Ramsey Rules Read online

  “Firemen rescue cats. That’s their thing.”

  “Oh.” Her lips twitched. “I stand corrected.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Go on. Get out of here. I have to finish this report.”

  He nodded, but he was putting down roots where he stood. “If your arm hurts later and you want to cancel our date, it’s okay.”

  Ramsey frowned. “Are you looking for trouble?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “I mean it sounds as if you’re looking for a way out. Are you having second thoughts?”

  Now it was Sullivan’s turn to frown. “No, not at all. I just wanted you to know that I’d understand if you had to cancel.”

  “Look, Sullivan. You are confusing the hell of out me.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah. It’s probably better if you just stop talking.”

  “I can do that. Maybe.”

  “I’ll be ready Friday morning at eight.” If she had to dress with her arm in a sling, she’d be ready. She wasn’t letting him off so easily. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and one of her dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. “And you better be early or I’ll think you’re not coming. It’ll piss me off.”

  Sullivan could not quite keep his smile in check but his gray eyes remained steady and serious. “I wouldn’t like that,” he said gravely.

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  Nodding once, firmly, Sullivan left.

  12

  Ramsey examined the purplish bruise on her forearm when she got out of the shower. Oddly enough, or perhaps not oddly at all, it was the size of a spud. It was tender to the touch but not painful. If she wore long sleeves, there was every chance that she’d forget it was there.

  She glanced at the clock on the bedside table, saw she had sufficient time to dither, and picked up her phone for weather information. When the app informed her that the outside temperature was cool enough to wear jeans, she used up several dithering minutes to locate her favorite pair. After rummaging through drawers and the closet with no joy, she was struck by a vague memory of having actually washed them. She found them in the laundry room lying neatly over the ironing board. Tossing them over her shoulder, she hurried back to her bedroom to exchange her towel for a lemon-yellow bra and matching thong. She carefully stepped into the faded jeans to avoid poking her toes through the knees that were less denim and more string and wriggled into them. She added a lime green long-sleeved tee and sat on the bed while she put on no-show socks. One was lime green; the other lemon yellow.

  Without benefit of a mirror, Ramsey braided her hair and tied it off with a purple elastic band because she couldn’t find one in either lime or lemon. What remained of her dithering time was used up deciding what she wanted for breakfast. She settled on a hardboiled egg and a piece of buttered rye toast. She was wiping crumbs from the counter when the doorbell rang. She opened up the dishwasher, swept the crumbs inside, and closed the door with her hip.

  Ramsey peeked through the front window before she deactivated the security alarm. Sullivan had already moved away from the door by the time she opened it. He stood at the edge of the porch, one shoulder resting against a column, his arms folded casually across his chest. She met his frank gaze, returned his crooked smile with a tentative one of her own, and then stood still for his head-to-toe inspection.

  “You’re going to want to wear a jacket,” he said. “At least until it warms up.”

  It was then that Ramsey took notice of what Sullivan was wearing. Except for his leather jacket, they were dressed in a similar fashion, so similar that Ramsey had an urge to run back in the house to change her clothes. His green tee was a shade closer to shamrock than lime, but his faded jeans had blowouts at the knees just like hers.

  “And you’ll need shoes,” he said, his gaze gliding to her feet. “You know those socks don’t match.”

  “It’s a thing,” she said, wriggling her toes. “And they do match, just not each other.”

  “If you say so.”

  Ramsey pulled on the neckline of her tee to give him a glimpse of her lemon-yellow bra strap. “See?”

  His grin deepened. “I do. I certainly do.”

  She straightened her tee, smoothed it over her midriff. “Shoes,” she said, pulling her eyes away from his. Lord, but the man had a stare like a tractor beam. It was good thing she had her shields up before she opened the door or she might have actually flown into his arms.

  “Give me a minute.” She stepped inside, closed the door, and slipped into a pair of brown leather ankle boots that were not so dissimilar from the black boots that Sullivan was wearing. It was only after she had them on that she began to question what sort of bike riding they were going to be doing. A second peek out the window, this time to look in her driveway, gave Ramsey her answer.

  Sullivan had ridden to her house on his Harley. One helmet was balanced on the seat, but a second helmet was strapped to the back.

  Ramsey let the curtain fall into place but didn’t move until her heart stopped racing. He really expected her to climb on that machine and hold on. Bruce Springsteen began playing in her head and there was an almost simultaneous thrum between her thighs.

  She really needed an intervention. It was a sad fact that there was no one to call who wouldn’t tell her to let Sullivan Day slide into home. Ramsey ran her clammy palms over the front of her jeans and then went to get her jean jacket. She was still shrugging into it when she stepped onto the front porch.

  “You should have told me you meant this kind of bike riding.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the Harley as she pulled the door shut behind her. The steady exit beep of the alarm system was silenced.

  “I told you I’d think of something,” he said. “This is what I thought of. Would you rather do something else? You’ll have to drive. The Harley is all I have in the way of transportation.”

  “No. No, this is fine.”

  Sullivan put out an arm to stop her as she moved to the edge of the porch. A small crease appeared between his eyebrows. “I’m not sure that it is. Fine, I mean.”

