Danger, Sweetheart Part 11

Unlike any other pony Garrett had seen, this one retreated from food. Vegas Douche set three slices of apple on one of the posts and took a careful step back.

"Look, you gotta see reason on this one, Veg-uh, Mr. Tarbell."

"Oh, after enduring your vulgar rants I feel you should call me Blake."

"Blake. It's not just me, it's Christ!"

The pony had come close, sniffed the apple, then let loose with a kick and booted the apple right off the pole. Garrett had to make a conscious effort not to cringe back and run like the wind. Couldn't show fear in front of Vegas Douche. Who was, if anything, pretty calm given that the reason the b.i.t.c.hy pony was so fat was because she probably devoured her handlers in the night.

"I am aware it's not to your exact liking, Margaret of Anjou!" he snapped, getting way more upset at the pony than he was at Garrett's deal getting f.u.c.ked. "I didn't have time to sprinkle cinnamon sugar on them. It's naked apple slices or nothing."

The pony thought that sucked, if the squeals and snorts and kicks and gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth were any indication. Vegas Douche sighed and closed the bag Garrett a.s.sumed was stuffed with naked apple slices. "Well, I'm certainly not giving you a treat now. You'll have to stay in your corral and think about what you've done." Then he turned and walked back to the barn. "Tough love," he muttered to Garrett, like he gave a ripe f.u.c.k.

"I don't give a ripe f.u.c.k!" At Vegas Douche's snort, he fell back on what was, to him, the simplest most obvious argument to get the guy back in line: "You were on board before."

"Yes, well." He put the bag back and started rolling hose. Garrett only then realized the floor was as clean as barn floors ever get. Which meant Vegas Douche had quit Vegas to shovel s.h.i.+t and hose down barns. He felt like his brain was getting a cramp; it was all too strange to wrap his head around. "I was an a.s.shole before. I am trying to atone."

"I could care less!"

Blake flinched. Ha! Garrett straightened and smirked. Got him on the run, mess with the bull and get the horns, probably not used to anyone actually giving him the business.

"No, Mr. Hobbes. You stated you could care less when in fact you meant the opposite: you could not care less. I loathe when people do that. It tops my list of grammatical pet peeves, along with 'nauseous' getting mixed up with 'nauseated.'"

"I don't know what the f.u.c.k you're talking about."

"'Nauseous' is when you make other people feel nauseated. If you say, 'I'm nauseous,' what you mean is that there is something about you that makes other people feel nauseated."

What. The. f.u.c.k? Garrett nearly bit his tongue in half. "We had a deal!"

"In fact, you and I did not. You may have had a deal with, er, who was it? Golf and Barf?"

"Putt N'Go, you forgetful f.u.c.k!"

"You were much nicer on the phone." Vegas Douche had the nerve to sound f.u.c.king wistful.

"You were giving me what I wanted over the phone!" Ugh. Probably should rephrase, if Blake's snicker was any indication.

"Ah, if only my twin was here. He'd drown you in a chorus of jokes heavy with s.e.xual innuendo."

Oh, f.u.c.k. There were two of them; he kept forgetting. No one had seen either of Shannah's crazy brats before now. Her parents hadn't even kept pics of them.

"Our deal"-how f.u.c.king annoying, the douche was still yapping-"was for the farms in foreclosure. Heartbreak wasn't in foreclosure just then-"

"It would have been!"

"-and, as must be obvious to you by now, it's off the market, hopefully for good."

"You know we need them!"

"In fact, I did not know that. No surprise, given your policy of dealing everyone out."

"There's no deal without Heartbreak!"

That," Blake replied, pausing to take a deep swig from a water bottle that looked like a pony had stomped on it, and Garrett bet he knew which pony, "is not my concern."

"You're gonna be a f.u.c.king migrant worker for f.u.c.king Heartbreak instead of living in Las f.u.c.king Vegas?"

"Apparently."

"What the f.u.c.k?"

"Was your father a minister?"

"Fertilizer salesman," Garrett replied shortly. "Dead now."

