Victoria Dahl - Close Enough to Touch

Good Lord, the things she wanted to do to this woman would constitute elder abuse, but Aunt Rayleen was just so rude. And mean. And right.

That was the worst part. The hardest to swallow. She was right. Grace had too much pride. Hell, sometimes it was all she had. But pride didn’t fill your stomach or keep the cold out. So she swallowed hard. And swallowed again, tasting every bitter molecule of it. And then she nodded.

“Thank you for the place to stay,” she managed to growl. “I’ll be out in a month.”

Rayleen laughed. “Oh, big words. We’ll see. For now, just don’t knock out any walls or leave a window open when it rains. No smoking. No pets. The key’s in the cash register. Jenny over there will give it to you.”

“Thank you,” Grace managed one more time. The words tasted just as bitter the second time around, and she wished she had the money to spare for a beer as she approached the bar. Wished her life was as simple as sitting down and washing the day away with a cold one. Better yet, a double of whiskey. God, yes.

“Hi, again,” the bartender offered.

Grace made herself smile back. This woman gave off a good vibe. She probably made a lot of money as a bartender. It was a skill. Grace knew that because she’d tried her hand at it and failed. People just didn’t like her. But this woman… She was comforting. “Are you Jenny?”

“I am.”

“Rayleen told me to ask you for a key to apartment A?”

“You?” Jenny asked. Her eyes nearly disappeared when she laughed. “You’ll be quite a change.”

“Do I need to check the place for hidden cameras?” she asked, only half joking.

“You’re probably safe. She just likes to collect them, I think, not spy on them. Nothing too creepy.” Jenny hit a button on the register and the drawer popped open.

“It seems plenty creepy,” Grace muttered.

“She’s pretty harmless. They like to come over here and tease her, but she calls them puppies and tells them to leave her the hell alone.” Jenny held out the key and dropped it into Grace’s hand. “Welcome to Jackson.”

“Thank you.” That was it. No paperwork. No contracts or legal indemnification. “Do you know anyone who’s hiring?”

“Summer’s a little tight and we’re getting to the end of it. What do you do?”

Grace shrugged. “Waitressing. Busing tables. I’ve done some cleaning.”

“Anything else? You look like a woman who might have other skills.”

For a moment, Grace’s blood froze. What did that mean? Other skills? Stripping? Turning tricks? She knew she looked a little harder than people in Wyoming, but she hadn’t expected to be confronted with the same shit she’d lived with on the streets of L.A.

“Have you worked in clothing stores?” Jenny continued, as friendly as before.

Grace blinked. Is that what she’d meant? Something so innocuous? “Uh, sure. I worked in a vintage place when I was young. And I do makeup.”

“Makeup?”

“I work as a makeup artist. In L.A.”

“Oh.” Jenny’s eyes widened. “That’s really cool.”

“But not very useful in Wyoming.”

“Maybe, but it’s got to pay better than waitressing in a tourist town.”

“That depends,” Grace said.

“On what?”

“On whether you can avoid pissing off the fifty different people on a movie set who can get you fired.”

Jenny laughed. “Well, maybe you should go see Eve Hill. She’s a photographer and she’s pretty nice. She might have work for you.”

Grace made an effort not to look doubtful, but she’d almost rather be a waitress than do bridal makeup for wedding shoots. “What kind of photography?” she asked warily.

“I’m not sure. She does some landscape stuff on her own. Sells it in town here, but she does other things, too. Photo shoots for magazines.”

“Here?”

The doubt must’ve been showing clearly now, because Jenny shook her head and offered a look of friendly patience. “We might be in the middle of nowhere, but there’s money here. Lots of money and lots of those people you know from L.A. They like to come and ski and play dress-up, and they like to have a reason to be here. Film shoots and fashion campaigns provide that.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay, I’ll look her up.”

“Do that. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll let you know the good places to be a server here, and the places you want to avoid.”

“Thank you so much.”

Jenny winked with the natural friendliness of a really great bartender, then moved on to serve the two men who’d just pulled up to the bar.

“Eve Hill,” Grace murmured. It probably wouldn’t work out. The woman likely had no need for a makeup artist. But if there was any chance Grace could avoid working tables again, she’d suck up her pride. Maybe she’d even volunteer for bride duty. After all, there was a common denominator among all these people Grace wasn’t very good with. Customers, bosses, lovers, brides. The common denominator was Grace. She was the problem.

She clutched the key tight in her hand and walked out of the bar without meeting the eyes of any of the patrons.

People didn’t like her.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She had friends. She even had really good friends, like Merry Kade, who’d been her best friend for ten years. So some people liked her. Just not the ones who controlled her pay. Although up until a few months ago, that hadn’t been a problem. She was good enough with makeup that she didn’t have to kiss butt to keep her job. She’d done just fine. She hadn’t had to ask anyone for help.

But that was before.

It didn’t matter. She’d asked for help this time, hadn’t she? And she hated it. She hated it like she’d never hated anything else. Somehow it was worse than the time she’d spent on the streets as a kid, accepting food from soup kitchens and charities. It was worse than crashing on a friend’s couch for a few days, because she could say she’d done the same for them at some point. This was out-and-out asking for help, and it stung.

But it was better than going to jail.

She stood in front of the pretty blue house and opened up her fist. Her skin showed the exact shape of the key. Every ridge and angle pressed red into her palm.

“Just a few weeks,” she whispered. “Just a month.” And if she didn’t like the feeling of begging for scraps, then she’d better get used to the idea of keeping her mouth shut around people who controlled her paycheck. Because it was one or the other, and she’d be damned if she’d ever ask for charity again.

CHAPTER THREE

COLE GLARED AT THE TOP of his physical therapist’s head, cursing her for an ogre and a devil and a nasty, power-abusing son of a bitch. Farrah looked up and smiled. “You doing okay, Cole?” She pressed his knee tighter to his ribs, resting all her weight against it. Not much heft considering she had the size and appearance of a benevolent fairy. Just another of her evil tricks.

“I’m great,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“Easy says you’re bugging the tar out of him again.”

“I need to get back to work.”

“You want this to heal right or not?” She finally released his knee, but his hip joint screamed as she slowly lowered his leg to the ground.

“It’s healing fine,” he said.

Her eyes slid away. “You’re strong and healthy. You were in excellent shape before the accident, but there’s still a chance…”

“Sure.”

“When are you going back to the orthopedist?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay.” She stood up, dusting her hands as if Cole were a pet project. “I bet a new CT scan will have more answers. But I can definitely tell you’ve been doing the exercises.”