Playing with Fire

“That’s enough of your sulking ass. Give me the keys. I’ll close up and drop them in your mailbox. I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but you should be focusing on pulling it out, not burning time here.”

I shook my head, finding that all I needed to burst into tears for the first time since my hospital stay was him acknowledging something was wrong. People had stopped giving a crap. In Sheridan, I was just another statistic. Basket case grandmother, junkie mom. That was why Sheriff Jones hadn’t even attempted to pretend he was going to leave the fair and help me look for Grams.

No one cared.

Hot, fat tears slid down my face. I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, horrified that I was crying in front of him, and even more upset that I was probably smearing my makeup.

West regarded me with calm curiosity. Something in my gut told me he wasn’t used to comforting women. He usually handled them when they were conveniently cheerful and trying to please him.

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Really. We only have thirty minutes left.”

“Exactly,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes is nothing. You’ve been as useful as a nun in a brothel since that phone call. Spare me the moping and get the hell outta here.”

I eyed him from my spot on the crate. Was it irresponsible of me to consider his offer? I knew if Karlie and Mrs. Contreras were aware of the situation, they’d tell me to leave the food truck’s keys with him, no doubt, but if something went wrong …

West read my mind, groaning. “Not gonna do anything shady. Give me your address.”

I continued blinking at him.

He bit his inner cheeks, seething. “Not gonna come for your ass in the middle of the night either.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” he said, point-blank. “Trust is putting your optimism in another person, the very definition of being dumb. You should believe me because stealing from the register would get me nowhere. And because this is Texas, and there ought to be at least one motherfucker in your household with a loaded gun willing to blow out my brains if I decide to climb up your window uninvited.”

It seemed crazy to hand him the keys. He’d been working here for less than a month. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was the very definition of desperate.

I had to find Grams. It was already late, and the more time had passed, the farther away she could wander off. Marla’s shift was officially over, and running around in the middle of the night looking for Grams was above her pay grade.

“Okay.” I grabbed a note, scribbling down my address. “Drop the money in Karlie’s mailbox, then bring me back the keys. I owe you one.”

He took the note, shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, and kicked the door open, shoving me through it callously.

I stumbled toward my Chevy, struggling to control my flailing limbs.

It was only when I rolled into my garage that I realized what date it was.

Grandpa Freddie passed away a decade ago today.

Grams knew exactly what she was doing.

Where she was going.

She wanted to find him.

On my fifth circle around my block, someone flashed their lights behind me repeatedly, signaling me to stop. I kept walking, hugging my midriff.

I’d looked for Grams all over Sheridan. I’d gone to the cemetery first, thinking she would visit Grandpa Freddie’s grave. Then I’d headed downtown, checked the local park, and called Mrs. Serle from the grocery store to ask if Grams had paid her a visit. I’d stopped by all our neighbors and friends. It was like the earth had opened its jaws and swallowed my grandmother whole.

I heard a motorcycle engine rumbling behind me. Seconds later, West appeared to my left on his bike, slowing down to match my pace.

“Dropped the keys in your mailbox.” His voice was muffled through his black helmet. Red flames adorned it from either side, and I clutched the ring on my thumb, making a wish like my grandmother had taught me.

Please let me find you.

Hot air scorched my lungs. The temptation to collapse on the sidewalk and ignore all my problems was strong.

“Appreciate it. You have a good night now, St. Claire.”

He didn’t drive off, checking me out in his lazy, devil-may-care way. “Crisis still in motion?”

His motorcycle protested with small growls at the slow pace West forced it into. It was ten-thirty. I was sure he had plenty of places to go and people to see. People like Tess. Fun, uncomplicated, without the stipulations I came with.

“I’ve got it handled.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Still my answer, though.”

“Are you always so damn stubborn?

“Only on days that end with a y.”

He hit the brake and hopped off the motorcycle like a tiger, tearing the helmet off of his face. His overgrown hair was damp, sticking in every direction in shiny chaotically chopped locks. I stopped, because it was the courteous thing to do.

A part of me thought maybe tonight it was going to be different. Maybe I wasn’t going to find her after all. I’d never looked for so long. I’d never not-found her all over Sheridan.

“That’s it. Talk to me, Texas.”

“Texas?”

Did he just nickname me, or was I officially losing my mind?

He shrugged.

“You say Texan things. Like y’alls, and fixin’ to, and right quick. You drop your g’s like the English language wronged you personally.”

“I salute to the place I come from, so what?”

“You’re a small-town gal who probably skins squirrels in her spare time, sitting on a rocker on your front porch, chewing tobacco. Admit it, Texas, you’re … Texas.”

“I don’t like my nickname.”

“Tough shit. It stays. Now, tell me what got your panties in such a wad.”

I sighed, losing steam. “My grandmomma disappeared tonight. Just walked out the door and left her caregiver without sayin’ where. She’s not very lucid, and …” About to give me a heart attack. “Prone to accidents. I’m tryin’ to find her.”

“See?”

“What?”

“Tryin’.”

“Is that all you took from what I just told you?” I narrowed my eyes to stop myself from crying. I really, really felt like crying. It was on top of my to-do list, in fact, as soon as I found Grams.