Blake blinked like an owl, Garrett had noticed. Slowly. Next the guy's head would swivel around and he'd hoot at the treetops. "I had that same thought: What the f.u.c.k indeed. It's not what I was expecting at all when I Martianed my mother." At Garrett's bulging eyes (which indicated not just confusion but killing fury) he added, "It's a Tarbell thing from a book our mom read. It means being overbearing and s.e.xist while convincing the lady in question your overbearing s.e.xism was for her own good." He turned in the direction of the town and shook a gloved fist. "Are you happy now, Mom? When will you release me from this h.e.l.lhole?"

h.e.l.lhole? Yes! Garrett could work with h.e.l.lhole. For the first time that day, he and Vegas Douche were on the same page. Vegas Douche hated the work and hated the farm and wanted out but was too chickenguts to stand up to his mommy. Garrett could fix everything with some phone calls and paperwork. "You can release yourself, y'know."

The hose had been rolled and put away. "It's not that simple, Garrett."

"Wrong, Vegas D- wrong, Blake!" He was almost hyperventilating with relief. "Took me a minute to catch up-"

"Only a minute?"

"That you need help. You're stuck and you don't know how to get out- Blake, I invented that!" Maybe he'd shake Blake's hand on the way out. He'd do a lot of stupid social things to see Heartbreak back on the chopping block. "We can get through the paperwork in a day."

"No."

"All right, two days, but only because the only notary's a b.i.t.c.h and she'll find ways to stall, so we have to go one town over." If there was anyone he loathed more than the Banaan clan, it was Natalie "my s.h.i.+t don't stink" Lane. Who'd also, if the rumors were true, been hanging around Heartbreak a lot. But she'd always had a soft spot for the s.h.i.+thole. And it wasn't like the bank was going to need her much longer. "You'll get out, I'll get out, Heartbreak will get flooded and then buried in golf b.a.l.l.s, and Sweetheart Fertilizer can finally die."

"Sweetheart Fertilizer?"

Garrett gritted his teeth. Hadn't meant to let that slip to the one guy in two hundred miles who didn't know what he did for a living. "Family business."

Yes. His family had been in the business of peddling s.h.i.+t (natural as well as man-made) for generations. The company motto ("We'll Take Your c.r.a.p!") was cross-st.i.tched on pillows all over his parents' house. They lived and breathed fertilizer, which was as horrible as it sounded. The business had killed his grandfather; a Sweetheart Fertilizer truck sideswiped his bicycle. Ironically, he was on a bike after losing his driver's license for too many DUIs.

"There's much more to fertilizer than what most people a.s.sume," Vegas Douche was telling him, like Garrett didn't know s.h.i.+t about s.h.i.+t. "It's not just animal waste; it's peat and sewage sludge, not to mention-"

"I know!"

"And the craze for all things organic could only help that side of your business."

"I don't care!"

Thank G.o.d his father had finally croaked. The geezer would never have allowed any of this. Garrett's mom didn't like it, either, but f.u.c.k her-most days she had pudding for brains anyway. f.u.c.king Alzheimer's: it made the patients a zillion times more irritating while taking years to actually kill them.

Garrett sucked in a breath to calm himself. Out of the shower less than an hour and he could feel his s.h.i.+rt getting soaked under the arms. This meet 'n' greet hadn't gone at all the way he'd thought it would. Happy place, where the f.u.c.k is my happy place?

Anywhere but here, that's where. "Listen. Listen to me, Blake. Sweetheart f.u.c.king sucks. You know this. I know this. Everyone except the farmers knows this, and they don't know s.h.i.+t because all they can smell is s.h.i.+t."

"This is fascinating, and somewhat obscene."

"No, listen. You and me, we're exactly the same."

"You and I."

"Right! I've been trapped on this prairie for generations and I'm not taking over the family biz. I always knew I was gonna do better, and I am. I'm the guy who set this whole farm foreclosure/death of Sweetheart in motion. And thank G.o.d! Hay season aggravates my allergies, I f.u.c.king hate livestock of any kind, horses are useless except in New York City for those stupid handsome cab ride things for tourists-"

"Hansoms."

