Read Online Tangled Thing Called Love by Juliet Rosetti - Free Book Online
Authors: Juliet Rosetti
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dancing more macho than sacking a quarterback. She adored Jennifer Grey because she was short, notstereotypical Hollywood gorgeous, and still got the guy.
“You think I can’t dance?” Ben said.
“How would I know? We’ve never danced.”
“Because you never said you wanted to. Okay, so you want to dance, I’ll take you dancing.”
Mazie slumped down in her seat, rolling her eyes so hard she thought she might need a corneal transplant. “Dancing isn’t something you check off your I’ve-got-to-do-this-to-get-laid bucket list. It should be spontaneous. It should be I’m-feeling-the-music-and-I-gotta-move.”
I’m feeling the music? Had she actually said that? What was happening here? She was regressing back to adolescence. If she didn’t get back to civilization soon she’d start popping pimples and shopping for dangly earrings at Claire’s.
Labeck was quiet for a couple of beats, then asked, “What else is on the do-it-to-get-laid bucket list?”
“If you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.”
He thumped a fist against the steering wheel. “I hate when women say that. Guys don’t know! Guys are clueless! You have to give us an instruction manual.”
“How can you not know about women when you grew up with all those sisters?”
“My sisters? I tried to stay as far away from them as possible. I’d hand ’em money when they overspent their allowance, patch up their wounds when they got hurt, punch out any guys who gave ’em grief, and tune out all the girl stuff.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“I think I’ve just been insulted.” Ben glanced over at Mazie and smiled. Against her will, she smiled back. He was looking way too good—dangerously good—his skin freshly tanned from being out in a boat today, his hair damp from a shower. “I’ve got a confession to make,” Ben said. “I had a motive for getting you alone—beyond wanting to get the lowdown on that khaki-pants-wearing, pimpmobile-driving dickhead. I wanted to ask you to show me the spot where Fawn Fanchon disappeared.”
Mazie looked at him, surprised. “What for?”
He cleared his throat. “The mystery about her disappearance—I think it would make a terrific documentary.”
“Hundreds of teenage girls disappear every year, though—and Fawn isn’t exactly front-page news anymore.”
“Maybe not, but there are a lot of unique elements here. The beauty queen angle, the outlaw family, the abandoned truck—it’s dynamite. I’d like to scope out the scene, maybe take a couple shots. It’s not that far, is it?”
“No, just a few miles, over in Punhoqua Coulee.”
“What are these coulees , anyway?”
“They’re steep valleys between ridges, usually with streams or wetlands at the bottom. Turn left at the next intersection, drive about three miles, then it’ll be on the right.”
“You really know this area.”
“My brothers and I used to hike and canoe in these coulees. It’s a really huge area, probably a couple of hundred square miles. My grandpa told me that moonshiners used to hide their stills out there. Nowadays there are marijuana patches all over the place.”
Ben opened his window to a chorus of spring peepers. The scents of pine, cedar, and wildflowers wafted into the car. An owl hooted in the woods. Ben slowed down as a raccoon waddled across the road.
“Would Fawn have known these back roads too?” Ben asked.
“Sure. Her family only lives a couple of miles down the road. Turn here—it’s a dirt surface, so you’ll have to go slow.”
Ben turned onto Skifstead Road. It was rutted, muddy, and flooded in places, and so narrow that tree branches whipped against the sides of the car. After a mile or so, it ended in a turnaround just wide enough for a single vehicle.
“This used to be a farm,” Mazie said. “A family of Swedish immigrants lived here eighty or ninety years ago, trying to make a go of farming. But the soil was too poor and they abandoned the place. This
“You think I can’t dance?” Ben said.
“How would I know? We’ve never danced.”
“Because you never said you wanted to. Okay, so you want to dance, I’ll take you dancing.”
Mazie slumped down in her seat, rolling her eyes so hard she thought she might need a corneal transplant. “Dancing isn’t something you check off your I’ve-got-to-do-this-to-get-laid bucket list. It should be spontaneous. It should be I’m-feeling-the-music-and-I-gotta-move.”
I’m feeling the music? Had she actually said that? What was happening here? She was regressing back to adolescence. If she didn’t get back to civilization soon she’d start popping pimples and shopping for dangly earrings at Claire’s.
Labeck was quiet for a couple of beats, then asked, “What else is on the do-it-to-get-laid bucket list?”
“If you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.”
He thumped a fist against the steering wheel. “I hate when women say that. Guys don’t know! Guys are clueless! You have to give us an instruction manual.”
“How can you not know about women when you grew up with all those sisters?”
“My sisters? I tried to stay as far away from them as possible. I’d hand ’em money when they overspent their allowance, patch up their wounds when they got hurt, punch out any guys who gave ’em grief, and tune out all the girl stuff.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“I think I’ve just been insulted.” Ben glanced over at Mazie and smiled. Against her will, she smiled back. He was looking way too good—dangerously good—his skin freshly tanned from being out in a boat today, his hair damp from a shower. “I’ve got a confession to make,” Ben said. “I had a motive for getting you alone—beyond wanting to get the lowdown on that khaki-pants-wearing, pimpmobile-driving dickhead. I wanted to ask you to show me the spot where Fawn Fanchon disappeared.”
Mazie looked at him, surprised. “What for?”
He cleared his throat. “The mystery about her disappearance—I think it would make a terrific documentary.”
“Hundreds of teenage girls disappear every year, though—and Fawn isn’t exactly front-page news anymore.”
“Maybe not, but there are a lot of unique elements here. The beauty queen angle, the outlaw family, the abandoned truck—it’s dynamite. I’d like to scope out the scene, maybe take a couple shots. It’s not that far, is it?”
“No, just a few miles, over in Punhoqua Coulee.”
“What are these coulees , anyway?”
“They’re steep valleys between ridges, usually with streams or wetlands at the bottom. Turn left at the next intersection, drive about three miles, then it’ll be on the right.”
“You really know this area.”
“My brothers and I used to hike and canoe in these coulees. It’s a really huge area, probably a couple of hundred square miles. My grandpa told me that moonshiners used to hide their stills out there. Nowadays there are marijuana patches all over the place.”
Ben opened his window to a chorus of spring peepers. The scents of pine, cedar, and wildflowers wafted into the car. An owl hooted in the woods. Ben slowed down as a raccoon waddled across the road.
“Would Fawn have known these back roads too?” Ben asked.
“Sure. Her family only lives a couple of miles down the road. Turn here—it’s a dirt surface, so you’ll have to go slow.”
Ben turned onto Skifstead Road. It was rutted, muddy, and flooded in places, and so narrow that tree branches whipped against the sides of the car. After a mile or so, it ended in a turnaround just wide enough for a single vehicle.
“This used to be a farm,” Mazie said. “A family of Swedish immigrants lived here eighty or ninety years ago, trying to make a go of farming. But the soil was too poor and they abandoned the place. This
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