  Ramsey looked at a point past his shoulder, making it impossible for him to catch her eye. “No, really, it’s okay. Let’s go.” She gave his extended arm a little push sideways, and although he turned it into a gallant gesture to usher her to precede him, she doubted he was convinced she was telling the truth. How could he be when she hadn’t done a very good job of convincing herself?

  Once they reached the Harley, Ramsey accepted the helmet Sullivan held out to her. She did not give in to the urge to hug it to her chest, but it was a narrow thing. Instead, she let it dangle at her side for several long seconds while she drew in a steadying breath. Ramsey did not think her delay had been that obvious, but Sullivan did not miss a trick.

  “Is this your first time on a bike?” he asked.

  Predictably, her chin came up. It was a tactical error because now she was looking squarely into his eyes. His gaze had narrowed ever so slightly. She thought she saw more in the way of suspicion than concern. “I’m not on the bike yet, am I?” His gray eyes turned flinty, and she caved. She bet he was a crack interrogator. Probably never resorted to waterboarding. “All right. No, I’ve never been on a bike. I’ve never stood this close to one. It’s huge, and it’s leaning. I don’t even know why it hasn’t toppled.”

  “Kickstand.”

  She pictured herself slinging the helmet at his head.

  “Don’t do it,” he said calmly.

  “Do what?” She watched him press his lips together at the same time he raised his eyebrows. The expression spoke for itself. He was daring her to tell him he was wrong. She couldn’t. Her fist relaxed its white-knuckled grip on the helmet strap and the tension in her arm began to dissolve.

  Sullivan said, “Thank you. Now, will you tell me what’s really going on?”

  “I’m afraid. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Only if it’s the truth.”

  “Well, it is.” She
hated that she sounded churlish, but if Sullivan noticed, he pretended not to.

  “Good. What do you want to do about it? And just so you know, hitting me with that helmet is off the table.”

  That he responded so easily, without any hint of confrontation, penetrated Ramsey’s defenses as nothing else could have. One corner of her mouth lifted. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it hinted that it could be. “I don’t like being afraid.”

  “It never occurred to me that you did.”

  Ramsey looked over the Harley. “Have you ever had an accident while you were riding?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m wondering if maybe you’re due.”

  He caught her chin with his fingertips. When she didn’t jerk away, he turned her attention from the bike to him. “Is it the Harley you don’t trust, or is it me?”

  She did not answer immediately but neither did she look anywhere else. It was when his fingers fell away that she said, “I think it might be me that I don’t trust.”

  Sullivan merely stared, silenced by her answer.

  Ramsey’s nod was hardly perceptible. “You didn’t consider that, did you?”

  “Nope,” he said, and put a hand to the back of his neck as though thoughtful. “Is it true?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  He nodded. “All right.” His hand left his neck but before it fell to his side, he plowed his fingers through his hair. “What’s the plan, then?”

  “We should probably go for a ride. Let things sort themselves out.”

  Before she could change her mind, Sullivan helped her strap on the helmet. He put on his own and then mounted the bike. Ramsey followed suit, swinging her leg over the back of the Harley and sliding onto the leather seat right behind him. He turned his head so she could hear him. “You can hold on to me or just sit there, rest your hands on your thighs. Up to you.”

  She nodded and kept her hands on her thighs right up until the moment the engine roared and they began rolling down the driveway. At first, she held his jacket, but when they turned onto the street Ramsey flung her arms around this waist. She imagined he was grinning, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and held on.

  Ramsey peeked occasionally to get her bearings. She was aware when they merged onto the highway. She could feel the speed increasing but the ride remained smoother than she imagined it could be. It seemed that very little time had passed before she glimpsed an off-ramp sign for an exit five miles east of Clifton. She tested her mettle, loosening her grip and sitting up a little straighter. She opened her eyes and observed the familiar landscape with the fresh eyes of a passenger. A hundred yards on her right, a log house she’d never seen before nestled among the trees. A narrow creek ran parallel to the highway for at least half a mile before it meandered away into a large grove of pines. Sheep clustered on a hillside.

  Somewhere along the way she had stopped hugging Sullivan. She was sitting upright, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. She could turn her head now and observe the view on her left. Sometimes what she wanted to observe was the back of Sullivan Day. She imagined that she would eventually tire of staring at his broad shoulders or watching the way his dark hair swept his nape below the helmet, but she believed fatigue would not set in anytime soon. Of course, she didn’t trust herself. How could she? She was confronting a situation that was uncomfortably familiar to her. She couldn’t even pretend that she thought she would act differently this time around. It was the certain knowledge that she would go down the same path that made her erect barriers in the first place. Recognizing she was following a pattern was not necessarily enough of a catalyst to make a change. If that were true, she would have never gotten on the bike, never put her arms around Sullivan Day, never answered the door when he rang the bell, and never agreed to a second date.

  Ramsey felt her shoulders rise and fall on a sigh she couldn’t hear. Better, she thought, that it was delivered to the wind.

