Page 45 of Hideaway Whirlwind
“You need to come home.”
“I told you, I don’t have a home,” I mumble at last, wishing it weren’t true.
Elliott
Cash is king when the power is out, and one of the benefits of knowing just about everyone in town is that it’s easy enough to convince the small mom and pop shops to open their doors for me with the promise of under-the-table cash.
I slide my purchases across the glass-topped display case serving as the checkout counter, and Miss Esperanza pushes her multi-colored spectacles up her nose. “You’re sure this is on the one you want?” she asks, inspecting the jigsaw puzzle I’ve picked out—a group of opossums toasting smores with ticks in place of marshmallows on their skewers, dancing around a bonfire in jean shorts and cowboy boots.
“I’m sure,” I say, since it’s perfect, and count the cash I pull from my billfold.
A sheet of printer paper pinned to a small community bulletin board off to the side catches my eye, and I rip it down, the homemade LOST poster curling in on itself with age. I curse under my breath when I see the stocky, smiling gray dog named Daisy in the printed photo, her pink collar as clean and bright as the yard she’s sunning herself in, her ribs filled out,tail blurred from wagging it so fast.
When I show the poster to Miss Esperanza, she says, “That has been up on the board going on seven or eight months, since Old Man Jones passed.”
A rock sinks in my gut. “Who put up the poster?”
“His son. He came down from Wichita, I believe, to clean out and sell the house, and she got out of the yard. Have you seen her?”
“Yeah,” I say with a heavy sigh, folding the poster and sliding it into my pocket. The kids are going to be devastated when I have to make the call to the number on the poster.
My next stop is to a junkyard about an hour past my place, where I had found both my Broncos. There’s another classic beauty I’ve had my eye on for some time, but I’m not here for that. The owner of the junkyard, Henry, kicks the deflated back tire of the kids-sized dirt bike—one of a pair of two bikes, both missing half their parts.
“Not your usual fare,” he says, not bothering to count the handful of bills I pass him before he pockets the cash, since he knows I’m good for it.
I grunt and load the bikes into the back of my Bronco beside the pile of lumber needed to build Kendall’s high chair.
Henry rests his hands beneath the straps of his denim overalls, his knuckles twisted with age and use. “You got kids I don’t know about?” he jokes with a wry smile.
“Yup,” I answer without a moment’s hesitation when I think of Dustin and Sydney helping me restore the bikes. I’ve already sectioned out a piece of my land for the dirt track I want to put in for them.
Henry’s jaw falls slack, the end of his long, wiry gray beard brushing the top of his stomach. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.” I slam the trunk closed, then pull out of the junkyard with a wave to Henry, turning right down the country road, heading toward my final stop just as the sun sets.
I search the treeline when I pull over and park, hoping Teagan is waiting for me again. I even lean back against the Bronco’s hood with my ankles crossed, listening for anything that might be out of place. The snap of a twig beneath her boots, perhaps? The rustling of a blanket being pulled tight around her shoulders?
But, of course, I’m not that lucky, not after I did a shit job of convincing Birdie I didn’t want her for more than just her body, seeing as I immediately undressed her at my first opportunity last night. She was gone by the time I awoke with the sun, leaving me to miss her that much more.
Regret lives deep in my bones that I probably made everything worse, sated my lust at the expense of her trust and my second chance. It won’t stop me from trying, though, as I creep down Davis’s driveway with the brown paper bags from Miss Esperanza’s shop.
I’m just about to pass the front window on my way to the red front door when I catch some motion from inside. In the living room, two people are silhouetted against each other, swaying to music I can’t hear. Davis pulls Goldie closer when they spin, then dips his head to kiss her. It doesn’t take long for things to get hot and heavy after that, and Davis lifts his wife with her legs around his waist, carrying her out of view.
I want that for me and Birdie so bad that it physically hurts, my throat tightening as my knees grow weak. My face is wet by the time I drop the bags off, then make my way to the spare bedroom window. The drapes are pulled closed, so I can’t even get my nightly hit of the sight of my family to get me through the next day. And I know it’s exactly what I deserve.
Chapter 21
Teagan
“Yes, yes, yes!” Goldie yells, punching the air when we make it past the thirty-minute mark and the power stays on, then rubs her hands together with a smirk. “He can’t sneak around the house anymore. I’ll get him next time, yes, I will.” Outside, she circles the house twice, testing the security floodlights, laughing when each one turns on, casting a bright yellow glow that banishes the shadows Elliott will no longer be able to use to conceal himself.
With the power most likely being restored to the town, my bizarre vacation of sorts has come to an end, and it’s back to the grind with a mile-long to do list: find an OBGYN, get a job so I can pay said OBGYN, apply for a spot at a daycare or preschool for Kendall, register Dustin and Sydney at the nearby elementary school, and start touring apartments. But the very first thing I do is call dibs on the washing machine in the garage, gleefully loading as many clothes as I can fit inside with Elliott’s laundry detergent. I even pause to stick my nose into the laundry cap, taking a hit of the scent like Priscilla and Quincy did to a few choice drugs. The second isto borrow Davis’s laptop so I can search the news websites in Las Vegas, looking for any missing persons reports filed for the kids and me.
I sag back on the couch. Nothing.
We did it. We got away.
My stomach twists itself in knots, though, and I chew the nail of my left ring finger down past the quick, hissing when it starts to bleed. There’s one more thing I need to look up—the thing I’ve been silently obsessing over even more than Elliott since I last saw him three nights ago. I find the link buried three pages deep on Google. Old news already.
