Page 9 of Junkyard Dog

“Dude, when did you get the new car? That Charger is in great shape. How much do you want for it?”

Motherfucker, they’ve seen Rhiannon’s car. Nobody is supposed to know she’s here. “It’s not for sale. I’m holding it for a friend.”

“Come on, Dobermann. I can make a better offer. I’d look sweet in that thing.”

The moron is six foot four. Rhiannon barely hits five foot six. He’d look like an ogre hunched over the steering wheel. “It’s not for sale. Forget you even saw it. Now fuck off.”

“Chill, man. We need a bumper that will fit an old Chevy SUV, preferably a?—”

“What part of “fuck off” are you not getting, Pratt? I’m closed. I’m going to get really pissed off if you need me to come over and explain it to you.”

“Fuck you too, Dobermann. See if we come back to give you any more business,” Cort says.

But they finally leave, taking their lame threats with them. Those morons are two of the reasons I stay in business. They need repair parts every other month, plus they are responsible for about half a dozen of the wrecks in the yard. They’ll be back.

I go inside to check on Rhiannon. She is a fucking wreck. Not even Cajun sitting on her toes is enough to make her relax. When I sit beside her and take her hands in mine, I realize she’s clenching her fingers so tightly that they’ve gone cold. I should have known she’d be upset.

“It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re safe. It was only a couple of locals looking for parts. They don’t even know you’re here,” I say. I don’t mention that they took notice of her car. She doesn’t need to know that. Besides, I took care of it. Those two fuckers definitely don’t know who it belongs to.

“You should let me leave. That bitch put a tracker on my car. What if there’s another one that Bishop didn’t find?” she asks. “Who knows what she’s capable of.”

“She won't find you. I promise.” If I have to ask my brothers to do drive-bys all night, I will, if that’s what gives Rhiannon peace of mind.

Being behind a locked door is not making her feel safe. It’s time for a different tactic, according to the therapists I saw at the VA. I have walked this entire property a hundred times over the last two years. “Let’s go for a walk behind the house. There’s a rise where you can see the river.”

Rhiannon has stopped shaking by the time we get back to the house. It’s a small improvement but I’ll take it. She makes the soup. I take over the sandwiches after she nearly burns them to a crisp. She’s too jumpy to enjoy a movie, so I pull out my grandfather’s old cribbage board after supper. I’ve forgotten most of the rules. She has not, and proceeds to skunk me two games in a row. I lost the first one fairly. I throw the second one just to make her smile.

“I’m going to take a shower and crash,” Rhiannon says after losing our third game by two points.

I try not to think of her naked in a steamy cloud. Then I stop fighting it and enjoy the vision. “I’ll grab my stuff for the sofa.” I don’t sleep naked. It’s too vulnerable. My T-shirt and track pants will prevent any embarrassment for either of us if Rhiannon sees me.

By the time I’m out of the bathroom, by bedroom door is closed and there is no light coming from the crack under the door. I make a loop around the property with the dogs. The gate is closed—with a padlock this time. Nothing is out of place. The bugs and night critters in the surrounding trees tell me no strangers are lurking in the dark.

I lie on the sofa. Sleep is not coming. Not with Rhiannon next door in my bed. I bet the pillow is going to smell like her tomorrow. If she’s still here, I plan to swap the one I’m using tonight for hers. I want that memory of her.

Screams erupt from my bedroom. I’m up and through the door before they stop. Rhiannon is sitting upright in bed, her wavy, fair hair a chaotic halo. “Sorry. Sorry,” she gasps. “Nightmare.”

“Will you be okay?”

“No. Don’t go.” She pats the mattress beside her. “Can you stay? I mean, I know you won’t. But just until I fall asleep?”

She is heaven and hell in the same sweet package. How can I say no to her, even though I should. It’s just for a couple minutes. Until she feels better. I can give her that much.

I lay beside her, on top of the blankets.

“The first time I ever slept out in the woods—at my friend’s cottage—it was raining. And they had a tin roof. That was a first for me too,” she tells me in the dark. “It wasn’t a thunderstorm. Just a long, gentle, soaking rain that lasted all night. Every time I woke up because it was a new place and a different mattress, the drumming would put me right back to sleep.”

That’s the last thing I remember until the sun shining through the window wakes me in the morning. I wedged my leg between Rhiannon’s some time during the night. My arm is wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her against me. My body is telling me I should never let her go. For once, my brain is in agreement. How can two people who fit so well together be wrong? She needs looking after and I’m here to do it. We don’t need anything else right now.

Rhiannon’s eyes pop open. I’m not ready for the guilt. “I’m so sorry,” she says, trying to pull away.

“For what?”

“You said you sleep alone.” She unhooks my arm. Then she kicks my leg away. “I’m trying to respect that.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

She clambers out of bed. With her hands on her hips, she looks like she’s a naughty, nighty-wearing school m’arm aboutto lecture the class bad boy. I can work with that. “Hey, I was ready to jump you the minute I saw you. You’re the one who’s not interested.”

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