His frown deepened. “You need to go lie back down?”
“No.” She scrounged up a smile. “We can go.” She forced her legs to move, falling into place a half-step ahead of him.
She wouldn’t think selfish thoughts anymore, she told herself sternly. Rooster would kill for her, would die for her – nearly had a time or two. That was love, plain and simple. The only kind she ought to ever ask for.
21
“Backorder?” Rooster said, numb with the resignation of a man who should have expected the worse, but somehow, for some stupid reason, thought things might actually go in his favor for once.
Behind the desk in the garage office, Jake’s young mechanic, Spence, winced apologetically. “Yeah. Sorry. The website didn’t say that it was, but I got a phone call from the company this morning; they’ll rush-order it to me as soon as they’ve got it, no charge to make up for the mistake. But yeah. Backorder.”
Once upon a time, in the deserts of Iraq, Rooster had been a patient man. He wasn’t anymore, but he wanted to try to be. At least around these people who’d been kind to them. Who were, at the moment, his only chance of getting his truck back and putting some miles under the tires.
Hit bit back on his first instinct – the curse – and took a deep breath instead. “Yeah. Okay.” He shrugged and figured it looked stiff. Once upon a time, he’d behaved like a normal guy, but those days were long gone, and even the most casual of gestures felt like play-acting at being human. “Shit happens, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Spence agreed.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll call you when I have news.”
Rooster nodded and stepped out of the office and into the morning sunshine, flicking his sunglasses down out of his hair and onto his nose. He spotted Red standing by the Coke machine, smoothing both hands self-consciously through her black hair. It was a shock looking at her. Some women pulled off black hair flawlessly; Red, with her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, did not.
It was the best way to disguise her, though, he told himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. If they were stuck here – they didn’t have to be, a tiny voice kept saying in the back of his head; they could buy a piece of shit car, throw their bags in the trunk, and go, truck be damned – they were bound to attract undue attention. Her red hair was the sort of striking, beautiful feature that stuck in people’s memories. And memories could be combed; could be drawn out of witnesses with bribes, or with torture. He–
She was talking to someone, he realized. The old man who was perpetually reading a newspaper in a folding chair outside the convenience store like someone who’d just stepped out of a 50s TV show. He’d folded up his paper in his lap and had his head tipped back, squinting up at Red from under the brim of his Stetson.
“…time for a change,” Red was saying, finger-combing her hair and doing a terrible job of pretending the dye job was something she’d wanted. She had no artifice, his girl.
“Hmm,” the old man hummed. “Why black? I gotta say, honey, it don’t suit you. The red was real pretty.”
Red’s smile froze, brittle enough to crack. She forced a chuckle that was more of a cough. “Oh. You know. Rebellious young person.” She rolled her eyes, and when the sunlight glinted off them, Rooster could see the sheen of gathering tears. She’d been a hairsbreadth from crying the whole way here. It was his fault, he knew – he was not going to examine why it was his fault; down that road lay madness – but damn it, why did this old bastard have to go and make it worse?
“Hey,” he said, stepping up beside her, giving the guy his best stare-down. “Who tells a woman her hair doesn’t look good? What’s wrong with you?”
The man blinked up at him, unperturbed. “I didn’t say it didn’t look good. You said it just now, but I didn’t.”
Rooster put an arm around her shoulders with the intent of steering her away. “Jackass,” he muttered under his breath.
“Hold on just a minute there, son,” the old man said. “You’re the one with the transmission job, yeah? The one Jake brought in?”
Rooster ground his teeth. Answering questions was never a good idea. Never. He gave Red a little nudge.
She resisted, though, turning back to tell the man, “That’s right.”
“You’re stuck here in town. That it?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
Rooster glared down at her, tugging at her this time, but she stood firm, booted feet planted on the pavement, refusing to meet his gaze.
He took a deep breath, panic mounting, teasing at the pit of his stomach, and did a visual scan of the area around them. The unhurried traffic of a small town. Flock of starlings twittering on the power line. The produce stand owner across the street moving crates of tomatoes and zucchini from the bed of his truck. A car pulled up to one of the gas pumps, and though it was a self-serve station, the bell was still there, its chime echoing through the store windows. Spence came out of the office, rolling up the sleeves of his smock and stepping into the shade of the open garage bay.
No one in tac gear lingered in the shadows, weapons trained.
No one shot them suspicious glances.
No threats.
Just a busybody codger with no qualms about making girls want to cry.
Rooster let out a deep breath and turned back to face him, unnerved by the man’s hooded stare. “What do you want?” It came out more defeated than hostile.
He shrugged. “You got a nice big pair of shoulders on you. I was just wondering if you were looking for work while you’re in town.”
“…Oh.”
The old man grinned, teeth surprisingly white and even in his lined, tanned face. “Take that as a yes?”
“Maybe,” Rooster hedged.
“It wouldn’t pay much, but it’d be cash. And your jeans look like they’ve seen better days.”
Rooster sighed.
The man’s grin widened. “Hell, you might even make enough to buy your girlfriend her old hair color back.”
“Jackass,” Rooster said, out loud this time.
The man chuckled. “Oh, for sure. But just Jack’ll do.”
*
Jack – the old fuck’s name really was Jack – lived within walking distance of the garage, about a block down, in a cottagey little blue house with a white picket fence and a rose trellis.
“My wife’s doing,” he said, gesturing to the trellis as they walked through it. “She likes flowers and shit.”
Red stifled a giggle in her hand.
“You just sit around reading papers and insulting people, huh?” Rooster said, and when Jack laughed, unoffended and easy, it stirred up an odd sensation in Rooster’s chest. A memory flickered like an old film reel: trading jabs on patrols, laughing and enjoying the laughter of his brothers in arms. Mama jokes, and insults, and raunchy stories that had them clutching their stomachs for breath. It didn’t seem like it was his own life he was looking back on, but a movie, something he couldn’t touch.
Jack led them around the side of the house, down a path of stepping stones, into a shaded backyard that had been landscaped like something out of a fairytale.
“Oh,” Red breathed, clapping her hands together once in delight.
Jack graced her with a fast, kind, grandfatherly smile, and some of Rooster’s agitation with him eased. “Like I said. Flowers and shit.”
It was a profusion of flowers, of all heights and colors and varieties, none of which Rooster knew the names of. Big, overgrown beds lined the fence on all sides, and a small goldfish pond in the center was ringed by waving purple grasses and cattails.