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ajpikeisamenace · 2 months ago

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Just Desserts | Chapter Three: Sleepover

Summary: 10 Years after Theresa Lisbon broke his heart, Marcus Pike has retired from the FBI moved to the small town of Culver Creek, West Virginia. He serves as the Sheriff of Culver County, and he's sweet on Emma Crocker, who runs the cafe in town...

Culver Creek is idyllic; nothing ever happens there... but during a blizzard, Marcus and Emma find themselves stuck together for the night... And in the morning, a grisly crime scene unfolds.... Part One | Part 2

Note: I know that in many places in the USA, the county sheriff is an elected position, but for the purposes of this story, it’s a job one can apply for, because “Sheriff” sounds more like a small town, and Culver Creek isn’t big enough to boast its own police department, so it makes sense to have a county sheriff. It’s also a fictional place I made up so I can do whatever I want. Nyah.

The story will switch back and forth between Emma and Marcus's POVs. POV switches will be notated.

TRIGGER WARNING: My usual trigger warnings apply (sex, alcohol use, foul language, etc) but this story is a little different. In addition to the usual fluffy Marcus Pike smut, it also explores some REALLY dark themes, such as murder, Domestic Violence, Racially motivated crimes, rape, abuse of minors, and more.

As this story talks about the exploitation of a marginalized group, I wanted to share resources for those who would like to get involved, help, or just be more informed: https://www.nativehope.org https://www.niwrc.org https://www.nativewomenswilderness.org/mmiw https://rainn.org/ https://www.thehotline.org/ https://www.lacasa.org/ https://communitycare.sistaafya.com/ If I have misrepresented any minorities with what I've written, I apologize, and I am open to education on the matter.

Emma

I wasn’t expecting him to ask me out. I don’t think that he thinks of me as more than anything but a friend… So when he asks, it throws me for a loop and my brain needs a second to fully process the question.

“I’d like that,” I say after a slight pause.

“You would?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Good.” He looks pleased. “Then I’ll make a reservation.”

Never in the twenty or so years that I’ve been dating has a man taken me somewhere that took reservations. The nicest place Deacon ever took me was the Cheesecake Factory.

“A reservation?” I smile, wondering where he could even do that way out here. We’d probably have to drive to Morgantown or something… But I don’t think I’ll mind.

“I like to make a fuss,” he says softly. He comes back to the couch and sits a little closer to me, though you could still fit another person between us. I suddenly feel a little shy. I’ve had a crush on Marcus practically since Old Sheriff Roy brought him into the cafe for lunch when he was interviewing for the sheriff’s position.

Despite our almost daily interactions, I still don’t know much about him, and I feel myself blurt out:

“What did you do in the FBI?”

He looks surprised.

“I investigated art crimes. I was the director of my division before I retired.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s… I can’t even imagine how exciting that must have been.”

“Not as exciting as you might think. It was mostly a lot of paperwork. Art crime is mostly forgery, occasionally a stolen painting, but it's not like what you see on TV,” he says. “I think I may have drawn my weapon a grand total of five times in almost twenty years.”

“How old are you?” I ask, wondering if my assessment of forty-five is close.

“Forty-four, forty-five in April,” he says. “How about you?”

“Thirty-four. Thirty-five later this month.”

“Well, happy early birthday,” he says with a grin, flashing his dimples at me again.

“Thanks. Why’d you retire from the FBI?”

He purses his lips slightly.

“You’re full of questions all of the sudden.”

“I’ve always been full of them… I just… Wasn’t sure if it’s okay to ask.”

“It’s okay to ask, but I have questions of my own.”

“It’s okay to ask,” I echo his words. He smiles at me again.

“I retired… Well, there was a case… I didn’t have to take it, but I thought it would be an easy win… Undercover, trying to catch someone forging ownership documents of stolen art… Things went south, and I got shot.”

“You got shot?”

“Just a little bit,” he says, and he leans back on the couch, pulling his shirt up slightly. I can see an ugly scar along his abdomen, and I try not to let my gaze linger at the light definition of his abs. “Anyway, I was relegated to desk duty, and I knew I was going to be bored, so I opted for an early retirement.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say.

“It was a few years ago. I’m fine now. First couple of months were rough,” he says. He sits back up, pulling his shirt back into place. “How long have you been on your own here?”

“My dad died about 7 years back, and my mother died when I was a kid,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say sadly.

“Did you grow up in this house?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I point to the door frame going into the kitchen. A series of pencil marks detailing my growth over the years. He stands up and takes a look, bending down and tracing his fingers along the smudged door frame.

“It stops at 13,” Marcus says with a grin.

“Yeah, so did I,” I say softly.

He chuckles again, and looks around the house again.

“You should probably ice your ankle,” he says after a beat. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be certified in first aid, if you can believe it. Do you have an ice pack?”

“Frozen peas?” I say wryly. “In the freezer.” Marcus disappears into the kitchen and is back a few seconds later, wrapping a large bag of frozen peas in one of my dishtowels, and then gently placing it on my ankle.

“I see some swelling,” he says. “But it doesn’t look too bad, all things considered. We’ll keep it elevated, and you off it. I don’t suppose you have an ace bandage laying around?”

I shake my head, and despite the ice pack on my ankle, I feel warmth radiating out through my body.

“I…” I pause, wondering if I should confess what I’m thinking. He looks up at me, eyebrows slightly raised, and his big brown eyes full of so much kindness I could cry. I clear my throat. “I’ve never had someone take care of me like this before,” I manage.

“What do you mean?”

“My mom and dad both worked when I was a kid, so if I was hurt or sick, I just…Took care of myself. And after my mom passed, my dad was around even less…“ My voice trails off. I’m sure he can imagine what kind of TLC Deacon offered.

Marcus tilts his head to one side slightly, his expression unreadable.

“You deserve to be taken care of,” he says softly. “Cherished, even.”

“Do I?” I say softly, letting my gaze drift down to his full lips, and then back up to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” he says in that deep, husky voice that sends a slight jolt through my body. He sits back down on the couch, right next to me this time and looks into my eyes for a long moment. “You’re very special, Emma, and anyone lucky enough to be with you should cherish you, and take care of you.”

“Take care of me how?”

“However you want to be taken care of. But maybe… Bring you soup when you’re sick, take your truck in for an oil change, carry you around the house when you’ve got a busted ankle.” His eyes twinkle.

“Does that mean you want to be with me?” I ask, feeling my breath catch in my throat.

“I thought that was obvious,” he says. “I’ve had to up my workouts every day to keep off all the weight from eating at the cafe so much. I just like being around you. I think you’re a hell of a good looking woman… And just a hell of a woman.”

I feel my cheeks heat slightly.

“Then why’d you wait so long?” I say, letting out a breath.

“It’s a long story.”

“I don't have anywhere to be,” I say good naturedly. He lets out a light huff of laughter.

“No, I suppose not,” he looks at the time. “It’s getting late, you must be getting hungry.”

“Are you?”

“I’m always hungry,” he says good naturedly. I start to get up, but he shakes his head. “Emma, I meant it when I said you need to rest that ankle. Let me take care of you. I can make us something to eat.”

“It’s fine, I can-”

“Emma, I’m serious… You could hurt it worse if you don't rest. Don’t make me handcuff you to the couch.”

“I might like it,” I blurt out. Marcus’s cheeks flush slightly, and I can’t help but smile. “Sorry, I just… I don’t keep much food in the house,” I admit, and I feel my own cheeks flush to match his. “I normally bring home leftovers from the cafe. It’s not much fun cooking for one.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees softly, looking at me with a tenderness that makes my heart pound in my chest. He clears his throat. “I’m sure we can manage something, though.”

“I’ll at least come into the kitchen with you so you’re not flying blind.”

I start to get up, but Marcus moves faster, scoping me up into his arms again.

“You’re going to throw your back out if you keep this up.”

“You’re not as heavy as you think you are,” he says, carefully maneuvering me into the kitchen. He sets me down at the kitchen table gently and pulls the other chair over. He carefully puts my leg on the seat. “I mean it, keep it elevated.”

“Yessir,” I say, giving him a mock salute. Mentally, I take stock of what’s in the fridge. I have a pantry with dry goods, and some meat in the freezer, but not much in the way of vegetables, since they tend to go bad before I can use them up. Marcus leans on my kitchen island, looking over at me.

“This is kind of surreal, me waiting on you for a change,” he says. “But I kinda like it. Though, I’m not anywhere near the cook you are.”

“I’m not that great.”

“Then how do you explain all those blue ribbons hanging up at the cafe? “Best Pie in West Virginia”, I think one of them says,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice.

