Page 8 of Snow Good to Lose
Caden
Amari said I walked around with a scowl on my face ninety percent of the time. I might agree with her, but today I would say more like fifty-fifty.
Two things instantly calmed me: Amari and my garden.
Who would think an ex-military, ex-gangster, ex-enforcer would enjoy gardening? I’d say don’t tell my boys from back home, but they think I’m dead.
Who gives a fuck?
I dug my toes into the dirt as I stooped down to check on the zucchini. Music lofted from the partially opened window. Christmas music.I smiled despite myself and turned my attention back to the vegetables.
I stilled with my hands in the dirt. The alarm on my watch vibrated and caught me off guard. I remained still. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It confirmed what I suspected. Someone was here.
I plucked a few of the bright blueberries from the vine and cupped them in my hand. The firm texture helped me focus. My ears picked up rustling opposite my position. My peripheral vision scanned the perimeter. When a man with brown floppy hair and a deep tan emerged from the overgrown bush, I was a little less surprised.
“Hey,” he waved. “How’s it going?” The dark-haired man shuffled across the clearing and stood on the other side of my garden. If he took one step further, I was going to have to pound him. Nobody messed with my tomatoes.
He stopped and rested his hands on his hips. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. He wasn’t nervous. It was damn hot out here.
He rubbed his hand up his face and swept his hair back over. He replaced his hand back on his hip. It was an odd gesture. I tilted my head and stared at him. I remained crouched with a handful of blueberries. I looked at my hand, surprised to see them intact. I half expected to have a hand full of jam.
“Nice setup you two got here.” He looked toward the house and scanned my garden. “You wouldn’t happen to be growing any weed, would you?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I’ll pay you for it.” He reached for his wallet.
I jostled the berries and wiped the dirt off my other hand. I stood up. The confused look on his face sparked his next question.
“You speak English?” He scratched his face.
“Yep. From Texas.” I exaggerated my southern drawl.
With my tan skin and dark hair, I could have passed for a Puerto Rican or Costa Rican, but I was no good with the Spanish accent.
“Yeah.” The stranger’s voice raised an octave. “So, some little shit on the resort where I’m staying,” he pointed in the general direction of the resort, “sold me a bunch of oregano. Can you believe that? I gave him two hundred bucks, too.”
His drawn-out story was either a tactic to distract us, or the guy was an idiot.
“So, I figured it grows wild here, right?” A new layer of sweat had formed on his face. It soaked the collar of his blue T-shirt. Maybe nerves played a role in his demeanor. Yet, he looked like the guy who sweated profusely on most occasions.
He held one hand on the top of his head to keep the hair out of his eyes. “So, I thought I’d just take a walk in the forest and see what I found.” He shrugged.
“Sorry. Only fruit and vegetables here.” I shrugged and stared. He scanned the perimeter and pointed toward the house.
“Did y’all build it?” I looked toward the house and then back at him. “Yeah, me and a few locals. It didn’t take much.” I took a step toward the house, trying to sense who I was dealing with. Hopefully, Amari would stay out of sight.
“Babe.”
No such luck.
“Who’s your new friend?” Amari asked in her Haitian accent. “Ca va?”
I never took my eyes off of the stranger. Amari stepped up next to me. She grabbed my arm and pulled it over her shoulder and around her waist. Where I expected to find a hand full of her beautiful ass, I palmed my Glock G45 instead.
God, I love this girl.
She held a bowl in her other hand. I dropped the berries and palmed my gun.
