as anything more than a speed bump.

But the time for second thoughts was over. MWGP had title to the main property and to several secondary lots as well. Autumn had made good deals with the various owners, and if she sold, she’d very likely take a loss. And that might well get her fired.

Cox was right, but she was already all in. There was nothing she could say to him now, so she simply started walking again.

He let her take about five steps before he, too, continued toward the park, catching up to her quickly. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

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~oOo~

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Clearly, the town park was the center of the Spring Fling. The pavilion was set up for bands, and tents and stands were set up in what appeared to be a spiraling path around that point and out to the borders of the park. Lots of people were at work, setting up more tents and stands, stringing lights, erecting signs, and whatever other jobs such an event required. Music was piped through speakers at the pavilion, playing a country song Autumn was vaguely familiar with but didn’t actually know; hammering from various points in the park kept time with the beat.

“It’s two days long, right?” Autumn asked as she and Cox stood near the park entrance.

“Yeah.”

She looked up at him. “Just ‘yeah’?”

The creases between his brows deepened as he met her gaze. “Yeah.” When she raised her eyebrows, he sighed and added, “Starts with a street party tomorrow night, goes all through Saturday, ends at nightfall Sunday. Saturday’s the biggest day, usually.”

That schedule was similar to their Harvest Festival as well—and it seemed fairly standard for something like this, wherever it was held. But she enjoyed getting Mr. Monosyllabic here to give her a full answer.

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