Page 15 of Red Flag, Green Light

Chapter Four

In lieu of Taco Bell, there will be bad decisions.

Ceres

I’ll be honest.

I fully expected Taco Bell.

Even with how little I leave my house, I know for a fact that Mars Rogue has an unhealthy attachment to two types of food. First, carrot cake. Second, Taco Bell.

Given that I maintain a perfectly modest garden—which absolutely does not flourish both inside and outside of my house, overwhelming my yard and bookshelves with flowers, herbs, vegetables, ivies, and succulents…—I often see him frosting tiny carrots onto cake through his kitchen window, which faces my house, and I also often find myself outside when Mars drives up with his Taco Bell.

Taco Bell is, seemingly, the only place he doesn’t go on his bike. Or, perhaps, whenever he opts to take his charcoal grey Honda Civic out for a spin instead of pop onto his brilliant copper bicycle, he inevitably also retrieves Taco Bell.

Who knows?

It’s not likeI’mthe one with an incurable tendency to locate him whenever I exit my abode…

Let’s just say I have lost count of the number of times I have caught the man frozen on his sidewalk, eyes locked on me. Catching him staring is great because when I smile at him, his face explodes red before he crushes whatever burritos he has going cold in his Taco Bell bag and darts inside his house.

Despite belonging to half the ultimate terror duo of Bandera, Mars’s insecurities are obvious and aplenty, even from afar.

Needless to say, they’re ever more obvious and aplenty when they’re about three feet in front of me, just past a linen tablecloth and a spattering of tall, lit candles.

Stressed, he spins a card between his fingers while his eyes hold to the flickering firelight.

During the drive out of town to the nearest city and this swanky restaurant, our conversation consisted of him handing me a couple hundred dollars as assurance he wouldn’t stick me with the bill, me asking if they were counterfeit, and him laughing.

Now, he’s been quiet ever since we’ve been seated, giving me ample moments to appreciate the atmosphere.

It’s been three years since I’ve been outside Bandera with all it’severyone knows everyone and pretends to know youenergy. Here, I’m free to be quiet, because being quiet and concise is what service workers just trying to do their jobs prefer. The hostess did not strike up small talk when she sat us. She only coldly smiled. And I bet once our waiter gets here, they will follow a precise script—drink, meal, anything else?—instead of discussing how many calves their neighbor’s cow birthed last spring.

When I first moved into Bandera, it was because I could afford the cost of living and I wanted to fade into the nothingness, away from the millions of people in the city where I grew up.

I never expected that fewer people meant more harrowing cow birthing stories sprung upon me during dinner.

Not to say I wasn’t perfectly content to fizzle back to my house and take up a lifestyle ofnever leaving again…but…

I don’t know.

It’s nice to be here and not scared out of my mind that I’mabout to say something to someone that opens a steaming can of trauma.

“Maybe I should move back into the city,” I murmur.

Mars’s eyes snap off the flames. “Because of me?”

No, not even a little bit. I stare at him, then poke the bundle of nerves that seems to make him up. “Yes.”

His card stops spinning. “Surely the crime in the city is worse.”

“Maybe, but it’s never once been in my living room before today.” I rest my chin in my palm and swipe my fingers through the fire. “I value that in a municipality.”

Mars’s throat bobs, eyes fixated on my fingers as they dance over the wicks. He takes in a hard breath. “No, I don’t like this plan.”

“Strange how that puts another pin under theprosfor it, then, huh?”

“Ceres—”

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