Crazy, Stupid Love

 

You don't just have a story - you're a story in the making, and you never know what the next chapter's going to be. That's what makes it exciting.

- Dan Millman

 

 

KAT

 

Dayton, Tennessee

 

Nine years ago

 

I was in so much fucking trouble.

This day was definitely going in my diary, and the longer I sat there, the more I realized that years in the future, when I read this part of my life, I knew that a piece of me still wouldn’t believe it. The sheriff stared at the shiny steel bracelets binding my tiny wrists. His hat sat low. The sun was high. Dust and dirt filled my lungs as I leaned against the squad car, breathing in the humid mid-day air, my hair sticking to the nape of my neck from sweat.

I had been over this story a million times. I wasn’t going to make it a million and one. Not even for the highest ranking officer in this po-dunk town. I sighed, slumping back against the passenger window as I slid against it.

“We’ve gone through this already,” I huffed, hanging my head. “I didn’t spray paint all of Mrs. Wentworth’s wigs.”

The sheriff, bulky and large-backed, crossed and uncrossed his arms as if he were somehow important. As if he were capable of forcing a faulty confession. As if I gave a fuck…

I was doing everything to show him that I didn’t. No matter who he was. It wasn’t like I was going to stay in this town past the summer. I mean, really. How long could he really hold me here?

“I can’t hold you forever, Kat,” the fleshy-faced officer said, practically reading my thoughts. “But I can hold you here for a while, and in the meantime, we’ll sit here and talk about how you and Mrs. Wentworth got into an argument last Tuesday.”

“A dozen people got into an argument with Mrs. Wentworth last Tuesday. She blocked a mile of traffic when her car stalled in the road and she refused to have it towed out of the way.”

“You argued with her the Sunday before, too.”

“So?”

“You threatened to throw one of the wigs she wears in the lake.”

“And?”

“With her still wearing it.”

I looked away.

“Now, I know this town hasn’t exactly won you over just yet, Katarina…”

I snorted, clinking the cuffs. “Just yet?”

“But vandalizing isn’t the answer,” the sheriff finished. “And if you have a problem with a fellow resident in Dayton, I suggest you find a more amicable way to resolve it than spray-painting every single wig in the local beauty shop in rainbow hues.”

I exhaled loudly, shrugging my dark hair over my shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you that I…?”

Another cruiser pulled up, sidling into the dirt parking lot. Gravel and soot went flying everywhere as the black-and-white painted car whipped its way into the parking space beside the sheriff’s. Barely in Park, a young officer I often referred to as Deputy Dildo hopped out, his hat in hand, his aviators shining under the bright noon sun as he walked without hesitation over to the sheriff, pointing a thumb over his uniform-padded shoulder. He checked me out, his grimy gaze sliding over my figure before he smiled wide, his clean-shaven face breaking out into a shit-eating grin.

“Got your perp here, sheriff.”

The sheriff’s dark eyebrows pulled low. “My what?”

“The guy who spray painted all of the wigs in Mrs. Wentworth’s shop,” the amateur cop responded, pulling on his belt. “We caught him in the act of spray-painting Dudley Duncan’s stable horses. Bunch of damned things, running around like unicorns out there, sheriff. It’s a mess.”

I heard the scoff from his back seat before I saw anything. A mass of blond curls was leaning against the slightly opened window and the wrists directly beneath it glinted in the sun. The silver jewelry reflected the hot-as-Hell Tennessee rays beaming down on all of us, and I had to look away. The light was bright. Probably much brighter than the dim-witted deputy, who was acting like he caught the “Fugitive of the Century.”

They made an interesting pair—the life-worn superior and his dopey understudy. Truth was… I never liked Deputy Moines much. He thought he was smarter than he was. His pants were always too tight, his wits too slow, and, not for the first time, did I suspect that maybe the flow of oxygen was getting cut off from his balls to his brain.

