CHAPTER 7
Kyle
I argued with myself that there was no sound reason to go to the grocery store this morning. My freezer was stocked with enough frozen meals to last more than a week, and I had beer in the fridge.
I was good.
It absolutely had nothing to do with the fact that the Misty Harbor Music and Art Festival, that just happened to be set up on Main Street, coincidentally intersected with Haven Street where the grocery store was located.
I went in without so much as a glance over at the festival booths that lined the street for two blocks on both sides, all the way to the town square. Didn’t care about it or anyone there. I bought some bananas and orange juice because I just happen to like both of those things and walked back out of the store. But rather than turn right to where my truck is parallel parked a few spots down, I turn left and scan the booths.
The one closest to me seems to be hawking wind chimes made of seashells and other various little knickknacks in a coastal theme. The one across from that has pottery.
And the one next to that one… has Jane Cresson.
I just stand and watch for a moment as she sits in a chair behind a table and talks to another woman who I vaguely recognize as maybe being a waitress at The Lobster Cage. Not sure.
The one thing I am sure about is that Jane gets more beautiful every time I see her. Or perhaps it’s the more I stay away from her, the more beautiful she gets when I finally do see her again. I watch like a complete creeper as she seems to change her mind about something on her table. She pulls a card away from a painting, writes out a new one, and puts it back in place. I watch her sit back down and appear to have an amusing conversation with her friend, their bodies leaning in toward each other as they speak.
I’m a total creeper.
Then my hackles rise when some asshole and his woman go up to the booth and have words with Jane. I can’t hear what’s said, but I don’t need to either. The guy’s posture is cocky and Jane’s is stiff. Her face is guarded, and I even notice her fists are clenched as they exchange words.
It’s when I see her fists tighten that I decide to walk that way. I cut across Main on the diagonal, walking straight toward her booth. I walk faster when I see the guy pick up her painting. Jane takes it right back from him, clearly not wanting anything to do with him. I walk even faster when he jerks the painting back out of her hand, and I break into a trot when he drops it to the ground. I start charging by the time she slams her tiny hands into his chest. When he reaches out and grabs her arm, I’m on him.
My hand latches onto his scrawny throat and my fingers curl viciously inward around his windpipe, a move that’s not only painful, but also breath-robbing. He immediately releases Jane, who stumbles back in surprise. I vaguely hear Jane’s friend say, “Fuck yeah… this is going to be good.”
In my days as a brother of Mayhem’s Mission, I would have proceeded to beat the shit out of someone who would dare touch a woman such as Jane. Sweet, funny, and unbearably alluring. I would have beaten him to unconsciousness and never thought twice about it.
But those days are over, and I can’t afford to call attention to myself. So I merely turn the douchebag around and march him backward down the side of Jane’s tent, up onto the sidewalk bordering the street, and right into the brick wall of Chib’s Hardware Store. Leaning in close to him, I say in a quiet but no bullshitting voice of menace, “Get your tramp and get out of here. If I see you even look sideways at Jane again, I will end you.”
I release my hold on his throat, and the guy frantically nods his head in agreement. I watch as he leans to the side and holds his hand out. His woman runs up to him, takes his hand, and they start scurrying down the sidewalk together.
I watch until they round the corner and are out of sight before I turn back toward Jane’s booth. I walk along the side and find her squatting down to retrieve her painting. Her hair has fallen forward as she leans over, and I watch as she turns the painting face up.
Jane lets out a gasp of dismay, and I let my eyes slide to the painting she holds. It’s beautiful. I mean, stunningly beautiful. While serene seascapes aren’t really my thing, I definitely have an affinity toward it since it’s a painting of my current home.
I also happen to take in the fact that there’s a hole in the bottom of the painting, probably from a rock, and dirt is smeared over the left side.
She stands up. As her gaze lifts to meet mine, I ask her, “You okay?”
“It’s ruined,” Jane murmurs as her eyes slide back down to the painting. “I should have taken the time to put glass on it.”
“But are you okay?” I ask her, because I saw the way that dude grabbed her. It was done violently. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have kicked the shit out of him. Hearing the despondency in her voice, though, maybe an ass kicking wasn’t good enough.
Jane lifts a shaky hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Jane’s dark-haired friend comes out of from behind the table. When she sees the painting, she coos, “Oh, honey… I’m so sorry. That motherfucking asshole.”
I don’t know this woman, but I really do like her. Couldn’t agree with her more.
“It’s no biggie,” Jane says, but the tone of her voice says otherwise. She’s devastated her work is ruined. “I think we should get packed up and call it a day, Miranda.”
She doesn’t spare me another glance, just turns to the table and tosses the painting on top of it next to the easel it had been setting on. My gaze goes to a white index card sitting there with the price of three hundred and fifty dollars.
Renewed rage sweeps through me as I realize that motherfucker not only hurt her feelings and her arm, but he just fucking hurt her livelihood with his malicious actions. I have to fight the urge not to track him down and give him a taste of my brand of justice.
Instead, I set my grocery bag down on the table beside the painting and reach into my back pocket to fish out my wallet. I open it up and flip through the cash, pulling out four one-hundred dollar bills. While this painting is a luxury I would not normally buy, particularly not in my immediate past life, it is certainly one I can easily afford. I was paid very well by the ATF while I was undercover, and every bit of that money was socked away into savings.
“I’ll take the painting,” I say gruffly as I set the cash down on the table and pick up the framed watercolor.
Jane spins around, her eyes wide with surprise. Her gaze flicks down to the cash, up to the painting in my hand, and finally up to meet mine. “Absolutely not. No way. It’s ruined.”
“It’s got a little dirt on it,” I say in a brush-off.
“It’s got dirt on it and a hole in it,” she grits out.
“It gives it character,” I tell her with a shrug as I look down at the painting in my hands. It really is beautiful despite the dirt and hole, and besides… looking at it will remind me of the satisfaction I had by nearly crushing that guy’s windpipe.
“Kyle,” Jane says in exasperation. “It’s ridiculous for you to spend money on a ruined painting.”
I’m not going to sit around and argue with her. However, I do get the distinct impression that despite how sweet and bubbly she is most of the time, she’d be a hellion to argue with if she really got mad. On top of that, I had no intentions of crossing paths with Jane again, and this certainly went against said intentions.
I tuck the painting under my arm, grab my groceries, and turn away from her booth to cross back over to the other side of Main Street.
“Wait,” she calls out.
I stop and look back over my shoulder at her.
“I need to get your change,” she huffs at me in exasperation.
“Keep it,” I tell her, to which I immediately get an eye roll back.
I turn my back on her again and cross the street. She calls out after me again, “Kyle… seriously… it isn’t right for me to take this.”
I don’t respond, and I don’t look back.