Wren

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THERE’S A FLUSH ON my chest still as I set Mrs. Field under the hair dryer and raise my hands in front of her face with all my fingers splayed outward.

“Ten minutes!” I mouth the words, knowing she won’t hear me but feeling like it’s my duty nonetheless. Even without the noise from the hair dryer, I’d have to nearly scream to get her to hear anything, but we’ve done this drill before, so she understands. She nods happily, smiling as she goes back to her article.

With her shampoo and set done, she’s reading her People magazine under the warmth of her dryer, so I gather my purse, and I’m out the door. I had put Hercules in his cage at the salon before I left, but I know if he’s in there more than an hour or so, he will start chewing on the bars and raising eight kinds of hell. The small staff I have tolerates him. After all, it’s my salon, and he’s my dog. But they have their limits, and boy do I understand.

The Carson building is subsidized housing at the south end of Emmetsville, the small town I picked at random from the open Michigan map I laid out on the hotel room bed. The map was in the dresser drawer, though God only knows when it was put there—or by whom. Yellowed edges, folds brown with dust, and the paper going soft from years of being unfolded and wrongly refolded.

Hmmph. I still remember booking in to that fleapit of a hotel room. I’d wound up there after a fight with Sabrina left me homeless. Not that she kicked me out, but I told myself I wasn’t going back there. Her sisterly insistence that I bend to the upscale, one-percent lifestyle pushed me over the edge that day. I got in my Volvo and hit the freeway, drove three hours north before I found a motel and tried to picture my future.

Enter a cheap roadside room, the map in the dresser drawer next to a Bible, and my eventual arrival here.

My finger landed on the Upper Peninsula, about as far north as possible on that map, in this town. Nothing out here is exactly what you’d call big city, not by most people’s standards. But as far as towns here go, Emmetsville is on the big side thanks to a fairly well-attended technical university and a robust logging trade that takes in the entire UP. A nice downtown area and a few satellite towns not far away make this remote part of the country a nice blend of solitude with a sprinkling of action, if you are so inclined.

Why I came here in the first place is a bit of a long story in itself, but let’s just say I’d had enough of Charlotte. Not that living with my half sister down there wasn’t comfortable. She and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, but her heart’s always in the right place. Even after some tragic events hit my life, I tried to make a go of things, if only for her sake. But when I look back now, I know I had a bit of a breakdown. In hindsight, the signs were all there—anxiety and depression took over, and all I could think of was running. Getting away and starting over.

I don’t think I would have consciously picked Emmetsville, but I was happy to let fate do the choosing.

As I step out the back door of the ten-story apartment building, I grab my purse and cross the strap over my body, working my way toward the back of the parking lot. So many elderly people live here, I never use the front parking spots. The building has its share of problems as well. Urban issues sneak their way into even this remote foresty paradise in the form of methamphetamine and the occasional soul who can’t seem to beat their battle with the bottle.

There’s not necessarily a bad part of town here, but if there were, this would probably be it.

I grab my phone from my back pocket and check my texts. There are a few from Tabitha at the salon and one from Sabrina, my half sister, which makes me twist my lips and shove the phone back in my pocket. I’ll deal with her later over a glass or ten of Moscato. Ever since she realized I’d left Charlotte, she’s been on a relentless campaign to get me back.

I’m parked on the other side of the wooden privacy fence that shields the set of three dumpsters. My charcoal-gray Volvo, a present from my Dad when I turned eighteen, is pushing three hundred thousand miles. If I get to a million, Volvo will give me a new one, and I intend to take them up on the offer.

As I ponder the distant potential of my new car, I rustle in the bottom of my purse for my keys. When I look up, I draw in a sharp breath as I nearly walk smack into a guy standing in my path.

“Geez!” Startled and a little pissed that he’s scared me half to death, I sidestep and turn, stopping to give him a dirty look. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

For a second, he just looks at me, then his eyes drop to my purse, and I realize I may be startled for good reason. He licks his cracked lips, his eyes glazed and half dead. He stands only a few inches taller than me, but he’s thick and sturdy. The neckline on his gray T-shirt is pulled out of shape, and there’s a tear of a few inches at the hem, just under where his belly pushes out against the fabric. His face is covered with an unkempt short beard, and the sour-sweet scent of someone in desperate need of a shower hits my nose.

“That your car?” The words slide too slowly from his lips as he sniffs sharply, swallows and saws the palm of his hand over his nose. It’s not a question, and I don’t bother to consider a response. My heart is speeding as I back away, then turn and take the last few steps to the driver’s door, hoping whatever substance he’s on has him unwilling or unable to chase me.

