Page 7 of Personal Disaster

ChapterFour

Poppy

“Get back in my truck?I just told you to get out of it.” His nostrils flare as he glares atme.

Makes sense. I did call him a pervert. It was never explicitly covered in my journalism classes, but calling an interview subject a pervert is definitely a badidea.

But he read something filthy into me biting my thumb. Into how I wear a skirt. And that was before I called him names. “For some made-up reasons that hide the fact you’re really uncomfortable about me sniffing around.” I fumble for my recorder and turn it back on. “Change of plans, buster. Your story is once again super fascinating.”

He growls under his breath, something I don’t catch, and he plants his hands on his lean, tight hips. He needs to stop doing that. It’s distracting.

He stares at the sky. Finally, he shakes his head and looks right at me. “It’s a gorgeous day, ma’am. Enjoy your hike back to where you parked yourcar.”

And then he gets in his truck and drivesaway.

I watch the cloud of dust he leaves behind fade, then turn around.

Of course he’s not wrong. It is a beautiful day. And it only takes me an hour to get back to my car, in which time I come up with a fabulous new angle for my story.

I dig into my suitcase for a pair of jeans, which I wiggle into right there in front of Ranger Boy’s cabin, hiking them up under my skirt.

Screw him and his pervy looks at mylegs.

Then I haul out my computer and sit on the porch.

It takes him three hours to return.

In that time, I write a first draft of a piece that’s pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

He takes his time opening the truck door. It creaks, slowly, then his boots land on the ground with a heavythud.

“I thought you were leaving.” He says it like a statement. A dry observation, not letting on if he’s surprised ornot.

Well, tough titties for him, it’s a free country. “I have a day pass for the park,” I say without looking up. “It’s been quite inspirational for my writing.”

“Writing aboutme?”

I take a deep breath. “If I say yes, will you comment on the record?”

He sighs. “Sure.”

“Will they be helpful comments?”

“Now you’re asking a lot.” He laughs, which surprises me, and I jerk my head up. He’s half-smiling at me. The other half of his face is still tense and frown-y. It’s not the worst look for him. “But as you just reminded me, it’s still a free country, so they’ll be whatever they’ll be. The truth, I can promise youthat.”

I turn on my recorder and hold it out, my hand steady and sure. “You’re a strong believer in the truth, aren’t you, Mr. Dane?”

“Only way tolive.”

“How does that balance with someone’s right to privacy?”

He scowls. “My privacy?”

“Anyone’s. A secret service agent who doesn’t agree politically with the politician he’s tasked with protecting. A Justice Department attorney who needs to write a brief at the request of a racist or a hypocrite. How far should we dig to understand the context around their disagreement?”

“You don’t have to dig at all. That’s the wrong context in which to frame questions of morality or constitutionality.”

“What’s the proper context?”

---