Fireworks Page 3

  Our girl is settling in at Colebury High School, if by “settling in” you mean learning all the ways there are to be snubbed by your peers.

  Her clothes are all wrong, because her mother’s last boyfriend lived in Georgia, where the weather was always warm. She doesn’t have enough money to buy warm clothes at a decent store, so she’s stuck with whatever Rayanne left behind in the tiny bedroom she’s inherited.

  And that’s not much.

  Skye’s bigger problem is transportation. The high school is nowhere near the trailer park. The school bus stops at the entrance to Pine View Park at eleven minutes past seven o’clock. The trailer park is the end of the line, both figuratively and literally—and the bus ride is an hour long.

  The first morning she’s waiting when the surly driver pulls up. Six kids get on, but none of them is the devastatingly handsome Benito.

  On the second morning, Skye is twenty yards away, waving and yelling “hold up!” as the last kid gets on.

  The driver does not, in fact, hold up. As she pants toward the bus, the yellow doors are yanked shut, and the bus accelerates away from her.

  Skye stands there, fuming, staring down the road. It’s twelve miles to school. She has no friends to call, and no phone either. Her mother is at work already—putting in a six-til-noon shift at the all-night diner on the outskirts of Colebury. It’s a job that Jimmy secured for her, demonstrating a surprisingly keen understanding of her mom. (The woman is famous for pulling the old “I can’t find work” excuse.) It’s quite possible that keeping her mother employed is Jimmy’s way of showing the two of them the door as soon as possible.

  But our girl can’t worry about that right now, because she is stuck at the side of the road, a long way from school. Asking Jimmy for a ride isn’t on the table, either. He has a creepy, lingering way of looking at her that she does not enjoy.

  Hopelessness is setting in when the rumble of a motorcycle approaches. She moves off the roadway just as a shiny Triumph rolls into view, its driver hugging the bike with long, jean-clad knees.

  The bike stops beside her, and the driver lifts his helmet off.

  Benito. Even with his hair askew, he is too handsome for words. All of a sudden, our girl gets the flutters.

  “Miss the bus?” he asks. He flashes her a quick smile.

  “Yeah,” she says, tongue-tied.

  He shrugs off his backpack. From inside it, he pulls another helmet. “Hop on. You’ll have to wear my backpack, though.”

  “Where’d you get this bike?” She’s never ridden on a motorcycle before and has no idea what to do.

  “It’s my brother’s, and he’s in the navy. Quickly, okay? I need to get to school early. My sister is havin’ some kind of crisis she expects me to solve before the first bell.”

  Skye manages to lift the helmet over her head, but she fumbles with the chin clasp.

  “C’mere.” Benito beckons, and then his big hands fix the strap. “Here.” He takes the pocketbook out of her hands, zipping it into his backpack. He hands over the pack, which she shrugs on. “Climb up. Let’s go.”

  She doesn’t know how to get on the bike, so she throws a knee over the top and it works well enough. (Sometimes being as tall as a tree is useful. Sometimes.)

  He reaches back and grabs one of her hands, pulling it against his stomach. “Hold on, Skye. Ready?”

  She isn’t ready at all. She’s trying to get used to the sensation of being pancaked against Benito’s tight body, with one hand on his six-pack. The engine revs, and self-preservation demands that she wrap her other arm around his body, too.

  The bike shoots forward, and everything is breeze and sensation. She is flying, and she is holding tight to the most beautiful boy in the world.

  Falling for him is as inevitable as the trees dropping golden leaves onto the roadway as they pass by.

  They arrive at school fifteen breathless minutes later. When Skye climbs off the bike, a half-dozen girls stare in disbelief. She collects her bag, hands the helmet to Benito, and thanks him.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says.

  But everyone else does. Skye hears her name whispered throughout the hallways all week. And the next, too, because Skye misses the bus several days later. It isn’t a ploy. Just more of her bad luck.

  Once again he bails her out, and once again the senior girls go a little insane at the sight of their favorite bad-boy ferrying the quiet new sophomore girl around.

