No Pressure Page 2

  His mom opened the door before he’d pulled his glove off to knock. He needed to remember to take the holiday lights down before she decided to do it herself. His mother liked to constantly prove she was self-sufficient.

  “Hi, sweetie! I didn’t think you were coming by today, but I’m still glad to see you.” She pulled him over the threshold into a tight hug. Joey hated the way she had shrunk in the last few years, gravity finally having its way with her. It bothered him that he was taller than her now. As the only one of his siblings who took after his mother, he’d always been the shortest of them all.

  “I was just thinking about you, ya know?”

  “Would you like to stay for dinner? I haven’t eaten yet.”

  That was another thing. Joey’s mom, who had raised five children and wrangled a curmudgeon of a husband, was having a hard time adjusting to an empty house. Joey knew she often waited for him to come for a visit before cooking an actual meal, choosing instead to heat up leftovers or frozen dinners.

  “Yeah, Mom, sounds good.”

  Soon the kitchen of the Tudor-style house he had grown up in was filled with spices from Maureen’s famous stir-fry. For a woman who had traveled very little she had always been an adventurous cook. Another thing Joey had inherited from her, although he didn’t get a lot of practice.

  “Hey, Mom, do you remember Buck Swanfeldt?” Joey asked around a bite of chicken, onion, bok choy, and rice. Buck was more fun to think about than the weird paper on his car.

  “The Swanfeldts? Haven’t thought about them in years. You know how Skagit is, you can know of someone without knowing them. Didn’t the husband own an auto repair shop?”

  “Oh, maybe, I dunno. I saw the son, Buck, at the grocery store last night. I felt bad for not recognizing him when he said hi.”

  “Isn’t he a few years younger than you?”

  “I guess. I had to go home and look him up in the gallery of fools known as my yearbook. Anyway, I wondered if you remembered him.”

  He was trying to figure out a way he could ask about the flyer on his car without freaking her out. At first, he’d thought maybe it was a real-estate flyer, but no way would his mom put the house on the market without telling him. She rattled around in the huge place but refused to think about downsizing. She wanted a place her grandkids could stay when they visited. Which was never.

  That thought sent Joey off on a tangent. Several of those grandkids were his age. One was even a couple of years older; his sister Julie hadn’t wasted any time getting started. None of them visited. Joey hated that it made him angry. He was always having arguments in his head with his siblings over their lack of support.

  “I only remember Mrs. Swanfeldt vaguely from PTA or something. Maybe church? I don’t remember the boy.”

  He’s not a boy now. Joey barely managed to keep that thought to himself. His parents knew he was gay and accepted it; he still didn’t like to flaunt his sexuality, though. It was awkward and his mom inevitably asked embarrassing questions. Like any good mom. He was surprised; she’d been quiet on that front recently. Usually she peppered him with questions, wanting to know if he had been dating, met anyone. It was pretty sweet.

  By the time he got into his car a few hours later to head home, the freezing rain was beginning to change to light snow. Joey was very glad he’d remembered to put snow tires on his car this year. Last year he’d been careless and forgotten. He was never going to live that down. At least no one had witnessed him sliding slowly backwards down Novelty Hill into a snowbank.

  His apartment was freezing; it was all he could do to strip off his clothing and slide under his heavy covers. His last thought before sleep was, weirdly, about the way Buck Swanfeldt had said “hi” out of the blue.

  Four

  Buck disgusted himself. Twenty-six years old, successful business owner, regularly attended Chamber of Commerce meetings (so boring), wasn’t afraid of spiders, bats, or black cats. And yet he was afraid to talk to a man he towered ten inches over and who was, by all appearances, a genuinely nice person. Joey James, in Buck’s mind, was adorable and completely terrifying. He couldn’t get him out of his head. Pride alone insisted he try again. Next time it would go better, he was certain.

  Stopping at the fancy grocery store the next day, hoping for a do-over, Buck looked to spot Joey in the produce section again, or even the deli. Nothing. Just a bunch of other single shoppers wandering the store with their little baskets.

