CHAPTER EIGHT
The car chugged along for the next hour or so, past dreary pockets of farmland that normally sparkled under the sunshine but now had the heavy feeling of impeding death. I’m not trying to be dramatic; I swear, it just looked like the scenery had gone from healthy to sick in the course of one week. Some trees didn’t even have their leaves anymore, though I could have sworn they did last Saturday.
The wind that shot over the coastal hills and shook our car probably helped in the removal process. I was cuddled up in my seat absently flipping through the books that Dex had instructed me to read. It wasn’t going too well. Not only did I get carsick when I read in a moving vehicle, but I was too aware of being in a car with a guy I didn’t know at all.
I tried not to stare at him. It was tough, though. The longer I was in that car, the more I was mesmerized by his face. Sometimes it looked at peace. His soft eyelids would sort of half droop, the corners of his wide mouth would twitch intermittently like he was on the cusp of a telling a ridiculous joke. Sometimes he looked like he was consumed by some internal fire. His eyes became darker, harder, framed by deep chasmy shadows created by the brooding brow. His mouth would set in a hard, firm line and his smart-ass smirk would vanish.
I found this face appeared every time I asked him a question. I wanted to know where in Seattle he lived, what he did for fun and did he always want to be a filmmaker.
The answers? “Queen Anne,” “this and that,” and “no.” Followed by, “that thing won’t read itself,” and a quick tap on the books. I felt like I was a teenager, my father ordering me to do my homework instead of going out. I didn’t listen to my father, but I listened to Dex. He was more intimidating somehow.
Needless to say, I was relieved when we finally saw the ocean and headed down toward Rocky Point and Al’s place.
The weather on the coast was a monster. Huge surf crashed against the sandy beaches, twisted, bent trees continued to defy physics in the windy battering, and the town of Cannon Beach looked like it was on lockdown. The winding, narrow route of 101 was especially thrilling.
We pulled up to Uncle Al’s just after noon. The boys were out at their jobs, robbing people, probably, but Uncle Al was there to greet us. Well, me at least.
“Perry,” he said with outstretched arms. “Back so soon?”
I laughed and gave him a quick hug. I was glad he was happy to see me. I felt like I might be a burden to him this weekend.
“And this is the filmmaker?” Al looked over at Dex, who was standing a few feet behind me.
Dex nodded and came forward. He wiped his hand on his pants before giving Al what looked to be a very strong handshake. Al raised his eyebrows and took back his hand.
“Excellent handshake,” Dex told him seriously. “Firm. Not at all like a jellyfish.” He gave an extra nod for impact.
“Oh, well that’s good.” Al shot me an odd look. I smiled nervously.
“Yes, Uncle Al, this is Dex, the filmmaker for Shownet.”
“Uncle Al,” Dex acknowledged gravely.
Al paused at that before asking, “You two are both staying over, correct?”
Dex shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I booked a motel in Tillamook.”
Al laughed. “The ‘Mook? Oh, you don’t want to stay there. Good for cheese and that’s about it. I insist you stay with us tonight.”
I looked at Dex. There was no denying it—I totally hoped he would say yes.
Dex smiled politely but stayed firm. “And I insist that I don’t. I’ve got a worried girlfriend back in Seattle, and she’s already none too happy that I’m spending the weekend down here with your barely legal niece.”
I felt like someone stabbed me in the gut and I was just leaking disappointment everywhere. Girlfriend? I hadn’t heard him mention a girlfriend yet. And his Facebook didn’t say anything about it either. Then I remembered the pictures of him with his arm around Jennifer Rodriguez. Could that be her?
I looked over at Dex, with his eyebrow ring, dark clothes, long sideburns, shaggy black hair, the end of a tattoo that sometimes peeked out beneath his shirt sleeve, alternative music tastes and overall zany personality. He couldn’t possibly be interested in a girl like that, could he?
But then again, what was I expecting? The guy was a filmmaker and, apparently, a composer and one-time singer. He certainly could be charming when he wanted to be, and he was blessed with some very good genes. It made sense that he would have a hot babe as a girlfriend.
I felt foolish. I don’t even know why, I didn’t even really like the guy, but I still felt stupid, nonetheless. As if my subconscious was on the prowl hoping to make a meal of him one day. And how ridiculous was that anyway, like I could even get a guy like him, let alone a guy who is ten years older than me. Didn’t he just say I was barely legal?