  They hate Skye on sight.

  Skye is used to being friendless at school. One whole school year is the longest she’s ever spent in one place. That’s too short a stay for the amount of ass-kissing and strategic maneuvering she’d need to do in order to climb the social ranks.

  Screw that. It’s easier to be alone. She doesn’t have the money for the right clothes, and she doesn’t have the energy for the abuse she’d have to take.

  Unfortunately, she’s going to take more than her share of abuse, but not at school.

  The first night her mother works the late shift at the diner, Skye eats her microwaved dinner in front of Jimmy Gage’s TV. It’s a rare moment of solitude in the crowded trailer. But it doesn’t last. She hears the door of Jimmy’s car slam. As a patrolman, his hours are all over the map. Skye can never predict when he’ll turn up.

  She chews faster, considering an escape to her little room. But he bursts through the door a minute later. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes. He’s probably been drinking at the bar with his pals.

  “Look who it is. Little Miss Priss,” he whispers.

  Skye feels herself go cold everywhere. She’s lived here two weeks, and every day this man leers at her. She’ll only shower right after he’s left the trailer—that way she knows he’s not likely to come home again soon. And she always keeps the flimsy door to her room shut. There’s a lock, but it’s flimsy, too…

  A second later he lands on the other side of the sofa from her. “Whatcha watching?”

  It’s a cooking show. Skye is aware of the irony of watching gourmet cooking while eating a frozen dinner, but she doesn’t feel like talking about it. Not with him.

  “I asked you a question,” he snarls.

  “Just watching whatever’s on,” she mumbles. Having lost her appetite, she sets her plate on the end table. Then she hands him the remote. “Here. You pick.” Skye already knows how to placate her mother’s men. She’s an old hand at living in homes where she’s not entirely welcome.

  He doesn’t take the remote or even glance at it. “What do you get up to when I’m not here?”

  “Um…” Skye doesn’t like this line of questioning. “Not much?”

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  “No,” she says quickly.

  “Liar.” He rolls his eyes drunkenly. “You’re not your mother’s daughter if you don’t have a boyfriend in every town.”

  Skye’s pulse doubles. She eyes the hallway to her room, but Jimmy Gage is in the way. There’s only a few feet between the TV and the sofa. If she tries to run past, he could just reach up and grab her. She’ll need to be more subtle about making her escape.

  He doesn’t shut up. “You let your boyfriend kiss you?”

  “There is no boyfriend,” she mumbles, unsure whether to engage at all. You can’t reason with a drunk, angry man.

  “You let him touch your pussy?”

  The food she’s eaten turns over in her stomach. “I’d better rinse this plate,” she says carefully. Then she picks up the plate and rises.

  He lets her take four steps before he grabs her wrist. “Such a pretty girl. Let me look at you.”

  She wrenches out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me,” she says clearly. Her heart is trying to beat its way out of her chest, but she walks calmly to the little kitchen area and puts her dish in the sink. He’s not following her. Yet. But she can’t risk getting trapped in this space, too, so she doesn’t take the time to wash the dish.

  As she heads down the hall toward her bedroom, sh
e hears his footfalls. She slips into the room, quickly shuts the door, and pushes the button on the knob to lock it. But there’s no way the lock will hold if he wants to follow her in here.

  She should have walked out the front door.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m talking to you. Get back out here.” He smacks his hand against the cheap, hollow door, and Skye jumps. Then he does it again. The door vibrates.

  The lock will pop open if he does that a few more times. He probably knows that.

  Skye turns toward the room’s only window. The day was warm, so the window is partially open. She grabs the little metal clips that hold the screen in place and removes it quickly.

  One thing about a trailer—it’s not a big jump down to the ground. She’s outside and moving toward the tree line before she hears his voice again. It’s loud. “Hey little slut…”

  Skye runs into the woods. She’s not thinking about a destination, only that she needs to leave his sight. For the second time she stumbles into Benito’s “living room,” this time with wild eyes.

