“Nah. Water and bridges are things I sometimes don’t like to contemplate.” He clinked the ice in the glass, and I almost rose to fetch him more lemonade. But then I remembered that his hands weren’t broken. He cocked his head. “I think American Idol is on.”
“Done,” I said, clicking on the TV and finding the right channel. Dak settled back, crossing his feet shod in running shoes. He wore Adidas joggers and a short-sleeve T-shirt with some 5K ad on it. He sported a fresh cut and a tan from fishing. He looked good sitting next to me, and it didn’t escape my notice that I had invited Dak inside while I had sent Ty away. Of course, inviting Ty in pretty much acknowledged I would be having sex with him. But Dak was there for something he didn’t know he wanted. I understood that perfectly because that’s where I was, too.
So I sat beside my ex-love watching people yodel, bomb, and dazzle with their vocal abilities, deliciously full on chicken salad, with a check for $80,000 sitting not ten feet away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CRICKET
The Channel Marker wasn’t exactly seedy. But it was a close second. And so I was pretty relieved to have grumpy Griffin Moon with his scowl and big clomping boots entering the joint behind me.
I glanced around for the perfect spot to spy on my husband.
The long, scarred bar with its fish netting and rusty barstools would have me too out in the open. Clusters of low tables, the kind men gathered around with cigarettes hanging from their lips to play card games, scattered the majority of the room. Maps of Caddo Lake interspersed with neon beer signs seemed the standard decoration for lakeside drinking. Behind the bar was a sign selling bait and a half wall covered with corks, hooks, and pocketknives. The place smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and some faint funk that reminded me of a fraternity house.
“I’ll grab some beers. You may want to go to the restroom and . . .” He gestured at me, drawing his fingers up and down. My hands flew to my wig.
Thirty minutes earlier, Griffin had met me at his tow yard. Out in front of the freshly painted office with the blue-moon logo on the large plate glass sat a shiny Harley. Griffin came outside, waving farewell at someone behind the counter, and silently handed me a helmet.
“You’re joking, right?” I asked.
He made a face. “No. I thought we’d take the bike. The tow truck seems too conspicuous, and my regular truck is back at my place. It’s a nice day.”
“People die on these things, and besides, that helmet will mess up my wig.” I had on the same outfit as yesterday. The shirt with the rock band that seemed to enjoy death a lot, the ripped-up jeans, and the dark lipstick. Ruby had brought me a tattoo that would come off with baby oil to go on my wrist. It was a heart with a sword through it. She’d also brought me a denim shirt, which I put over the T-shirt since my boobs hadn’t magically shrunk overnight. I had wounds from the bobby pins Ruby had jabbed into my hair to keep the wig on.
“You won’t die. And I bet you the first round that you’ll like it,” Griffin said, holding out the helmet and waggling it. “Come on. Live like you mean it.”
I ignored his helmet and folded my arms across my chest, mad that he somehow knew what to use against me. Daring me to be bold. Tempting me with letting go of my mundane life that had led to my husband plowing the tennis pro. Standing up on a desk and dead poeting me into seizing the day. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
I inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Daring me.”
Griffin smiled something very devilish and unlike him. I felt it in parts that didn’t need to be feeling a dang thing. “Is it working?”
I grabbed the helmet and tugged it on. “I guess I get the bitch seat since I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”
This amused him. He actually laughed, muttering “bitch seat” under his breath, and set about cranking up the scary-looking bike. He motioned me to him, and this is where I realized that I was about to straddle him and wrap my arms around his waist. I would be pressing my breasts to his back and getting real intimate with Griffin Moon, and that thought made my tummy tremble.
But once I was on the surprisingly comfortable seat, Griffin showing me where to place my feet, I didn’t mind holding on to him because the takeoff scared the hell out of me. I became a spider monkey clinging to his back. No room for Jesus on this bike ride.
Never having ridden a motorcycle before, I couldn’t have imagined the way the fear bloomed into euphoria once he took us onto the highway heading north. Colors spun by me, a whirring of shapes, as my stomach settled and I relaxed the fists knotted in his shirt, flattening my hands against his muscled stomach. The wind tore at me, but I loved the way Griffin zipped in and out, hugging the curves as the remnants of city washed to greener pastures and tall pines. Eventually the rolling pastures met the lake. And then Griffin pulled into a gravel lot with a sad-looking square building painted light gray that held down a corner. The infamous Channel Marker.