Page 52 of Small Town Hunter

The mango margarita arrives and I realize I haven’t said a word.

“For the happy couple,” the waitress says.

“I’ll share it with you,” I say out of pity as Trina’s eyes widen. The thing is the size of a damned mop bucket. Anyway, I can’t exactly have her lush.

“Just so we’re clear, this never happened,” I say, unwrapping a straw. “You never saw Crash Walker drink a mango margarita with a straw.”

“You’d prefer a whiskey?” she teases.

“Naturally, but it ain’t that kind of party.”

She finishes half the damn drink as people filter in and out, coming to watch the Rangers game. Darkness falls outside. In the back of my mind I know that tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways.

But I can’t leave her here.

“What’s Virginia like?” Trina asks.

“Greener than here. I live in the mountains, not the coast.”

“Do you hunt?”

“You mean for food? Sometimes.”

“Is there a black side of your town, and a white side?”

“Yeah. But things have changed. This one family, the McCalls– cousins of mine– used to run folks out of town for race mixing. Then all the sons married black women. Imagine that.”

Trina’s mouth pushes to the side and she looks me up and down. “You look mixed, you know. Like, maybe a little bit.”

“My ma was Italian.”

“I knew it!” Trina pushes the straw between her lips.

And suddenly, I’m hard.

Ah.

“Crash,” she says, dabbing her mouth with the napkin. “I really like this drink, but it’s making me feel funny.”

“Funny how?” I stare at her lips.

“Like…I just want to talk and talk.” She laughs.

“We should head back to the motel. Tomorrow we have to have our heads on.”

“I don’t want to think about tomorrow.”

“Don’t bury your head in the sand,” I say harshly. “It’s coming anyway. Might as well think about it, deal with it.”

She’s quiet as I pay the bill and we walk to the parking lot. I was an ass, but Trina brings it out of me. I want to treat her like a little sister, but I can’t. She’s hooked herself into some part of me, somehow, that would hurt like hell to tear loose. I don’t know how she did that.

She’s sweet, innocent and kind. Gorgeous. She’s also got the street smarts of a moth. I can’t take her to California, I can’t leave her here, and I can’t bring her to Virginia.

Can’t I?

When she looks up and the light from the diner is in one eye, the moon in the other. Her skin is dark like velvet, her face full of hope.

“So what are we going to do about tomorrow?” She asks quietly.

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