Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,62

He puffs out his cheeks when he comes to a stop beside me. “Haven’t seen one in that kinda condition for a long time.” He eyes the Camaro in a way only a true car enthusiast would. The surprise and admiration on his face is genuine. I wouldn’t say it makes me instantly like him, but I haven’t immediately decided that I hate him, either.

“I’m Salinger,” he says, sticking out his hand. “Yeah, I know. Lame, right. My mom loved ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’”

I inspect his hand. I don’t wanna shake it. I don’t like shaking hands with the people I do know let alone someone I’ve just met, but there’s something earnest about the guy that has me pumping his arm up and down real quick, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Not Holden, then,” I say.

He frowns. “Sorry?” Understanding erases his confusion a moment later. “Oh, yeah, right. No, she didn’t think naming me after Holden would be a good idea. She said she could already tell I was going to be a handful. Didn’t want to sign off on that kind of rebellion, I guess.”

This conversation’s pointless. It’s also in danger of getting awkward. I grunt, turning away from him. “What’s up with that?” I jerk my chin toward the mayhem down on the beach.

Salinger clears his throat. “Look, I hate to be a buzzkill, man, but this isn’t national park. You can’t just drive onto reservation land and go wherever the hell you like. Shit like that’ll get you shot, uh…sorry, you didn’t tell me your name?”

“Zeth.”

“Zeth?” He probably doesn’t meet many people with a name weirder than his.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Yeah. Shot, huh?”

He shrugs. Nonchalant. Matter of fact. “Well, we aren’t subject to Washington State law enforcement. We have our own tribal police…and they get pretty trigger happy when it comes to trespassers. Especially tall white guys who look like shit-kickers. They take exception to your kind especially.”

“I appreciate that.”

A huff of laughter rushes out of Salinger. He doesn’t seem to know how to take my comment. Do I think he just complimented me? Have I misunderstood his meaning? Or do I understand him perfectly? He shifts from one foot to the other, two creases forming between his eyebrows. He’s young—probably twenty or twenty-one—but he’s tall and broad, and a bit of a shit-kicker himself. His hands are like shovels, and the knuckles on his right hand are scuffed. Salinger’s whaled on someone or something recently, and he put enough power into his swing to split open his skin. He comes across as innocent enough, but he’s not quite as innocent as he’d like me to think.

“Are you asking me to leave, Salinger?” I ask coolly.

“Not…I mean…kind of. Or at least head back to the visitor’s center, so you can sign in properly and someone can show you around.”

“We’re here now. You can just show me around,” I tell him.

“Uh…”

I’m already powering down the loose goat track that cuts a pathway through the rocky bluff overlooking the beach; whatever objections Salinger airs, I don’t pay attention to them. The sun’s officially up now. It’s broad fucking daylight and my day’s a’wasting. What with mothering Lacey for two hours and then now this pleasant little chat with Salinger, I am so behind on my day that I’m unlikely to make it back to Charlie’s before lunch, and the miserable fucker will definitely have a thing or two to say about that.

“Zeth! Zeth, man, watch out! The scree’s too loose—” Salinger’s shouted warning is unnecessary. I’ve already registered the unsteady shale underfoot and I’ve adjusted my stance along with the way I’m carrying my weight to compensate for the debris beneath the soles of my boots. I don’t slip. I don’t fall. I have to downclimbs the last section of rock—it being almost vertical and all—but I make short work of it, lowering myself down in just three quick moves. I let myself drop the last five feet, the air ufffing out of me as I hit the damp, black sand.

Salinger hasn’t come down after me. He’s nowhere to be seen. That is, until I walk around the head of the bluff and see him racing down a windy track through the sand dunes. “Hey! Hey, wait! You can’t be down here!” he yells.

I ignore his cries and head for the people milling around outside the tents. This trip’s making more sense now. Charlie didn’t send me here to deal with the Tulalip. He sent