  Problem was, he had no plan past seeing if Joey might be there. The first time he had seen him it had been pure chance. Hell, he didn’t even need to go into stupid Hardwick’s; he could drive past the parking lot to see if Joey’s little POS was there. Practical car, he supposed, even if it was a foul metallic orange with a mismatched driver’s-side door. Butt-ugly, if you asked Buck.

  Light snow had fallen, melted, and then fallen again, bringing every yahoo in town who had neglected to put on snow tires into the shop. Buck hated turning people away, and though he wasn’t a tire place he would switch ’em out for people. He didn’t need the bad karma of having somebody get in an accident because he had refused. Thus, he and Miguel had been at the shop since seven a.m., working nonstop. They were both bone-tired. And the damn snow was still falling. He glared at the clouds.

  The looming twelve-hour day did not stop him from obsessing about Joey. His reaction to seeing Joey that day in the ER, Buck could only explain to himself as a shorted-out wire that suddenly made a connection. A stupid metaphor, Miguel would say. Yet now that the wire had been hooked back to Buck’s internal solenoid, he could not switch it off. His stupid brain played “Joey James” all day long. All night long, too, not that he was going to admit it.

  Miguel interrupted the thoughts that were starting to permanently imprint on Buck’s brain.

  “Yo, Bucky, it’s seriously cold in here today. I checked the thermostat again, but I think the furnace is bugged out.”

  “Damn. Yeah, it’s cold. Hey, come with me to the Booking Room for lunch. My treat. We can use their Wi-Fi to find someone to come and take a look at the furnace.” It was cold; Buck had been ignoring it because he’d been so busy stewing. “And don’t call me Bucky, asshole.”

  Finally giving in to the lure of hot food instead of freezing in the shop, Miguel joined Buck for lunch. He was much quieter than Buck was accustomed to, ordering his soup and sandwich quickly before taking a seat in the corner with his back to the door. Buck wondered for the millionth time what was up with that.

  The place was steamy from hot food and warm bodies packed inside along with wet jackets and damp boots. Holiday decorations still adorned the plate glass window, a tiny Christmas tree was jammed into a corner and still decorated with tiny coffee mugs and, Buck looked closer, the shiny ornaments were plastic sheriff’s badges. Somebody had sense of humor. From where they were sitting, Buck could see into the prep area. It looked like Sara Schultz, the owner—he knew her from the Chamber of Commerce thing—was back there making sandwiches with two people while two others manned the front. Snow days, a blessing and a curse.

  Being busy did not stop Sara from running an efficient show. The woman needed to learn how to delegate, Buck thought as he watched her coming toward the table with their order. She was pink with exertion, her normally perfect hair plastered to her forehead. Buck personally had never seen Sara in any form other than absolute perfection, unflustered.

  She put their plates in front of them. “Hey, guys, thanks for waiting. Buck, I hate to ask while you are at lunch, but I am so glad you came in today. My car…it won’t start. I had to get a jump this morning. Can you take a look at it? Lunch on the house?” As usual, she was talking a mile a minute, standing with her hands on her hips.

  “No problem, but don’t worry about lunch. Miguel wanted to get out of the shop; the furnace is on the fritz.”

  “No, man, it wasn’t the furnace. I couldn’t stand one more James Gang song, or Cream, or anything recorded in the 1970s. Dude, you ar
e only twenty-six. How is your playlist so old?”

  Sara laughed, and over the din of conversation and clanking dishes and silverware, Buck recognized the opening strains of Bad Company’s “Can’t Get Enough” coming from the overhead speakers. Miguel sank down in his seat, bumping his forehead against the table in disgust.

  “You must be kidding me,” he groaned. “A beautiful woman like you, how is it possible you have no musical taste?”

  Sara’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “My car is in the back; can I just give you my keys?”