I took a deep breath and tried to brush it off. It shouldn’t bother me, but of course it did. Most things that wouldn’t bother anyone else bothered me.
While my mind and heart were having a minor scuffle with each other, Dex and Al were chatting away.
“So, is there a key we could use to get in? We would like to minimize any damage to the lighthouse,” Dex asked Al. “Not that anything would get damaged, but you probably don’t want Mr. Miyagi over here kicking down any doors.” He jettisoned a thumb in my direction.
I smiled brightly, hoping he hadn’t spotted my momentary weakness.
“Yes, there is a skeleton key you can use,” said Al. “Now, come inside for some coffee. I’ll put on a pot.”
Oooh, coffee. That would be welcome, warm and distracting.
“Appreciate it,” said Dex, “but we’ve got do some set-up shots before it gets dark.”
Damn.
He turned to me and gestured to the trunk of the SUV. “Perry. I’m going to need your help getting the equipment out.”
Al sighed and shuffled inside, disappointed at losing coffee company. “I’ll get you the key.”
I felt bad for him. Last weekend aside, I had a feeling he didn’t get company too often. My parents often said most of his friends were actually his ex-wife’s friends. I made a note of actually talking to Uncle Al later and asking about him instead of running off as I would normally do.
He came back out and pressed the key into my hand, his gentle, worried eyes looking deep into mine. “Don’t stay out too long. I’m ordering Chinese food for us all tonight.”
I nodded and hoped Dex would at least take him up on that offer. Dex gave him a quick wave. “Sounds good.”
Dex headed for the car and I followed, watching his slim hips saunter and his thick, dark hair get whipped up by the breeze.
He opened the trunk and handed me a tall cardboard box.
“What’s this?” I peered down the shaft.
“Just a white bounce board. For light.”
I pulled it out and it flapped out into a round circle that rippled in the wind. I aimed the board at his face, lighting up the shadows under his eyes. He batted his eyes at me, that smirk ever-present.
“Think that’ll make me good-looking?” he asked, untangling some cords.
I desperately thought of something smart to say. All I could think of was how damn good-looking he was. I was screwed.
He looked up from the cords with interest, goading me to say something.
“No,” I blurted out lamely.
He laughed and shook his head, turning his attention back to the cords. “I’m disappointed in you. Surely I thought you’d have come up with some grand insult.”
“I was trying,” I said. “And don’t call me Shirley.”
That smile again. It made my chest feel funny. Funny in a good way, which made it funny in a bad way. My brain rerouted to thoughts of his girlfriend. Damn her. Damn her and damn me for caring.
Dex put the cords neatly away and started fiddling with a camera. Without looking at me, he pointed to a long canvas bag.
“Tripod. Don’t take it out, though; just put in on your shoulder.”
I took the tripod bag and awkwardly tried to get the strap around me. It was almost longer than my body and kept hitting the ground and then hitting me in the face. Dex watched this uncomfortable dance with the tripod, which only made me feel more bumbling. Once I had it somewhat under control, he got up with a tiny remote microphone in his hand and stood in front of me.
“Shit, you are short, aren’t you?” he stated gleefully. He bent down and pinned the microphone onto my sweater. His face was mere inches away from mine. I didn’t dare breathe. I studied the bead on his eyebrow ring; it looked like black obsidian, with the tiniest scrolls of grey and white. My heart thumped in my throat. That rush of energy and warmth started creeping through my body again.
This was ridiculous. I needed to detach myself from the situation. Pronto.
“You’re short,” I shot back. “For a guy.”
He finished pinning the mic but kept his head at my level and looked into my eyes. For a split second I wondered if he was going to kiss me (of course, he wasn’t) and I immediately felt awkward. I swallowed hard. He held my gaze intently and his mouth lagged into an easy leer, like he was enjoying making me feel uncomfortable.
Well, I wouldn’t let him. I narrowed my eyes at him, breaking the spell. “What are you looking at?”
It didn’t phase him but he did straighten up and look away.
“Oh, me? I’m just seeing what I’m working with here,” he said casually, and pulled a bigger camera out of its bag.
“And what is that, exactly?” I asked, steadying myself against a gust of wind.
“I don’t think I’ll find out anytime soon.” He picked up the white board and shut the trunk. “Shall we?”
I nodded and we walked off toward the beach. It wasn’t until I was a few feet behind him that I let out a long breath. It’s like I’d forgotten to breathe for the last ten minutes.