You know, when the ladder fell earlier, I had this same odd sensation. I knew the ladder was going over, I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it, and this blanket of uncomfortable tingling and warmth had prickled my skin and made my head feel fuzzy.

That’s exactly what I’m feeling right now as the guy steps closer, caging me between the door of my car and the fence that surrounds the dumpsters. The garbage smell on top of his own acrid odor is overpowering, and now that he’s in even closer proximity my gut is tightening, and I have this ball of panic clutching at my throat.

“I just need a few bucks. You sure look like you’ve got a few bucks.”

He reaches down into his front pocket and pulls out a folded knife, which he quickly unfolds and holds in his shaking hand, pointing it vaguely at my purse. I’m not sure if he has the coordination to stick me with it, but I’m not willing to find out.

In this moment, I realize this is totally outside my experience. The scariest thing that’s happened to me thus far in my life was when Tommy Monaghan threatened to beat me up at the annual homeschool convention when I wouldn’t dance with him. Living on the road with my mom and dad in their Winnebago, well, in hindsight I know it was a pretty utopian childhood. They kept me safe, I saw the country, learned way too many folk songs, and knew the smell of reefer by the age of six.

Time stalls. Words fail. I do have a few bucks on me, and I sure as hell don’t need them as much as I need to get away from here back to my reasonably safe little life. I’d give him all my bucks in the world if he will just go away. So why can’t I move?

His gaze sharpens on me, and he runs his tongue across his front teeth, some measure of impatience tightening across his face.

“Don’t be stupid now.” He closes any space between us, and my mouth hangs open, my fingers fumble, and my keys jangle out of my hand onto the pavement by my feet. I push back against the metal of the car. “Give me your purse, sweetheart. Or I’ll take it. Giving it is easier for you.”

“Wait, okay, I...” Stammering, I fight to force myself to move. To give him my stupid purse, but I’m not fast enough.

The next moment, the knife darts out, glinting in the late afternoon sun as it shoots forward, his other hand grabbing the leather strap that runs in a diagonal across my body and pulling it outward. In the distance, I see a woman on one of the upper floors of the building with a phone to her ear, holding her curtains back. I pray she’s calling the cops, but I know even if she is, there may not be enough time for them to arrive to stop whatever else is about to happen.

I yelp and shut my eyes tight, hating myself for not fighting back but unable to move as I await the pain I’m sure is about to come as the blade cuts into me. Images flash through my mind, images of me kicking and using all the self-defense moves I’ve seen in movies.

But my limbs are heavy and solid, unable to perform the actions in my mind.

The weight of my purse lifts, the strap falling from my shoulder, and my hands fly up to cover my face. I say a silent prayer that it’s over. That he will just take my purse and go, and all I will be left with is silence and the thundering in my chest. The deafening rush of blood in my ears.

I keep my eyes squeezed tight, the blackness seeming safer than seeing what’s about to happen.

“Hey, what the—” The man’s voice rises at the sound of heavy footfalls.

Then, something large and heavy slams against the wooden fence to my left, and I drop my hands with a gasp, viewing the new unfolding action.

It’s him.

The man who caught me falling from the ladder.

Flint.

Like the pirate captain out of Treasure Island, he’s throwing the other man around like a rag doll.

He’s massive, even bigger than he looked when he rushed across the street and caught me mid-fall. His hair is shaved on the sides and held back in a messy knot at the back of his head. But this is not some kind of metrosexual top-knot; this is something straight off a Viking ship. His face is carved from forged iron, and the intensity in his shocking blue eyes leaves me dumbstruck.

His beard brushes low into the opening of his flannel shirt. The coarse brown hair full and thick and moving back and forth with his effort.

He’s grunting and bearing down like a crazed bull as the other man cowers in a crumpled heap, lying on the asphalt at the base of the fence, right next to a discarded bag of McDonald’s and an empty pack of Kool’s.

“Piece of fucking shit.” Flint sets his boot on top of the guy’s shoulder, rolling him over onto his back, spread against the ground. The guy doesn’t even seem to struggle; I guess he’s as stunned as I am. Flint just calmly reaches down and snatches my purse back.

“Fucking asshole!” the guy on the ground fires back with a rain of spittle. To my shock, he looks more pissed than scared. “Flint fucking Rendell. Figures. Get your fucking foot off me.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“How did you get here?” I’m flabbergasted. I’m happy he’s here, sure, but saving me twice in one day is a little more than coincidence. “Did you follow me?”

“He probably did. Add stalker to his list of felonies. Fucking maniac.”