  Between the two of them they got Sara’s car going. Buck had Miguel drive it back to the shop. No one but Buck himself was allowed to drive his baby, a 1976 Ford Mustang II, black with gold trim. He probably shouldn’t drive it in the snow, but the machine hugged the road with passion and intensity.

  On the way back to the shop, when for a change Buck wasn’t thinking about Joey, he spotted Joey’s hideous car heading the opposite direction. Traffic was typically slow in Skagit on a snow day, so Buck got a good look at his face. Joey looked grim, both hands gripping the steering wheel. He glanced to the side and caught Buck staring at him, and his expression turned even darker. Buck wondered what that was all about but didn’t have time to think about it while he and Miguel worked all afternoon and into the evening on Sara’s car, as well as several others. When he finally remembered to call about the furnace, everywhere was closed.

  Five

  Another paper had been tucked under his windshield wiper when he’d gotten out to his car after his early shift that day This one was a picture of his mom sweeping snow off her front porch, which had to have been taken sometime that morning. Which gave him two things to worry about, damn it; he’d told her not to do that herself. He didn’t need her in the hospital. He’d said he would clear her walkway and de-ice her car; why did she insist on clearing her porch on her own?

  And why was someone putting these pictures on his car? He’d mostly put the first one out of his mind, hoping it was someone playing a strange prank. This wasn’t a prank now. Someone was trying to freak him out, and it was working. Then he’d seen Buck Swanfeldt driving the other direction, watching him. Had the first picture been on his car the day Buck had approached him at Hardwick’s? His stomach clenched with irrational fear. No. He pushed the ridiculous thought aside.

  His mom was going to worry about him if he started showed up at her house every day. His excuse bank was running low. He stopped by anyway, needing to see that she was okay. She tried to feed him again, but he was too wound up to sit and eat a late lunch. Instead he left as quickly as he could and headed over to the county animal shelter to check out a dog to take for a walk. His apartment didn’t allow pets; this was his way of having one anyway, although he’d learned the hard way not to get attached to any of them.

  Joey pulled into the lot and drove around until he found an open spot close to the shelter’s front door. On the way into the building he could swear he felt someone watching him.

  The shelter was mayhem. The young woman volunteering at the front desk had to yell over the cacophony of sharp barks, excited woofs, and at least one howling hound. Apparently, the number of volunteers—and hence of walks—had been greatly reduced due to the weather.

  Joey wanted to take all of them. Walking the cement aisle between the cages was painful. He hated having to choose only one; most of the dogs were standing, wagging their tails and panting due to the stress of being sent away from their homes. A few huddled toward the backs of their cages, not even lifting their heads when he walked by, only following his movement with their eyes. It was usually one of those dogs he picked for a walk. Just like a hospital patient, shelter pups needed to get out and be reminded that the sun still shone.

  An enormous black lab mix caught his eye. He hadn’t met her before. The tag on the door of her cage indicated her name was Winifred. Joey thought Winifred was depressed because of her name, as well as being “Surrendered due to owner circumstances: dog barks and digs holes in backyard.” Of course the dog barks and digs—that’s what dogs do! He snapped the leash on her collar, promising the big shaggy mess they would find a nice walk where she could bark if she liked and dig all the holes she wanted.

  Winifred cheered up as soon as they left the shelter. Joey secretly renamed the beautiful dog Xena, because she was a warrior princess making her way alone in the world. The two of them strode along, owning the park in the winter twilight. They both exhaled great puffs of steamy air while they tramped the snowy path winding among the barren trees.

  The snow slowed, only random single flakes drifting down, the last few shaken loose from the heavy clouds. The overnight weather prediction was freezing rain. Joey wanted to enjoy the quiet peace only snow brings to the outdoors before it melted entirely. He had walked this path many times. There was so much joy to be had in watching a dog loosen up and start doing its happy-butt walk.

  The majority of the trees in Elizabeth Park were deciduous maples, currently naked but lovely in the fall when they turned passionate shades of orange and red. There were also huge rhododendron bushes and dogwoods, which were stunning in the spring: striking pinks. Purples, raucous yellows. The two of them set a good pace, Xena stopping here and there to sniff something interesting and to pee on as many of those things as possible. Joey had needed an outdoor walk, too; stalking the halls of the hospital was just not the same.

