Page 3 of Bred By The Deputy
“No. No, why would I be uncomfortable? Matter of fact,” he pauses, cocking his head as he smiles at me. I love his smile, it lights up his green eyes. “I am much more comfortable here with you than I ought to be.”
“Well, I say stuff that bothers people. My father always said I had no filter. Just his nice way of saying I never think before I speak. I mean, of course, I do, I couldn’t speak if I wasn’t thinking, right? I do make people uncomfortable. They find out who I am and what I do, and they hate me.”
Dole frowns at me, tilting his head to let his eyes slide over me. I am used to men looking at me a certain way. It is what I get paid for, after all. I started modeling when I was fourteen when I was spotted on the streets of New York, on a shopping spree with my socialite mother.
“Why would people hate you for what you do?”
“Women are taught to hate other women. To hate them because they are thin, or not thin, too blond, too brash, too quiet, too loud. I was a model for most of my life. I got paid exorbitant amounts of money because a person in the know deemed me pretty enough to get paid for it. I am one of the reasons some girls diet, and why some girls wear what they wear. They eat it up but hate me after finding out I am the face of what they devour.”
“That’s,” pausing, his eyes come to mine. I almost drop my fork when I see a softness in their jade depths. No judgment. No leering. Just soft eyes full of…not sympathy, but…I guess, empathy? “That’s an awful way to live, sweetheart. What brought you to Driftwood? Passing through?”
“Oh, no,” I push another big bite of creamy potatoes past my lips, speaking while I enjoy it. “Some of my old friends live here now. It’s wild, they came here to protest, then moved themselves to town. I figured I had to see the cute little town that took them all out.”
I leave out that I had nowhere left to go but to Quinn and Willa. That I came here out of necessity, not for a visit with some old friends. If I am being honest, his pulling me over seemed like a sign. Once he walked up to my door and our eyes met, I felt safe for the first time in months.
Doing what I do for a living has its perksanddrawbacks. Wearing the finest clothes, going all over the world, hanging out with celebrities, and having a life of luxury is nice. Women hating for being born looking this way, men using me as a trophy, and even being stalked are not so nice.
“Everything good, sweetheart?”
Blinking at Dole as he watches me shred the paper napkin with the diner’s name on it, I nod. No, everything is not good but no one else needs to know. The less people who know what is going on, the better. I could not stand it if someone else got hurt because of me. Because of the stupid mistakes I made, that sent me running from my life in the city.
“Yeah, yes of course. Don’t you think it was strange of me to drag you to dinner with me? I just broke the law, but I thought I had a right to share dinner with you. What does that tell you about me?”
“Well,” he pauses again to take a good, long look at me. I find I very much like the way he looks at me. It is so different from the way most people look at me. Stare at me. Leer at me. He does none of that. “It tells me you wanted something to eat. About breaking the law…I saw your record, Della, I know this was not your first run-in with the law. Which tells me a lot more about you than us sharing a meal here tonight.”
“Does it? What does it tell you?”
“It tells me you do not like being rich. You don’t know any other way to be. It tells me you tried to do some good with who you are and what you say you do for a living. That whatever reason you think people hate you ought to be the reason they admire you. You don’t have to tell me this, and dinner here is just us eating, but something tells me you came here to get away from something. Or someone.No onewill hurt you in Driftwood, Della. I can promise you that.”
Tears sting the back of my eyes as I drop my fork. I have not felt safe for so long. Not just because of what—or rather, who—I am running from. I have not felt safe because my face was my job, where I went, who I went with, and what I did, it was all fodder for the press. I have had to look over my shoulder for so long now, I keep my head on a swivel at all times.
Staring across the table at him, I nod. Because I believe him. I know I should know better by now than to believe what a man tells me. None of the men I let in my life ever kept a promise. They never meant anything they said to me. How I know this one is different, that this man I just met would not let someone hurt me, I cannot be sure. Maybe it’s the badge.
“You seem like a good man, Dole,” I glance at his left hand, seeing it bare. “You married? Have little baby deputies?” I tease, confused by the sudden twisting in my chest. I realize I am holding my breath waiting for his answer.
“No, not married and no kids. Someday, I suppose. That is what most of us want, right?”
“Most of us, yes,” I trail off, pushing at my plate as my stomach churns.
“Not you? No wedding dress or little ones in the future, Della?”
Blinking up at him, I stare back at his heavy gaze. I believe he is a good man. One who deserves a beautiful woman to walk down the aisle to him and give him a dozen babies. There is something in his eyes that tells me he wants it all. And why shouldn’t he get to have it all?
“No, not for me. I could never,” I break off once again, my throat tightening at my words. “I won’t be having kids. Not sure I believe in marriage either. Although I know most of my old friends came here with the same beliefs and got married in quick succession.”
Dole nods and chuckles deeply, the sound making my heart double Dutch in my chest. It is warm and louder than I expected, and he doesn’t seem bothered when people turn to look. Smiling at him, I take another bite of my meal, my appetite coming back as my unease begins to fade.
As we eat, we talk about the town of Driftwood. He teases me about how my rich girlfriends overtook the town after coming here to protest the lumberjack's work. The girls wound up wooed by the men instead. I laugh as I tell stories about the many other protests we took part in together.
“Once, we were in Haiti, building clean water facilities. We learned so much about the people there. I was almost,” I bow my head as I trail off. “No, not almost. Iwas…. I wasashamedof us. We had lived so recklessly, so selfishly, for so long. We started all the charity stuff to earn points, to fill the ledger of life with a few good deeds. After Haiti, we did it for the right reasons. It was a tough time down there, we got dirty, we got hurt, we got a teaspoon of a taste of what it is to have almost nothing.”
“It sounds as if you did the best you could,” he says gently, reaching over to cover my hand as my fingers tap anxiously at the battered table.
“It might sound that way, but that’s not true. We knew we had lavish homes to come back to, trust funds, safety most people…” Again, I trail off because what I said is part true. But I have not felt safe in a very long time.
Glancing across the table, I watch his gaze as it locks on me. Men look at me all the time. I get paid to be something people stare at. I used to be proud of how I looked. It made me feel as if I mattered—until I realized my looks meant nothing. Right now, though, I want them to matter. I want this handsome, sweet, kind man to think they matter.
“Do you think I am pretty, Dole?” I say as I stare back at him.