  Benito looks up when she bursts into the clearing. Again he’s sitting on the giant chair, but this time with a ukulele in his lap. Wordlessly, he pats the chair beside him.

  And this time Skye doesn’t hesitate. She sits down on the webbing beside him, hugging her knees to her chest, staring back toward the trailer and wondering if Jimmy will follow. She has no idea what she’ll do if he chases her out here.

  Benito doesn’t say anything, and she appreciates the silence. The sun has already set, and the shadows are lengthening. The sky deepens. Skye’s breathing eventually slows.

  “Is he drunk?” Benito finally asks.

  “Yep.”

  He slaps at a mosquito. Fall is coming, but it’s still warm enough that bugs are a problem. Benito reaches down under the chair and pulls out a can of Deep Woods Off. “Can I offer you a sample of this fine cologne?”

  And Skye smiles for the first time all week.

  Four

  Benito

  I’m kneeling on the rug, poking the logs in my fireplace. It’s a kickass old fireplace that’s set into the brick wall in my living room. I love this building. I love this room. But tonight I can’t relax. I’m building a fire just to have something to do with my hands.

  Usually I enjoy my nights off. But this one is bad timing. I’m this close to making a couple of big arrests. And I don’t think I’ll be able to get my mind off the case until these assholes are behind bars.

  So tonight I don’t quite know what to do with myself. Mostly I’ve been pacing the rug, waiting for the phone to ring. But it hasn’t. I should call a fuck-buddy of mine and make plans. Or I should go downstairs to the bar for a beer. But even beer and sex aren’t interesting right now.

  I might as well have given the patrolman the night off and done the stakeout myself.

  Leaving the fire alone, I do a loop around my generous living room, while my mind does another loop around the suspects. There’s Jimmy Gage, who’s moving drugs through Vermont and into the rest of New England. And his felon sidekick. I expect them to make another big buy next week.

  And then there’s Gage’s daughter. The cop who’s tailing Rayanne for me tonight is as sharp as they come. I haven’t quite figured her out yet. I know she’s is involved, even if I haven’t worked out all the details. Tonight she’s meeting somebody named Raffie.

  Who is Raffie? That’s what I need to learn.

  I’m shit at taking nights off, obviously. Pacing my rug and thinking about the case. This is what I call relaxation.

  Eventually my phone lights up with a text from Officer Nelligan. Bad news. She gave me the slip.

  My reply is instant. What? Where?

  Shit.

  Nelligan: I’ve been watching her boyfriend’s car outside the burrito place. But he came out alone and drove away.

  Rossi: Did you go inside?

  Nelligan: Of course. Can’t find her anywhere. There’s a back door to the alley, though.

  Jesus. Walk the area.

  Nelligan: Doing that now.

  I let out an actual moan. On the one hand, I have the satisfaction of knowing that my gut instinct was right—Rayanne’s mysterious weekend visitor is important. So important that Rayanne pulled off some kind of disappearing act.

  On the other hand, I’m totally screwed. There’s a very real possibility that Gage’s organization is smuggling in a new packet of pure fentanyl from Canada earlier than I thought.

  So much for my night off. I check the fire one more time and replace the fire screen. Then I grab my jacket and shove my feet into my boots. Rayanne is probably miles away from the burrito place by now. But I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

  My phone buzzes with another text just as I holster my gun. For a second there I get really excited that Nelligan has reestablished contact.

  But no. It’s a text from my brother. Get down here, it says. And by “down here” I can only assume he means his bar, which is directly below my apartment.

  Can’t. On my way out.

  His response is a photograph. In the thumbnail-sized pic all I see is a woman standing by the bar down at the Gin Mill.

  But then I tap on the photo, get a more detailed glimpse, and my pulse ricochets. “No fucking way,” I whisper.

  Years have passed since I’ve seen this face. But the same haunting light blue eyes look directly into the camera of my brother’s phone. The same sleek blond hair cascades down her shoulders.

  We’re both twelve years older than we were last time we saw each other. But the only thing that really strikes me as different about Skylar is the tension in her mouth.