“Baking and cooking are two different things.”

“Emma, if you weren’t a good cook… Well, I’d still probably come to the cafe for breakfast, but you are a good cook.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. I clear my throat again. “I think there’s still some leftover chili in the fridge,” I say. “And I think I still have some bread from last week’s batch.”

“Coming right up,” Marcus says. He works quickly, though I tell him where to find the bowls and cutlery. He heats up the chili on the stove and then a few minutes later, sets a bowl in front of me before sliding across from me with his own.

“So, tell me the long story.”

“Hmm?”

“You said the reason you waited so long to ask me out was a long story.”

“Well, you know I’m divorced,” he says, taking a sip of water. I nod, taking a bite of chili. It’s a good meal for this weather, and I’m glad I brought it home. “After I got divorced, I dated a few women, but nothing really stuck… Then right before I was offered the position that brought me to DC, I was seeing a woman that also worked for the bureau. Time and space led me to the conclusion that she was just in the right place at the right time, and not actually the love of my life, but I wanted to settle down again with her… Obviously, It didn’t work out, and since then… I guess I was just afraid of making the same mistake again, and I needed to sort out my feelings.” He takes a deep breath. “I had to decide if it was a crush, or the genuine article… and by the time I sorted it out, I’d gotten to know you just enough to think that maybe you wouldn’t be interested in a guy like me.”

I look at him in confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I be interested?”

“I didn’t know much about your ex husband, but I knew he used to play baseball, and I know how those guys are built. And I know traveling must have been exciting. What could you want with a scrawny, boring old homebody like me?”

“You’re hardly boring,” I say. “And just because Deacon was a baseball player, doesn’t mean that’s the only kind of guy I like.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I wish I’d met him first, but I can’t make myself say it. “I happen to like staying home, anyway.”

“Yeah? You don’t want some guy who takes you all over? Jet setting?”

“It was hardly jet setting. Seedy motels, vending machine junk for dinner, a bunch of sweaty guys obsessed with the gym and practice. No… That isn’t the life for me.”

For a moment, we eat in silence, with the sound of the storm raging outside. The lights flicker again, but the power stays on. When I finish my chili, Marcus does the dishes and then helps me back to the living room. He pulls the blanket off the couch and tucks it around me before sitting next to me.

“It's kinda wild how different the weather is here than in DC. It snows there, but not like this, not really.”

“Mountain life,” I say with a smile. There’s a slight pause before he speaks again.

“I uh… I have a tendency to move kind of fast,” Marcus says. “In relationships, I mean. So if… If I start going a hundred miles an hour, tell me to pump the breaks. Like, I know I probably shouldn’t even call it a relationship yet. We haven’t even had the date. I just… I’m not a kid, and I know what I want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I don’t think I have a problem with you calling it a relationship. I like you, Marcus.”

“Good, because I like you, too.”

“Good,” I echo, feeling warmth spreading across my face. Marcus’s smile widens, his eyes lighting up and his dimples on display again. My mind is racing.

He’s here, in my house. He’s staying the night. HE’S STAYING THE NIGHT!

“You don’t have anything to sleep in,” I blurt out, wishing like hell I could stop doing this, that I could be one of those cool girls that tosses her hair over her shoulder and smiles as she says something witty, not a verbally incontinent klutz.

“I don’t need anything,” he says, but then he blushes slightly. “I mean, I can sleep in my clothes. I do wish I had my toothbrush, though.”

“Well,” I say. “I bought a five pack of toothbrushes a while back, and so I have a brand new one you can use. I still have some of my dad's things, too.”

“I won’t say no to the toothbrush, but I’m fine on the clothes, Emma,” he says, but I can’t imagine the standard issue sheriff’s uniform would be comfortable to sleep in. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” I say, and I start to get up, but Marcus gives me a warning look.

“Emma, if you don’t stay off that ankle-”

“I know, I know, handcuffs,” I say playfully. “Look, I feel bad that you’re stuck here because of me, and I just want you to be comfortable, okay? This is an old house and the upstairs gets pretty cold at night. Your uniform doesn’t look like it’s very comfortable or warm.”

“I’m not stuck here, Emma.” Marcus looks at me intently. “I wouldn't wish for you to sprain your ankle in a hundred years, but I’m very glad I get to spend the evening with you.”

I feel my cheeks redden further.

“You are?”

“Yes, silly girl, I told you: I like you.”

I smile, biting my bottom lip to keep from letting an unhinged giggle escape my mouth.

“Well, then humor me and accept the offering of something warmer and hopefully more comfortable to sleep in,” I say after a beat.

“All right, all right,” he says softly, holding his hands up again, but his thousand megawatt smile eclipses everything else.

Outside, the storm rages on, and another gust of wind shakes the house.

“There’s going to be some felled trees after this, I’m sure,” I hear myself saying. “It’s going to take a few days for things to operate as normal.”

“Yeah,” Marcus says, his voice taking on that low, husky tone again. A shiver runs down my spine. “Are you cold?” He asks, and in a flash, he’s on his feet, grabbing another blanket from the loveseat.

“I’m okay,” I say, smiling as he tucks the blanket around my legs. We stare into one another’s eyes for a long moment, and yet again, my mouth moves without input from my brain. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

I need something to distract myself from Marcus… But as I watch him settle back onto the couch next to me, I realize that Marcus has been distracting me from what’s really bothering me: May Anne. I wish she would call me. She has to know that no matter what she’s up to, what trouble she’s gotten into, I’ll help her. Something must be terribly wrong, and there’s nothing I can do.

“Emma?” Marcus says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You okay?”

”Yeah…I’m just… I’m trying not to worry about May Anne. I’m trying to believe she’s just off with some boy.”

“I understand why you’re worried, but she’ll turn up tomorrow, sheepish as hell, just you wait.”

“I want to believe that,” I say honestly. “I do, but it’s just… It would be like… Like… “ The notion is so absurd I have trouble thinking of a comparison. “Like a nun suddenly turning tricks in Times Square.”

Marcus laughs, a belly laugh that makes him light up like a Christmas tree. He reigns himself in and looks embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make light of things, I’m sorry,” he repeats..

“No, I sort of meant for it to be funny… I kind of have a whole ‘If I Don’t Laugh I’ll Cry’ mindset.”

“Nothing wrong with crying.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but too much crying…” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says softly.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault.”

“I know that; it's empathy.”

I feel myself go quiet again, unsure of what to say.

“What makes you cry?” he asks softly.

“What doesn’t make me cry?” I chuckle. “Sad movies, happy movies, really good music... “ I deflect, but Marcus holds my gaze. He wants the truth. “My marriage falling apart and… becoming what it became… Not being able to share my achievements with my parents… Especially my mom.”

“That’s really rough,” he says. “I know I didn’t know your parents, but I think they would have been really proud of you.” His voice takes on that deep husky tone again, the one that sends a shiver through my body.

“Divorced, alone, living in the same house she grew up in?”

“You had the courage to leave that marriage. You opened your cafe, and you’re doing well by any standard, but especially by Culver Creek Standard, and you have your farm, your family legacy. I think those are all pretty special things.”

“Do you always know just what to say?”

“Not always,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I fumble the ball just like any other guy.”

“Thank you,” I say after a minute.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers. “Do you still want to watch a movie?

I nod as I grab the remote from the side table. I fumble with the buttons in the dimness of the living room, the sun has finally set, and the small lamp by the front door doesn’t offer much light. I flip through the channels, looking for something to watch.

“Oh hey, Under Capricorn,” he says, placing a hand on my elbow. “If you haven’t seen it, it’s a classic.”

“I haven’t seen it. Is that Ingrid Bergman?” I point to a woman on screen.

“Yeah, and directed by Hitcock.”

“Like Psycho Hitchcock?”

“One in the same.”

“Then I’m game,” I say. Marcus settles back on the couch, and a few minutes later, I feel his arm slide around my shoulder. I don’t mind at all, in fact, I’ve fantasized about a scenario just like this once or twice… Of course, it leads to a heavy makeout session in those fantasies, but I would take it all the same. I slide back into distraction from the anxiety, the worry, the fear.

Marcus is warm; the heat radiating off of his body makes for a cozy evening. The wind continues blowing outside, and if I were home by myself, I would probably feel anxious, but cuddled up next to Marcus, I can’t think of anything except how good he smells, how warm and comfortable he is, and how badly I want to kiss him.

I’m lost in thought when another powerful gust of wind slams against the house and makes me jump.

