Dirty Deals by Nicole James Page 0,40

in one of the wicker rocking chairs and watch the sky turn orange with streaks of pink as the sun sinks into the horizon.

I breathe in the honeysuckle and tell myself everything’s okay. The distant call of a whippoorwill carries to me.

A lone car drives past on the highway. I sit and rock and eventually relax enough to think about the weekend. Rusty is worming his way further and further into my heart. I’m afraid that when the time comes I’m not going to be able to leave him, and that scares me.

I take another sip of wine and think about the things he told me. I know it wasn’t easy for him to confide those things. It’s never easy to talk about past relationships, whether they end good or bad. I think it must be especially hard for men to open up. I appreciate that he did that. In a way I think he was trying to make it easier for me to open up to him about the things he asked about.

I’m just not ready to go there yet. I may never be ready. I’m terrified to tell him the truth. Before it was because I didn’t know who I could trust; now I’m afraid I’ll either drag him into my mess or drive him away. I don’t know which is scarier.

I never want Rusty to pay a price for having helped me. And so I stay quiet about the truth and feed him a story about a stalker I don’t have. It’s better this way. The less he knows the better.

But I’m not sure I even believe that.

A big shiny tanker truck rumbles down the highway, and I wonder if it’s carrying milk from the dairy farm down the road that I’ve seen signs for. Behind it is a car, stuck behind the slow moving vehicle.

My eyes focus in on it, and my head straightens. I frown. It’s that same blue sedan I saw earlier. Maybe not. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. They disappear down the road.

The light disappears from the sky, and the crickets begin their nightly song. I pick up my wine glass and the gun and move inside.

I stroll through the living room, the dining room, and past the open door to my bedroom on my way to the kitchen to get another glass.

Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I back track two steps. I glance into the bedroom. My suitcase is open on the floor, my belongings looking disturbed as if someone had riffled through it.

I think hard, trying to be sure, but I’m almost positive the bag was closed. Not only closed but shoved by the closet door.

I bite my lip. Did I open it for something I’m not remembering? I step into the room and flick the light. Everything looks as I’d left it, except the pillows look tossed. I’m sure they were up by the headboard. Now one is cockeyed on its side in the middle of the bed and another is at a strange angle. I scan the room. The closet door is wide open, and I thought I closed it.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up again. I set my wine glass down and tighten my hold on the gun. I step toward the closet, staring hard at the clothing. If someone were hiding inside, the clothing would be swaying, but it doesn’t move. I back up a step and stand perfectly still, straining to hear any noise that would give away the presence of another person inside the house. I hear nothing.

I move from room to room, flicking on all the lights and making sure all the doors and windows are locked. After twenty minutes of nothing, I convince myself I’ve imagined all of it and that everything is exactly how it must have been.

I pull all the shades and put the television on, the volume down low, and I keep the gun at my side.

After a few hours of this, the muscles in my neck and shoulder are stiff and sore from the tension.

My phone rings and scares me half to death. I look at the readout. Rusty.

I’ve never been so happy to hear from someone. I grab it up and answer it.

“Hello.”

“Hey, babe. You still up?”

“Yes. How was your meeting?”

“Fine. Just having a drink with the boys before I head home.”

“Oh,” I say softly. He must hear the disappointment in my voice.

“You okay, babe?”

“Sure. Just kind