  Jesus Christ. Skylar Copeland is downstairs in my brother’s bar. And she’s pissed off about something.

  For a split second, my heart soars. Thank you, Jesus. I’ve gone twelve years without knowing where she was, or whether she’s okay. On any given day of the last decade I would have given anything for the chance to hold her. Or, hell, just sit in the woods and talk with her.

  Now she’s here?

  Just as I’m starting to process this, reality sets in.

  Skylar Copeland is loosely connected to Rayanne Gage. And Rayanne is under police suspicion for assisting her piece-of-shit father. The whole case will come to a boil in the next five days.

  This is when Skye turns up? Jesus Christ, why? Any week but this one, lord.

  I can’t believe I have to go down there and look into those sweet eyes—the same ones that always turned me into a goner—and play it cool and then quiz her about her stepsister.

  There are nights when I hate my job.

  Grabbing my jacket, I take a deep breath. Stay loose, Rossi. This girl broke me in two, and she’ll probably do it again. But I’m going to have Gage’s head on a plate before the month is out.

  If my heart gets shredded again in the process, that’s just my cross to bear.

  Five

  Skylar

  “Don’t I know you?” the bartender asks me when I approach the bar.

  And I’m obviously wound up too tightly, because I snap at him, “No. Is that a problem?” I’m not a rude person, generally. It’s just that I’m freaking out. I can’t quite believe that the only boy—now a man—I’ve ever loved is nearby.

  I’m so not ready.

  “You look really familiar,” he presses, peering at me from across the gleaming bar.

  “I promise you we haven’t met.” But maybe he watches a lot of YouTube. If he asks me to draw him a penis on a cocktail napkin, I’m out of here.

  “A good bartender never forgets a face,” he insists.

  “That’s nice.” It comes out as a bark. “Can you help me locate Benito Rossi?”

  “Ohhhhhh, shit!” His eyes light up brighter than the neon sign outdoors. That’s when he begins to smirk. “I do recognize you. From Benito’s yearbook.”

  Whatever. “Is he here?”

  “Probably. We’ll know soon enough.” He’s slippe
d his phone out of his pocket and taken a picture of me.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I’m summoning Benito for you. This will work like a charm.” He taps his phone and then puts it away again. “Okay. Give it sixty seconds or so. What can I pour you?”

  “Um.” Of course he wants me to order a drink. I stare up at his menu board, my eyes unseeing. “What’s good?” Like I even care. I’m too hung up on the bigger questions. Will Benito look the same? Will he acknowledge the awful thing he did all those years ago? Or will he play it down and pretend that it’s good to see me again?

  I don’t even know what I want him to say. Unless he falls to his knees to beg forgiveness, there’s no way this can go smoothly. Maybe he won’t show his face at all.

  In fact, I should be relieved if he doesn’t turn up. So why does that idea make me almost as crazy as the thought of seeing him?

  “…a pilsner with a fruity, hoppy finish,” the bartender is saying. “Or the Shipley Cider. We’re pouring their Early Season Amber tonight.”

  “Wait,” I say as my brain trips over the name Shipley. “Like the Shipleys who grow all those apples?”

  Mr. Hot-but-Smirky nods. “Those are the same ones.”

  I feel a tingle along my spine. Here I’d thought I could pop in and out of Vermont without running into my past. But I knew the Shipleys. When I’d gone to Colebury high, Griffin Shipley had been a senior and his sister May had been a freshman. I once visited their dreamy orchard. “Okay. I’ll try the cider, please.”

  I can even hear Ruth Shipley’s voice in my head. Wool socks are magic. I look down at the socks I’m wearing now. They’re cashmere. I haven’t thought about Mrs. Shipley in a long, long time. But I still carry her kind voice in my heart.

  Revisiting your past is weird. Really weird. There are ghosts all around me.

  A moment later a wine glass appears before me, with a gorgeous amber liquid inside. I draw a ten out of my clutch and put it on the bar. Then I glance toward the door again. Still no sign of Benito.