“You’re all right,” Marcus says soothingly. “I’m here.” He hugs me closer to him and I look up at his face. His big brown eyes meet mine and after a moment’s hesitation, he lifts his other arm, cupping my face in his hand. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, gazing down at me. “You’re all right,” he says again.

I don’t know what to say in response. I go on staring into his eyes for a long moment. Finally, he bends his head slightly, tilting toward me and places a gentle kiss on my lips. He starts to pull away, but I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer to me.

I feel weightless in his arms as he pushes me carefully back against the couch. He gently climbs on top of me as my fantasies come to life. We entwine around each other, kissing hungrily. I don’t care if it makes me a floozy, a hussy, a strumpet… Maybe in the morning I’ll care that he thinks I’m easy, but right now, all I want is to pull his shirt over his head and bite his shoulders.

I restrain myself - barely- and try to remain content with the status quo. I missed the weight of a man on top of me - I’ve had precious little carnal knowledge in the last year or so, but even if I was getting laid well and often, I would still relish the feeling of Marcus’s lips against mine, the feeling of his body on top of me. My ankle is throbbing but I don’t care - Marcus Pike is kissing me.

Marcus

When I kiss Emma, I think it’s going to be a tender peck, a prelude to a deep conversation, but instead, she puts her arms around my neck and pulls me closer to her, and all those feelings both of us have been keeping buried these last few months bubble up to the surface. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing her back against the couch and climbing on top of her, careful not to jostle her ankle. I kiss her for a very long time, until my higher brain function kicks in and I pull away from her, breathless.

“Sorry, I don’t want to stop but…” I pant. “I think we should.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at me.

“I just… I have a tendency to rush things and I mean it– I like you, and I want to do this right…” I sit back against the couch as Emma shifts gingerly, the blankets I put over her tangled around her legs. The dim light of the TV illuminates her profile, washing her in blue gray light. She gazes at me for a moment.

“How long have you been single?” she asks after a moment. My brows knit together in confusion, but I answer her.

“About a year, but that relationship wasn’t serious.” I sigh, leaning forward and rubbing my face with my hands. “I’ve… avoided getting serious.”

“Because of your ex fiancee?”

“Yes,” I say. Emma doesn’t say anything, and I don’t want to say anything, because I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing.

“And do you think you want to get serious with me?” she whispers after a moment.

“I do,” I say, and there’s another long silence that has me leaning my head back against the wall. I close my eyes, wondering if that was somehow wrong to say. Maybe Emma’s not looking for anything serious. Maybe she just wanted to get over Deacon by getting under someone else. I could relate to that.. I slept with a half dozen women to get over Theresa .Finally, I feel Emma’s warmth cuddling up against me, nestling into the crook of my arm, against my side. Almost instinctively I put my arm around her, pulling her closer to me.

“I do, too,” she says softly. We sit there for a long time, holding one another as the credits of the movie roll by.

“It’s getting late,” I say to her. “You must be tired.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” she says, and I worry for a moment that the reason is somehow because of me. “I’m too worried about May Anne. I know you think she’s just another teenage girl but this isn’t like her. May Anne would never worry me or her parents like this.”

I feel guilty.

Of course she’s worried about May Anne, Jackass.

“I’ll call the state police. They might have someone out doing patrols.”

“In this weather?” Emma asks incredulously.

“Police and fire have to work through any kind of weather.” I’m loath to get up and leave Emma’s warmth, and even a few steps away from her, the air seems to cool ten degrees. My coat hangs by the front door. I fish my phone out of the pocket and call the state police barracks near the county line.

“Hey, it’s Sheriff Pike down in Culver Creek,” I say when the dispatcher answers.

“How can I help?” they ask professionally

“If whoever is out and about in this can keep an eye out, we’ve got a missing teenager.”

“Name?”

“May Anne Collins,”

“Age?”

“Age?” I whisper to Emma.

“She Seventeen. Her birthday’s January 1st.”

“Description?”

“Five foot four, approximately a hundred thirty pounds, dark brown brown hair,brown eyes.” I rattle off the description. I can picture the girl in my mind, bright eyes and a wide grin as she helps Emma in the kitchen.

“Ethnicity?”

I raise my eyebrows at Emma.

“Uh, her mom’s indigenous, her dad’s white.”

“Bi-racial, indigenous and caucasian,” I tell the dispatcher.

“How long has she been missing?”

“Since this morning, we’ve been looking for her out here, but we’re not equipped to keep up the search in the storm.”

I give a few other details, the description of the vehicle, and anything else I can think of that might help the dispatcher, who at this point is starting to sound rather annoyed.

“Just so you know, they’re not going to proactively search for her in this storm, they’re just going to keep an eye out..”

“Yeah, I know, but if you have contact with the folks out plowing the roads, ask them to keep a look out?”

“Yeah,” the dispatcher says, their tone softening. “Are you with the girl's family, Sheriff?”

“A close family friend.”

“Can you go somewhere private?”

This surprises me, but I give Emma an apologetic smile and head to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

“Sheriff Pike of Culver Creek,” the dispatcher says. “You’re not from around here, are you? I think I remember hearing you’re from somewhere out west.”

“Texas originally, but I was in DC for about 10 years before coming here,” I say. “Why do you ask?”

“West Virginia is home to a lot of history, most good but some real bad. Culver County, especially. Still true. Most things are good. Some things are real bad. Native girls go missing all the time, and no one seems to care much about it.”

“What?”

“I mean, people go missing all over the state. If it’s a white girl, people kick up a huge fuss, smaller fuss for a black girl, but a Native? Never seems to gain the same kind of momentum. You can report it, but,” their voice trails off, and I can practically hear the shrug over the phone. “Anyway, I just mean, you might want to prepare her people for the worst.”

I suppose I say thank you and hang up, but I don’t remember doing either. I don’t remember a thing at all until I hear Emma in the doorway.

“What are you doing up on that ankle?” I say softly, making my way over to her to steady her.

“It’s fine, the swelling’s already going down, I don’t think I really sprained it. I think it’s a bad twist.”

“I heard a snap,” I argue. “Come on, back to the couch.”

She doesn’t protest as I scoop her up again. I’m glad I’ve been going to the gym - I have to if I want to stay in shape and eat at Emma’s cafe as often as I do. It’s much easier to carry her because I’ve been lifting weights. Emma’s not exactly skinny, but she’s not so heavy I can’t lift her easily. She’s perfect, to be honest, but based on her comments earlier, I think she might be a little self conscious. If I were huffing and puffing because I was out of shape, she might take it to heart. I deposit her on the couch and sit with her.

How do I tell her? Do I tell her? Fuck.

“What did they say?”

I look at her for a long moment, and cursing myself as I do it, I decide that honesty is the best policy. I’m not a convincing liar, and even if I were… How could I lie to her about something like this?

“Uh, well…” I begin gently. That’s all I have to say.

“They don’t think we’ll find her.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“No, they don’t,” and I take her hand. “I don’t believe we won’t. I’ll find her, Emma. I’ll do everything I can to find her.”

“You promise?

“Yes.”

Emma’s face has cycled through a dozen emotions tonight, but now it’s blank, devoid of emotion at all. My heart aches seeing her like this. I want to move closer to her, but all I can think is that now isn’t the right time.

She’s scared. She’s worried. She doesn’t need to feel like you’re trying to get in her pants.

But Emma surprises me - not for the first time and hopefully not for the last time- and curls up against me again. I pull the blanket over both of us, and snuggle up with her. The warmth of her body, the delicate scent of Vanilla that lingers on her hair and skin, and feeling of coziness against the storm outside lulls me to a state of half awake, half asleep. I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or awake, but I feel Emma against me, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel whole.

#pedro pascal #fanfiction #plot with smut #marcus pike #marcuspikedeservedbetter

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ajpikeisamenace · 2 months ago

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I just want to wake up tomorrow married to Pedro Pascal. Is that so much to ask?

If Kelly's on Tumblr, tag her.

#pedro pascal

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ajpikeisamenace · 2 months ago

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Just Desserts | Chapter Two: Snow Squall

The story will switch back and forth between Emma and Marcus's POVs. POV switches will be notated.

Chapter Two: Snow Squall

Marcus

Even though it's only a little under two hours from DC to Culver County, West Virginia, the two places may as well be on different planets. That contrast is drawn into sharp focus as I step out of the small two bedroom house I’ve rented in Culver Creek and an icy blast of wind hits my face. Snow is falling steadily as I climb into the black Jeep with the Sheriff’s office logo on the door, and I wonder -not for the first time- if I made the right decision to take this job. I dig into my coat pocket for my gloves, and with a grimace, realize I’ve lost them. I shove my hands into my pockets.