Flint lifts his boot and sets it back down on the center of the guy’s back, then looks me directly in the eye. And oh my God. The blue looking back at me has me reaching out to steady myself again against the car. Mediterranean tide pools of deep blue-green look barely real, and yet as Flint’s pupils dilate, I know they are very real. All of this is startlingly real. I noticed them back at the salon, but they now seem to nearly glow.

“Yes. I followed you.”

His blunt honesty has my heart in my throat. Legions of butterflies take flight in my belly.

The guy on the ground begins to speak. “Did you forget who my father is? You’ll end up—”

Flint lifts his boot again, holds it in the air without moving his eyes from me, and the guy on the ground falls silent.

The sound of a single siren grows in the distance. Flint finally steps back, letting the thief struggle to his feet. My heart pounds against the inside of my chest. This guy has saved me twice today, and I should be thankful—maybe also a little creeped out—but all I can think of is that my license is suspended.

“So, everyone is okay, right? Just a big misunderstanding.” I laugh without any humor. “I’m fine, you’re fine, everybody’s fine.” I force cheerfulness into my voice and a belligerent smile to my lips. “So why don’t we all just...” My voice fades as Flint’s eyes narrow at me.

I take a deep breath, then lean in to whisper to Flint as the guy on the ground backs up a few paces, putting distance between them. “I don’t have a license. If the police come, they’re going to ask for my ID. Can we just forget it happened? I’m really fine, and you took care of him.” I look over at where my attacker is brushing dirt and gravel off his jeans.

When I look back, Flint is regarding me with a slight shake of his head. “What happened to your license?”

“Parking tickets. Um, back where I’m from.” I speed my explanation because Charlotte is not really where I’m from, but that sort of detail seems unimportant right now with the approaching siren. “I sort of took a stand. Stupid, I know, but it was a weird time in my life...and parking was so expensive, and I just kind of refused to cave to the ridiculous prices. So I took a chance, got caught, and they yanked my license.” Of course, Sabrina tried to make it go away, as much for her sake as mine, but that was the day I broke and headed out of town, leaving Sabrina, and drove away on my suspended license.

The sirens grow louder, and to my surprise, the man with the knife crosses his arms and stays put. If I were him, I’d be running, but instead, he looks defiant.

Flint sniffs, looks back at him then at me.

“Go on. Get out of here.” He tips his head toward my car.

Knife guy interjects. “Great idea. Go. Your word against mine, Rendell.” He sneers. “I think we both know where that will get you.”

I’m confused, unsure what is happening. I want to go, to get out of there, but is he just staying here? I hesitate, staring at Flint as a sudden gust of wind tosses my hair into my face.

“Get in your car and go, Wren. We’re done here, for now, at least. But you and I are going to talk about these tickets and your license. You can bank on that.”

Flint reaches down, picks up my keys, unlocks my door, and ushers me into the driver’s seat. His scent is pure power and masculinity. Like the forest in the early morning. Him saying we are going to talk about my tickets and my license should freak me out. How arrogant, right?

But, no. Infuriating as it might be to my feminist side, my stomach does ten sorts of twists and flips at the calm, commanding manner in which he assumes he and I will be discussing such things together.

And we will. I hate to say it, but I want it to happen.

“Go,” he orders, his hand brushing down my hair before he steps back, licking his bottom lip and shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks every bit modern-day Viking standing there all calm and sturdy, sending shivers from my nose to my toes.

I hate myself for fleeing and leaving him to make the explanations, but I shut the door, start the car, and with one more glance back, pull out of the parking lot just as I see a flash of blue and red lights as the cops enter from the other side, heading toward Flint and whatever the heck just happened.

Five minutes later and my heart is still pounding as I check my mirrors again to make sure no flashes of blue and red are seen. I’m halfway back to the salon, but my nerves are still on edge, and I nearly jump out of my skin when my phone buzzes. I glance over and see my sister’s name on the screen. My hand shaking, I hit the green button, and a new burst of anxiety is rising.

“Hi, Sabrina.” I do my best to keep my voice steady. There’s no way I could tell her what just happened, but deep down, I wish I could.

“What’s wrong?” Her instant question reminds me just how I’ve never been able to hide anything from her.

“Nothing is wrong, sis. You called me, so what’s up?”

“I can hear it in your voice, Wren.” The condescending tone is standard, but it still has me gripping the steering wheel tighter and rolling my eyes. She’s a political power junkie, and ever since Dad died, she’s been even more focused on controlling everything about my life. She’s running for Senate in a couple years and has her eyes on the big prize.

I know she loves me. She tries to control me because she wants me to be happy and safe. Her version of happy and safe, that is.

