Page 27 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“Call me when you're safe.”

I erase everything on the phone by converting it back to factory settings, and then toss it in a trash bin at a McDonald’s. I can’t believe I forgot my phone could be traced. The new car won’t help now, then. I keep driving west unsure of where to go when I eventually hit Tulsa, Oklahoma. I almost pass the entrance to the Tulsa International Airport when I yank the wheel hard, cutting over grass and gravel. An airport this large, my car is bound to remain undetected in long term parking.

After finding a spot in the middle of the madness, I hop a bus into the city.

“Babe?” Sarge shakes my arm and I cut my eyes to him. “You looked far away. Everything okay?”

“Yeah—um, yes. It’s just weird to be out this way again.”

He reaches over to grasp my hand. His kind touch kills me because I want it to mean more than it does, still, I don’t let myself flinch or pull away but continue to stare out the window at the passing scenery, which by all accounts, is beautiful. I feel utterly stupid realizing how much of my life I’ve let slip by without really seeing.

Drew…

Sarge…

For all my complaining about my mother hiding her head in the sand, it turns out I’m exactly like her. Isn’t that a kick in the teeth?

“Drink?” he asks me and I look up at him and then out the window seeing we’ve stopped at a gas station to fill up. When did we stop?

“Sure. Do you want me to go?”

“No baby, stay. I’ll get it. Coffee?”

“If they have a frappe machine. If not, an ice tea will work.”

I catch his smile, and damn, he’s beautiful. If only I could’ve met him first—no. That’s unfair. If he’d have met me, he’d never have had his son. Still, I can’t help imagine a world where he actually falls in love with me, as I watch him pump the gas and then head inside to pay and get our drinks.

Fuel stop done, we drive through Tulsa until we reach Tulsa International Airport and find the turn-in to long-term parking. One would think it’s simply a matter of finding which row now. Here’s the problem, seeing as it has been months and I’d only owned the car for a few hours when I parked it, it takes me a bit to remember what the car even looks like from the back. Why are there so many black compact cars? Truth be told, we don’t rely on my memory so much as Sarge – because I’ve decided, I have to think of him as Sarge now. Only Sarge. He could never be Dustin to me again. Dustin was Claire’s. – finding the correct row after roaming up and down a million others.

“Stop!” I shout, pointing to the tail end of the vehicle. “That’s mine. That’s where the artwork is. But… I no longer have the key. I lost it way back in Texas. It’s probably still at the safehouse.” I laugh uncomfortably.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks shortly and that sobers me right up.

“No. I’m sorry. I wish I were.”

“Right,” he says, leaning over to pop the glove box before reaching inside to pull out some little tool. I’ve never seen the likes of it before, not a Swiss Army knife, but it’s like that in regards to the fact that it has all sorts of little attachments on it. Then he shuts off the truck and hands me the keys. “These places have cameras all over. You’re gonna get out of the truck with me and we’re gonna go to the trunk of your car. You’re going to hand me the fob so if any cameras pick up our action, they’ll see you handing the keys off to me. I’ll pretend to open the trunk with the keys while picking the lock. It won’t take me much longer than it takes to turn the key to actually pop the lock, in case you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I tell him honestly. “I trust you.” My response earns me a smile. He really does have the most devastatingly handsome smiles.

We both get out of the truck and meet at my car. I hand him over the keys and just like he said he would, he uses the tool to pop open the trunk in no more time then it would take to turn the key to open it that way. It’s pretty freaking awesome.

I have to admit to holding my breath as he yanks up the lid of the trunk. I’m not sure he actually thought the art would be there, either, after all these months. My heart pounds out a happy dance in my chest when we see the black artist bag lying flat, exactly as I left it.

With the case in hand, I unzip it just enough to make sure the piece still rests inside. I let out that breath slowly, tipping my head up and smiling, but when I see Sarge’s face, I find him looking at me, not the art.

“This is it,” I gladly tell him because I can’t take the silence or the intensity of his stare.

It’s a stupid thing to say. I know it. He knows it. But instead of calling me out on it, he nods once, brushes my cheek with one bent finger, and says, “It’s time to go.”

The air in Oklahoma never felt so thick. These moments between us—he makes them feel like a lifetime, but we don’t have a lifetime because he’s still in love with his late wife. It’s too easy to forget when we’re here, like this, clearly the only two people in the world, even when surrounded by a large population moving in and out of Tulsa International Airport.

And the ghost of his wife, Greer. Don’t forget that.“Right,” I say on another exhale purposely to break the moment. “We need to get moving.”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat, and repeating himself. “Right.”

Okay, so clearly our conversation skills have turned lacking. I shoot one last look between Sarge and the trunk, then tuck the bag under my arm and walk swiftly around to the passenger side of the truck.

The next problem arises while I try to figure out where to put the bag to keep the art from bending. If I set it on the seat and lean it on the cushion, we risk it falling forward if we hit a bump or when we stop. If we set it on the floor, we’ll have to flip it on its side, which could run the risk of corrupting the corners or putting a bend in the painting if it slides the wrong way.

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