Radclyffe - Sheltering Dunes

The curtain twitched and Flynn stepped out. “It’ll be another few minutes.”

“How is she doing?”

“Concussion, probably a fractured orbit. They don’t think her jaw’s broken, though, and there isn’t any sign of internal injury.”

“That’s good, then,” Allie said, thinking nothing about this could be good.

Flynn leaned against the wall, her hands in the pockets of her navy blue uniform pants. She looked tired and worn.

“You okay?” Allie asked.

“Yeah,” Flynn said. “I just really hate this, you know?”

Allie suppressed the urge to touch her. Flynn stirred something in her, the desire to comfort and protect. But there was just enough tension still humming between them for her to know that trying to be the person to ease Flynn’s pain was a bad idea. She didn’t want Flynn, not the way Flynn needed, and they both knew it. But she couldn’t turn her thoughts and feelings off like a water faucet either. She knew where she belonged. She belonged with Ash, had loved Ash from the first moment she’d seen her, and would always love her. But Flynn was special, and Allie ached to see the unhappiness in her eyes. “How’ve you been really?”

Flynn smiled, that slow, tender smile that was so damn sexy. “I’m tougher than you think.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Allie remembered the night they’d almost made love in Flynn’s apartment. Flynn had moved over her with power and certainty. Flynn had been intense, passionate, in charge. Flynn might be one of the gentlest women Allie had ever met, but that gentleness covered a core of steel.

“So don’t worry, okay?” Flynn said. “I’m good. We’re good.”

“I’m glad. Really glad. So what about you and your new friend?” Allie asked, knowing that was a lame-ass way to go about things but not knowing any better way to do it.

“My friend?” Flynn pushed hard away from the wall. “You mean Mica?”

“Mica. Right. How much do you know about her?”

“Why are you asking?” Flynn had an edge in her voice.

“I was following up after the vehicular incident, and I can’t seem to find her in the databases.”

“Following up.”

“It’s my job, Flynn.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to find.”

“Yeah, that seems to be everyone’s opinion,” Allie said.

“But not yours?”

“Come on, Flynn.” Allie lowered her voice. “You have to admit her behavior is suspicious.”

“Other than skipping out on a medical exam, I can’t see that she’s done anything wrong. She doesn’t have insurance. She wouldn’t be the first person to avoid medical care because they can’t afford it.”

“If that’s all it was, I’d agree with you. But she’s evasive, she looks like she’s hiding something, and when you put that together with the fact that her ID is probably fake—you have to come up with the same answer I did. She’s either in trouble or she is trouble.”

“Sometimes, Allie,” Flynn said tightly, “people are just scared. Sometimes they have a really good reason to be.”

“Do you think I’ve never been scared, Flynn? Do you think I wasn’t scared when I thought Ash might have died? When I was facing down a gun in the street?”

Flynn winced. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I know you’re doing your job. Just don’t jump to any conclusions.”

“I won’t. I promise. But you need to promise me something too,” Allie said. “Just be careful. You’re too damn trusting, Flynn. You’re too kind.”

“You’re wrong, Allie. You don’t know me as well as you think.” Flynn sighed. “I have to get back. Call me if you find out anything from the patient?”

“I will.” Allie noticed Flynn had not answered her question. Whatever she knew about Mica, she wasn’t telling.

*

Provincetown

Mica emptied a bucket of ice into the sink underneath the bar, one eye on the front door. She felt stupid watching for Flynn to come in, and even dumber when she acknowledged the fluttery feeling in her stomach that had been there since she got to work at six thirty. She’d never gotten excited about seeing anyone before. She hadn’t really dated anyone except a couple of boys when she was eleven or twelve, and she’d figured out really quickly that they didn’t do anything for her. She’d never really thought about dating girls, even though there was a group of chicks, a girl gang, who hung out together and fucked each other and everybody knew it. Those girls had to fight a lot to keep together, but that wasn’t why she stayed away from them. She wasn’t afraid of a fight—she just hadn’t seen herself as one of them. Some of them were Hispanic, a bunch were white, some were African American, but their identity was different than hers. They were together because they were queer. She hung with her people, the ones who spoke her language—the language of the streets. She sided with the ones who understood what it was like to live where she lived, speak as she spoke, fight the same enemies. She went with the ones who just might be able to protect her. And then when she was inside, she didn’t have any choice. There were girls in MS-13 who liked other girls—she knew from the whispered hook-ups she overheard when the guys weren’t around, but they didn’t get it on openly. The girls were there to serve the men, and those who wouldn’t didn’t last very long.

And now here she was, running from the life, running for her life, and getting all worked up about some girl she didn’t even know. Not just any girl either. A freakin’ priest. What did that mean, exactly? How did that work? She had no reason to care that Flynn said she was coming by, but she did. Like she said, stupid.

“Hi, Mica,” Flynn said as she slid onto a bar stool.

Mica straightened, swinging the empty white plastic bucket in her right hand. She’d been watching for Flynn all night and then missed her entrance while she was daydreaming. What if Flynn had been someone else? What if she’d been one of Hector’s scouts? She was going to get herself killed. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

“Same as any other night.” Mica glanced down the bar. The crowd was light and the bartender was chatting with a regular. She needed an excuse to keep working and ignore Flynn, but she wasn’t really pressed to do anything right then. And she didn’t really want to ignore her. Flynn looked good. Black sweater, blue jeans, boots. Nice tight, lean body. Nice face. Really, really nice face. “You don’t look like the bar type to me.”

Flynn laughed. “I’m not sure what that is, but I mostly come in here to relax.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Most nights. But that’s not why I’m here tonight.”

Lightning sizzled through Mica’s blood. “Oh yeah? Why are you here?”

“To see you.”

Mica drew a blank. She didn’t have a comeback. She couldn’t get used to Flynn always answering a question with what sounded like simple truth. But then, how would she know what simple truth sounded like? She’d learned pretty early that what should have been simple truths never were—I love you meant I want to own you, you’re beautiful meant I want to fuck you, I’ll always be here for you meant I’ll be around as long as I get something out of it. She shivered.

“Are you okay?” Flynn asked.

Mica shrugged angrily, as if she could shake off the past. “I meant, why are you here in this town? Shouldn’t you be in a parish somewhere?”

“Could I have a beer?”

“I’m not a bartender.”

“Okay. Then how about I get a beer when the bartender is ready, and I drink it while you work. Then later, when you’re not working, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Why?”