Blood & Rust (Lock & Key #4) (23 page)

Tania had torn through dirty houses, abandoned properties, picked through forgotten junk that was dented, flea-bitten, worn and frayed, ripped at the edges. Yet here, here in her store—under her care and attention, her vision—they glowed. Glowed and were proudly transformed, exposing us to their fragile secrets, their lost worlds, their former beauty.

Revealing a new beauty.

I stopped at a display case with delicate pieces of silver and gold jewelry.
Firefly Wishes
said the engraved label. I smiled. Jill’s jewelry.

“Hey, I was wondering if you’d come.”

I turned around. Tania aimed a dazzling smile at me, a pink flush racing over her skin. She was excited, happy. Maybe a little high on wine, on her accomplishment. She should be.

Was she high on seeing me?

My chest filled with heat. “I just got back from a run down to Colorado.” I sucked in a breath. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Scarlett, seeing your dream come true.”

“I’m glad.”

I handed her the sunflowers. “These are for you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Her voice came out low. “They’re beautiful.”

“You like them?”

“They’re perfect. I love them.” Her eyes met mine and skittered away. Her fingers toyed with the large flower petals. “How did you find these this time of year?”

“I got connections.” I winked at her.

Her huge dark eyes took me in, and I was suspended in their liquid magic.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks, and I wasn’t sure you’d come.” She broke the silence. “I’m glad you did. You’re staying, right? I mean, Nina’s here.”

“I’m staying. Yeah, of course, I’m staying.”

Her face relaxed, and the edges of her red, red lips lifted into a smile again.

She slid her free arm through mine. “So, what do you think?”

That peppery flower perfume of hers hit me, and I took it in, my brain blanking, my senses dancing in its breeze. I burned the colors of it into my lungs to torture myself with later.

“What do I think?” I repeated.

“I’ve been looking forward to your opinion.”

“You have?”

“Of course I have, Rhett. You helped me get to this moment. You helped me realize my dream.”

Something unfurled inside me at the use of her nickname for me, at her words. Her eyes sought mine, like it was the most natural thing in the world—her asking my opinion, us arm in arm, strolling through an art gallery party.

I liked it. I wanted it.

But it wasn’t mine to have.

“I’m glad that you kept the exposed dark brick walls and the forties lighting fixtures. The changes you and Willy made are discreet and clean. The space is offbeat, unexpected. I like it. It all…fits.”

“What fits exactly?”

There it was again. That analytical brain. That I-must-know-exactly-what-and-how-you’re-thinking demand of this woman.

This
woman
.

“Your eccentric vibe, Tania. Your imagination, which I like. You make it work.”

She transmitted that beam of heat again, her cheeks reddening, and I tore my eyes away. I’d pleased her, and she’d liked it.

“I love the Victory bike hanging on the wall in the same state we found it in—rusty and old. And the buffalo horns look amazing over the front door.”

“I sold them already.”

“Terrific,” I said. “I like this furniture you brought in.” I gestured at a trio of antique oak cabinets.

“Aren’t they great? I don’t want people handling certain items, and I also want those pieces to be protected from dust, so I’m glad I found these curio cabinets at my great grandmother’s old house over in Pine Needle. My mother owns the house and rents it off and on. Now, it’s off, so I went there and shuffled through a number of Grandma Eileen’s pieces to see if I could use any that would suit the salon-style concept for my store.”

“
Salon
concept?”

She let out a small laugh as she squeezed my arm. “Not beauty salon, but a parlor-like feeling for the store. It’s a French term dating back to the seventeenth century. A place where people gather to see art exhibits, hear poetry readings, have great discussions—a meeting place of cultured minds.”

“Ah. Like the Jacks’ clubroom, right?”

“Right, right. Exactly!”

We both laughed.

“I thought making this space comfortable and cozy with a few choice elements would be a great contrast—”

I leaned closer to her. “The type of ironic contrast you love.”

She stopped and held my gaze. “Yes.”

Contrasts. The unusual. All that was what Tania was to me—loud and insistent, soft and caring. All of it flecked with ire, streaked with passion.

My eyes swept over the west wall where a huge metal mural hung.

“Shit, those are Wreck’s, aren’t they?”

She followed my gaze and grinned. “The ones that fell on me. Do you like it?”

She had taken the fifty or so vintage post office postal box doors Wreck had bought from some old hermit in North Dakota who used to be a postal worker, and she’d transformed them into something altogether different. These small brass doors were the size of postcards, each with an eagle sculpted over the number and their small locks. Somehow, Tania had attached them together and hung it on the wall. The woman had vision.

“We laughed at Wreck for spending money on all those little brass doors and lugging them home. Look at that…that’s spectacular.”

“Thank you,” she said in a breathy voice.

We both stared at the striking piece, which gave the wall immense stature.

I took her hand in mine over my arm. “I wish Wreck were here to see it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He would’ve loved it. He’d be proud.”

She squeezed my hand. “That means a lot to me.”

Her hand was warm in mine, and I didn’t want to let it go. I didn’t.

“I might start weekly poetry readings here next Wednesday and maybe bring the band back on Thursdays. Make it a regular thing. I don’t want the place to feel like a typical store or gallery. I want it to feel as if you’re entering a place where the unexpected could happen.”

“Like an artist’s house? A studio?”

