Fall Guy (3 page)

"Oh. Hi. I have to...
uh,
I have to get home now." Her voice is thick, and I keep my eyes on hers, waiting for the tears.

They don't come.

"You have to visit your parole officer.
Schwenzer
went light on you. Don't piss her off."

The words are technically a warning, but I
don't say them that way. It’
s just information, just something for this pretty girl to think about before she blows her own foot off with a shotgun by leaving in this sleek little ride without finishing her paperwork.

And, maybe, part of me hopes I'll get a few more minutes with her before I head back home and force myself to forget her forever.

She lifts one foot a couple inches off the ground and lets her shoe
slide off her heel and just hang there, half off, half on
.

"Does it take long?" Her voice is sweet and rough at once, like sugar
would be if you
rubbed
it
hard on your skin.

For some reason, that shoe hanging off her foot makes my brain cloud over and I want...I want a thing I definitely can't have with this girl. I stuff my hands in my pockets, a reminder to my stupid body that this is a hands-off situation.

"Not too long. Follow me."

I smile at her, at first just to show her she has nothing to be freaked out over, but when she rolls this tiny, shy smile my way, I can't hold back the weird surge of something deep and fucking good that spills through me. I feel like whistling. And I also feel like I should run in the opposite direction.

Fast.

Instead I stay by her side, catching the scent of cotton candy and magnolia, and just a little undercurrent of ash.

"You looked so relaxed." Her voice is jittery and she jangles her keys in her hands in a quick, nervous rhythm. "In the courtroom, in front of the judge, you looked like you didn't care what happened to you."

She flicks her
eyes in my direction and twists
those classy pearls at her throat.

I have this second where I wonder what she'd look like in just that necklace and nothing else, but I rein in my perverted mind so I can answer her.

"I'm used to being here. And I was a little nervous. I'm trying not to get any jail time on my record. But I've been in front of
Schwenzer
three times this year, so she's about done with my ass. I have no clue why we got off so light."

I'm about to joke that maybe old
Schwenzer
got lucky last night, but I'm not going to push it with this girl. We're already closer than I meant to get, and I'm not sure how we got where we are.

"Maybe she got laid last night." She bats her lashes at me, and hits me with a smile that's as brutal as a sucker punch.

I want to say more, keep this banter going, ask her what she's doing tonight and for the rest of the weekend and the week after, but I bite my idiotic tongue and pul
l back.

That's what I'm good at:
staying cool, no matter what. This girl is already loosening everything I worked so hard to tie tight, and I can't afford it, much as it kills me to admit that.

In the parole office, I make sure that once I tell her what to do and who to talk
to,
I don't look directly at her again.

It's no
t exactly an
easy task.

I can't remember the last time a girl made me sit up and pay attention the way this girl does. Even though I'm trying
to keep my eyes on some
boring
as hell
article in
Sports Illustrated
that I don't give a rat's ass about, I can't help but notice that her skirt is riding up, giving me an eyeful of smooth, tan thigh.

Some slick-haired jackass across from her is undressing her with his meth-bleary eyes, and I give him the fuck-off snarl that always sends guys with no backbone scampering like little
bitches.

She cross
es and uncrosses her legs, and my eyes
follow the line of her thigh down to her ankle and along the curve of her arch, watching as her red high heel slides on and off the back of her foot, driving me insane for reasons I can't put my finger on.

"Evan Lennox."

Jan calls her name and crooks one finger, the nai
l painted some crazy bright orange
. Jan is good people, and I relax knowing that Evan will get an okay assignment. Maybe she'll get stocking at the food pantry or sorting at Goodwill. Jan won't give a newbie the shit details like road pickup or mortuary cleanup.

At least I hope she won't.

I'm starting to sweat it about Evan by the time
Kevon
calls my name.

"Man, what're you doing back here?" His voice is too loud and jolly for parole. He should be one of Santa's elves or an aerobics instructor.

I shake his hand and refuse to wince when he almost takes my arm out of socket. I'm glad to see him, but I wish he'd stop screaming in my ear so I could eavesdrop on Jan and Evan.

"Drunk and disorderly, eh?
Doesn't sound like you,
Winch.
You
sure
it was you, now?" His smile is so wide I can see his gold teeth, way in the back, but his dark eyes go serious. "Look, kid, I like you. I really do. But just because
Schwenzer
has a soft heart when your name comes on the docket doesn't mean you're safe. This is three, man. Strike three. I can't believe you didn't get time. Lucky, that's what you are. But you can only ride that so far."

He
pauses
his speech and puts his hands flat on the desk. "Hey. Hey!
You listening
to me?"

All I can hear is low murmurings, but Evan sounds upset. It's not my business.

It's really not my business.

I know Jan is fair, and it's probably just a case of a rich girl stamping her little designer heel over the fact that she has to rub shoulders with people at a homeless shelter or something.

Only, I can't really believe Evan would be like that.

Not that I know her.

Not that I should even be thinking about it, because she's not mine to think about that way.

I've got bigger, more important things on my plate.

I make sure I don't even glance her way, but
Kevon
is pretty hard to trick. He looks around me, not even bothering to be discreet, and raises his eyebrows.