"-I hate driving forty-five minutes to get a gallon of milk, everything in the 'Heart closes at nine P.M., and I'd rather barf; yeah, that's right, I'd rather f.u.c.king barf than keep the family biz going one more generation.

"There's more out there than Sweetheart, Blake, and you're maybe the one other guy in town who gets it. And I'm ready, I'm more than ready, to go. I could go to Hollywood!"

"You would flourish in Hollywood."

"Thank you! I could go to-to the Riviera!" That was a rich-guy thing, right? Blake would know what the f.u.c.k he was talking about. "I could start a chain of strip clubs! I could design my own line of toilet paper! Whatever I do, it's because a cla.s.sy life is waiting for me and the sooner the 'Heart turns into the area's biggest and best mini-golf course, the better!" He paused and forced a long, steadying breath, then finished: "My point is, we're the same."

"Ah ... no."

"We can get the f.u.c.k out and never look back."

"Oh. You're a.s.suming that because I said- Ah!" The guy looked relieved for some reason. Why now? The time to look relieved was when Garrett first explained how much the same they were. "You misunderstood. I meant I can't sell Heartbreak Farm as in can not sell Heartbreak."

Garrett blinked. He'd been falling into a fantasy involving the Victoria's Secret fas.h.i.+on show and a tray of cream puffs. "Can't? Listen, you don't want Shannah Banaan sticking her nose in our business; who could blame you? But I can help you quit all this in a way where the blame wouldn't fall on you; it'd just hit me. Which I'm used to, believe me. Like I said, I'm the guy who set this whole thing in motion. You can leave town with your conscience totally fine."

"Ah." Blake was frowning, which put grooves in the dirt on his forehead. "I apologize; I was imprecise. I won't sell Heartbreak, though technically I can, is that better?"

"Nope." Lately even looking at the population sign (h.e.l.lo, Sweetheart! Pop: 9,339) was enough to give Garrett a rage-induced nosebleed. Nine thousand three hundred thirty-eight people all complicit in his great-grandfather's determination that every Garrett generation would sell s.h.i.+t forever, amen. "It's not."

"Unfortunate. Well, thank you for stopping by, but it seems I must go back to the house and put cinnamon on several apple slices. Not that I'll be thanked for it!" he added at a shout, glaring past Garrett in the direction of the fat, mean pony.

"No!" Before he could stop himself, he'd seized handfuls of Vegas Douche's s.h.i.+rt and was practically shaking the man. "Let me Martian this for you!"

"Remove your hands," came the chilly response, "or I'll break your wrists."

He probably could, too. Garrett could barely get his fingers around the guy's blocky wrists. He was too lost to care; if anything, he just clung harder. "Let me be your f.u.c.king Martian, you crazy f.u.c.k!"

"Um..."

They both looked over at the interruption. Natalie f.u.c.king Lane was standing in the far doorway, looking as surprised as Garrett had ever seen her. And no wonder. He and Vegas Douche were nose to nose and there had been shouting. A lot of shouting. And threats of violence. She probably thought they were going to start fighting. Or f.u.c.king.

"I can come back, if you want...? Yeah." She started to turn, her expression frozen in a grimace of startled shock. "Sorry to interrupt. I didn't see anything. I don't know anything."

"For G.o.d's sake," Vegas Douche muttered. Garrett concurred, and let go of the guy's s.h.i.+rt. Natalie f.u.c.king Lane catching him groping another man. Day couldn't get any worse, though, right?

Right?

Twenty.

Natalie f.u.c.king Lane couldn't believe what (no, idiot, that's his nickname for you; it's not actually your name) Natalie Lane couldn't believe what she was seeing. Of all the days to telecommute for the bank! She'd been in the office when whatever was happening started happening. Unsettling enough to hear the snarling boom of Garrett's convertible (whoever heard of a guy in his twenties having a midlife crisis? it's the only thing he was ahead of the curve on), weird to see it parked outside Main One with Garrett nowhere in sight by the time she made it outside, weird to hear shouting that wasn't Gary yelling for a fire extinguisher or Blake promising a grisly death for Margaret of Anjou (G.o.d, now he's got all of us calling her that ridiculous name), but then to come upon them and see they were chest to chest. Kissing close. And the worst part, the most emotionally shattering weirdest most inappropriate part ...

