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It’s worse than usual tonight, watching Danielle pedal away into the shadows on her rattly old bike. The moon is swollen overhead, cratered and glowing, and it casts a silvery light over the country roads.
Still don’t like her cycling home like that, already tired from a full day’s shift. What if she gets light headed again? What if she has to pull over and walk? That little shoe box of an apartment she rents next to the library is two miles away. What if her feet are sore? Or what if someone gives her trouble?
I inhale sharply, cracking my neck as I walk slowly to my own bike—though mine’s a motorized beast, custom made to fit a giant of my size. All leather and chrome. More than anything, I want to follow her home and check she gets back safe, but the rumble of my engine stalking her through the streets would only freak her out. Besides, what gives me the right?
The other ladies who work here get themselves home just fine. The men, too. I never lose a wink of sleep worrying about any ofthem, so why am I so wound up over Danielle?
Maybe it’s because the others all drive or get picked up. She’s the only one cycling home in the moonlight on a push bike with a damn basket on the front.
Yeah. That must be it.
My boots thud against the concrete parking lot, and an owl hoots somewhere in a nearby tree. Down in the valley, the lit-up sprawl of Beaver Creek town lets off a hazy glow.
The stars are faded above town. Harder to pick out when you’re down there, in the thick of it. But out here, up at the top of the valley and away from the outskirts, the stars wink like broken glass in the ink-black sky. Like a dropped pint glass shattered across the bar floor. Poetic, right?
Shit, this is why I don’t talk much. If folks knew how much nonsense rattles around my thick skull, they’d wouldn’t tread nearly so carefully around me. Never mind the rap sheet or my busted knuckles.
My bike rumbles to life, engine purring between my thighs. I flex my fingers on the handles and crack my neck one more time.
It gets stiff, always craning over those books at the end of the day’s shift. Not to mention stealing glances at Danielle as she loads and unloads the dishwasher over and over. Wrapping up the admin always takes me twice as long when she locks up.
Look: I know I shouldn’t stare. ‘Specially as her boss. That’s creep behavior. But she always bends at the waist in the most tormenting way, her dark hair sliding over her pale shoulders, her tight jeans hugging her pert little ass. Like shewantsme to look. Like she knows what she’s doing to me.
Wishful thinking. That’s what that is.
Loneliness can make a man crazy.
The road is bumpy at first—potholed and winding, with two bushy strips of dried grass clinging to the edges of the road like sideburns. But the closer I get to town, wind whipping my shirt against my body, sweat cooling on my skin, the smoother the ride.
It’s late. There are a few stragglers weaving their way along the sidewalks, laughing and leaning on each other, singing country classics up at the moon and getting the words all wrong. But most of the windows are dark, the curtains pulled tight.
Beaver Creek is hunkering down for the night. I should too, but when I hit the road that runs alongside the town square, I don’t turn left like I should. I carry on and weave right, slowing down as I pass the town library.
Okay. So it’s not the library I’m checking in on. Sue me. It’s the next building over, where a bike with a fussy little basket has been chained to the railing, tucked out of the way of the steps.
My ride shudders, but I slow to a crawl, heart thumping as I stare up at the building. A window on the second floor glows bright, but the view’s cut off by a pair of those gauzy white curtains. Thin enough to let the light through, but not enough for stalkers like me to peer in.
A shape moves in that room. A shadow, sliding past the window. Small and slender, with no details but that’s okay. I know Danielle’s shape.
It’s her. She got home safe.
Good. Fine.
I pull away, engine roaring, and let the slicing wind cool down the hot flush on my cheeks.
* * *
My own place is on the top floor of a converted warehouse on the south side of town, with big windows and skylights and my own allocated underground parking spot. Beaver Creek doesn’t reallydofancy, and I sure as hell wouldn’t blend in if it did, but the parking spot is a slice of alright. I like laying down my head at night knowing my bike’s safe.
Strolling into my home tonight, I pluck the next two buttons of my shirt open and let the sides sag. It’s an open plan space, big enough that when I flick on the kitchen lights, they don’t reach the edges of the living room area. The walls are bare brick, just like at King’s, and the floors are brushed concrete scattered with thick pile rugs.
It’s quiet in here. Maybe I’m too high up, or maybe the glass windows are too thick, but even watching a group of ranch hands swaying along the street in all shades of plaid, hooting and hollering down there, the sound doesn’t penetrate. It’s silent.
Danielle always locks up the bar without a peep. All the others put on music, happy to finally pick the tracks, but not Danielle. When we close up together, I spend the last hour hearing nothing but her soft breaths and the clink of glasses. That, and the steady thump of my own heartbeat.
Doesn’t she like music?
Or doesn’t she feel confident enough to put it on? Maybe she’s scared of me—like most of Beaver Creek. Too nervous to ask. She’s worked for me for six months now, but it’s possible. Sometimes when I ask her questions, all she can manage is a squeak in reply.
