Straddling the Line. Sarah M. Anderson
That’s what they were here for—the music. The only thing that had never let Ben down and never demanded something he couldn’t give.
Through the rest of the next set, he kept searching the crowd for Josey. The feeling of her lips against his stayed with him, song after song. He caught sight of her a few times—the sequins on her shirt gave her a glow that stood out in the smoky bar—but then the crowd would shift and he’d lose her again.
Rex split as soon as the gig was up; Toadie took his amp and bailed, too. Normally, Ben was in charge of getting their equipment out of the bar in one piece. Not tonight. He shot Stick a look and headed out to find Josey. No-strings-attached sex could be amazing sex, and maybe if he had some amazing sex, he’d be able to get her out of his head.
She wasn’t in the bar; no sign of her in the parking lot. He even had a waitress check the bathroom—nothing.
Gone.
Where the hell did she go?
Josey rested her head on the steering wheel, waiting for her mind to clear. The intersection was empty at this ungodly hour of the morning, so she was able to think without being honked at. Thankfully, Jenny had cut out early—something about midnight being past her bedtime—so Josey could think without being judged.
Which way should she go?
If she went right, she’d be within the city limits of Rapid City inside of ten minutes. Another fifteen until she got to the gentrifying, hip downtown neighborhood where her apartment was above an upscale children’s boutique. It was a nice place—a small studio, but one where the heat and plumbing always worked and she could watch TV while surfing the internet. All the conveniences of modern life—conveniences she’d become accustomed to while going to school out East and living as a mostly white woman—were at her fingertips when she was at her apartment.
If she turned right, she’d sleep late, grab a cappuccino and a croissant from the Apollo Coffee Co. down the street and do some work. She’d send a few follow-up emails to sponsors, do a little research into other possible donors.
If she turned right, things would be quiet. Calm.
Lonely.
If she went left, though, she’d get onto Highway 90. In five minutes, Rapid City would be nothing but a glow in her rearview mirror. In twenty minutes, she’d hit the edge of the rez, and in forty-five minutes, she’d be at her mom’s double-wide trailer. She’d try to be quiet when she got in, but Mom would wake up anyway. She’d say, “Oh, Josey, I’m glad you’re home,” the same thing she said every single time Josey came over. It didn’t matter if she was visiting for lunch, staying for the weekend or just showing up, Mom was always glad she was home. Then Mom would touch the picture of Dad she kept on top of the TV and shuffle back to bed.
If Josey turned left, she’d make her own tea in the morning and eat a knockoff brand of cereal for breakfast. She’d spend the next several days working on the school. Her back would try to kill her, her manicure would be shot to heck and she’d be face-to-face with the unavoidable fact that the school—the legacy her grandfather left her to complete—would not be ready for the grand opening and some members of the tribe would hold that against her. Things would be crazy. Messy. Unfinished.
Just like things with Ben were unfinished. If she turned around, she’d be back at the bar in less than five minutes. She could find Ben, pick up where she’d left off—God help her, she had no idea a man could kiss like that—and then …
No. She couldn’t go back. She’d done the correct thing, leaving the bar before the last set had ended. Correct, because Ben Bolton wasn’t arrogant, domineering and heartless like she’d first thought. Well, maybe he was all of those things, but underneath that, there was more to him—something lost, something lonely. Something that didn’t fit, no matter how hard he tried. That was the something Josey recognized.
Ben Bolton was a dangerous man because he was someone she could care for.
She couldn’t let herself get involved with him. It didn’t matter how good the kiss had been. The last time she’d followed her heart instead of her head, she’d gotten it trampled into small, unrecognizable bits. Plus, a lot of people on the rez didn’t look kindly upon interracial dating. She’d worked so hard for so long, trying to prove her bona fides to the tribe. No white man, not even Ben Bolton, was worth risking that kind of pain.
A horn honked behind her, startling her out of her thoughts.
Left or right?
The horn blared, the driver’s impatience obvious.
Josey turned left.
Three
Ben took a deep breath. He hated this quarterly meeting with his father. Actually, it was the quarterly report from the chief financial officer to the chief executive officer, but Ben could never shake the feeling that he was in sixth grade, marching to his doom to explain the two Cs he’d gotten. Despite the fact that Ben had graduated as the valedictorian, Dad had always held those two Cs against him. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the old man threw them back in his face today.
Ben was getting ahead of himself. Maybe this would go well.
And pigs might sprout wings, he thought as he knocked. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go back to running the business.
“Dad?”
“Come in.”
Ben swung the door open and, just like he did every time he went into Dad’s office, he grimaced at the piles of paper that covered every available surface. Although it hadn’t been an official reason for moving to the new building, Ben had hoped that relocating would help Dad pare down the pit of paperwork.
It hadn’t. Bruce Bolton was the kind of old school that believed “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” was a battle cry in the war against technology. Bobby had gotten Dad on a computer and set up email, but the old man still insisted on printing out every single piece of electronic communication and then “filing” it according to a system that no one but he understood. Hell, the last time Ben had ordered a new printer, Dad had ranted about how that old dot-matrix printer that fed the green-and-white-striped paper on reels was the best piece of technology he’d ever owned. That printer had been a dinosaur twenty years ago—just like Dad.
But facts were facts, and the facts were, Crazy Horse Choppers was still Bruce Bolton’s business. Sure, Billy made the bikes, Ben balanced the books, and Bobby … well, he did something. Bruce was still the sole owner, and he still insisted on approving every single expenditure. Hence the quarterly meeting, where Ben tried to beat some sense into Dad’s head and Dad’s head only got harder.
“Quarterly report,” Ben said, trying to find a place on Dad’s desk where he could set the file. He’d given up on emailing the report a long time ago.
“Still in the black?” That was all Dad cared about. His world was black and white—or, more specifically, black and red. He didn’t care about what it took to keep those numbers in the black, and he didn’t even care how much black there was. He only cared that the bottom-line number was black. It seemed to Ben that Dad set a pretty low bar for success.
“Yes, still in the black. We shipped thirty-seven units, took in orders for forty-five bikes and have our delays down to twenty-eight days.” Of course, Ben had had to get several loans to bridge the gap between delivery and payment, but those facts bored Dad.
This was no way to run a business in today’s world. If Ben could get Dad to sign off on some modern investment strategies—the same strategies Ben had used to build his own financial portfolio—then they’d have the capital to float their own loans. That was what Ben needed to move the company forward—capital to invest in newer technologies, to hire new workers, to build the company. Ben had a good head for numbers, and he had the well-balanced portfolio to prove it. He’d made millions by being careful.
Not that any of that