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“Yeah.” She tugged him down, kissed him. “And you’re going to be stuck.”
And she knew just what she wanted engraved.
A Deal’s a Deal.
From the jeweler’s she went straight to Crafty Arts. She saw her mother first, chatting with a pair of customers. Then Audrey saw her. Stopped, and when she read her daughter’s face, began to bounce on her toes before she dashed over to grab Morgan into a hug.
“It happened. It happened. Oh, let me see— Where’s the ring?”
“It had to be sized, just a half size down. It’ll take a few days or so. But I have a picture.”
“She has a picture! Can I tell, can I say? I have to. You have to let me,” she said as Morgan started laughing. “This is my baby girl, and she just got engaged.”
Every woman in the shop applauded, and several walked over to look at the ring.
“I only have a picture. It’s being sized.” She held up her phone.
“What’s all this ruckus?” Olivia demanded as she came down the stairs. She walked straight to Morgan, kissed both her cheeks. “He’s a good man, and almost deserves you. Mimosas on the house, staff and customers. We’re going to toast to a brave new start.”
Rozwell hated fucking Nevada. He hated the goddamn desert, and he hated the filthy, ugly shack he was forced to live in.
He hated the puckered scabby scar on his arm.
Most of all, he hated the solitude, the isolation, the constant nothing.
He had eggs, Christ knew, and he was sick of them.
He had to cook for himself, and clean up after himself, and he was damn sick of that, too. He’d opened cans—lots of cans—and even tried frying up some chicken parts from the freezer.
It turned out scorched outside, too pink inside, and he hated that, too. He did better with rice, carefully following internet instructions.
He’d made a few burgers out of what he thought—hoped—was ground beef, but he didn’t have any buns.
He’d gone through the fresh stuff his dead hostess had provided, lived on eggs, cans, and boxed food. And knew he’d have to make another trip to get some food he could just heat up. And some snacks.
So what if he hadn’t taken off the rest of the weight? Maybe put some back on. So the fuck what? When he had his life back, he’d get back in shape.
He didn’t have anything todobut eat, do his research, play with the tech toys, watch TV on his laptop, and eat some more.
He’d forgotten to water the goat, so he’d had to drag the dead, useless thing back with the woman. What was left of her, and what was left stank so much he’d nearly lost his breakfast.
He’d bought the sheets and towels, but without a dryer, the towels dried stiff. So he’d make a list, make a trip.
Food, numero uno. And he was running low on liquor. Maybe he could get a decent meal—one he didn’t cook or wash up after—in Two Springs. Nobody looked for him in this godforsaken desert, but he’d be careful, keep to himself, though he yearned for voices, movement.
He missed having conversations, knowing most of what he said in them were well-crafted lies.
He caught himself talking to himself, tried to stop. But like the chips, he just couldn’t.
Make the list, drive in, get a meal, buy supplies, drive out again.
He mumbled to himself as he paced around the house, one that had become a cage. Except for that side room. So he went into it, as it always settled him down.
He’d pulled down the Jesus pictures because he didn’t like the way some guy who got himself nailed to a cross stared at him with what looked like pity.
He sat, a man carrying extra weight in his face and belly, one who smelled of sweat, dust, and clothes poorly washed. Roots showed in his dyed hair. His nails needed clipping.
“We’ll just do a little check on our good friend Morgan. Let’s see what that skinny bitch is up to.”
