Laura Drake - Against The Odds

Checking both ways at the stop sign, he turned onto Monterrey. The spring air blowing in the window cooled his sweaty face. Maybe a new A/C compressor before the paint job. A long low brick building on his left caught his attention. No, actually it was the sign out front—The Bar None. A neon Schlitz sign flickered in the small window, and the door stood open. He slowed, trying to peer through the typical bar murk to see if it was crowded.

Damn, I’d love a beer.

He could almost feel the vinyl bar seat under his ass.

But after his last visit to a bar, he had no interest in a repeat performance. Prison claustrophobia squeezed, making him feel trapped in his own clammy skin. He hit the accelerator.

I’ll get a six-pack at the store.

At the Piggly-Wiggly, he scanned the breakfast aisle, hunting for Pop Tarts. Spying them on the bottom shelf, he bent and took two boxes of strawberry. The Walmart in Santa Maria was cheaper, but the place was so crowded and noisy that he couldn’t relax there.

Not that he could here, either, today. He tossed the boxes in the little plastic basket he held in his other hand, and sidestepped a harried woman trying to lift a toddler headed for a full-on meltdown. He walked away, fast.

Turning into the bread aisle, an old lady in a print housedress stood on tippy-toe, trying to reach a loaf of organic whole grain. He reached and handed it to her.

“Oh, thank y—” Looking up to see him towering over her, a look flashed in her eyes. The look of a rabbit, in the shadow of a hawk.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Feeling the sting of being innocently intimidating, he turned away and pulled a loaf of the whitest, fluffiest, empty-calorie bread he could find. After the bland slop in prison, he now ate whatever he damned well pleased, and white bread reminded him of lunches when he was a kid.

At the checkout stand, he snagged a box of Cracker Jacks. Ducking the cashier’s stare, he paid cash and beat feet for the truck.

His jaw loosened when he turned off King’s Highway onto the road that wound through the hills that would lead him home. The hills were still green, but soon they’d shift to the brushed gold tint he loved so much. When he turned in at the ruts that constituted his driveway, grass shushed along the underside of the floorboards. Bordered by barbed-wire fences, the trail wound a quarter mile to the copse of trees that hid his cabin and barn from prying eyes. The privacy was one of the reasons he’d loved this place on first sight. He rolled into his tree-shadowed cave.

A dusty sedan stood in the packed dirt yard.

Warning sirens wailed in his head.

A skinny man in a white shirt stood on the porch, hand cupped, peering in the front window. Bear’s guard-dog temper woke, and snapping and growling, lunged to the end of its chain.

The mufflers burped as he hit the gas and roared into the dooryard. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled out the passenger window, threw the truck in Park and shut down the engine. Then he was out the door and stalking for the cabin, fists clenched.

First its kids stealing paint, now it’s some nosy salesman asshole. Why the hell can’t people just leave me be?

The guy turned. His eyes got bigger the closer Bear got. “I was just checking to see if anyone was home. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Skipping the concrete block step, Bear launched himself onto the porch. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

The guy backed up a step and put up his hands. “I—I’ve got a car. A ’72 Camaro. I heard you do custom paint.”

Oh, shit. His temper whimpered, and tail between its legs, slunk back from where it came, leaving Bear alone with his mess. “Oh. I do business out of the barn. I don’t like people in my personal stuff.” When he held out a hand to shake, the guy flinched back. “I’m Bear Steele. Tell me about your car.”

“Um. I just remembered. I’ve got an appointment in town.” The guy sidled to the broken slats of the railing at the edge of the porch and past Bear, without turning his back. “I’ll need to stop by...some other time.” He scurried down the cinderblock step.

“Wait.” Bear reached in his back pocket for his wallet.

The guy froze, his eyes huge.

What, does he think, I’m going to shoot him? Bear pulled out a business card and handed it down, not wanting to spook the guy by getting closer. “I’m sorry to scare you. Give me a call sometime. I’d love to see that Camaro.”

“Um. Yeah. Sure. Sometime.” He scuttled to the sedan, slammed the door, fired the engine and hit the gas.

Dirt sprayed from the tires, and Bear watched the car disappear in the trees. He hiked to the truck to retrieve his groceries, swearing the whole way.

When the hell was he going to learn to control his temper? Hadn’t it made him lose enough?

* * *

BEAR STOOD WAITING in the hall outside what he’d started thinking of as The Interrogation Room of the hospital. He’d gotten here first on purpose. He leaned, one motorcycle boot propped against the wall, hands in his front pockets. Waiting.

The dream came to him every night, and now his angel appeared twice a week in his waking time, too. He had to talk to her. Had to find out if this meant something, or if it was just one more of fate’s cruel jokes.

But he knew he intimidated her, and after what she’d been through, she was skittish to begin with. He practiced a smile and tried to relax. A bit rusty maybe, but he knew from practicing in the mirror this morning that it made him look less...brooding.

He heard the elevator door ding, followed by Bryan’s high-pitched voice. He and Mark, the scarred guy, came around the corner.

Mark kept walking, but Bryan stopped in front of Bear. “You know, I get hater vibes from you. Do you and I have issues?”

The elevator dinged again.

Crap. That’s all he needed—to be in a touchy-feely discussion when Hope showed up. “Hard to believe, dude, but you star in your own life. Not mine.” Bear glanced from Bryan’s pursed lips, then back down the hall. “I told you. I’ve got nothing against gay. You don’t believe me? Not my problem.”

Bryan let out an exasperated sigh and rushed into the room.

Her white-blond hair caught his eye first. Even when he was ready, her face still held him for the space of several heartbeats. She was beautiful. And not because of his dream, either. Her ice-blue eyes held secrets that her open face belied. She was all business, even in khakis and a denim short-sleeved shirt. But her lips...her lips were pure sex. They made him want to bow his head and worship them.

Noticing him notice, she looked down and kept walking.

Before she could brush by him, he reached out, and touched her arm. She shied back, the lines of her body full of alarm.

“Wait. Please. I just wanted to talk to you for a second. I’m Bear—”

“I know your name.”

“I just wanted to tell you...you don’t have to be afraid. I can’t help how I look, but that’s not who I am.”

She looked up at him, head cocked. But her eyes softened. “Okay.”

How do people do this chitchat thing? He put his foot back on the floor, and his hands back in his pockets. “Um. How’s that adventure thing working out for you?”

A tiny self-satisfied smile softened her mouth. “Nailed the interview. I start today.”

“Nice. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She took a step toward the door.

“Wait.” He took a hand from his pocket, reached out, but didn’t touch her. “Were you serious about wanting to be more adventurous?”

She looked at him as if he was a vacuum cleaner salesman on her front porch. “S-sure.”

“Then how’d you like to go for a motorcycle ride?” He pulled his mouth up into what he hoped was a benign smile. “I’ve ridden a hundred thousand miles without an accident. I promise I’m safe.”