It gets cold in DC, and it snows, but the winds whipping through the rolling hills and mountains of Appalachia are a wholly different animal, with a bite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I pull out onto the highway and make my way towards the little strip of life that folks refer to as “town”, but really it’s a half dozen businesses that cater to folks driving through the county as part of the Highland Scenic Highway sightseeing tour. I imagine most of the businesses will be closed today, as a blizzard -or snow squall, as folks in these parts call it - is forecasted to hit later today.

One such business is Emma’s Cafe, run by the eponymous Emma. I’m slightly relieved when I see the lights are off as I crest a small hill just before town, but as I draw closer, I see the lights start to flip on. While I’m always happy to see Emma, part of me wished she stayed home where it’s warm and safe this morning. I park my Jeep next to her old truck, and then I radio dispatch.

“Morning Irma, “ I say. “It’s Pike, I’m heading into the diner for breakfast, then I will be in.”

“Understood,” Irma says, her smoker’s growl coating her voice.

I make my way through the snow, which is already two or three inches deep, up to the door of Emma’s little cafe. It very much reflects her personality: Warm, Cozy, and full of bright colors. It always smells like fresh coffee and vanilla, not like a greasy spoon diner.

Emma stands behind the counter, a wide smile on her pretty face. I feel my stomach do a slight dip when her big brown eyes met mine.

“Mornin’ Emma,” I say as I stamp the snow off my boots.

“Mornin’ Sheriff,” she returns brightly, setting a mug of coffee down at my usual spot at her counter.

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Marcus?” I say, wishing that she felt comfortable enough with me to do it.

“At least one more time,” she says, and she gives me another big smile. She’s gorgeous; with long blond hair she keeps pulled back when she’s working, but little strands always fall out around her face. Her eyes are somewhere between caramel and chocolate, and kinder than any other eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Please call me Marcus,” I say as I try to warm up my hands.

“Don’t you have a pair of gloves?” She asks. “Marcus,” she adds playfully.

“No,” I reply sheepishly. “I mean, I do… I just can’t find them and I keep forgetting to buy new ones.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on. This is your first winter here, isn’t it?”

She’s right. I moved to Culver Creek just over 9 months ago, just as spring was starting to roll through the foothills. After I retired from the FBI, I didn’t want to go back to Texas. I’ve come to love the rolling hills of Appalachia since moving to the east coast, and I decided to try making a life here.

“Yes ma’am,” I answer her

“You want me to call you Marucs, then you’d better stop calling me ma’am,” she threatens playfully.

“All right, all right,” I chuckle, holding up my hands in pretend surrender. “Yes Emma, it’s my first winter here.”

She talks about the weather for a few minutes, and though I would literally listen to Emma read the phone book, I wish we could talk about something else.

I’ve been coming to Emma’s for breakfast a couple of mornings a week since I moved to Culver Creek, and I’ve noticed that strange feeling in my stomach each time. It took me a while to realize what it was - I’ve been single for a long time - and while I normally have no problem asking out a woman I find attractive, something about Emma intimidates me.

Some of it is her looks, but she’s also got a sharp wit that never fails to make me laugh. Not a polite giggle, but a deep guttural belly laugh that I might be embarrassed about if not for how good it feels to laugh with her. She’s also very kind, and that’s something that’s pretty rare in the world these days.

I noticed the little chalkboard where she writes the days’ menu is blank. Emma’s cafe is small, and she doesn’t offer a full menu, just a small selection of different items each day, along with her baked goods.

“No menu today?”

“No,” and she goes on to say she’s closing up shop at noon. I feel relief at that. I know Emma is a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but I’m still glad she won’t be navigating the dark, steep, narrow back roads in a blizzard. “So whatever you want, within reason,” she says with another one of those smiles.

“So no "Benedict with smoked salmon and caviar"?”

“Decidedly not. I might have some smoked salmon, but if you want caviar, you’ll have to go back to DC.”

“Well I won’t be doing that, because then it wouldn’t be breakfast with you,” I say before I can stop myself. Her cheeks tinge slightly pink and she bites her bottom lip slightly.

“So, do you want your usual?” she asks, but her voice is slightly wobbly.

Fuck, she’s cute.

Before I can find the words to answer, the bells on the door to the cafe jingle. I instinctively turn and see a small elderly man bundled up in so many layers of clothes he can’t quite lower his arms all the way.

“Mr. Mason,” Emma chides him reproachfully. “What are you doing out in this cold?”

“Now you know I have to come check on you. You didn’t answer your home phone.” He painstakingly wipes his boots on the rug. I listen to the two of them go back and forth, bickering like father and daughter, though I know they aren’t related. Mr. Mason seems to have a sweet tooth, which Emma scolds him for.

“Doc Amron would have me eat like a rabbit. I’m ninety years old. What am I staying healthy for?”

“Someone’s gotta walk me down the aisle should I ever be foolish enough to do it again.”

I feel that damn flutter again when she says that, and I decide that this is it: This is the day I’m going to ask Emma Crocker to go to dinner.

“Well get a move on,” Mr Mason Grumbles. “I miss cookies.” Emma chuckles affectionately. She takes my order and heads back into the kitchen, but she catches her elbow on something, maybe the counter as she turns. I wince in sympathy.

“I’m not foolin’, I wish she would get a move on. I’d like to see her settle down before I leave this world. Emma could use a good man.”

“You two really care about one another, huh?”

“I was the third person to hold Emma after she was born. Me and my late wife had a small hand in helping to raise her after her mama passed on. I think of her like one of my own.”

There’s a slight pause, and then he continues.

“Are you married, Sheriff?” Old Mr. Mason asks me, looking longingly at the muffins, eclairs, and pies in the pastry case.

“No, I’m divorced.”

“How long ago?”

“Ah.. About 15 years,” I say after doing some quick math. Mr. Mason looks surprised.

“And you never wanted to remarry?”

Nosey Old Goat, I think.

“I did, but it didn’t work out, and now I’m here.”

“Emma’s divorced too.”

“Oh?” I say, even though I knew that.

“If that good for nothing ex husband of hers shows up around here, I hope you’ll run him out of town.”

“Why, what's so bad about him?”

“He put Emma in the hospital a while back. Broken ankle, just about every rib cracked, dislocated shoulder.”

I feel my lungs deflate as he says that, but before he can go on, the kitchen door swings open again and Emma comes out smiling again. I can’t fathom anyone ever being so evil to put their hands on that sweet face, to break that gentle heart.

“What are you two up to?” she says as she catches the awkward atmosphere.

“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t quite look her in the eye. “Just chatting about the weather.” Somehow, I don't think that she’ll like that we were gossiping about her.

“Sure,” she says, her tone one of disbelief. I watch her mentally counting the eclairs to see if Mr. Mason snagged one. When she’s satisfied that no theft has occurred, she sets about making Mr. Mason’s oatmeal. I don’t mind waiting; I love watching Emma work. I can tell she loves to cook, even if it’s just instant oats and a little cut up fruit. She also clearly loves Mr. Mason, and that just endears her to me more.

I sit there in silence for a while as Mr. Mason eats, and Emma heats up her griddle. Mentally, I urge her to take her time so that I have an excuse to linger in her company after Mr. Mason leaves. I’m not above asking her out in front of him, but I’d rather do it when it’s just the two of us.

She makes the batter completely from scratch; no boxed mix here, and to my surprise, she whips heavy cream to a thick froth by hand before folding in her dry ingredients.

“Mr. Mason, don’t think me unkind, but you need to get home before the snow gets any worse. I don;’t want to have to call Jimmy to come pull you out of a ditch,” she says.

He grumbles good naturedly, but pulls on his heavy down coat and heads towards the door. Emma turns back to the griddle, flipping my pancakes over. I can’t help but let out a small chuckle.

“What?” She asks, turning back to me, and I can see a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

“It’s just sweet how you two carry on,” I answer honestly. I lean back and listen to her tell me about their two families, and I feel that pang in my chest again, realizing how alone she is. She asks about my family as she serves me her pancakes, which are fat and full of chocolate chips. The scene of vanilla and warm chocolate hits my nose and my mouth waters.I finish my pancakes, and I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

Now or Never.

“Listen,” I tell her, holding her gaze for a moment, but before I can finish the thought, the bells on the cafe door chime again. Emma looks up almost instinctively, a welcoming smile on her face, but just as quickly, the smile evaporates, replaced by a deep scowl. I’ve never seen Emma look so angry.

