Sixteen

HE THOUGHT ABOUT GETTING DRUNK. HE COULD call Gage, who’d sit and drink coffee or club soda, bitching only for form, and spend the evening in some bar getting steadily shit-faced. Cal would go, too; he had only to ask. That’s what friends were for, being the company misery loved.

Or he could just pick up the beer-maybe a bottle of Jack for a change of pace-take it to Cal’s and get his drunk on there.

But he knew he wouldn’t do either of those things. Planning to get drunk took all the fun out of it. He preferred it to be a happy accident. Work, Fox decided, was a better option than getting deliberately trashed.

He had enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the day, particularly at the easy pace he liked to work. Handling the office on his own for an afternoon added the perk of giving him time and space to brood. Fox considered brooding an inalienable human right, unless it dragged out more than three hours, at which point it became childish indulgence.

Did she really think he’d crossed some line and gone behind her back? That he tried to manipulate, bully, or pressure? Manipulation wasn’t beyond him, he admitted, but that just hadn’t been the case with this. Knowing her, he’d believed she’d appreciate having some facts, projected figures, the steps, stages compiled in an orderly fashion. He’d equated handing them to her on the same level as handing her a bouquet of daffodils.

Just a little something he’d picked up because he was thinking about her.

He stood in the center of his office, juggling the three balls as he walked back over it all in his mind. He’d wanted to show her the building, the space, the possibilities. And yeah, he’d wanted to see her eyes light up as she saw them, as she opened herself to them. That had been strategy, not manipulation. Jesus, it wasn’t like he’d signed a lease for her, or applied for a loan, a business license. He’d just taken the time to find out what it would take for her to do those things.

But there was one thing he hadn’t factored into that strategy. He’d never considered that she wasn’t considering staying in the Hollow. Staying with him.

He dropped one of the balls, managed to snag it on the bounce. Setting himself, he started the circle again.

If he’d made a mistake it was in assuming she loved him, that she intended to stay. He’d never questioned, not seriously-her conviction matched his-that there would be something to stay for, something to build on, after the week of July seventh. He believed he’d felt those things from her, but he had to accept now those feelings and needs were just a reflection of his own.

That wasn’t just a bitter pill to swallow, but the kind that caught in your throat and choked you for a while before you managed to work it down. But like it or not, he thought, a guy had to take his medicine.

She wasn’t required to feel what he felt or want what he wanted. God knew he’d been raised to respect, even require, individuality. It was better to know if she didn’t share his feelings, his wants, better to deal with the reality rather than the fantasy. That was another nasty pill, as he’d had a beauty of a fantasy going.

Her smart, fashionable shop a couple blocks up from his office, Fox mused as he dropped the balls back in his drawer. Maybe grabbing lunch together a couple times a week. Scouting for a house in town, like that old place on the corner of Main and Redbud. Or a place a little ways out, if she liked that better. But an old house they could put their mark on together. Something with a yard for kids and dogs and a garden.

Something in a town that was safe and whole, and no longer threatened. A porch swing-he had a fondness for them.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? he admitted, walking to the window to study the distant roll of the mountains. All that was what he wanted, what he hoped for. All that couldn’t be if it didn’t mesh with her wants and hopes and visions.

So he’d swallow that, too. They had today to get through, and all the others until Hawkins Hollow was clean. Futures were just that-the tomorrow. Maybe the foundation for them couldn’t and shouldn’t be built when the ground was still unsettled.

Priorities, O’Dell, he reminded himself, and sat back at his desk. He pulled up his own files on the journals to begin picking through his notes.

And the first spider crawled out of his keyboard.

It bit the back of his hand, striking quickly before he could jerk back. The pain was instant and amazing, a vicious ice-pick jab that dug fire under the skin. As he shoved away, they poured out like black water, from the keys, from the drawers.

And they grew.

LAYLA WALKED INTO THE HOUSE WITH HER SYSTEM still reeling. Escape, that’s what she’d done. Fox had given her the out, and she leaped at it. Walk away, don’t deal with this now.

He loved her. Had she known it? Had she slipped that knowledge into a neat file, tucked it away until it was more convenient or more sensible to examine it?

He loved her. He wanted her to stay. More, he wanted her to commit to him, to the town. To herself, Layla admitted. In his Fox-like way, he’d laid it all out for her, presented it to her in a way he’d believed she’d appreciate.

What he’d done, Layla thought, was scare her to death. Her own shop? That was just one of the airy little dreams she’d enjoyed playing with years before. One she’d let go-almost. Hawkins Hollow? Her commitment there was to save it, and to-even though it sounded pretentious-fulfill her destiny. Anything beyond that was too hard to see. And Fox?

He was the most beautiful man she’d ever known. Hardly a wonder she was reeling.

She stepped into the office where Quinn and Cybil worked on dueling keyboards.

“Fox is in love with me.”

Her fingers still flying, Quinn didn’t bother to look up. “Bulletin!”

“If you knew, why didn’t I?” Layla demanded.

“Because you’ve been too worried about being in love with him.” Cybil’s fingers paused after another click of the mouse. “But the rest of us have been watching the little hearts circling over your heads for weeks. Aren’t you home early?”

“Yeah. I think we had a fight.” Layla leaned against the doorjamb, rubbed her shoulder as if it ached.

Something ached, she realized, but it was too deep to reach.

“It didn’t seem like a fight, except I was annoyed, among other things. He took me up to the building where the gift shop used to be. It’s cleared out now. Then he started talking about potential, how I should open a boutique there, and-”

“What a great idea.” Quinn stopped now, beamed enthusiasm over Layla like sunbeams over a meadow. “Speaking as someone who’s going to be living here, I’ll be your best customer. Urban fashion in small-town America. I’m already there.”

“I can’t open a shop here.”

“Why?”

“Because… Do you have any idea what’s involved in starting up a business, opening a retail store, even a small one?”

“No.” Quinn replied. “You would, and I imagine Fox does, on the legal front. I’d help. I love a project. Would there be buying trips? Can you get it for me wholesale?”

“Q, take a breath,” Cybil advised. “The big hurdle isn’t the logistics, is it, Layla?”

“They’re a hurdle, a big one. But… God, can we be realistic, just the three of us, right now? There might not be a town after July. Or there might be a town that, after a week of violence and destruction and death, settles down for the next seven years. If I could even think about starting my own business with everything else we have to think about, I’d have to be out of my mind to consider having one here at Demon Central.”

“Cal has one. He’s not out of his mind.”

“I’m sorry, Quinn, I didn’t mean-”

“No, that’s okay. I’m pointing that out because people do have businesses here, and homes here. Otherwise, there’s no real point to any of what we’re doing. But if it’s not right for you, then it’s not.”