She'd been jealous.

Of Garrett Hobbes.

Almost as bad: Garrett knew she didn't work for Heartbreak. He wouldn't know what she was doing, exactly (she was no longer sure herself), but he knew enough. He could out her in five seconds. And then ... and then ...

Well, what? Why did that thought make her so anxious? Why had she been having trouble getting to sleep when she pictured someone blowing her secret? What was she afraid of? Blake would storm off because she hadn't come clean about working for the bank? He couldn't storm off. He'd accuse her of having a secret agenda? She did, but it wouldn't change their working relations.h.i.+p.

No, the reason she didn't want Blake to know she prevaricated was simple and staggering: she didn't want to disappoint him. She'd been riding his a.s.s for days (not even in a good way ... sigh ... when was the last time I got laid, anyway? there was snow on the ground, and it wasn't last winter) about his morality, his pretension, his arrogance. His smug white-guy ent.i.tlement. About how if Heartbreak died it would be, if not entirely his fault, then a lot his fault. How being honest and forthright was a d.a.m.ned sight better than being rich and distant.

Meanwhile she worked for the bank that was profiting off Garrett's deal with the devil.

Problematic.

"What the f.u.c.k are you doing here?" Garrett had released Blake and was glaring at her like she was the a.s.shole interloper.

"None of your concern. This is still private property, so blow."

"What the f.u.c.k is it with people who have no business working this farm suddenly working this farm?"

"There is no need to speak to Natalie like that." Blake said it calmly, but he sure didn't look calm. At least he'd a.s.sumed Garrett was speaking to her about Blake, rather than lumping her and Blake in the same category. (And in fairness to the sc.u.mbag, it was actually a pretty good question.) "You've worn out your welcome, not that one was ever extended in the first place. Run along, Garrett."

"f.u.c.king right I will." He took a couple of steps toward Natalie, who took a compensating few steps away because ugh, Garrett Hobbes. "Natalie, why in the f.u.c.k d'you even care? What's the big deal about this f.u.c.king place? You never lived here."

"You'll never get it, Garrett," she replied kindly enough. She'd feel sorry for him if he weren't such a contemptible a.s.s. And he could be the nicest guy in the state (except that was Roger Harris, owner of the White Rose of York) and she still couldn't put it into words. It was one of those places that felt like home even if it was never your home. Heartbreak was hot chocolate on a cold day, fireworks and potato salad, weddings and funerals. People were born and died and moved on and came back and Heartbreak was always, always there. You didn't have to own it to feel you belonged. "There's no point in me trying."

"I don't- Oh."

"What, oh?" She was suspicious; Garrett had a familiar look on his face, the one that presaged him saying something horrible. Worse: he was actually trying to make it come out not horrible, which was why he now looked like the "before" picture in a hemorrhoid ad. He had never, to Natalie's knowledge, succeeded in lessening his awfulness.

"Are you invested in this whole 'the land of my ancestors is sacred' thing because, uh, because of your, uh, heritage? Because we'll put a casino here. Don't worry about that."

Blake, who had collapsed on a nearby straw bale to rest and take a swig of water, paused in mid-gulp. Then he unfolded and climbed to his feet. It was leisurely and careful. His face was utterly calm and Natalie had never been so afraid for an idiot than she was at that moment for Garrett. She crossed the barn to get between them and wasn't leisurely or careful about it. "Nope! Nope nope nope! Please don't, Blake. He can't help it; he's stupid."

"Hey!"

"Shut up, Garrett. I'm trying to save you. Just shut up and stay stupid."

"Look, all's I was saying is I get it!" He held up both hands, placating her or Blake, she wasn't sure. His palms were disturbingly s.h.i.+ny; he liked running his hands through his thinning hair but used too much conditioner, so it was often greasy. "My people did terrible things to yours and you want compensation. It's fine. I get it. We've got you covered."