I shift slightly on my stool and look at the hulking form of the man who just walked in. It’s clear that once upon a time, the man was in good shape, but he’s started to go soft. His face is red and splotchy, perhaps from the cold, but judging by the way his hands shake, I think it’s probably from a deep love of grain alcohol.

“What are you doing here?” she asks the man, her voice full of such hatred, I know immediately this must be the good for nothing ex husband Mr. Mason spoke about.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You have something to say to me, you can say to Ann Larian, of Larian, Diemel and Olson.”

“Em, don’t be like that.”

I look him up and down, crossing my arms over my chest. I want to step in, to tell him to leave, but I don't want to overstep my bounds. Emma’s a grown woman, and I have no claim on her affections, but seeing this man in the flesh, knowing what I know about him, stokes the quiet fire that’s been burning for her all these months.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Emma repeats “Please leave, there’s no loitering.”

“I’m a paying customer,” he says, pulling out his wallet.

“I have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason.” Emma points to the door. “Please leave.”

“Em, come on,” he pleads once more. “Just hear me out.”

“No, Deacon, I will not.”

“Em-” he takes a step towards her.

“You heard her. Get out.” I say finally, unable to stand him so close to her.

“And who are you? Some deputy of Roy’s?”

“Roy retired last spring, I’m the new Sheriff. I’ll say it again. Emma asked you to leave, so go on, before I arrest you for trespassing.” I stand up, and though I have to look up at him, I’m not intimidated by bullies. I hold my ground.

I see him sizing me up, probably trying to decide if I’m bluffing. Finally, he puts his hands up in surrender, and backs out of the cafe.

“See you around, Em,” he says.

“No if I see you first,” I hear Emma Mutter

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she says, but her breathing is stilted, coming in anxious gasps.

“Does he do this often? Show up out of the blue, I mean?”

“He used to do this all the time just after our divorce was finalized, but I haven’t seen him for about a year, maybe eighteen months,” she says as her breathing returns to normal. “He never wants anything good. He’ll whine and moan about wanting me to take him back, but then I’ll hear down at the IGA it’s because some floozy he took up with kicked him out.”

I can’t help myself; I let out a huff of laughter.

“I’m sorry, it’s not funny, not really, I just… This is a small town. But I thought he didn’t leave around here anymore?”

“He doesn’t, but his sister Evangeline does, up to Wisteria Acres Trailer Park,” Emma explains. “She’s good friends with Patty Pritchett, and if you tell Patty anything, you might as well paint it on a billboard along the highway.”

“Noted,” I say dryly. I push the thought of asking her to dinner out of my mind. Now just isn’t the right time. Her phone rings, and she looks at me apologetically before she steps into the kitchen.

“Sorry, I think May Anne is calling to see if I’m open today.”

I sit in the empty cafe, looking around at the delicate hand painted flowers on the walls, the pastry case full of delicious treats, the colorful touches that reflect Emma so wonderfully, and I’m filled with a deep hatred for Deacon. I wonder again how anyone could do what Mr. Mason described to anyone, let alone someone like Emma, who is so sweet and kind and just good.

Emma emerges from the kitchen, and her face is paler than it was a few minutes before.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

“That was May Anne’s mother,” Emma says hoarsely. “She was supposed to be home an hour ago, but there’s no sign of her.”

“Is she answering her phone?”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone,” Emma replies. “Her family is pretty poor, and she wants to go to college in the fall, so she’s been getting by without one. Service out here is so spotty most people still have home phones anyway,” sher rambles, and I realize how worried she is about May Anne. “I was going to ask if you could ask your deputies to keep a look out for her.

“Sure. Was she on foot?”

“No, she drives my mom’s old buick skylark. It’s light blue.”

I look up, surprised by that

“You two are close, huh?”

“I think of her like a little sister, I guess. She reminds me a little of myself when I was her age, but she’s so much brighter than I ever was. She has a full ride to UMD in the fall and I wasn’t using the car anyway.”

I nod gently and try to get more information about May Anne before I station and asks dispatch to radio my on duty deputies to have them on the lookout for May Anne.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up. Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Not really. She has a crush on Billy Johnson, but he doesn’t like her back, according to her. And May Anne isn’t the type to run off without telling anyone where she’s going.”

“We’ll find her,” I try to assure her, checking the time. I need to head into the station, or else rumors will start flying around. I don’t especially mind, but Emma might. “I’m sorry Emma, I wish I could stay here where it’s cozy and warm, and smells like vanilla pancakes all day but duty calls.” I pay for my breakfast and shrug my coat back on. “She’ll turn up,” I say, giving her an empathetic smile.

She nods at me, but she doesn’t look too hopeful. I don’t bother telling her I saw teen runaways all the time in DC and even back in Austin. It wasn’t my department, but I knew that many times, they turned up after a day or two, even kids who “didn’t seem like the type.”

I climb back in my jeep and head down to the station. I start making calls around town, ostensibly to ask if folks have seen May Anne, but I can’t help myself, I ask about Deacon too.

“No, I ain’t seen him neither.” Taylor Michaels tells me before rudely telling me that he has better things to do than “natter” with me all day. I shake my head, wondering what’s so important for a barber on a day like today before I call the next place on the list. No one has seen May Anne, but a couple of folks have seen Deacon.

“Yeah, he was in here last night,” Lucy Davis, owner of the general store, which most folks still call “The IGA”, says. “Bought a handle of whiskey and some electrical tape, and some cable ties. I thought that was an odd purchase, cause Deacon never liked to do any work for anyone, but he said he was fixing some wires out at his sister's trailer.”

“Thanks Lucy,” I say, writing that down.

The rest of the phone numbers on the short town directory yield no answers and I wasn’t about to start calling folks at home until I knew there was a reason to. May Anne is probably holed up with some boyfriend somewhere, even if Emma thinks she wouldn’t worry her parents like that.

I hear several tow calls from the state police come across the radio, and Jimmy Baker, the town mechanic, radios back that he’s enroute. I hope that Emma’s getting ready to lock up and head home. I decide I’ll swing back by to check on her before I head home myself.

“Irma,” I call to the dispatcher. She’s a tiny thing with iron grey curls and a cigarette always hanging out of her mouth. There’s no smoking in the station, but the unlit cancer stick dangles between her lips. “Put the recording on to call the state police if there’s an emergency and head on home.”

“You sure sheriff?”

“Yeah, but I’ll pay you for the full day, I just don't want you getting stuck. I’m heading home myself,” I say. On my way out the door, one of my deputies calls me and tells me that he’s had no luck finding any sign of May Anne.

“I’m gonna go talk to her parents.”

“Fine, then you head home, we’re not going to find her in this blizzard anyway.” I look down the road, but visibility is already bad as the snow continues to swirl through the air.

Emma is in the parking lot next to her car when I pull up. I roll my window down and give her a smile.

“I wanted to swing back by to tell you to get on home, the roads are getting bad, but also to tell you that we haven’t found any sign of May Anne. Ronald is talking to her parents now.”

“I’m headed home,” she says, but then I see that her tires look odd, even in the deepening snow around them.

Flat, I realize.

“Doesn’t look like you’re headed anywhere,” I say, and I climb out and take a look at her truck. It’s all four tires. Deacon… I think darkly. “Son of a bitch. Come on, hop in.”

“Jimmy’s gonna come give me a tow.”

“Jimmy’s gonna be tied up with the state all day. I heard it on the radio. He’s not gonna turn down state money. Come on Emma, I’ll drop you off at home and we’ll figure out what to do with your truck once the worst of the storm passes.” I hold the passenger door open for her.

“You really don’t have to-”

“I know. Get in.”

She hesitates a moment, then she climbs in the truck. She shivers slightly. The temperature must be in the single digits.

“I suppose you know how rare it is for four tires to spontaneously go flat,” I say, turning the heat up for her.

“I do. Deacon isn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“You wanna file a police report?”

“Yes, and no. I should, because it’s the right thing to do… but I don’t wanna fuck up his parole. I mean-” I see her blush a little. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.”

“I don’t mind,” I say softly. I carefully navigate the jeep back on to the highway. “Anyway uh… Maybe you should fuck it up.”

“What makes you say that?”

I keep my eyes fixed on the white road ahead of me. I want to turn to look at her, but I’m afraid of swerving into the ditch.

“Sometimes guys like him need to go to jail for it to sink in.”

Emma falls silent. I decide not to push.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember where the turn is.”

“Oh, it’s about five miles up, on the left,” she says as we pass Jimmy’s Texaco station. The main highway is plowed, but I can see the side roads are untouched.

“So you really lived here all your life?”

“Yeah… I mean, I left for a few years after I turned eighteen.”