  Sullivan felt Ramsey clutch him soon after he took an off-ramp and then turned onto a narrow chip and tar side road. She relaxed after a few miles as she accustomed herself to the dips and curves and the bumps he could not avoid. They only saw a few cars, all of them coming from the other direction. He slowed each time, not so much to give them a wide berth, but to ease Ramsey’s anxiety. He could feel her tense when she saw a car approaching.

  He was still trying to work out what she meant about not trusting herself when he slowed the bike and took a left into the gravel parking lot of Theo’s Shoot and Shots. The lot was crowded with Ford and Dodge trucks, a couple of SUVs, and five bikes at the front porch rail. He parked at the end of the line and indicated that Ramsey should dismount first. When she was off the bike, he removed his helmet, and dropped the kickstand into place.

  “You all right?” he asked, looking her over. She didn’t respond immediately, and his expression shifted into concern until he realized she was taking inventory. When she finally nodded, he grinned. “You’re sure?”

  “I am. It was…” She paused. “Invigorating.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Very good.” She looked around. “Shoot and Shots? You brought me to a biker bar?”

  “Do you not see the trucks?”

  “Okay. You brought me to a redneck bar?”

  “Theo’s,” he said, pointing to the sign that rested on the green shingle porch roof and ran almost the full length of it. “Theo’s Shoot and Shots. Theo Constantinides is Greek.”

  “That doesn’t disqualify him as a redneck. Everyone around here gets assimilated by the Borg.”

  He laughed. “You don’t even know where we are.”

  “True. But there’s a rebel decal on that truck over there, and I’ll bet you a dollar we are still far north of Mason-Dixon.”

  “Not touching that. C’mon. Let’s go in.” Hoping that her dubious look was mostly feigned, he ignored it. “Bring your helmet.”

  “Ha! You don’t trust the crowd.”

  “Yeah, but it’s because they’re felons not rednecks.” He almost got away with that explanation but in the end his lips twitched. She punched him lightly in his arm. “Hey, what is this? Fifth grade?” But he was inordinately pleased with the punch. He couldn’t help but feel hopeful.

  Ramsey ducked her head and shrugged to avoid answering his question. When he opened the door for her, she waved him in first, and Sullivan had to look over his shoulder to make sure she was following. She was.

  He wasn’t surprised when the first thing she noted was the absence of customers. The interior of the tavern was dark but it was not as if Theo’s patrons were lurking in the shadows. There were seven round tables with five chairs each, two semi-circular booths that could comfortably sit six, and a dozen or so stools lined up at the bar. There were exactly seven people occupying the customer side of the tavern, five men and two women, and they all looked up as the door began to close behind Sullivan. He raised a hand, greeting the ones who called out to him.

  He led Ramsey to the bar where a young woman was working. She stopped what she was doing when Sullivan slid onto a stool. He set his helmet on the bar and tapped the stool beside him, inviting Ramsey to sit. “Do you have a couple of four-wheelers for us?”

  “Not right now,” she said. “They’re all out.” She turned her wrist to check her watch. “Next one should be back in about ten minutes. If you really want two, then it’ll be another half hour. You gonna shoot?”

  “Thought I would. Your dad said he had something he wanted me to try out. Is Theo around?”

  “In the kitchen making baklava.”

  “I hate to interrupt that.”

  “He’ll be angry if you don’t.” Her eyes slid sideways. She wiped her hands on the short white apron at her waist and then extended an arm across the bar. “I’m Anna Constantinides. This is my dad’s place.”

  Sullivan broke in before Ramsey could speak. “Sorry. Ramsey,
this is Anna. Anna, Ramsey Masters.”

  Ramsey shook the young woman’s hand. She had a good grip, an easy smile, and a mass of thick dark curly hair framing her face. “Nice to meet you.” To Sullivan, she said, “Shooting?”

  He nodded. “There’s a shooting range behind the tavern, but we have to take a four-wheeler to get to it.”

  “It’s rare that we don’t have at least one here,” said Anna. “Don’t know why so many people decided to come out this morning. The range is usually only this active on a Saturday. There’s Theo’s golf cart, if you want to use it. He won’t mind.”

  Sullivan’s eyebrows lifted. “Golf cart? No, thanks. We’ll wait for an ATV and ride tandem.”

  Anna regarded Ramsey with new interest. “You shoot?”

  “I do. I didn’t know I was going to do it today.” She looked sideways at Sullivan. “You might have told me.”

  “There’s no surprise if I tell you everything.”

  “Exactly,” she said dryly.

  Anna laughed. “You understand what she’s telling you, Sullivan? She’s not fond of surprises.”

  Sullivan had a wry smile for both women. “Got it.” He looked around the tavern, took note of everyone in the building. “Where’s Little Theo?”

  “In the gun shack. Sam called off sick so Little Theo’s filling in. I wanted to be out on the range, but I pulled the short straw. If my brother’s sitting around, kick the chair out from under him.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the kitchen. “Go on. Say hello to Papa. Your transport will be waiting for you when he’s done bending your ear.”

  Sullivan stood. “All right. Can we leave our helmets with you?”

  “Sure.” Anna put them under the bar.

  “Ramsey? You’ll want to meet Theo.”

  “You’re right,” she said, sliding off her stool. “A man who makes baklava and owns a shooting range? Be still my heart.”