Page 14 of Trailer Trash

I picked up my duffel bag and my purse from the wicker chair on the front porch and walked down the steps to Jed’s car. He was leaning against the closed driver’s door, his sunglasses hiding what he was thinking.

Who was I kidding? I rarely knew what Jed was thinking, sunglasses or not.

He was dressed in his usual jeans and a gray T-shirt that was tight on his arms, showing off his biceps.

Right or wrong, I was glad that I was wearing my blue and white summer dress and my white strappy sandals. My makeup was minimal, giving me a wholesome look, and my hair was down—putting it up hurt the back of my head too much, even after the over-the-counter medication I’d taken a few hours ago. I knew I looked good. I was counting on that for later.

He stepped away from the car and met me in front of the hood.

“What’s with the bag?”

I gave him a lazy shrug. “I like to cart a lot of things around. You should have seen me when I was pregnant. You wouldn’t believe what I had in my huge purse . . . and that was just here in Fenton County.We’reheading up to Little Rock.”

“It’s a six-hour round trip, tops.”

“Hey, you wear T-shirts that show off every bulging muscle,” I said, flicking his bicep.

“I can cart a bag with me to Little Rock. If we start questioning each other’s every decision now, it’s gonna be a long trip.”

He grinned, an honest-to-God happy grin. “Okay.”

His smile caught me off guard. “Well . . . okay. Let’s go then.”

I headed toward the passenger side door. Jed followed me and grabbed the door handle before I could reach it.

“I can open my own door, Jed,” I said, trying not to sound breathless. For some reason, he was affecting me more than usual. Maybe because I knew I’d be spending the next few hours within a couple of feet of him. Or maybe it was because we’d been at odds more often than not over the last month or two, but I had to admit thatIwas the one who’d made it that way. How would I handle being trapped in a car with him?

He took my bag from my hand, holding my gaze as he said, “I need you to know I’ll make sure nothing happens to you today.”

“Jed. You’re not responsible for what Merv did.”

He didn’t respond, just opened the door wider, leaving me to wonder—yet again—what was going on in his mind.

I knew Jed was attracted to me. He’d pretty much told me so a few months before, but Jed worked for Skeeter Malcolm. If I could ignore the fact that I wasn’t divorced yet, it would be absolutely insane for me to hook up with a guy who had his feet so firmly entrenched in the criminal world. Especially since I was trying so hard to escape my own past.

Jed was quiet as he pulled out onto the highway and headed north, not that his silence was unusual, but he seemed tense.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, turning to look at him.

“Fine.” But his tight grip on the steering wheel suggested otherwise. His scraped knuckles caught my attention.

I considered asking how he got them, but I didn’t want him to confirm my suspicions. I couldn’t afford to have someone fight my battles for me. The only person I could rely on was myself. My husband Ronnie had driven that point home. But that wasn’t entirely true. I could count on Rose, but I didn’t want her fighting my battles. Especially not this one.

I’d chosen Ronnie Colson because he’d seemed uncomplicated. Hardworking. Devoted. Trustworthy. Easy. But somehow, unbeknownst to me, he’d gotten mixed up in the crime world, something I’d only figured outafterhe disappeared.

I’d presumed Ronnie was dead—why else would the man who had acted like the sun rose and set on me disappear? But Joe had seen him boarding that bus in New Orleans, and he had the photographic evidence to prove it. That alone had kicked me in the teeth—worse, Ronnie had been with another woman. And he had been wearing a wedding ring on his hand. A ringIhadn’t given him.

If I couldn’t count on Ronnie Colson, no man was trustworthy. I’d do best to stay away from all of them, and from Jed in particular.

But after ten minutes, the silence started driving me batty.

I turned sideways in my seat. “What kind of music do you listen to?” I lifted my hands. “No. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re a Dolly Parton guy.”

He turned and grinned, and I realized how much I liked his smiles.

That was a bad, bad thing. But I was stuck in this car with him for at least the next two hours. I could be a bitch out of self-preservation—which in all honesty was why we’d been at odds—or I could allow myself to enjoy these next couple of hours in a decent car with a handsome man. Fool that I was, I decided on the latter.

“Okay . . . no Dolly Parton. No. I would guess you’re not a country music guy. Am I right?”

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