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.”