“Right. The minute a visitor steps inside, I want him to be taken aback for a moment with a,
Whoa, where am I? Am I intruding in on someone’s private special space?
A space where intriguing, mysterious, genius artistic things are brewing. Or have already brewed, as the case may be.” She shrugged, her cheeks reddening again. “I want them to feel that initial moment of surprise, of—”

“The buzz. Like at Gerhard and Astrid’s house.”

Her eyes softened for a moment. “Yeah, that was special.”

“It was.”

A warm sweetness thickened the air between us, and she slid her arm away from mine.

“This is a classic, huh?” My hand passed over a large studded trunk.

“That’s been in my family for generations—it dates back to the mid-eighteen hundreds. My family’s hopes and dreams were bundled into this trunk as they kept moving further and further west.”

“Ah, pioneer roots?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you selling it?”

“No way. I brought it over because I like the way it works with the atmosphere tonight. ”

“Ah. Good.”

“Oh, and the piano The Innocents are playing on—also not for sale. That piano was my great grandmother’s, and Mom, Penny, and I had taken lessons on it.”

“Looks good under the shelves Willy built you,” I said, my eyes darting up at Willy’s long thick wooden shelves. “I like those old railroad lamps up there.”

“I found those in Nebraska with Grace. A memento of our fun with Creeper. I went back and bought them. I liked them too much.”

“Of course you did. Jesus.”

“By the way, did you ever catch up with Creeper?” Her forehead puckered. “Or should I be prepared for him to show up and wreak havoc again?”

I touched the side of her face with my knuckles and leaned in close to her. “You don’t need to worry about him ever again.”

“Okay.” She stilled. “I have good news for you, too. My friend Neil is here from Chicago, the art dealer I told you about?”

“Is he the one in the suit you were talking with?”

“Yes.” She smiled. A private joke, a treat. “He loves Gerhard’s work. He came here to see the pieces for himself and take a few back to Chicago to show at his gallery. He knows a lot of the right people—not just collectors, but museum curators. Things could get big.”

“That’s terrific. You’re making your dream come true, Tan.” Something swelled in my chest, and a coil of emotion spiraled up my throat. My eyes darted to the opposite wall. “You framed Gerhard’s H-bomb octopus paintings?”

Her shoulder brushed my arm. “Do you like them up there all together?”

“They look good. Like a massive visual LSD trip.”

She let out a laugh.

“What?”

“That’s a perfect description. You do understand my vibe.”

“Oh, I understand your vibes, Tania. Not all of ’em yet though. Not yet.”

I wanted to feel her vibes against my lips, under my hands, in my pulse. Crack them open, decode them, revel in their rhythms.

“Hey, you got here. I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” said Nina, appearing at Tania’s side.

“Yeah, I made it,” I muttered.

I stared at them both. Such a striking contrast—physically, emotionally.

The one tall, thin, young, bright but bland.

The other…ah, Tania was a woman through and through. A captivating mystery, an intriguing thrill, a demanding challenge. Smart as hell, sensitive to nuances, and sexy as fuck. The kind of sexy that still hadn’t stopped making me spin, still hadn’t stopped making me crazy to get in there.

“I’m going to go put my flowers in a vase,” Tania murmured, stepping away from us.

Away from me.

Tania strode off on her black high heels, my sunflowers in her grip.

“
HIS NAME SHALL BE WRITTEN
in the book of the Lord. And his name shall be—” Pastor Brad nodded at Lock.

Lock glanced at his son who lay cuddled in Boner’s arms, Jill at her old man’s side.

“His name shall be Richard Thunder Kichú.” Lock’s steady deep voice filled the small church.

Something pinched in my chest. He named his son for his dead brother, Wreck. I liked that a lot.

Lock and Wreck were brothers from different fathers. Even though they hadn’t grown up together and had met further on in their lives, those two brothers had had solid love between them, true esteem.

My throat closed.

I remember.

Wreck and Lock had looked nothing alike although they had the same mother. Wreck was all Anglo like his white dad and mom, and Lock was completely unlike their Anglo mom and more like his Native American dad. But what they shared had been beyond any DNA; it was tangible and unmistakable. That had come from inside, a conscious decision, but it’d also stemmed from their hearts and sung from their souls.

My brother, Stephan, and I’d had that between us, too. We were only a little over a year apart. We’d often fought like dogs, but more often, we’d fought for each other like wolves. He’d had the book smarts; I had the street smarts and the looks. He’d kept his cool; I would lose it on a regular basis. I’d usually get blamed for everything, and he’d been adored. I’d looked up to him, and he’d always stood up for me. But like everything else that had come easy to me—my good looks, my skills with a football, with a surfboard, with a guitar, with girls—I had taken it all for granted. I’d thought Stephan would always be there, that we’d always have each other, no matter the different directions our lives would take.

“You’re my kid brother. I should be looking out for you.”

“Shut up. It’s not such a big deal.”

“Yeah, it is, Markus. It is to me. You’ve got a big heart, tough guy. You don’t know how much it means to me that you’ve always got my back.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s true.”

“It wasn’t fair, what he tried to do to you. I wanted justice, and I knew how to get it.”

“You got it, all right. I just don’t want you getting in trouble again. With school, with Mom and Dad.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t worry about me.”
That had been my little motto back then.