Plus, he never seemed to like me… apart from ogling me when he got the chance. I wondered about the man he’d arrested for the same crime, the man in the backseat who seemed entirely too much like me. Unbothered by his circumstances. His posture told a bit of his backstory; he obviously didn’t care about being arrested. But unlike me, Blondie in the back didn’t seem all that slick…or, hell, even smart.

If I actually had done it… I never would have been caught. Not by Sheriff Small Town here… and definitely not by Deputy Tight-Ass, a wanna-be Big Wig so uptight he could pick up a quarter just by squatting. Suddenly, curiosity got the best of me, and I glanced quickly in the rear seat, searching for a face and found nothing. The man’s voice followed soon after.

“I didn’t spray paint any horses, Deputy,” he spoke out. “I was simply admiring the view.”

“What were you doing out there, ‘admiring the view’, Riske?” the sheriff asked.

“Catching a few cow-tippers on tape. Mr. Hardhack on the next farm over is offering a prize to the person who finds whoever’s knocking over his precious Betsy’s.” The man held up his phone to the window. “Caught the perps red-handed, you could say.”

I leaned in. Video of a couple of teenage boys, hauling ass across mounds of grass was plain to see. Their hands were red, alright. Literally. They laughed and whooped as they slapped hands in the field, cracking up as they marveled at the spray paint sweating down each finger. They hadn’t noticed Blondie’s camera. Or didn’t seem to.

I smiled at the fading smirk on the young cop’s face. He stuttered.

“But he… I saw cans of…”

“Sheriff,” the man in the car interrupted. “I know Mister Moines here,” he pointed his cuffs in the stammering officer’s direction, “has a boner here for me, but look, if you could just tell him that I’m straight, maybe he’ll…”

“I’ll wring your neck, Riske.”

Dropping his hat, Moines reached for him, going for the back seat. The blond guy never moved. The sheriff stopped him, blocking his subordinate from opening the car door and throttling the smart-ass. Somehow, I had a feeling, by looking at the well-defined forearms and long fingers of the mysterious man in the back, that the deputy wouldn’t be the one doing the throttling.

I let it all play out, watching with curious eyes.

“Take a breather, Moines.” The elder officer pushed the young man towards the police department’s front door. Deputy Dickhead stalked off, and the sheriff removed a set of keys hung from his hip, placed them in the car door lock and popped the backseat door before I could blink.

Blondie hopped out—well, more like slinked out, and the smooth way with which he removed himself, even handcuffed, caught every bit of my attention. Most people, cuffed, were awkward—unbalanced. The ties that restricted them made moving ungraceful, but not with him. He was like a golden lion, stretching its legs—languid. He wore a crisp white tank. Board shorts hung low on his hips, and from where I stood, I could see nothing but muscles running down the length of his ripped shoulders and arms.

But the sheriff’s ten-gallon sized hat still blocked the entire view of his face. From what I could tell of Mr. Smart-Mouth, he was broad, blond—of course… and built to be the star of my wet dreams. The top of Sheriff Lumpkin’s cowboy hat reached the tip of Blondie’s forehead, and I stretched my neck just to get a glimpse of anything more—maybe even his eyes.

Still, nothing.

How could I try to get a good look at this guy without being too obvious? The answer was: I couldn’t. So, I tried to play it cool. I eavesdropped on the conversation between the normally gruff sheriff and Mr. Smart-Mouth, the golden lion—my legs practically shaking as they squeaked with sweat down the hot car.

The sheriff started first. “You keep fucking with the bull, Riske… you’re going to get the horns.”

Blondie’s head bobbed once. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, I know you think that Moines is a silly son-of-a-bitch,” he commented, lowering his voice, “but he’s also a ruthless one. And I don’t want to see you keep getting tangled up with him, butting head to head. If you keep screwing around out there in town, he really is going to bust you… and there’s nothing your father’s going to be able to do to save you.”

My ears perked up with that little side note. I stood straighter, struggling to bear the brutal stickiness in the air, that Tennessee humidity, and I wiped a wrist across my forehead, listened closer. Blondie’s tone was low. So low I almost wasn’t sure I was hearing it right.