  He was lost in thought, watching Xena wag her tail and stop again to sniff something Joey wouldn’t put his face anywhere close to, when a hooded figure loomed out of the dark. Xena went on immediate alert; her wolf like hackles rose and she growled low in her throat, her teeth bared and lips clenched. The hair on the back of Joey’s neck rose along with the dog’s.

  “I’m supposed to give you a message, Joey James,” a voice rough with cold and age called out. At least the creep wasn’t coming any closer. Xena’s continued vigilance eased the edge of Joey’s fear. “Call off your dog.”

  “No way. How do you know my name?” Joey knew that was a stupid question; probably most of Skagit knew his name. He was involved with a lot of different groups, not just walking shelter dogs.

  Dark had fully fallen; he could only see the outline of the guy backlit by the vapor lamps dotting the park.

  “Don’t come any closer. I’ll let my dog off the leash.” Xena growled again, blessed pup.

  “Fine, okay. I’m supposed to tell you to be early to work tomorrow. Somebody wants to meet you.” Message delivered, the indistinct form shuffled off toward the lights of Steele Street. Xena pulled on the leash, wanting to follow him and teach him a lesson. Pulling her back, Joey fell to his knees on the frozen pathway, frantically hugging the dog close to him. Sensing his anxiety, she sat and let him hug the fear away, her warm tongue licking his cold cheek.

  What the hell had that strange message been about? He’d been too freaked out to think to question the guy or demand more information. He was certain it had something to do with the strange flyers left on his car, though. When he stopped shaking enough so he could stand without fear of his knees buckling, Joey gave Xena another scratch on the head. “That’s that, then,” he told her.

  Back at the shelter, he filled out adoption papers, putting down his mother’s address. No way was this dog going home with anyone but himself. Defiantly crossing out “Winifred” and replacing it with “Xena” for her license, he paid the adoption fee. He hated his apartment anyway; he’d find a new one or move back in with his mother for a month or two until he found the perfect house with a backyard for his girl. His mom needed companionship as much as Xena did.

  Stopping at the pet store before sneaking Xena into his apartment for the night, Joey dropped a couple hundred dollars on a swanky new collar and tags, leash, food bowl, water dish, twenty-five-pound bag of food, extra-large bed, and super-special doggy snacks. He was a complete sucker. He’d always wanted a dog; unfortunately, by the time he made his appearance in the world his parents were done with
pets, having dealt with the life and death of any number of guinea pigs, hamsters, kittens, and at least one bird.

  The horror stories his sisters regaled the family with over holiday dinners about gerbils escaping, only to be found months later in various stages of decomposition, were appalling. As were the detailed funerals they’d given every one of them. Joey had argued that a dog would be easier to find if it escaped, but his words fell onto deaf ears. His older brother had brought a dog home once, only to let it out the front door the next morning. Princess had been hit by a passing school bus, scarring an entire generation of elementary students. His sisters forever called that poor dog “Pancake.”

  After a night spent tossing and turning, he woke the next morning with a pleasant presence pressed against his feet, keeping them toasty warm. Not as good as a boyfriend, but far less demanding (in Joey’s experience). Xena had abandoned her pricey dog bed for human comfort. Joey lay cuddled up in bed as long as he could, until one more minute would mean he couldn’t drop Xena off at his mom’s before work. Work where a faceless stranger who’d haunted his sleep waited for him.

  Six

  The day had been going so well. Buck sighed. And then Miguel had to go and slice his hand on a freshly cut piece of sheet metal, resulting in a wound the size of the Grand Canyon. Buck hated the sight of blood.

  One minute they’d been chatting, and then Miguel made a sharp gesture to emphasize something he’d said, and the next thing Buck knew, a fountain of blood covered his only full working bay. Fuck. And that was big, because Buck didn’t cuss.