Jill Sorenson: Set The Dark On Fire

Trying to comb her hair only amplified her headache. Abandoning the effort, she tied it back, brushed her teeth, and called it good.

This was not going to be an “I feel pretty” day.

She sat at the foot of the bed to pull on thick socks and the scuffed hiking boots she used for work. Grabbing one of Dylan’s old sweatshirts, a faded black hoodie, she walked back out into the hallway, squaring her shoulders for another confrontation.

She had at least five minutes left before the sheriff came.

Outside her brother’s door, she took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. Before she got a chance, Dylan wrenched it open. He stood there blocking the doorway, trying to look as menacing as possible, which would have worked better for him if he’d been wearing a shirt.

Her brother wasn’t exactly a beanpole, but at seventeen, and six-two, he’d yet to grow into his height. He was all raw bones and sharp edges, as skinny as she’d been at that age. Shay’s heart ached for him, for what she knew he was going through.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Can I come in?”

In lieu of a response, he shoved the door against the wall and threw himself down on the unmade bed. Tucking his hands behind his head, he scowled up at the ceiling, waiting for his punishment.

Shay didn’t know where to begin. She looked around her, as if the answer might be hidden amidst piles of schoolbooks and dirty clothes. Like his choice of artwork on the bedroom door, she didn’t hassle him about how he kept his room. He did his own laundry, and judging by the amount of time he spent in the shower, he was the cleanest boy in the neighborhood.

Angel Martinez was gone, having crawled out the window she came in, presumably. Shay sank into the only chair in the room. “How old is she?”

His blue eyes flew to hers in surprise. He must have expected her to talk at him, not to him. “Eighteen,” he said.

She was too tired to feel relief. “I don’t see her at the bus stop anymore. Did she graduate?”

He shifted on the bed. “No. Her dad makes her stay home.”

Shay figured Fernando Martinez needed all the help he could get. His wife had run off a few years ago, leaving him to raise their five children on his own. Speaking of which… “Are you using protection?”

His mouth thinned with annoyance. “I would have, but we didn’t get that far.” He glared at her. “You ruin everything.”

Despite her headache, she smiled.

“Where are you going?”

Tension twisted inside her empty stomach, reminding her that she should try to eat something before she left. “The new sheriff called. I guess there’s been some kind of freak accident. A lion attack.”

His brows lifted. “Really? Cool.”

“Someone’s dead. Not cool.”

He studied her appearance. “You look like crap.”

“Yes,” she agreed with a sigh, and stood to leave.

“That’s it? I’m not in trouble?”

“I don’t know,” she said, too weary to decide. In a few months he’d be eighteen, and she found herself perpetuating the old double standard. If he were a girl, she’d handle things differently, but he wasn’t. If they were closer, she’d ask him if Angel was his girlfriend, or if he was in love with her. But they weren’t.

Since Mom died, their relationship had been strained.

She might not like the answers to those questions anyway, or know how to deal with his responses. Was it acceptable for him to have a girl in his room as long as they were “in love”? Jesus, that sounded ridiculous, even to her.

The doorbell rang, signaling the shift from one grueling situation to another.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could go back to bed. Or better yet, go back in time and say no to that last drink.

“Do you want me to answer it while you fix yourself up?” Dylan asked.

Selflessness wasn’t usually in his repertoire, so she was surprised by the offer. “Thanks,” she said wryly, “but I think I’m beyond repair.” Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, something he hadn’t let her do since kindergarten, she left the room.

In the kitchen, she grabbed a Coke and a couple of saltine crackers, pocketed her keys, and went out to face an abominable day. The instant she saw the man on her doorstep, Shay knew the interlude with Dylan had been its highlight. How cruel was fate! To throw her in front of a man who looked this good, when she looked this bad.

Few men towered over her, but he did. Even fewer made a bland uniform look like a million bucks, and he did that, too. Although the star on his breast pocket proclaimed his status, he was younger and more handsome than any sheriff ought to be. His hair was short and black as pitch, his skin was dark against the collar of his shirt, and his arms were sinewy with lean muscle. Unlike the state troopers and sheriff’s deputies she saw on occasion, he wore no gun holster or CB radio at his waist, just a plain leather belt and army green trousers.

He was a tall, cool drink of water.

Moistening her lips, she let her gaze wander a leisurely path back up to his face. His jaw was shadowed by a day’s growth of beard and his brown eyes were somber, reminding her of his business here.

With a jolt, Shay realized she was staring, and he wasn’t flattered by her attention. She blinked a few times, trying to snap out of her lustful stupor.

“Miss Phillips?”

Ah, that voice. Carefully modulated and unerringly polite. Somehow she got the impression he’d rather chew on nails than converse with her. “Shay,” she corrected, offering him her hand.

“Luke Meza,” he said, accepting the handshake but releasing it sooner than he had to. Although his touch could only be called perfunctory, at best, a shiver of awareness passed through her. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

His truck was parked along the gravel road in front of her house, and as she followed him down the cracked cement walkway she was struck again by how surreal the situation was. The sun had just begun to climb over the rock-covered hills in the east, and the first rays of dawn peeked through the cloud cover, casting the world in an eerie yellow light.

“You’re tripping,” she muttered to herself as she made her way around to the passenger’s side. “Try not to puke on his front seat.”

The Ford pickup was desert issue, pale green, with the Tenaja Falls Sheriff’s Department insignia painted on the door. The logo matched a round patch on Luke Meza’s shirtsleeve. Trying to be more subtle, she studied him from beneath lowered lashes as he got behind the wheel. In a town as small as Tenaja, newcomers were always remarked upon, but he’d only been here a few days. So the only thing she knew about him was that he’d been appointed to the position after the previous sheriff had suffered a heart attack, and would serve until the townspeople elected one of their own to do the job.

“So you’re the interim sheriff,” she said. Way to state the obvious, Shay .

Giving her a curt nod, he started the engine and put the truck into gear.

He had nice hands, she noted, remembering the feel of his palm against hers. They weren’t chafed from years of manual labor, like most of the men’s around here, but they weren’t soft, either. “Where are you from?”

“Las Vegas.”

Sin City. Hmm. “Are you going back there?” He might be young, and an outsider to boot, but she figured he had a good shot at staying on as sheriff if he wanted to.

By the way he glanced across the cab, she decided he understood the implications of her question. “No,” he said shortly, and didn’t elaborate.

The strong, silent type. Check.

They traveled along the main drag for a few minutes before he turned on an unmarked dirt road south of town. It led to an undesignated off-highway-vehicle area, a cross-section of 4×4 trails local teens and other hell-raisers used as a racetrack.