One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(14)

“Not as much as I’d like.” He pats his rounded belly mournfully. At six foot seven, Bob more closely resembles Paul Bunyan than, say, wiry superhikers such as Nemeth and Martin, but he’s clearly fit, not to mention that one of his legs is about as tall as my entire body. I have no problem envisioning him powering through the mountains. He probably clears small forests in a single bound.

“I wouldn’t mind a hot meal,” Luciana agrees. “Let me feed Daisy first.”

“Um, one other question. Any chance I could crash on your floor tonight?” The room has two double beds, but I don’t want to sound presumptuous. “Seems silly to shell out motel money for a matter of hours.”

Luciana isn’t fooled. “I take it going from town to town solving other people’s problems doesn’t pay so well?”

“Let’s just say being rewarded with a squeak toy would be a step up.”

“Maybe Daisy will share hers.”

The dog trots back over to me. I obligingly scratch her ears as Luciana starts fiddling with travel bowls and pre-portioned bags of kibble.

“Keep doing that, and she’ll sleep in your bed tonight,” Luciana tells me.

“Does she prefer the right side or the left?”

“More like the middle. Welcome to the life of a spoiled work dog. But, sure, you can bunk here for the night.”

“Daisy can sleep with me,” Bob offers excitedly. “Just don’t tell my husband.”

Upon seeing my startled expression, Bob shrugs affably and explains: “His name is Rob. Rob and Bob. Seriously, could we be more confusing? But soul mates are soul mates.”

“Is he a Bigfoot hunter, too?”

“Worse. A neurosurgeon. All science all the time. What was I thinking?”

“That Rob would let you one day get a yellow Lab like Daisy?” I venture.

“Yes! I’m going to tell him. When I get home, time for a new member of the family.”

“Does Bigfoot like dogs?”

“I like to think Sasquatches are friendly toward everyone, being high on the evolutionary food chain.”

“Herbivores or carnivores?”

“Omnivores.”

“Hedging your bets.”

“Can’t know what we haven’t met. But current cryptozoologists theorize Bigfoot shares many traits with the ape family, which would make them omnivores.” Bob speaks matter-of-factly, no doubt accustomed to skepticism. We are kindred spirits in that regard.

Daisy finishes scarfing down her food. Luciana takes her out to water the bushes, then instructs the yellow Lab to go to bed. Daisy seems less of a fan of this order, but obligingly curls up on the carpet where she can monitor the motel room door for signs of her handler’s return.

I finally get to set my rolly bag aside, then we’re off to dinner. Three new friends, I like to think.

Enjoying the calm before the storm.



* * *



—

We have to wait an hour to get a table at the steak house that is walking distance from the motel. We watch a steady stream of tourists flow into the western-themed establishment. Families, couples. Some glance up and smile; some never take their eyes off their cell phones. All sidestep noticeably upon nearing Bob. At one point I notice him noticing. He shrugs back at me as if to say, what can you do?

Once seated, Luciana and Bob order a beer each. I fixate on the food. I’m not picky. I eat anything and everything. I suppose my broad-mindedness will come in handy when subsisting on MREs for the next week. Just the idea of future deprivation, however, has me wanting everything on the menu. Nachos. Skirt steak. Fajitas. For that matter, I wouldn’t mind a beer.

You’d think eventually the cravings would go away. They don’t. I can be around others who drink. For that matter, my only employable skill is bartending, so I continue to spend my life surrounded by booze. Certain things, however, still whisper to me like words from a long-lost lover. The scent of hops. The clink of ice cubes hitting a glass. The creamy richness of perfectly poured foam.

I should go to a meeting after this. I should also sleep through the night, find joy in my heart, and relive a happy memory.

But I remain me. A woman capable of dining with two new acquaintances, and yet who still feels alone in a crowded room. I don’t remember the exact age I had my first drink. I was young, very young, but then plenty of kids steal sips of their parents’ drinks, trying to unravel the mysteries of adulthood.

Most recoil at the lighter-fluid punch. Whereas for myself . . .

I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my high school graduation. Even the phone call informing me of my parents’ deaths is a hazy affair, like something that was happening to someone else.

But my first stolen sip of my father’s drink . . . Liquid gold, burning down my throat. A seeping warmth that made my restless limbs and racing brain slow, steady, quiet.

Alcohol is my first love and most abusive relationship. All else has paled in comparison. Even my love for Paul.

The waitress arrives for our orders. The restaurant is so loud and crowded we have to semi-shout to be heard. I go with fajitas. Luciana orders grilled chicken. Bob requests nachos, rib eye, and a side of maple-fried Brussels sprouts. For the table, he says.

The waitress pauses mid scribble. She looks up for the first time. I recognize her harried attention span from my own lifetime in food service. Her gaze travels up Bob’s enormous torso to his beaming face.