Page 10 of Red Flags Only

“Lyra.”

I jump. And scream. And, maybe, throw the two cords of rope I was assessing.

In my defense, the deep, rumbly voice ofJove Roguejust came at me from about two feet to my right. Anybody would jump. And scream. And throw rope at his face.

I watch, horrified, as the rope bounces off of his chin to land on the substantial stretch of his shoulder. One dark brow rises to meet a few wayward strands of white falling down on his forehead from the streak of it he’s been bleaching into his hair since senior year of high school – probably with used battery acid, if I had to guess. I can’t seeJove Roguegoing to the hair salon for a bleach and tone, sitting in a lifted spinny chair while they apply foils to his head. He’sJove Rogue.

“Lyra,” Jove! Rogue! rumbles again, and my eyes jump from his hair to the dark green of his irises.

Anxious horror bolts through me, and I squeak.

I’m making eye contact with a man who does not hesitate to enact revenge on anyone who looks at him – or, more often, his brother – the wrong way. What is this, terrorize Lyra week? First Chrissy initiates a friend breakup, then I’m approached by possibly the last man that I would ever want to be approached by – except for probably Ted Yeats, the no good scoundrel.

“Are you okay?” Jove asks, passing agiant freaking axfrom one hand to the other before flipping it up casually to rest on his shoulders. He runs his now free hand through his hair, mussing up the white streak, and his brows furrow. “You look okay.”

“Um.” What is happening? “Yes?” I ask, shooting a quick look around. This would be a really great time for a knight in shining armor to sweep in and rescue me. I would also accept a somewhat sexist southern man bursting forth in a cloud of sawdust, ready to relive his glory days by saving a damsel in distress, something a lot more likely to come true for me.

Sadly, sexist men remain as useless as they ever were, not bothering to appear the one time I need them. Figures.

“Have you been crying?” he asks, squinting as he leans down down down, putting his face – and that ax! – mere inches from my own.

I lurch back.

“No,” I lie, making a note to check my mascara the next time I leave the house after a bout of self-pity-induced sobbing.

“Your eyes are red,” he accuses, scooting in further as I scoot back.

Ah, so not the mascara then. “My eyes are green,” I inform him. “And I have to go.”

He frowns a frown that I know for a fact has made no less than three grown men wet themselves. I, blessedly, hold my decorum. “You’re not okay,” he states. “You’ve been crying.”

I cannot think of a single reason why Jove Rogue would care whether I’ve been crying or not. I doubly can’t thinkof a reason he’d feel the need to confront me about it in the middle of the hardware store.

Maybe he’s been body snatched.

I eye him – and his ax – then decide that it’s not my business, and I do not care. Jove can, and often does, do whatever he wants, explaining nothing to anyone no matter how confusing his actions seem from the outside. If Jove Rogue wants to approach a random woman he only peripherally knows through living in the same town and accuse her of crying, then Jove Rogue will approach a random woman he only peripherally knows through living in the same town and accuse her of crying.

Unfortunately for me, I happen to be that woman.

I squat, tucking my knees close to my chest as I reach for the lengths of rope on the floor at Jove’s feet, and make the executive decision to buy both for the Make Your Own Plant Hanger class I’m hosting at the nursery tomorrow. If I have extra I can just use it to fashion a noose. Surely that will come in handy.

I stand and prioritize my next steps. First, get away from body-snatched Jove Rogue. Second, tell Oliver that I’ll pay him next time I come in so that I can avoid being stuck in line with Jove Rogue. Third, take a roundabout route home so that Jove Rogue doesn’t figure out where I live on the off chance that he doesn’t already know. Fourth, stop calling Jove Rogue by his full government name every time I think of him. He’s not a celebrity.

“Well,” I say, taking a cautious step away from the giant man with the ax. “This has been…” Terrifying? Unusual? The worst? “Quirky,” I settle on, using the code word Jupiter and I use when we want the other one to drop a subject. Jove won’t get it, but it makes me feel like, for the smallest moment, my friend is with me, helping me get through this interaction. She’s going to freak when I tell her about it.

I nod and take another step back, muttering, “I’ll see you, uh, later.” And when I do, I will avoid you like the plague.

Brows furrowed and lips downturned, he replies, “Okay, Lyra. If you’re sure.”

I am. I amsosure.

I give him a polite smile to mitigate any lets-slash-her-tires energy this interaction may have left him with, then I turn and book it to the front of the store. “I’ll get you next time!” I call to Oliver, who doesn’t look up from his sudoku even as he waves me off.

Once I’m outside on the sidewalk, I risk a glance back through the display windows of the hardware store. My eyes catch on Jove, who’s already locked on me in a not-so-comfortable way. I shiver, hope he doesn’t see it, then give him another polite smile before grabbing my bike where it leans against a bench on the sidewalk, dropping my rope in the pale pink basket attached to the front. I swing onto it, careful not to let the flowing fabric of my skirt get caught in the bike chain or pedals. Rope and body secured, I put my feet to the pedals and take off in the opposite direction of my house.

I make it home after a three mile loop through the town, which could theoretically take me about twenty-five minutes, but I was passing the tattoo parlor at the same time as Brandi, the owner and sole artist, was leaving for lunch.

I wouldn’t call Brandi and me friends, exactly, but I’m not sure she knows that. The first time we met, she treated me like a long-lost bestie, and she’s been just as comfortable with me every following time we’ve run intoeach other. At first I thought maybe she thought I was someone else, and I didn’t want to embarrass her by correcting her. This theory held up all through our first meeting, right up until the very end where she bid farewell with a “see you later, Ly!”

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