Page 71 of Bedding Rose
He leaves me standing, still unsteady on my feet after that kiss, and turns and grabs our things before slamming the door of his truck shut. Slinging an arm around my shoulders, he walks me toward his portable office building, raising a hand to greet a few of his guys who are standing by their cars, pulling off their vests to go home for the night. We’ve made a habit of evening filing so they don’t even give us a second glance when I give them a quick wave and a smile. Suddenly, before I’m quite ready, he’s swinging the office door open.
Angelo’s father sits inside at his son’s desk, wearing a button-up shirt much like his son’s. Style-wise, they seem similar. But their appearances couldn’t be more different. His dad is pale and with his gray hair and black shirt, could almost look like a black-and-white film character. But when he stands and smiles, holding out his arms to both of us, he emanates a warmth that’s more genuine than I’ve ever felt from my mother.
“Hey kids. Rose, it’s a delight to meet you. I can see my son is definitely the lucky one.”
“I am.” Angelo’s husky response makes me light up as I try not to trip over my feet and make a fool of myself as I step forward to shake his father’s hand.
I’m pulled into a hug instead, a hard fast hug followed by a quick peck to the cheek before Mr. Walker steps back with a mischievous smile. He gives Angelo a full hug too before clapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Enjoy tonight. And remember, the couple who flays together stays together.”
“Dad. Don’t,” Angelo threatens.
Mr. Walker just gives a big grin, almost as if this whole thing has him giddy. “Car’s out back. Go on. Have a great date night.”
I giggle and swallow the manic laugh that wants to erupt afterward.Calm down,I scold myself, trying to focus on my breathing.
Angelo just shakes his head and glares as he puts his arm back around me and leads me to a door on the opposite side of the portable. We walk down a ramp to a beat-up old four-door sedan that’s missing a license plate.
“Jacket on,” he instructs, tossing it to me, before grabbing a set of gloves out of the duffel. Tossing the bag in the back seat, he slides on the black gloves before opening the door for me. “Your chariot.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” He winks before hustling around the front of the car and getting in on the driver’s side.
“I think it goes without saying, but don’t touch anything.” He motions to the dash, which is so old it still has a tape deck in the radio section.
“Got it.” I want to say his Dad is funny. I want to tell him about how I’ve got butterflies in my stomach over this whole thing, and how strange that is because you’re only supposed to get butterflies for good things. But Angelo’s face is set in concentration as he navigates us through back roads without street cameras and drives us out of town. So, instead of talking, I play with the lining of my jacket, wiggle my toes inside my shoes, and try not to bounce my leg annoyingly.
I sink into my own body and try not to let thoughts of the future or the past overtake me, to just live in this moment. And, before I know it, an hour has passed and he’s pulling onto a road in the middle of nowhere, parking, and helping me out so we can walk the last leg of our journey.
“Here goes nothing,” I finally whisper, under my breath as we walk hand-in-hand and I drink in our surroundings.
The desert air is unusually warm tonight, as if Hell is fully aware of what we’re doing and its flames are seeping up around us in support. I regret the jacket, but it’s a minor regret in the scheme of things. I still don’t feel regret for what we’re about to do, which makes me wonder if I’m an undiagnosed psychopath.
Meanwhile, the moon is nearly full and it’s easy to see we’re traveling along a walking path worn between scrub brush and low pines. A coyote calls in the distance. But otherwise, we’re so alone out in this vast wilderness that I can see all the stars. The light pollution of the city smudges the horizon but doesn’t encroach over the mesa we passed on our drive. Out here, there’s nothing but calm.
For now.
We come around a low, squat pine tree and a dilapidated, abandoned gas station greets my eyes. The single-story cinder block building has peeling white paint and orange slogans interrupted by wooden panels covering the windows. “Get your kicks … ” and “Ice Cold … ” are pale relics of once-vibrant paint. The gas pumps out front are covered in rust, though two are missing.Who would want to take a gas pump?I wonder as we traipse around the side of the building.
A junky, old, white van is parked at the rear—it’s ugly enough to fit in with its surroundings and looks like it was abandoned the same year as the station—but Mint sits behind the wheel, chewing on a toothpick.
The sight of him makes everything more real.
When he spots us, he swings open the front door and the hinges creak loudly, though the pulse pounding in my ears is just as harsh. This is actually happening. No turning back. I’m part of a crime now.He kidnapped those boys and I’m here. I’ve crossed the line.
God, I should be terrified. But whatever shattered inside of me that night must have also tipped over my ethics and made that fragile value system smash to pieces.Those butterflies in my stomach flutter their wings.
Mint slams his door shut and the moon slides blue light over his bald head as he gives Angelo and me a single downward nod of respect before saying, “They’re inside.” He pockets his toothpick and I realize that it’s probably so he doesn’t leave any DNA evidence here at the scene.
“Good. Give you any trouble?” Angelo asks.
“One kicks like a mule,” he replies as my boyfriend sets down his duffel.
We all watch as he unzips it, still addressing his acquaintance. “They see you?”
Mint snorts derisively. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Angelo gives him a smirk before passing out balaclavas. “Well, just in case.”
We slide on the headgear and immediately, the heat rises to a stifling level. My fingers flex as they come down from the hood, needing something to do, to hold, to mangle to expel this extra energy flowing through my veins. A second later, a small black voice modulator is handed to me and I take out my stress on it, squeezing the little square speaker over and over.
