Page 4 of Protecting Her Secrets

It’s a fifteen-minute drive down Culver Springs Road before I come to a fork. If I turn left onto Main Street, it’ll lead me out of Culver Springs. Turning right takes me downtown, which is where I need to go. I hate this time of year, when the roads are ugly and the sky is always dreary. In December, we get sun breaks, and the snow is white, fluffy, and magical, but now that we’re into January, it’s dark all the time, and the snow is just dirty piles of ugliness that line the roads.

“If you promise not to jump on any of the Geezers, I won’t make you wait here,” I say to Sprocket as I pull into the grocery store parking lot. He doesn’t answer me, but I pretend the absent look in his eyes is agreement and let him jump out of the truck. “Stay with me.”

Sprocket remains at my side until we reach the grocery store doors. I point for him to sit next to the newspaper stand painted blue with white lettering that says, “Take a paper, leave a dollar.” The population of Culver Springs is seven hundred and fifty-eight, and it shows. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to small-town living.

The newest paper is over a week old, and the stand is still nearly full. Maybe Micah finally shut it down. The thirty-something hipster who wears round, gold-framed glasses and is never seen without one of those newsboy hats bought the paper a couple years ago, despite the fact that the internet exists. He considers the printed news a dying art form he’s single-handedly keeping alive. He even manually prints the paper on an old-school press. Considering the geriatric age of most of the Culver Springs’ residents, he was probably profiting at first, but then one of the Geezers discovered Facebook. He started a community group to share news and taught the others how to use it. Because of that, newspaper sales plummeted.

Micah should’ve accepted defeat, but instead, he adapted by printing misleading and radical headlines that get people to buy one just to see how far-fetched the man has gone. Today, the top headline isKilling Spree Leads to Three Deaths. A quick scan of the first few lines has me shaking my head; the “three deaths” are Mrs. Brown’s tomato plants that caught some fungal disease and had to be dug up. This is followed by a few paragraphs about the dangers of Fungal Wilt Disease.

The rest of the paper is no doubt just as ridiculous, so I don’t waste the dollar. Plus, I’m a member of the Facebook group, where the real town news is exchanged.

“Mornin’, Walker,” Presley, who owns the store, calls out.

I give her a wave and shake a cart free from the return. Capitalism has no place for a town our size, so Presley only stocks one brand of each product. And by that, I mean whoever nags her the most about what brand they want is the one who decides what gets delivered.

I’ve lived here for fifteen years, and in that time, I haven’t left the area, but I still remember what grocery stores look like in big cities. Thinking about it now, having an entire aisle dedicated to cereal seems ridiculous. I stop in front of the three choices Presley stocks, all of which probably taste like cardboard. Last year, there were three heart episodes amongst the Geezers, so it was decided that only heart-healthy options would make it to the shelves.

Instead of cereal, I add a bag of oatmeal to my cart. At least I can doctor that up to taste decent.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. How you been?” Presley asks as she wheels a cart full of boxes to restock.

“Good. Cold. Lookin’ forward to spring.”

She flashes me a beaming smile that does absolutely nothing for me. The number of single folks under the age of sixty here is extremely limited, so I should be flattered by Presley’s attentionand maybe even pursue her. Any hot-blooded, straight man would jump at the chance to do just that. Unfortunately, the baggage I carry requires its own zip code, so I don’t return her flirting.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monk. But should I need the attention of a female, I travel to a neighboring town where we both know the score: one night of multiple orgasms, no information exchanged and no repeats. Presley isnotthat type of girl. She’s the kind who wants monogamy with the hope of a future.

My mouth goes dry, and suddenly, this innocent conversation is making me want to sprint out the door. Relationships aren’t for me. I like having my own space, and unlike most people, I enjoy my own company and never feel the need to change that. I have a few friends I hang out with now and then, and I have Sprocket. They’re all I need.

Speaking of my friends, the bell on the door rings, and seconds later, Ridge appears. We’ve been mistaken for brothers enough times for me to know we look a lot alike, but that could just be because our abundance of brown facial hair hides most of our faces. That, and we’re both about two months overdue for a haircut.

The similarity ends with our appearance, though. I grew up poor, raised by a single mom who worked two jobs and was hardly ever around, which means I’m rough around the edges and have street smarts engrained in my DNA. Ridge, however, grew up rich as fuck. He attended the best schools, lived in real-life mansions, and has a trust fund so big, it’ll make your head spin. Or I guess hehada trust fund. He walked away from that life years ago, cut off everyone and everything in it.

Now, he’s what most call a tortured artist. He spends his days locked up in his house of windows and paints. Despite his best efforts to become a nameless hobbit, his paintings have receiveda lot of attention over the last few years, and now his art is in high demand. He only sells one when he needs the cash, though, which only drives up the price.

“You must have the same idea as me,” I say, stacking some canned beans in my cart.

“The system moving in looks nasty.” He reaches out to shake my hand.

“How you been?”

“Still alive. You?”

“I’m good; enjoying the last few weeks of winter because once the snow clears, things’ll get busy.”

“We should probably plan an SAR meeting soon. I don’t know about you but I have a couple certifications to renew as well.”

“The whole town is grateful for you four,” Preston says from my other side.

As if just noticing the woman restocking shelves next to me, Ridge gives Presley a chin lift. Like me, he has no desire to pursue the beautiful store owner. Hell, he doesn’t even come to the bar with me and our other friends on the rare occasion we go trolling. For all I know, the man is a monk.

“Gotta do something to keep ourselves entertained,” I say, the bell on the door momentarily stealing my attention.

“Even so, Wilder was already spread thin without having to trek through the forest every damn day to find some amateur hiker.” She leans over, resting her elbows on a box.

“What about me?” Wilder appears from around the corner, wearing his dumb-ass tan sheriff’s uniform, complete with a gold star that isn’t even real gold. It’s basically a toy.

“Presley was just telling us how indebted you are to me for starting the Search and Rescue team.” I flash a cocky grin.

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