Page 36 of Hooked on Trouble

He is such a good man. And he needs to know it. “What I wrote to you in Aspen is true. I’ve never felt like this before. With anyone, even after all this time.” The radio is off, but I’d swear a heavy bass beats in my chest. Nico presses his forehead to mine as though he wants to read my mind. Learn what drives my heart. I’m not sure how long we sit like this, his large hand on my cheek, my heart pounding in my ears.

It’s a good thing we brought lots of condoms.

He kisses my wrist again, then we drive under the arched sign. Flowers line the road, as wild and untamed as I feel, but my hand is secure in Nico’s grasp. When he parks, he releases me to stick that hideous wig on. I pull on my sun hat. As soon as my feet hit the gravel drive, he’s at my door and laces our fingers together again. It feels different this time—possessive, seductive. A promise of what’s to come.

Unfortunately, I laugh. “I really need a picture of you in that beret.”

“You obviously don’t value your life.”

“Come on. I could use it to bribe Sawyer. He’d clean my apartment for a month to get his hands on that.”

“Make that a double homicide.”

“Even if I promise to listen to country on the drive home?”

He tugs me forward. “Not a chance.”

Deep purple rows of lavender extend under darkening clouds, as does a multicolored fence. Other crops grow in sections, some tall, some short. The main house is painted pink and orange and every color under the sun, sculptures of dragonflies and butterflies stuck to the siding. My maybe-boyfriend is in a hideous outfit, holding my hand, while we search for my estranged sister at some whacked-out hippie farm.

The idiocy of the situation takes the edge off. Slightly.

Nico knocks on the door and pulls me closer. Someone calls, “Coming!” and that edge I’ve been balancing on sharpens. I tap my ballet flat and nearly hyperventilate. When the door swings wide, I tense and lower the rim of my hat, but immediately exhale. Not Rose. Still, I give myself a mental thumbs-up for dressing undercover.

The woman’s foot jingles from her stacked anklets. A baby is perched on her hip, her flowing patchwork dress as busy as the outside decor. “Can I help you?”

Although Nico is dressed like an overgrown hippie, his wide stance and stiff posture probably give him away. “We’re looking for a woman,” he says. “An old friend. Heard she moved out here a while back. Maybe a few years. Is there anyone who could help us?” He slides his hand over my lower back and grips my hip as though holding me steady. I press into his side.

The woman bounces her baby. “Sure. I’m Wispy, but Lake has lived here longer. He might know something.” She nods for us to come in.

Nico leans down to my ear. “You should probably call me Spirit.”

The big guy made a joke. “How about Starbright?”

Or Dusk. Or Ocean. Or simply Mine.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

We follow Wispy into the open floorplan. Like outside, it looks like a paint set exploded. Large pillows fill the area instead of couches, knit blankets draped everywhere in yellows, peaches, oranges, and greens. On the floor, a man has sunk into an oversized beanbag chair, his dark dreadlocks tied in a knot on his head. He strums a guitar with lazy strokes.

Wispy motions to us. “These folks are looking for someone who might have lived here.”

With that introduction, she floats off, lowering the top of her dress as she goes, exposing her breast. She begins feeding her baby. The simplicity of the act intrigues me, the innocence of it—our bodies doing what they were built for. Makes me wonder if I was breast fed. If I was ever held and loved and doted upon. The hard places under my bones assure me I wasn’t, but the beauty is so alluring I wish I hadn’t left my camera in the car.

Nico, however, blushes fire-engine red. He angles his body toward Lake. “We’re looking for a girl who might have lived here, or near here, a few years ago.”

Lake doesn’t interrupt his lazy tune. “Name?”

“Her name is Rose. Rose Hunt.” I’m thankful Nico’s the one speaking. Between our impending night together, this nutty place, and the possibility of finding my sister, I’m not sure I’d be able to string two words together.

A few more unhurried strums later, Lake says, “No. Your names.”

God, like I’m not nervous enough without him drawing out the agony. Nico scratches the back of his wig and huffs out a sigh. “I’m Spirit, and this is…Petal.” He presses his lips tight.

There will be retribution.

Strum. Strum. Strum.

Strum.