“He needs to stop thinking about me and worry about himself, Sheriff. The only thing getting busted around Moines are his balls. Everyone knows his wife slaps him around. I’m not going to let him feel like the Big Man on Campus just because I’m here. As far as I’m concerned, that hillbilly can go to He…”

He stopped short, lowering his head, as the sheriff probably fixed him with the sort of stare that only old folks are capable of. The one that makes you feel guilt and shame and low self-esteem, all at once. Blondie had struck a nerve.

“Well, why don’t we hillbillies just try to stay out of your way, huh, Mr. Riske?” He took his key and loosened Blondie’s cuffs, letting them drop. “And you’ll do the same.” The sheriff turned quickly. “Miss Lexington!” he called out.

I jumped at the sound of my name. “Yeah?”

“You’re the next to go.” He walked towards me so quickly I hadn’t any time to recover. He took my wrists in his hands. “I don’t want to see you in any more trouble, either. Avoid Mrs. Wentworth. Stay out of trouble. And whatever you do,” he brought his face closer to mine, whispering, “stay away from this one.” He nodded discreetly over his shoulder. I gaped as the heavy handcuffs dropped into the sheriff’s hand with a resounding clink.

He gave me a pointed look and then headed inside, presumably to ream the hotheaded Moines for taking him on a wild goose chase for suspects. Again. Moines was always fucking up. The dummy deputy was the reason I was here, fingering me for something I hadn’t done… though I suddenly wished that I had. Mrs. Wentworth had deserved it.

But I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t think anything at the moment.

Because Blondie was looking at me. Directly at me. Brown eyes, deep-set below a bed-headed array of blond waves and curls, blazed at me, hotter than the summer heat. He wasn’t a man—not fully one yet, anyway; he was still a boy, though barely. His jaw was clean-cut—strong. His hands hung at his sides in a way that was simultaneously loose and tense, and when I met his stare, curious and sweltering, I felt a bead of sweat trickling down my collar, tinging the edge of my own blue tank-top.

Suddenly hyper-aware of my body, I pushed away from the sheriff’s car, correcting my slouch. I continued gazing into Blondie’s eyes for what felt like forever until his attention abruptly shifted from mine. He looked past me as another car rolled in to the other side of the sheriff’s, idling. I hadn’t even heard the vehicle approaching. I turned around.

It was a fellow camp counselor, Laney Brigham. She hung her head out of her window, letting her red hair fall down the side of the door.

“Get in, Bonnie. I’m breaking you out.” She smiled, looking over my shoulder. “I’m guessing that’s Clyde…” Her normally throaty voice went high.

I looked back at him. Mr. Smart-Mouth’s eyes were serious. There was no humor left in his face—not even the sarcastic kind that he had used with Deputy Dimwitted. He said nothing as he gazed back into my eyes. I felt rejected… but couldn’t understand why. I spun back to face Laney, walking to her passenger side door.

“He’s no one. Just another innocent victim caught up in Moines’ bullshit.”

I rounded the car, hopping in. I closed the door behind me and felt the car shudder. Or was it me? I could feel Mr. Smart-Mouth’s eyes still on me, and though he seemed as intrigued as I was, he hadn’t opened that mouth of his to say one word. I dared to glance back at his face. Laney started to pull off, and as she drove quietly out of the dirt parking lot, A/C on blast, I felt a breeze blow suddenly into my face. It carried with it the sound of Blondie’s voice.

He had finally smiled.

In the side mirrors of Laney’s laid-back Cadillac, I could see him grinning back there, his lips broad, his large hands cupped conspicuously around his full mouth. He called out to me from the center of the barely-paved, dust-filled field.

“Who said that I was innocent?”

I couldn’t see his eyes from this distance, but I assumed they were sparkling. All tanned muscle and golden hair, Blondie stood in the empty parking lot, staring at Laney’s taillights, his head on a slight tilt as, I swear, his eyes met mine in the mirror.

I had never felt my heart beat so hard…

Right then, I fell a little in love with the mysterious man-boy they called Ethan Riske.