Reaper's Fire
Page 70

Looked like I’d be having a date tonight whether I wanted it or not, and because life wasn’t quite annoying enough, I’d gotten the cart with the wobbly wheel. It also made a horrible squealing noise whenever you turned it, a noise that echoed off the ancient, cracked floor tiles in Gunther’s Good Groceries.
It’d needed a remodel back when I was in high school, a remodel it’d never gotten. No wonder people preferred shopping out of town. Unfortunately, I was in a pinch because Dad had taken the steaks I’d set out for dinner and given them to one of the Baxter kids for a game they were playing (don’t ask). Now I had company—including a “date” for me—coming over in less than an hour, I needed a shower, and perhaps worst of all, Gunther’s was out of decent wine.
Now I was running around the grocery store, trying to find some steaks that would work, something to drink, and some veggies that didn’t look like they’d sat on a truck for a week before delivery.
Not the easiest of tasks.
That’s probably why I wasn’t paying very close attention as I rounded the corner behind the freezer aisle, running my cart smack into Gage himself. Specifically, the corner of the cart caught him in the crotch, and he doubled over with an agonized groan, catching my arm to keep himself upright.
I’d love to say I didn’t enjoy the moment, but that would be a lie.
He deserved it. He deserved it so much.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I said, smirking. His face had flushed dark red and he took a couple deep breaths, then slowly raised his head and met my eyes.
“Great to see you again, too, Tinker.”
A vein fluttered in his forehead, and I realized I really had hurt him. Badly. Good. Except now I felt sort of guilty. Probably my mom’s fault, I decided. She’d taught me to be a moral person. Bitch.
“Okay, I really am sorry,” I said, frowning. “I was in a hurry and I was going too fast.”
“Picked up on that,” he said, and what I think was supposed to be a smile twisted his face. More of a grimace really.
Ouch.
“Are you okay?”
He stared at me, then shook his head.
“No, feels like my balls are gonna explode, and not in the good way,” he said. “I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest you’re still pissed at me?”
“That would be a fair assessment,” I admitted.
There was a definite hint of humor in his face now—still mixed with pain—and I suddenly realized his hand was on my arm. Too close. I could smell his special scent, and that was never a good thing. First came the scent, then came the tinglies, followed quickly by me doing something stupid.
Shit.
I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. He was strong. I’d forgotten just how strong he really was.
“Um, do you mind letting me go?” I asked.
“Are you gonna ram my crotch again?”
“No,” I managed to say, feeling my cheeks flush. “I mean, you deserved it, but I’m also sorry. It genuinely was an accident.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he replied, and this time his smile seemed less forced. “But I promise if you stop beating me, I’ll take care of Mrs. Webbly’s broken toilet.”
“She has a broken toilet?” I asked, confused.
“Apparently. She left me four messages about it. Said she talked to your dad but he forgot to mention it. Did you ever set up a doctor’s appointment for him?”
“I’m taking him to see the specialist this week.”
“Tinker?” a young man asked. A young man with a very familiar voice. Looking up, I saw Jamie Braeburn smiling at me.
That would be Jamie Braeburn, the kid I used to babysit.
My sex tape costar.
Just thinking about it made me feel like a pedophile.
“Jamie,” I managed to say, the words squeaking out. I glanced between him and Gage, flushing bright red. Gage’s face was carefully blank, and I couldn’t tell if that was because he knew who Jamie was or because he had no clue. To the best of my knowledge, the video had never spread beyond the locals, but once something like that exists you never know who might’ve seen it.
“How are you doing?” Jamie asked, still smiling broadly. I hadn’t seen him since our . . . adventure. He looked good. Tall and buff, his skin carefully tanned and his hair perfectly styled just like someone in a motherfucking boy band.
I’m going to burn in hell for what I did.
“Hey, Jamie, I’m Gage,” my handyman said, offering his hand for a shake. Jamie took it, glancing between us. His eyes widened, and I realized he’d gotten the wrong idea.
“Gage is my—” I started to clarify, but then a loud voice cut me off. A familiar, hateful voice.
“Get the hell away from my boy,” snarled Flora Braeburn. “Haven’t you done enough damage already? Slut!”
Jamie and Gage stiffened as I slowly swiveled to find Jamie’s mother bearing down on us in all of her angry, beehived fury. She was still wearing her pink waitress uniform, face pale beneath her bright red lipstick and the blue eye shadow she put on with a trowel every morning.
“Mom, back off,” Jamie said, startling me with how firm his voice was. That was a man’s voice, and not a happy one.
“Shut up,” she snapped. “Go out to the car and wait for me while I set this hussy straight.”
“Sounds like you don’t have anything to say that Tinker needs to hear,” Gage said firmly. He stepped up behind me, which I have to admit gave me a little thrill. Or it would’ve if I weren’t in the middle of being called a slut by a clown woman in the middle of a grocery store.
“You’re just another of her gigolos, aren’t you?” Flora hissed. “She uses men and throws them away like tissues. Did you hear what she did to my little boy? Because—”
Jamie stepped between us protectively, facing her down.
Damn.
“I’ll leave town this afternoon if you don’t shut the fuck up,” Jamie said, his voice firm, but I could the restrained anger. “What happened is none of your damned business and I’ve had about enough.”
Then he turned his back on her, facing me as he raised a hand to touch my cheek gently.
“You doing okay?” he asked, eyes full of genuine concern.
“She’s fine,” Gage said, wrapping his arm around my waist. He pulled me back into his body hard, the gesture sending a very clear message. Something along the lines of him Tarzan, me Jane. Jamie crossed his arms, meeting Gage’s gaze.