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“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “It’s still there. Think it might always be. But it is manageable. Most of the time.”
“Because you find… ways to let your demons out to play,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding.
“And the longer you go without play sessions…”
“The more darkness you will see,” I agreed. “That’s when I usually start doing busy work, not getting enough sleep, refusing to drink. Detroit recommended I start hitting the gym. Which I’ve been doing,” I admitted.
I didn’t admit, though, that as I was running on that treadmill or lifting weights, that my gaze was almost always focused on the street outside those floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping to get a glimpse of her.
Even though I knew the chances of running into her again were slim to none.
“When did that gym go in?” Morgaine asked as she pointed down the next street. “I feel like it went up out of nowhere.”
“Well, when you only visit town a time or two a year, I guess you’re bound to miss shit like that here and there,” I said, seeing the sign for the pottery studio, feeling something a little too close to disappointment at knowing the little outing would be over a lot sooner than I wanted it to be. “But, yeah, it did go up out of nowhere. We didn’t even know it was happening and then there it was one day.”
It was suspicious to all of us, actually. Delaney said her brothers felt the same way. Which meant the Novikoff brothers likely were keeping an eye as well.
No one in town had the kind of money that would have been needed to open the place from scratch. And after getting inside myself and seeing all the top-of-the-line equipment, I got even more curious about the owners.
The owners that no one knew.
Because the gym itself was owned by a corporation, not an individual.
Nothing and no one could live in the shadows forever, though. It was bound to come out who owned it and what they wanted in Shady Valley.
“That’s true,” she agreed as her gaze looked out the window at the pottery studio.
Was that a slight tinge of disappointment I saw? Or was that just wishful thinking?
And, perhaps more importantly, what the fuck was wrong with me?
Fantasizing about a woman being disappointed to get on with the errands I’d agreed to help her with.
“You don’t have to—“ she started as I cut the engine and went to open my door. To that, I shot her a raised brow look that had a small smile toying with her lips. “Right. You’re one of those so-called good guys,” she said, shaking her head at me.
“The ones who call themselves good are the ones you gotta avoid,” I told her as I pulled the trunk door open. “Make no mistake, I’m not a good guy,” I told her as I handed her the bags, so I could grab the boxes.
“It’s refreshing when people are honest,” she said as she pulled open the door, trying to hold it open for me, then rolling her eyes when I caught it with my foot and jerked my chin at her, telling her to move inside.
“There she is! I was wondering when I’d see you again,” the shop owner called as soon as her gaze landed on the red-headed knockout I was walking in behind.
“Marnie. Sorry. There was a mishap with my driver,” Morgaine said, making the middle-aged woman’s gaze slide in my direction.
Marnie was exactly what I expected from someone who ran a pottery studio. From her tie-dyed shoes to her long, flowy layers, and her paint-splattered apron and her wavy mass of brown hair with several inches of gray roots pulled half-up into space buns, right down to her oversized, bright green glasses and massive clay earrings in the shapes of teacups.
“Well, when they look like that, we don’t exactly mind having mishaps with them, do we?” Marnie asked, shooting me a devilish little smile.
“This isn’t him. This is a, ah, um—“
“Friend,” I supplied with a smirk. “I think friend is the word you are looking for here.”
“Friend. Well, shouldn’t we all be so lucky?” Marnie asked, moving closer to hold out a hand with each nail painted a different color, and a multitude of rings on her fingers. “Marnie,” she said.
“Crow,” I told her as I put down the pile of boxes on the table at my side to shake her hand.
“Um, Marnie,” Morgaine said, a light twinkling in her eyes as the older woman held onto my hand and smiled at me for an almost uncomfortably long time.
“What? Right. Yes, yes,” Marnie said, dropping my hand and moving away. “Clay. What do we have this time? Teacups and mugs?” she asked, eyeing the bags and boxes. “More than usual,” she observed.
“I’ve been… focusing a lot on work,” Morgaine said, choosing the word carefully.