"Alright.
I'll let you off the hook for being distracted. I can't blame you for wanting to look at her instead of me.
Winchester Youngblood, heart-breaker."

I shoot him an irritated face that I'm hoping communicates my desire for him to shut the hell up before she overhears, but my look only gets him going. "Oh, look at you, my man!
Temper, temper.
Alright, I'm not made out of stone. Give me a second."

I think
Kevon
must have serious family connections
to have landed this stint
, because this guy is the biggest pain in the ass parole officer ever, and I can't imagine how he got this
a legit government job when he's always acting like he’s auditioning for
some
cheesy
comedy sitcom
.

Why can't he just stamp my papers, take my check, and let me go on my way? He has no business meddling in this girl's life, but there he goes, off to Jan's desk to shake hands and probably tell Jan how nice her crazy hair looks or some
crap so he can wheedle out the
information
he wants
.

Funny how when he's around me, he talks like there's a megaphone attached to his mouth, but now that he's over there with Evan, I can't hear a damn thing.

A few minutes later he walks back like he owns this s
ad little office, his smile smug as
a fool's. I try not to look over,
but I hear Evan thank Jan and
say goodbye, then those sexy heels click
on the floor
,
an
d I have to punch and jab at my
urge to jump up and follow her out, beg for
her number, take her on a date…
at least take one more look before she's out of my life for good.

Like he can read my mind,
Kevon
asks, "You
wanna
run and get that lady's number? I'll wait."

"I don't need to get involved with a girl like her,
Kevon
. Can we get this party started? I have places to be."

I slide the papers over so he can sign and notarize everything, pissed that he got me to lose my temper
and snap at him
.

I never do that. I take a lot of pride in the fact that I can keep things cool. It's my job.

It's my life.

It's who I am.

"You sure
do,
boy-o." He stamps and staples my paperwork with a grin that I don't trust on instinct and sends me on my way.

Her silver Lexus is gone when I get to the parking lot, and I tell myself that's a good thing. The last thing I need to involve myself with is an icy-eyed girl named after whiskey with a talent for setting things on fire.

By the time I pull onto the highway, I accept the fact that Evan Williams Lennox was just a blip on my radar. A sexy ass blip, but a blip I have no choice but to forget. 

"So you didn't even wait to get his number?"

My best friend, Brenna, is a love-obsessed romantic down to the pulp of her sweet little heart.

I expected to be lectured a little bit because I burned down part of an orchard and got a crap-load of fines and weeks
’
worth of community service, but all my friend cares about is the specific shade of blue his eyes were and what, exactly, he said to get me off the floor and into the courtroom.

Sweet, soft, indigo and 'Are you nervous?
',
for the record, but there is no record, because this guy was just some guy I bumped into at court who is basically an irresponsible drunk brawler.

Not that I have any room to talk.

"How do you know he wanted to give me his number?"

I'm hanging up scores of
obnoxiously
green plaid skirts and egg-yolk yellow blouses, my daily clothing staples now that I'm enrolled at St. Anne's School for Catholic Girls, the only school that would take a girl with my dubious criminal record and lukewarm grades. I hate the uniform with an intensity that makes me gag, but wearing it is my penance.

And it hurts so much more than kneeling on dried peas for hours ever could.

"Did you wear your navy
sheath?" Brenna demands.

I hang the last complexion-destroying blouse and move to my bed. This is an unnatural state of affairs for me. I'm usually a slob and a half. But I can't put
Gramma
and Granddaddy through anymore bullshit.

"Sweetie, it doesn't matter what I was wearing. But yes, I was. And he is a
criminal
. Why can you not grasp that?"

Brenna laughs in my ear. "No offense, but
you're
a criminal, too, Evan. That doesn't mean you really did anything so bad. And it definitely doesn't mean you can't flirt a little. Look, I'd try to encourage you to date some respectable geek, but St. Anne's is all girls and you haven't mentioned a single, solitary guy in months. Months! What shoes did you wear?"

I t
hrow all my makeup in my violet-
embellished bag and snap the clasp to close it.

"The red heels."

My ears burn.

The line
is quiet for a few seconds as Brenna processes her shock and amazement
.

"Evan? You wore the hot-sweet-magic-sex heels? The ones we got in New York City? The ones you swore you were going to wear on your first date with The One? Do you not see what a sign this is?"

Brenna is dangerously close to squealing and I'd bet my last tube of my favorite mascara that she's dancing around in her gorgeous little room, hugging herself like she just watched my fairy godmother change me into a princess for the ball.

"Calm yourself, girl. I wore those shoes because I gave up on all that nonsense. I figured I'd wear them on the one day I knew for sure I wouldn't meet anyone
life-changing
."

I step out onto the balcony off my bedroom and listen to the hiss and hum of a million insects busy in the deep green of the garden below.

"But you met
him
." Brenna refuses to be thwarted.

"Okay. I wore the heels and met a guy who was, I'm not
gonna
lie, hot as hell.
But also a criminal.
And also did not give me his number or ask for mine, so there is nothing -- listen to me now, Brenna Blixen --
noth-ing
going on.
At all."