I don’t think Sabrina could take it if anything happened to me, and I appreciate that. She’s my last real familial link to Dad, and I’m hers, but I think there’s also a bit of a more selfish fear—that some of my less than conventional lifestyle will somehow curtail her rise to political greatness. And I get it. Her dream of being the red-state version of Hilary Clinton is no secret. I’m proud of her for that, and I love her single-minded focus. But that’s not me. I’m not going to be her sidekick or her protégé on her venture up the vertical climb.

How much of our differences are in our nature, and how much comes from our upbringing? I’ll never know. She grew up with her mom, while I was on the road with Dad. And I take after him. Free spirit, road warrior. And Sabrina? Well, she’s more like her mom. Gated communities and goal-setting. But in her eyes, I’m still her baby sister, and she makes it her mission in life to turn me into a clone of her. Which, so far, thank God, has failed miserably.

“I’m about to walk back into work,” I lie. “Did you need something?”

“Yes.” I think I would hear the sigh from here even without the phone call. “I need to know when you are going to come back home. This little adventure of yours has gone on long enough. I don’t like it, and I can tell something is wrong.”

“Sabrina, seriously.” I grip the sides of my head with one hand. “As a grown adult, I think I’m entitled to live my life my way, don’t you? I’m not asking you for anything. Just let me do my thing. I know it’s not a life you could ever imagine for yourself, but I don’t want your life. I want mine. And I’m working on getting just that.”

“A salon, in some nowhere town in the middle of the forest?”

That stings.

“Why do you care? Just because I don’t care about the same things you do. Truthfully, why do you care what I do?” I brake at the stop sign, glance in the rearview and notice the indent of my stress on the wrinkle in my forehead.

“Because you’re my sister! And this is stupid. I understood why you had to leave for a while, but you could have a life here. Why do you want to struggle? Come back to Charlotte, I’ll get you set up for life.”

“I didn’t ‘leave for a while,’ Sabrina. I left for good. It wasn’t just about what happened. I hated it there—and you know it. That’s where they founded the good ole boys club and the Stepford wives.”

“Stop.” She huffs into the phone. “I worry about you. You don’t understand the world like I do, Wren. Dad raised you in that Winnebago with unicorns and fairy dust. The real world requires money and connections. What are you going to do way up there when your salon fails, and you’ve got no money and nobody to bail you out?”

The question hangs there for a moment. I know my version of my life has lacked planning and goals, but I like to enjoy the moment and hope that the next one just takes care of itself.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve figured things out for myself so far.” I swallow as I turn onto Main Street and think about Mom and Dad. They took the Winnebago through the Pacific Northwest, then headed up to Alaska two years ago while I was visiting with Sabrina. It was supposed to be temporary. I know she liked having me around, but I never planned to stay. Then, two months into the trip, Sabrina walked into my bedroom to tell me the police had been on the phone. They’d found the RV parked at the side of the road, and inside, Mom and Dad were both dead. Some sort of robbery. No one was ever caught.

They were two of the kindest, gentlest souls on this earth, and to go out the way they did tears my heart out. But even as I’m thinking about Mom and Dad, the flash of Flint’s face is right there. My belly flutters, and warmth breaks across my cheeks.

“I’m at work, Sabrina.” I soften my tone. I know she loves me. I know she was just as devastated when Dad died as I was, and she’s grown more and more protective of me ever since. I know what she wants for me is what she thinks is going to make me happy. Find some corporate tobacco executive to marry, pop out a few kids, start taking Xanax, and get fake boobs. To her, that’s how things should be, and she can’t imagine anyone being happy any other way.

Lucky for me, money and climbing the ladder society deems as success are not my motivators.

She doesn’t answer straightaway. I know she’s thinking of something to persuade me, but even she must realize that’s not about to happen. “Okay, okay. Just be careful. And let me know the second you need something. Don’t make me have to charter some bush plane and come and get you when things have already fallen apart, okay?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Goodbye, sis.”

“Bye. Love you.”

I end the call and put the Volvo into park behind the salon, then rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m still wondering what happened after I left Flint back there. Jesus, who knows? Maybe it’s a sign that Sabrina is right and it is just a matter of time before I’m calling for her a bailout.

The thought of that has something clutching in my chest. How could it be that the mere thought of leaving this town I’ve only just started to settle into fills me with dread?

But it’s not the town that’s causing the wrenching in my gut.

It’s him.

Bearded. Brutish. Backwoods-living. Boot-stomping. Flint Rendell.

Jesus, he could be a character in some horrible trope-laden romance novel.

And he saved my ass twice in one day.