“College?”

“No, with Deacon,” she says. “I didn’t go to college.”

“How come?”

“No money, and I was young and dumb and though I was in love.”

“Now you don’t?”

“My idea of what love is has changed,” she says. “The next turn is coming up. It’s just up around the bend, on the left,” she tells me.

“If Deacon’s back in town…” I say, but I pause. “Just… You can call me if you need anything. Even if you’re just scared.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m fine,” she assures me. “That’s my driveway. You can drop me-”

“I’m not dropping you off in the middle of the street.”

“No, I just meant-”

“I’m dropping you at the door and waiting til you get inside,” I say firmly. I pull the jeep up the steep drive and pull into the little parking turn out by the front porch.

“Thank you for the ride,” she tells me.

“You’re welcome,” I say softly.

She reaches for the door and steps out of the jeep, but suddenly she lets out a small cry, and I see her tumble into the snow.

“Emma!” I say, and I scramble around the jeep to her, kneeling beside her in the snow. I carefully brush snow off her face and out of her hair. “Are you okay?”

“My ankle. Fuck,” she swears.

“Come on, put your arms around my neck,” I say.

“Don’t, I’m too heavy.”

“You are not. Come on.” She puts her arms around my neck and I pull her to her feet. “Can you put any weight on it?” I ask, carefully holding her. She tries, but she immediately falls against me.

“I’ve got you,” I say, getting a good grip on her, pulling her close to me. She smells like Vanilla. “Easy does it.”

In one fluid motion, I lift her up in my arms, carrying her up the porch steps. I hold her steady as she unlocks her front door, and then I carry her inside, setting her down gently on her couch.

“Let me take a look,” I say.

“It’s fine.”

“Emma, I heard a crack. It might be broken. Please, let me help you.”

She swallows hard, and she nods.

“All right,” she almost whispers. I gently unlace her boots before I pull off her sock and roll up the hem of her pant leg slightly. Her skin is feverishly hot to the touch as I gently feel her ankle. It's already swelling. Then I see the long ugly scar that runs from the top of her foot just past her ankle bone.

“You broke your ankle before?” I say, my brows knitting together.

“...Yeah,” she says, but I catch the moment of hesitation. She bites her lip.

“Deacon,” I say darkly. She nods. “He beat you up?” I decide not to tell her that Mr. Mason filled me in on the uglier parts of her marriage that morning.

“I figured you knew, no one in this town can keep their mouths shut. It was the first time he put me in the hospital. I’m embarrassed to say he wasn’t the last.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed about that, Emma.” I continue to examine her ankle. “I think it's just a bad sprain, but you’ll need to stay off it until Doc Amron can take a look at it.”

“I have animals to tend to,” she says, looking at the clock next to her TV.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

“No I-”

“Emma,” I say gently. “You’re hurt, and I ca- I’m your friend. Let me help you.”

I care about you, you stubborn gorgeous woman, I think with affection.

“You don’t know what needs to be done or where anything is.”

“I’m sure you can guide me.”

She starts to protest again, but she looks up at me and sighs.

“Thank you,” she finally says softly. She gives me the rundown of where to find things, and I venture back out into the cold.

I head out to her heated barn. She has a handful of goats, and a small flock of chickens that are shut up in an indoor coop with the word “MotherCluckers” painted over the door. I chuckle at it as I open the coop and feed and water the birds. A few of them cluck at me balefully but otherwise, no issues.

The ducks and goats are wary of me, and give me a wide berth as I fill their troth with a hose and put some fresh hay out of them. I’m about to head back to the house when I hear a very tiny “Mew” above me.

I look up in the direction of the sound and see a black cat looking down at me from the rafters. She’s a sleek, skinny thing, but she’s very curious about me. She makes her way down from the rafters and weaves between my legs. I give her a pat, wondering why Emma didn’t mention where to find her food.

Maybe barn cats are self-sufficient? I thought. There’s a lot I still need to learn about country living, it seems.

I trudge back to the house, taking my muddy snowy boots off at Emma’s front door, very glad I put on a new pair of socks without any holes in them that morning.

“The animals are all fine,” I say. “I fed the chickens, ducks and goats. You didn’t mention your cat though, so I wasn’t sure where to find her food.”

“I don’t have a cat,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing together.

“Well, you have a visitor then. She was quite friendly, so I thought she must be a pet.”

“Poor thing, she must have wanted to get out of the cold.”

“Yeah, she’s curled up in the barn with your goats.”

“She’s welcome to ride out the storm with them,” she says softly.

I look around the house, and I try to suppress a smile. It isn’t what I’m expecting at all. I thought there would be bright colors and lots of plants; an extension of her cafe, but this place is dark and if I’m honest, a little sad. The furniture is cheap, covered in dark scratchy upholstery, and the carpets are dingy and worn. The walls are that cheap, greasy looking faux wood panel that was so popular in the seventies. It feels as much like Emma as the weather outside feels like a nice summer’s day.

“What?”

“Your house doesn’t seem very… You.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the Cafe seems like you, with all the pink and stuff… This… not so much.” I gesture to the dark wood paneling and furniture.

“No, this is my dad… I’ve been so busy getting the cafe up and running that I haven’t done much in the way of fixing up the house since I moved back here.” She says. She shifts slightly, and she winces.

“Can I get you anything or do anything for you? Ibuprofen? Blanket?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you. There’s some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, it’s just down the hall over there,” she points. “Please.”

“Coming right up,” I say, and I head off in the direction she points. In the way back, I stop in her kitchen and grabbing a glass from her dish drainer. The kitchen feels more like Emma. The appliances are old, but they look like the kind that will last forever. Her refrigerator is covered in pictures of what I assume are friends and distant family. There are cheerful pale pink lace curtains in the window over the sink, a pink standing mixer, and pink plates in the dish drainer I grab the cup from. I fill the cup in the sink and head back into the living room, handing the cup and pills to Emma. She takes three and swallows the water in one gulp.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here with your ankle like that,” I say. “Why don’t you come back with me to town? I have a spare room that’s comfortable.”

“What about my animals?” she asks.

“I’ll come back in the morning to take care of them.”

“I doubt the roads will be plowed. It’s supposed to snow all night,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that…You seem to have a hard time asking for help, and a hard time accepting the offer.”

“I’m just used to doing things on my own.”

“You don’t have to, though.” I sit on the couch, not quite next to her, and look at her for a long moment. I feel the fluttering in my stomach again. I open my mouth to speak again, but before I can, a terrible gust of wind rips through the afternoon, and the house shudders. The lights flicker for a second, and a loud clap of thunder booms almost directly overhead. The view outside the window looks as if someone has hung a white blanket in front of it. I can’t see anything beyond her front porch.

“Wow,” I whisper. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Snow squalls are pretty common out here,” Emma says. “They’re dangerous.” She casts a look over at me. “You can’t drive in that. You can stay here,” she says, but she seems surprised by her own offer, and I feel like maybe it’s out obligation. I don’t want to impose.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got snow tires on the jeep-”

“It’s more than that,” she interjects. “You won’t be able to see anything. It’s white out conditions. You don’t know the roads this far out real well yet, and-”

“Emma-”

“Please,” she says. “Don’t try to head back to town. You might think you know, but Marcus… If anything happened to you…” Her voice trails off. “Please stay.”

“I don’t want to impose on you, Emma.”

“You just told me I could stay at your place because of my ankle,” she argues. “Now who’s being stubborn?”

“Touche.”

“You can’t drive in that,” she says again, and another howling gust of wind causes the windows to rattle.

“No, I don’t think I can,” I agree, getting up and going over to the window. “I can’t even see my jeep.”

I look over at her, a small smile on my face.

“I can sleep with the goats. If it’s good enough for a cat, it’s good enough for me.”

She smiles, and I feel those flutters again.

“I have a spare room, too, you know.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“I wouldn’t make you sleep with the goats,” she says, still smiling.

“I could do worse,” I say. I sit back on the couch. “I’d love to stay, thank you for the offer.”

“Thank you for everything,” she returns.

“What are friends for?”

Her cell phone rings. She gives me an apologetic look as she answers it.

“Hi Ms. Opal,” she answers

I hear Opal Collin’s frantic tone, but I can’t make our that words.

“I’m with Sheriff Pike right now,” she looks over at me. “One sec,” she tells Ms. Opal. She mutes the phone and looks at me. I shake my head sadly. I hope she understands my meaning: No updates, no news. I hold out my hand for the phone.

“Ms. Opal, hold on, he wants to speak to you.” She hands me the phone.

