Sliding Home (3 page)

Outside the trailer window,
twilight purpled the sky and shadows thickened. The darkening light gave Kason
a dangerous edge. His skin was stretched tight across his cheekbones. His eyes
glittered with an inborn toughness.

The man wasn't much for
small talk. He ate his sandwiches, drank his Kool-Aid, then broke the silence
on his last spoonful of soup. “Can I drive you to a hotel?” he asked.

She squared her shoulders. “No
hotel.” She felt safe in the secluded trailer. She had no plans to leave.

“You're not spending
another night here.” He pushed to his feet, pierced her with a look. “You've
overstayed your welcome.”

“I could say the same for
you.”

He collected the paper
plates and bowls.

She dogged him to the
kitchen.

He dumped their dishes in
the trash.

She crossed her arms over
her chest and tapped her foot, totally resistant.

Kason picked up the tire
iron, slapped it against his palm. The air tensed and pulsed and her heart bumped
hard. His eyes narrowed on her, and not in a good way.

Dayne suddenly wished she'd
snagged a plastic fork when she'd had the opportunity. It was too late now. She
had no protection against this man. He looked ready to strike.

Dayne flinched.

And Kason frowned.

Long seconds ticked by as
he stared at her.

Her breath collected deep
in her chest. She could barely exhale. Swallowing proved impossible. She'd gone
cold.

The hands on the kitchen
clock swept a full minute before he tossed her the tool. “I don't hit women.
You keep the tire iron.”

Relief swept her. She
wouldn't have stood a chance against this man. He was ripped and rough and
could've crushed her.

Yet he hadn't moved a
muscle.

She'd misread him. “I can
stay?” she dared to ask.

A shift of his jaw,
followed by, “One more night, in the guest room.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“We hitch a wagon to your
bicycle and you pedal your food down the road.”

Two

The butt crack of dawn
rolled Kason Rhodes over on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling and listened.
His bedroom was quiet—way too quiet. Where the hell was Cimarron? The Dobie had
slept at the foot of Kason's bed ever since he was a pup. All night long, Cim
chased rabbits in his sleep and snored like a water buffalo.

There was no sign of his
dog.

Kason had slept alone.

He stretched his naked body
and yawned deeply. Pushing off the bed, he slipped into a pair of navy
sweatpants. He ran his hands down his face, then through his hair. It was April
2. Memories flooded him.

He'd shave his head
today—after he located Cimarron and ran six miles.

Kason scoped the hallway
and living room. No Cim.

He returned to the guest
bedroom, knocked on the door. He was greeted by a bark. He turned the knob and
walked in. Uninvited. What he saw pained him greatly.

Curled at the head of the
bed, Cim wagged his tail, but didn't budge. His head owned a pillow.

“Still sleeping...scram.”
Dayne waved the tire iron at him in warning as she snuggled deeper beneath the
covers. Kason caught a glimpse of her bed head and the pillow crease on her
cheek before her body went soft once again.

Put out, he left the guest
room. He shut the door with more force than was necessary. His dog and the tire
iron had slept with Dayne. And were still in bed with her.

Cimarron's obedience
suffered at the hands of the tomboy. The big dog had gone all protective over
her. Kason wouldn't have a companion for his run.

He grabbed a cut-off gray
sweatshirt and tied on his Nikes. He realized the longest relationship he'd had
recently was with his running shoes.

Slipping out the front
door, he took to the dirt road. Woods spread in all directions, dense with
evergreen, white elm, and red maple. Wildflowers colored the ground in swaths
of blue and purple.

The sun was barely up, the
air crisp. He stretched his body until it was loose and fluid, then broke into
a jog. He pushed himself hard, his mind blank, conscious of nothing but the
race of his heart.

He returned to the trailer
in forty minutes, breathing heavily, his chest fully expanded. He walked around
his mobile home while his pulse slowed.

That's when he spotted
Dayne's Schwinn, blue and rusty and locked to the trailer's hitch. Why she'd
secured it was beyond him. No one in his right mind would steal a bicycle with
a loose chain and bald tires. Even the white basket was lopsided.

The bike had a mile's worth
of pedaling left in it, and that was if she rode slowly.

Kason stared at the Schwinn
until he heard Dayne raise the kitchen window, and the scent of coffee crooked
like a finger, drawing him inside.

He found her standing
before the stove, fresh-faced and ponytailed. One step closer, and he was
nearly licked by the tongue on her vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt when she bent
to feed Cimarron.

She fed Cim a whole load of
scrambled eggs.

Two cartons of Grade A’s
lay open on the counter. One was completely empty. The Dobie wolfed down his
breakfast, then wagged his stubby tail for seconds.

Dayne looked at home.

Kason didn't do
settled.
The tomboy had invaded his privacy. Spoiled his dog. All not to his
liking. It was time to move her on.

She looked up and offered, “Omelet?”

He'd shared dinner with
her, but wouldn't do breakfast. She'd be gone by lunch.

“Just a cup of black
coffee.” He tugged off his sweatshirt, swung it around his neck. He then blew
on the Styrofoam cup she handed him; it was filled to the top and steaming-hot
with a generic blend.

While he slowly sipped, her
gaze cut to his shoulders, lingered on his pecs, looped to his abs. He was hot
and sweaty, and she checked him out fully.

