Page 8 of Crazy In Love
May means the winter harshness is long gone, and with that change comes the absence of three-foot-deep snow and ugly, naked trees. Instead, this small town named Barlespy—a townbarelylarger than Plainview—blooms with seasonal color and swells happily in that sweet spot between winter and summer. It’s neither hot nor cold. The sun remains in the sky just a little longer each night than it did a month ago, and the summer bugs are not yet at make-you-want-to-kill-yourself level.
Oh, but they’re coming.
Still, the suitcase-man sets my nerves on edge, zooming around the airport while he drags our luggage behind his little cart. I trudge off the plane—no tunnel or ramps here—and traverse the rickety steel stairs until I’m standing ten-toes down on the runway. The actual runway.
Folks would be arrested for this in New York!
The warm spring breeze whips my hair back while the sun flirts with the horizon. Not quite dark, but not really light, either. Best of all, Tommy Watkins waits by the airport terminal’s back door—no JFK security out here—and dips his chin when our eyesmeet.
Just like that, a welcoming face releases my lungs and allows my pent-up breath to escape.
I set my carry-on case on its wheels and make quick work of tugging the handle up, but when I try to place my purse on top, my nerves make my movements jerky, and my rushed actions end with it spilling onto the ground. “Shit.” Crouching, I toss my pen back into the leather bag, then my keys and lip balm.
“You need help, ma’am?” A broad, tanned hand stops in my peripherals, and when I follow it along a muscular arm, which leads to a wide chest and then, further up, a sweet smile and kind eyes, I gulp and stare.
So he places his hand under my elbow and draws me to my feet.
“Uh… thank you.” He smells nice, and when he reaches across and takes the handle of my carry-on, the delicious scents of cologne and coffee fill my lungs, replacing stale plane air. I study his handsome face and expensively bought smile, and moving the straps of my purse to the crook of my arm, I hardly clock Tommy’s approaching form on my right. “Kinda wish they’d give us the inflatable slide to get out of those planes. Way better than the stairs.”
He draws me around and leads me toward the terminal…Lego building. “You dread leaving New York and visiting places like this as much as I do?”
“Eh. I’m not visiting the place. I’m visiting the people. You here for a funeral or someone’s fiftieth wedding anniversary?”
He snorts. “Basically the only valid reasons to come here. My mom and dad’s anniversary, actually.” He brings me toward the left, out of the other passengers’ way, since it’s cleartheyhave somewhere to rush to. “Name’s Wade Perkins.” He offers his hand and a charming grin. “Bugging out of my skin already and can’t wait to fly east again.”
“Fox Tatum.” I take his hand and shake. “Excited aunt counting down the minutes until her brand-new niece’s birth.”
“Fox.” Tommy comes to a stop on my right, his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He wears jeans not a great deal different from Wade’s and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his chest… also similar to Wade’s.
I guess they make them big out here.
“Hey.” I drag my favorite fighter into a hug—he’sthe only fighter I know, but still.I squeeze extra tight and revel in the goodness ofalmost-Alanafor a single beat of time. Then I step back and exhale a relieved breath as he takes my carry-on from Wade, then the handbag that weighs a ton.
Awkwardly, Wade drops his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.
“Oh! I’m sorry. Uh… Tommy Watkins, Wade Perkins.” I point between the pair. “Wade, Tommy.”
“We have to go.” Tommy pinches the hem of my jacket and tugs me away. “Alana’s waiting for you.”
“Is she okay?”Wade who? I move fast, hurrying over the blacktop in his wake, two hurried steps to every one of his long strides. “Hey? Is there a problem? Why are we rushing?”
“Not rushing, and nothing’s wrong. We’ve got a drive ahead of us, and I wanna get home.”
“But she’s okay, right?” Istep-step-jogto keep up. “Healthy? Baby’s okay?”
“Baby’s fine.” He drags me to a stop by the other passengers, catching my elbow when my feet tangle and the ground promises to hurt. Then he lifts a brow, glaring toward the suitcase buggy.
One might assume he’s waiting for instructions, unsure which case to select. But then the ice-cream man presents a glittering spectacle completely unlike the blacks and beiges and browns surrounding it. With a heaving grunt and strained face, he tosses it unceremoniously onto the concrete, its bulk landing with a splat that leaves me worried about the zippers. But Tommy lowers his questioning brow and steps forward to collect my things. Then we’re off again, moving toward the exit. “Alana’s tired of being pregnant. She’s swollen and exhausted and said she’s not sleeping very well.”
“I mean… She’s full-term with a giant Watkins baby. I’d expect nothing less.”
“Right.”
“And Franky?”
He tugs me out the doors and through the parking lot, straight toward a truck of rusted silver and scratched fenders that would never clue the world into the fortune he has socked away after back-to-back title wins. Lifting my suitcase, his back and shoulders flaring under the weight, he tosses it into the bed of his truck, then he turns and grabs my carry-on, lobbing it in, too. “Franky’s working on his armbar and getting kinda decent at it.”
“No, I meant…” I stroll to the passenger door, narrowing my eyes. Intuition niggles at the back of my brain. “How’s he doingemotionally? His mom’s going through some stuff, and his baby sister is about to turnhis life upside down. I imagine he’s stressed but determined not to let Alana know.”