“Hi Mrs. Collins,” I say. “I have my deputies on the lookout for her, but with the storm, there’s not much we can do. Hopefully she’s just holed up with a girlfriend-”

“She wouldn’t do that without calling. My husband and I are about to go look for her ourselves.”

“I understand how you must be feeling, and I’m so sorry, but you need to stay indoors until the storm passes. It’s too dangerous to be out in it. We’ll have a better chance of finding her once the snow stops and the roads are plowed.”

She cries, and my heart aches. I talk to her patiently, trying to reassure her, but I know nothing will do that until May Anne is back home. Eventually we hang up and I look over at Emma. Her face is so full of worry and I feel the urge to hold her close and stroke her hair until she feels better, but instead, I clear my throat.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to her. “I’m sure she’ll turn up after the storm passes,” I try to reassure her.

“It’s not like May Anne not to at least call,” she says.

“I know, but Emma, she’s a teenage girl.”

“May Anne isn’t a normal teenage girl. She’s not the kind of person to let her parents worry.”

“Even if she was seeing someone they didn’t approve of?”

“She wouldn’t keep that secret from me,” she says. May Anne confessed many a crush to her over the years.

“Even if she thought you wouldn’t approve?” She shrugs.

“May Anne is the most responsible person I know,” she says after a minute. “But I hope you’re right.”

A long silence passes between us.

“You were going to say something earlier,” she says after a moment. “Before Deacon showed up.”

“I was? Huh, I don’t remember now,” I say, but I avoid her gaze as I say it.

“You’re a lousy liar,” she says.

“I am,” I reply. I look back over at her. “I dunno if now’s the right time.”

“Why not?”

“You’re worried about May Anne, your ankle… Deacon…”

“Trust me, Deacon is the last thing on my mind.” She shifts slightly on the couch, wincing as she does.

“Are you in pain?”

“It’s not bad,” she says. “Anyway, I could use something to take my mind off of it… And off of May Anne, since I can’t do anything until the storm passes anyway.”

I sigh.

“There’s about a million ways I’d rather do this… Smoother, more charming ways.”

“Do what?”

“I was going to ask you if you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime,” I say.

She blinks, surprised.

“I…”

For one heartstopping moment, I sit there, waiting for her answer. Her hesitation is clear; she’s looking for a way to gently reject me. I idly wonder if she’s afraid I’ll fly off the handle like Deacon.

“I’d like that,” she says to my surprise.

“You would?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Good,” I say. “Then I’ll make a reservation.” I have no idea where, we’d probably have to drive an hour to find a place that even took reservations, but I don't care. I’m going to take Emma to dinner.

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#pedro pascal #fanfiction #plot with smut #marcus pike

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ajpikeisamenace · 2 months ago

Text

Just Desserts | Chapter One: Chocolate Chip Pancakes

Culver Creek is idyllic; nothing ever happens there... but during a blizzard, Marcus and Emma find themselves stuck together for the night... And in the morning, a grisly crime scene unfolds....

The story will switch back and forth between Emma and Marcus's POVs. POV switches will be notated.

If I have misrepresented any minorities with what I've written, I apologize, and I am open to education on the matter.

Chapter One: Chocolate Chip Pancakes

Emma

The morning is cold and bleak, and already a flurry of snowflakes dances on a bitter breeze as I drive through town. The sun is rising, but little light or warmth penetrates from the heavy white-gray clouds that cover the sky.

I pull my old truck into the parking lot of the small bakery and cafe I own. Five years ago, when I came back to Culver Creek, I decided I was done living for other people, and to do what I love instead. So I opened my bakery.

People told me that I must be crazy to open a cafe in such a small town. Maybe I am, but time proved me right, and I’ve turned a steady profit. I will never be rich, and “Emma’s” will never be a household name, but I live comfortably.

I flip on the lights and hang my coat and scarf on the rack by the door, tucking my gloves into the pocket of my coat.

Culver Creek is situated along the Highland Scenic highway in West Virginia, and a good amount of traffic flows through her at various times of the year, and my little cafe sees a fair share of it. I doubt that I will see any on this particular morning, though, as the weather report is calling for snow squalls starting in the afternoon. Snow squalls aren’t uncommon in this part of the world, but familiarity with them doesn’t make them any less dangerous. I don't want to be caught in it. Most folks who've spent any time in this part of the world would agree; some chances you just don't take.

By the time I’ve finished the morning prep work and flip the sign on my door to “Open”, a thick dusting of snow coats my truck and the parking lot. I debate flipping the sign to “closed”, locking up and heading back home, but headlights pulling into the parking lot catch my eye. The sheriff’s black jeep parks next to my truck, and I feel a small flutter in the pit of my stomach. I go over to the coffee pot and pour a large mug for him.

A few minutes later, the jingling bells at the door chime and I hear a familiar deep voice call out:

“Mornin’ Emma.”

“Mornin’ Sheriff,” I say, setting the mug down on the counter for him.

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Marcus?” He asks, stamping the snow off his boots before stepping off the old gray mat in front of the door and coming to sit at the counter. His goatee has a few snowflakes melting in it. He gives me a smile, his dimples making him look younger, almost boyish, though I know he must be about forty-five or so.

“At least one more time,” I say, returning his smile with interest.

“Please call me Marcus,” he says, blowing into his hands, trying to warm them.

“Don’t you have a pair of gloves?” I ask him. “Marcus,” I add with a teasing emphasis.

“No,” he admits sheepishly. “I mean, I do, I just can’t find them, and I just keep forgetting to get new ones.”

“You better get a move on,” I say. “This is your first winter here, isn't it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“If you want me to call you Marcus, you’d better stop calling me ma’am,” I threaten playfully.

“All right, all right,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He takes a sip of coffee. “Yes, Emma, it’s my first winter here. I just missed it last year.”

“December isn’t too bad, but in January and February, you’ll want to find your gloves,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the prep counter behind me. I love the layout of my little cafe: Three cozy booths, a half dozen bistro tables, four stools at the counter. The back kitchen is where I do the baking and prep work, hidden behind a bright pink door, but I have a griddle and prep area behind the counter too. I usually woman the cafe by myself in the mornings, but I have help from one of the girls in town after school. May Anne Collins does most of the washing up and such from three to five. Recently, she’s graduated to making the jams I serve at breakfast. She’s a bright, chipper girl, and she’s set to go to UMD in the fall.

“If January is colder than this, I might have to rethink my life choices,” he grumbles, but there is a twinkle in his deep brown eyes that makes my stomach do that stupid fluttering thing again. He looks over at the little chalkboard next to the griddle.

“No menu today?”

“Nope, I doubt I’ll see more than two or three people this morning. I’ll probably shut up shop at noon,” I say, making a mental note to call May Anne and tell her not to come that afternoon. I would still pay her for the day though. That girl is going places, and I want her to have every penny for college. “So whatever you want, within reason.”

“So no "Benedict with smoked salmon and caviar"?”

“Decidedly not,” I say with a smile. “I might have some smoked salmon, but if you want caviar, you’ll have to go back to DC.”

“Well I won’t be doing that, because then it wouldn’t be breakfast with you,” he says, and I feel my cheeks warming slightly. I bite my lip.

“So, do you want your usual?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

Just then, the bells on the door jingle again, and I look up to see old Mr. Mason toddling into the cafe. He is ninety if he is a day. He and my grandfather were best friends all their lives, and probably their fathers and grandfathers, too. Mr. Mason and his wife Ms. Alma had one daughter, who never married or had kids of her own. She passed away two years ago, and I more or less consider myself the only family he has left. He’s almost all the family I have left, him and May Anne.

“Mr. Mason,” I chide him. “What are you doing out in this cold?”

“Now you know,” he says, wiping his feet on the mat. He is wearing huge boots, at least three pairs of pants judging the number of cuffs I see bunched up around the top of the boots. His massive down overcoat makes it so he couldn’t quite lay his arms flush against his sides. “I had to come check on you. You didn’t answer your home phone.” I idly wonder what the old fool thinks he could possibly do to help me if I were in some sort of trouble. He doesn’t have a cell phone.

“I told you Mr Mason, you have to call my cell phone. I left the number taped to your refrigerator in big print.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be working today in this weather, you know you won’t be able to get up your driveway by this afternoon.”

“I’m shutting the doors at noon,” I say to Mr. Mason. “And don’t worry, that old truck can still get me up the driveway just fine.” At least I hope she will. I am well overdue for an oil change.

“Well as long as I’m here, why don’t you let me have one of them eclairs for my breakfast?”