Most women went all flirty
and suggestive in their appreciation of his body. Some went as far as to rub
against him. Yet there was nothing sexual in the tom-boy's look.

She took him in, and one
corner of her mouth pinched before she looked away. Totally indifferent.

Apparently he wasn't her
type. Not that he cared. “Shower time.” Coffee in hand, he moved down the hall.

Twenty minutes later,
towel-dried, Kason stood in a pair of navy boxers before the bathroom mirror
and shaved his head. No one knew the reason behind his behavior. His private
life was private. Most thought him mental.

The buzz of the shaver sent
a strange calmness through his body. The tingle of his scalp brought back
memories.

Memories of the events that
had made him who he was.

Thick black hair fell into
the sink and onto the towel spread at the sink's porcelain base. Both sides of
his head were now smooth, the top spiked like a mohawk. Five minutes more, and
he was totally bald.

He brushed hair from his
face and neck and stared into the mirror. He had a hard face, almost criminal.

This was his life. Bald was
how he'd always started baseball season, even as a T-baller. The wounds had
scabbed, but never fully healed.

He thought back on his
birth mother and his prick of a stepfather. His family history was dark and
unforgiving.

Raymond Rhodes had married
Lana Anders when she was seventeen, and four months pregnant. She'd told Ray
that he was the father, only to have DNA prove otherwise.

Ray had gone ballistic when
the blood tests revealed he was raising his brother Joe's child. Ray had always
envied Joe's popularity, intelligence, and athletic ability. Envy turned to
hate when he learned his brother had been screwing Ray's high-school
girlfriend.

Joe had joined the Marines
before Kason was born. A week after Kason entered the world, Joe had been
killed in a deployment overseas. Joe had never known he'd fathered a son.

With each birthday, Kason
had grown more like Joe. Ray had refused to let Kason call him Dad. Kason had
grown up in Springfield, Missouri, under Ray's sneer and backhand slap. Kason
became his stepfather's punching bag at age six.

A boot to the ribs was Kason's
alarm clock. Knuckles to his chin reminded him to brush his teeth. The worst
came when Ray caught Kason in camouflage pants playing combat.

Ray had grabbed Kason by
the back of the neck and hauled him into the house. He'd told Kason if he
wanted to imitate his dead military dad, Ray would shave him for boot camp.

Ray had held the boy down
and buzzed him bald, then batted him on the back of the head. Kason now looked
even more like the birth father he'd never known.

T-ball that year had been a
killer. Ray made the shaving a yearly ritual. Little league was a nightmare.

A baseball cap hadn't
hidden his baldness. The Springfield Sox had looked embarrassed for him. The
other boys kept their distance, as if his shaved head were contagious.

Kason had played hard, but
never got close to his teammates. Over the years, he'd adjusted to being alone.

Throughout middle and high
schools, Ray had attended Kason's baseball games. His shouts from the stands
had been loud and abusive. When his team lost, his old man called him
Kassie.

The girl's name triggered
every bad memory from Kason's youth. In the end, humiliation had given Kason
fight. He now expelled his demons from the batter's box and out in left Held.
Adrenaline pumped with every home run and fly ball caught at the wall.

Exhaling his past, he cast
one last look in the bathroom mirror, then stepped out through the hall and
into his bedroom. He pulled on an olive T-shirt and jeans. He had two hours
before he had to report to James River Stadium.

Time enough to stop for
breakfast on his way to the park. After practice, he'd help Dayne pack up her
food and move her down the road.

Returning to the kitchen,
he found her gone. The kitchen counter was wiped clean, the coffeemaker was turned
off, and the eggs were put away. There was no sign of the tire iron.

Cimarron lay by the door,
looking lost and left behind. Where had Dayne disappeared to? He'd wanted to
talk to her before he left.

Kason let the Dobie out to
do his business. While he waited, he shaded his eyes and squinted down the
road. He concluded the dot in the distance was Dayne on her bike, running an
errand or going to work.

He had six miles to catch
her.

Once Cim was back in the
trailer, Kason climbed into his battered black Hummer and took off after her.
They needed to set a time for her to leave.

The gravel road made riding
a bike difficult. He came up on her slowly, watching as she wobbled, caught her
balance, then hit a rock and skidded. She nearly fell off her Schwinn.

He pulled up beside her,
rolled to a stop, then lowered his window. “We need to talk.”

“Can't, I'm late for work.”
She breezed past him in her yellow Frank's Food Warehouse shirt and khakis.

“I'll give you a lift.” He
pressed the accelerator, caught up to her. “You can toss your bike in the back.”

“I'd rather ride.” She
threw more muscle into her pedaling. The wheels on the bike spun up dust.

What the hell was her
problem? He didn't have time to chase her down the road. She'd pulled away from
him now by three car lengths. Her shoulders curved low over the handlebars and
her khakis pulled tight across her bottom. No sign of a panty line. Tomboy had
a nice ass.

Kason drove by her, then
cut the wheel sharply, forcing Dayne to stop. She jammed on the brakes so
jarringly fast, the chain fell off.

“You jerk!” she shouted at
him as he exited the Hummer. “Now I have to push my bike to town.”