Page 65 of Hidden & Held

“Save it,” she says with a bit of bite in her tone. “I don’t need an explanation.” She looks at me and must read something in my face before she sighs. “I have lived many lives, and read far more to not have pictured the seventeen other sides of the story you may have.” She pulls her glasses down slightly, the beaded strap catching the light. “Besides, I got major brownie points for bringing the first strapping young man into the group.”

My head falls back in a laugh. “Thank you. For being so gracious and allowing me to be here. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have known the difference between a trope and a plot. You ladies have been a bright spot every month,” I tell her earnestly.

She gives me a hand wave, brushing me off, not taking the praise before reaching into her bag and pushing a book into my hands.

“Look, I clearly don’t know the details of what happened between you and Phoenix, but the sexual tension was hot enough to make me combust.”

I look away, pink touching my cheeks. “I, uh, don’t know what you are referencing.”

“Save it, that girl is a hard-working private woman, and I know you wouldn’t sully her reputation. But take this book, chapter twelve. Just … read it.” She squeezes my hand and gently taps my face twice. “Be good.” She starts to turn away, then looks back. “And if you can’t be good, make it good.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, leaving me rubbing my forehead.

Looking at my watch I realize there’s enough time to make it to the cornhole invite before the onion rings run out.

The Summit smells like fryer oil and spilled beer the second the door opens. Floors sticky underfoot, green vinyl booths cracked at the seams, the bar some reclaimed wood slab with lacquer peeling in patches like sunburned skin. Out back, heat lamps glow orange over a covered patio and eight cornhole stations are lined up like a tournament nobody told me was this serious.

I spot Sam and Jared at the outdoor bar, watching the other players, waiting their turn. Sam catches my gaze and gives me a head tilt, beckoning me over. As I make it there, a middle-aged waitress with bottle-dyed red hair and a green checkered flannel walks by, setting down a black plastic tray with a paper liner filled to the brim with onion rings.

“Here you boys are, got one of the last orders in for the night,” she says with a bit of a country drawl.

Jared dives in, taking a bite and letting out a small groan while attempting to keep his greasy fingers off his light blue button-down.

“Darlene, you are a saint. My Kenzie doesn’t allow fried food in our house, and if it wasn’t for you, I think I might turn into a green bean,” he says with love in his voice, whether for the onion rings or Mack, I’m not sure.

She laughs, turning her eyes on me.

“You’re new here,” she states without question. “Which means I don’t know your order, but you look like a hefeweizen guy.”

My eyes widen as I nod in respect. “You’re good. I’ll take whichever you have on tap.”

Darlene spins on her heeled boot and walks out without further interaction.

Sam pushes up the sleeves of his cream henley and takes a drink of his IPA, watching the cornhole players. “You made it. I was wondering if you were going to show up,” he calls out without breaking his review of his competition.

“Yeah, thanks for the invite. Wasn’t expecting it.” I surprise myself with my honesty.

Sam studies me for a long moment before taking a drink of his IPA, setting it down, glass beading. “You messed up,” he declares with no preamble.

“I know,” I admit, more to the napkin holder than his face.

The silence sits between us longer than is comfortable.

“You trying to hurt her?” he asks, straightening to his full height.

The question catches me off guard. “What? God, no.”

“I don’t know the whole story, but what I gathered, you used her for work purposes. Was that the end game?” Sam cocks his head to the side.

“No.” I shake my head immediately.

“Good. Because if the answer had been yes, we’d be having a very different conversation,” he declares, posture relaxing slightly.

“I get it. Things just …” I scrub a hand down my face, searching for words that don’t sound like excuses. “I kept thinking I could control the outcome. Keep everything in neat little boxes until the investigation was over. Every time I thought I could fix one thing without breaking another … I was wrong.”

Jared nods thoughtfully. “I hate it when code does that.”

Sam and I turn to stare at him.

“When it behaves exactly how you told it to, instead of how you meant it to.” He shrugs. “Usually means the bug was there from the beginning.”