Beth Ciotta - Out of Eden

He’d never imagined the girl who dressed like a retro pop star would drive a minivan. He’d never imagined her as a mother, either, but the toys and books scattered in the backseat along with the Spider-Man sun shield confirmed what he’d heard. Faye Tyler, formally Powell, was married with children. Children she’d named after nineties musical icons.

Jack helped Kylie, who continued to vent, into the van while Faye answered her ringing cell. “What do you mean Sting threw up? Does he have a fever? He what? Where were you when… Yes, I know you can’t stomach vomit, Stan. For crying out loud. Okay. Yes. Yes. Be right there.” She tossed her phone in her purse, looked at her friend, then Jack. “There’s a bit of a crisis at home.”

“Is Sting okay?” Kylie asked, struggling to fasten her seat belt.

“He got into the freezer—don’t ask how—and ate an entire tub of double-fudge ice cream. He’ll be fine, which is more than I can say for my husband when I get hold of him.”

Jack remembered Stan Tyler. A short but solid man, former captain of the high school wrestling team. He didn’t figure Faye could take him, but it would be fun to watch her try, especially since he knew Stan would cut off his hand before raising it to a lady. “You live in the converted carriage house next to the B and B, right?”

“Right,” she said. “And Kylie lives in the opposite direction in the boonies. Do you think—”

“Sure.” He unbuckled the seat belt Kylie had just managed to fasten. “Come on, Tiger.”

“Stop calling me that.” She batted away his hands and glared at him through her oval, plastic-rimmed glasses. No-nonsense glasses, black, like her no-nonsense clothes—cropped, wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting blouse. He thought about the no-nonsense shoes she’d given away and decided she must’ve gone out on the town straight from work. “And I don’t need a ride home. From you, I mean. Max lives out my way.”

“Max plays cards from six until eight,” Faye said as she scurried to the driver’s side. “He’s got another forty-five minutes to go. He’s not going to break away early for anything other than a four-alarm fire.”

“I’ll wait.” Shoeless, Kylie strode unsteadily toward Boone’s Bar and Grill.

“Stop where you are. Hello? Splinters! Broken glass!” Faye snapped, clearly in mother mode. “Jack?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped in and hauled Kylie over his shoulder. “Drive safe, Faye. Best to Stan.”

She saluted and pulled away from the curb.

Kylie kicked like a swimmer on speed. “Put me down, darn you!”

He pressed the lock release on his key fob as he reached his Chrysler Aspen. The new SUV would serve as his personal and professional wheels. Though he didn’t have a weak stomach like Stan, he hoped Kylie didn’t hurl on his new leather seats.

“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you.”

He quirked an amused brow. “You wouldn’t assault an officer of the law, would you, Miss McGraw?”

“Would you throw me in jail?”

“No.”

“Dang. What’s a girl gotta do to get tossed in the clink?” she asked as he poured her into the passenger seat.

“Why are you determined to spend the night in jail?”

“Because it would set this birthday apart from all the others.”

“I can think of more pleasurable distinctions,” he said while buckling her in.

She nabbed his shirt collar and got in his face. Her hair tumbled free of the ponytail, overwhelming her delicate face and ramping her sexuality ten points. “You offering up a distinctive pleasure, Jack?”

Kylie, flirting? The kid who got tongue-tied when Spense teased her about boys?

Only she isn’t a kid anymore.

Jack held her sultry gaze, breathed in her flowery scent and cursed an unexpected boner.

“Touch her,” he could hear Spenser saying, “and I’ll kick your ass.”

He wouldn’t blame his friend for trying. He’d threatened to do the same to Ashe Davis, a serial womanizer. This was Kylie, for Christ’s sake. Sweet. Naive. Drunk.

She licked her lush lower lip. “Well?”

“Let’s not go there, Tiger.”

“Too bad for you. I’m a yoga geek.” She raised one brow. “You know what that means.”

“Flexible?”

“Like Gumby.”

The retro green guy that could bend every which way and back.

Christ.

He shut her door, rounded the Aspen and claimed the driver’s seat. “Where am I headed?”

“Route 50, a half a mile past Max’s place. Do you remember where Max lives?”

Flicking on his headlights, he eased onto Adams Street and headed north. “The boonies.” A twenty-minute drive from town, midway between Eden and Kokomo. Corn and soybean fields. Patches of woods. Pig farms. Pastures of grazing cows and horses. Sporadic century-old farmhouses and the occasional contemporary modular home. A wide-open area where the nearest neighbor lived a mile or a half mile away. He shot her a look. “You live alone out there?”

She smirked. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if you live alone. No roommate?”

“I like my privacy.”

“You could live alone here in town.”

“I like the solitude.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He’d rented a home on the outskirts of town, an old two-story brick house on two acres of land. He, too, liked the idea of solitude. Peace and quiet. The exact opposite of what he’d had when he’d lived in the high-rise in Brooklyn. Difference was he was a trained cop, capable of handling a crisis in any form. She was…Kylie. Kylie all grown up, he thought, raking his gaze over her body.

“I didn’t used to live alone. I used to be almost engaged. Are you shocked?”

“That you were almost engaged? Or that you were living in sin?” he teased.

“Either, or.”

“Neither.”

“His name was Bobby Jones. You wouldn’t know him. He was a free spirit.”

You mean a freeloader. “Spenser mentioned him.” Jack kept in touch with his friend via e-mail. Mostly they talked sports and global affairs, but they always touched on family.

“Spenser never liked Bobby.”

That was putting it mildly, but Jack held his tongue.

“I’m not fond of my brother right now.”

“Because he didn’t approve of Bobby?”

“Because he’s an insensitive boob.”

Jack swallowed a laugh. “Did he forget your birthday?”

“No. He forgot I’m human.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have dreams, too.”

He started to ask specifics, but she’d slumped against the window, eyes closed. She’d either passed out or clammed up. One thing he’d learned on the force, sometimes the easiest way to learn something was not to ask. He’d let it go for now and she’d talk when she was ready.

He tapped the radio media key, scanned his presets and chose a local classic rock station. The same music he’d listened to in his teens while cruising these back country roads. He grinned at the irony when the speakers rattled with the Cars’ “Shake It Up.” What did Kylie plan on doing, anyway? TP-ing every tree in town? Spraying Eden’s sacred water tower with graffiti? Streaking down the center of Main Street?

A vivid image of the woman sitting next to him exploded in his mind. Ivory flesh and toned curves. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes he’d imagined Kylie McGraw naked. Damn. He shifted in his seat, frowning when “Shake It Up” segued into “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” Seemed the DJ had coordinated a playlist specifically fitted to Jack’s evening. He lowered the volume and concentrated on the road, not Kylie. The scenery, not Kylie.

She’d changed. He’d changed. But aside from a random new home, this rural area had remained the same. Between the music and landscape, he easily slipped back in time. He soaked in the serenity as if it were a restorative drug.