Page 40 of Fiona and the Fixer

But more than that? I was a bad choice.

He was good for sex and that was why I wasn’t kicking his bare ass to the curb. He was good for looking at. Nothing more.

As soon as the birds started chirping–Coal Springs was like a Disney movie–I stopped staring at the ceiling and slipped out from under Dax’s arm, grabbed my running clothes on top of my duffel, and escaped.

I’d returned to town to look into the pickle people, not have sex. That was a surprising bonus. I could do both. This morning, I couldn’t spend any longer in Dax’s arms. I needed to know what was going on at the Pickle Hole. They’d delivered pickles at this time the day before, thendumped them later in the afternoon. Why? It was time to find out.

If this was their process, then they’d be dropping off pickles again this morning.

Or so I hoped. I had two weeks before Hannah returned without much to do besides eat Dottie’s delicious food and have sex. I could figure this out. It was what I’d been trained to do.

My feet slapped against the sidewalk as I turned toward Main, veering around a lamppost decorated with dried corn stalks and a fall leaf banner. It was downright chilly out, colder than the previous morning, my breath coming out in little white clouds.

As I approached the block with the pickle store, I didn’t slow. I ran down the opposite sidewalk, pretending to be just another early-morning runner. A burst of excitement flared when I saw the store’s interior lights on. It was hard to miss when all the other shops were dark.

The same van with the pickle logo on the side was out front. As I ran by, I saw two men in the store. A small tower of white, five-gallon barrels were stacked by the counter.

At the end of the block, I cut left, then cut left again down the alley behind the store, running past the back of the shops on the block. All was quiet and dark, so I circled back to the front and dropped behind a car parked across the street. Leaning against the back quarter panel, I could look directly into the store and stay hidden.

Surveillance was rarely exciting, and this was no exception. Two men. White. One wore a heavy, dark puffy coat.The other had on a neon orange hat that hunters wore not to get mistaken for wildlife and shot by mistake. Thirties and forties. Strong enough to lift five-gallon containers. One by one, they moved the barrels to the back of the store.

Nothing illegal or dangerous.

I slowed my breathing and listened. More birds. A car starting. Nearby, someone opening a door that had a bell over it. Probably the coffee shop a block down. No voices. Wait–

“The last shipment made it to Mexico.” The man’s deep voice sounded strained, probably from lugging filled five-gallon containers. “Not sure where this one’s headed.”

“There’s talk about doubling the order.”

“I’m not sure if my back can handle more of these fucking pickles.”

“Tying your shoe?”

At the question, that was asked a foot from my ear, I jumped a foot, spun, and punched.

“What the hell?” Dax said, hands over his nose where I’d decked him.

I shook out my hand, my knuckles screaming at me more than Dax. “Jesus Christ, why did you sneak up on me?”

I hadn’t heard him because he had been surprisingly, and ridiculously quiet, which made no sense since I could hear another–surprise–toilet flushing somewhere. I’d been so focused on the pickle people’s conversation that I’d been able to block out other sounds. Including two hundred plus pounds of Dax sneaking up on me.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I added, trying to get my heartrate to calm.

“I thought you’d be up for another round, but here we are.” He was in his jeans and white shirt from yesterday. At least he wore sneakers. “Why are you down here on the ground?” he wondered, sniffing and messing with his nose. I didn’t break it.

“Because… because–”

Did I want to tell him? Would he think I was crazy?

He gave me a trying look. “Out with it, sweetheart. I already know you’re a badass crazy woman with a lethal right hook. Good thing, too, because there’s no way to hide a gun with that outfit.” He ran a finger under his nose, looked to see if there was any blood. There was. “Fuck, that hurt.”

“Thanks?” If that was a compliment, it was an odd one.

“What’s going on?” He popped up, looked around the car for a few seconds, then dropped back down. “Why are you hiding and watching the pickle place?”

“How do you know I’m doing that?”

“When you ask something like that it insults your intelligence, not mine.”

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