“Because Doc Amron said you can’t have sweets any more! You’ve got high sugar.” I swat his hand away from the glass domed cake stand. I hear a light huff of amusement from Marcus.

“Doc Amron would have me eat like a rabbit. I’m ninety years old. What am I staying healthy for?”

“Someone’s gotta walk me down the aisle,” I say. “Should I ever be foolish enough to do it again.”

“Well get a move on,” Mr. Mason grumbles. “I miss cookies.”

“I know you do, you old goat,” I say affectionately. “How about some oatmeal, and I’ll put some strawberries and cocoa powder in it?”

“How about one of them muffins?”

“Or you could have plain oatmeal,” I warn.

“Strawberries, please,” he says dejectedly. I chuckle and then turn back to Marcus, and as our eyes lock, I feel that little flutter in my stomach again.

“And how about you, Sher-Marcus?” I ask, correcting myself as my cheeks heat up again.

“If you’re up for it, chocolate chip pancakes?” He leans back on the stool slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. I try not to stare at the way the fabric of his uniform shirt pulls against his broad shoulders.

“I’m up for it,” I say grinning. “All right, I’ll be right back.” I swat Mr. Mason’s hand away from the cake stand again. I move it to the far side of the counter and I give both men a reproachful look. “If there are any eclairs missing when I come back, you’re both on notice.” I threaten. Marcus chuckles, holding his hands up again. I feel my knees falter slightly as I turn, and I catch my elbow against the door frame.

“Shit,” I hiss, and I rush through the door so that my scarlet red cheeks aren’t on display for Marcus to see.

I lean against the prep sink and I try to control my breathing. Marcus is not what I describe as classically handsome; but he’s still quite good looking. He has a large, sharp nose that adds a certain amount of character to his face. His smile, though… It’s a thousand megawatts, and his dimples are frequently on display. His deep brown eyes are large and kind, though they are often a little sad. He keeps in good shape, and I’m embarrassed to admit how often my gaze lingers on his well developed arms, his broad shoulders, his trim waist.

“Pull yourself together,” I mutter as I get the strawberries out of the reach-in refrigerator. I turn the water in the prep sink on and run it over the berries, right in the plastic container, and then I gather the rest of the things I need, taking them back out to the griddle.

Marcus looks a bit awkward as I step back into front of the cafe, and Mr. Mason makes a show of looking around, avoiding my gaze.

“What are you two up to?” I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. I cast a look over at the eclairs, but none are missing. I look back at the two of them.

“Nothing,” Marcus says evasively. “Just chatting about the weather.”

“Sure,” I say, but I don’t believe them. While the griddle heats up, I start preparing Mr. Mason’s oatmeal, cutting the strawberries and adding a dash of cocoa powder to it.

“There you go,” I say, placing it in front of him. He gives me a small smile.

“I know you’re just trying to take good care of me, Emma,” he says as he takes a bite of the oatmeal.

“I am, so you’d better listen to me,” I threaten in a teasing tone. I turn to the griddle and start mixing the batter for the pancakes.

For a moment, the cafe is quiet, the only sound is Mr. Mason’s spoon against the ceramic edge of his bowl. I cast a look outside, and I see that the snow is coming down heavily.

“Mr. Mason,” I say as I clear his empty bowl away. “Don’t think me unkind, but you need to get home before the snow gets any worse. I don’t want to have to call Jimmy to come pull you out of a ditch.”

“All right, all right, I can tell when my welcome’s worn out,” he says, and he pays for his breakfast before toddling out the door. I flip the pancakes over on the griddle and I hear Marcus chuckling again.

“What?” I ask him, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“It’s just sweet, how you two carry on,” he says.

“Thanks… Our families were always pretty tight, going back generations. But… We’re all that’s left now,” I say, trying not to think about how our two once proud family trees have whittled down to splinters.

“You don’t have any other family?”

“Well, I’ve got cousins and such, but no siblings, and both my parents have passed on.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. I slide three fat pancakes onto a plate for him before I fetch the syrup and butter.

“This smells amazing,” he says, leaning forward slightly and inhaling deeply. “Is that vanilla?”

“Yeah, I always mix a little paste into the batter.” I lean against the prep counter again. “What about you? Siblings?”

“Yeah, a brother and a sister. My parents live out in El Paso, but my sister’s in New York, and my brother’s in Florida. When I was living in DC, they used to all come see me for Christmas, because I was sort of but not really in the middle,” he explains fondly. “I guess I still kind of am, though I don't really see my sister in a place like this.”

“Are you the youngest or oldest or middle?”

“Oldest,” he says, cutting his pancakes carefully before liberally pouring syrup over them. “My sister is two years younger than I am, and my brother is 5 years younger.”

“That’s nice, I bet you were a good big brother,” I say softly. We don't often get the chance to chat like this, just the two of us.

“I tried,” he says, flashing me that dimpled grin again. “Were you lonely growing up?

“In a way, but we always had animals. Goats, chickens, ducks, all that stuff.”

“Cows? Pigs?”

“No, strictly small farm animals… We had a couple miniature donkeys, but nothing bigger than that.”

He chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“So you’re closing up shop at noon?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at the clock. It was nearing nine, almost late enough to call May Anne.

“Good, I don’t want to have to call Jimmy to come pull you out of a ditch,” he teases, repeating my threat to Mr. Mason.

“You won’t,” I say with a grin.

“Good,” he says again, softly, and he holds my gaze for a moment. “Listen,” he says huskily, but before he can go on, the bells on the door jingle once again. I look up, smiling instinctively, but the smile dies on my face.

Deacon Crocker, my ex husband, all six-foot-six inches of him, stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a dirty carhartt jacket and oil spotted jeans.

“What are you doing here?” I say darkly.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You have something to say to me, you can say to Ann Larian, of Larian, Diemel and Olson.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“Em, don’t be like that,” he says, his eyes wide. He self consciously runs a hand through his messy hair.

Deacon was a good looking man once upon a time, tall, blond and blue eyed. He played minor league baseball for the first eight years of our marriage, but drank himself stupid during the last two. From the looks of things, that has not changed. I can see he’s getting a belly, despite the fact that he’s only thirty five, the same age as I am. His skin is red and blotchy, maybe from the cold, maybe from the whisky he loves so much.

Marcus shifts in his seat slightly, turning just enough that the Sheriff patch on his shirt is showing. He doesn’t speak, but I see him look Deacon up and down before crossing those arms over his chest again. Deacon pays him no mind.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” I repeat. “Please leave, there’s no loitering.”

“I’m a paying customer,” he says, pulling out his wallet.

“I have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason,” I say, pointing to the door. “Please leave.”

“Em, come on,” he pleads once more. “Just hear me out.”

“No, Deacon, I will not.”

“Em-”

“You heard her,” Marcus says, his voice quiet, almost deadly. I’ve never heard him sound like that before. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Get out.”

“And who are you? Some deputy of Roy’s?”

“Roy retired last spring, I’m the new Sheriff,” he says, turning more fully in his chair and standing up. Deacon has a good six inches and close to a hundred pounds on him, but Marcus didn’t seem bothered by that. “I’ll say it again. Emma asked you to leave, so go on, before I arrest you for trespassing.”

Deacon sizes Marcus up to see if he’s bluffing, but I know Deacon doesn’t want any more trouble with the law. He’s still on probation for a DUI a few years back. He puts his hands up in surrender, similar to the way Marus did earlier, and backs out of the cafe.

“See you around, Em,” he says.

“No if I see you first,” I mutter as the door shuts behind him. Marcus turns back to me.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I manage to say, but I realize that my breath is coming out in quick gasps. I make a concentrated effort to control my breathing.

“Does he do this often?” Marcus asks, sitting back down. “Show up out of the blue, I mean?”

“He used to do this all the time just after our divorce was finalized, but I haven’t seen him for about a year, maybe eighteen months,” I say. “He never wants anything good. He’ll whine and moan about wanting me to take him back, but then I’ll hear down at the IGA it’s because some floozy he took up with kicked him out.”

Marcus lets out a huff of laughter.

“I’m sorry, it’s not funny, not really, I just… This is a small town. I forget that sometimes…But I thought he didn’t live around here anymore?”

“He doesn’t, but his sister Evangeline does, up to Wisteria Acres Trailer Park,” I say. “She’s good friends with Patty Pritchett, and if you tell Patty anything, you might as well paint it on a billboard along the highway.”

“Noted,” Marcus says dryly. “Deacon and Evangeline?”

“Yeah, there are a whole mess of Crocker Siblings with names like that. Deacon, Evangeline, Rook, Pally, Fina-”

“Fina?”

“Like Tina, but with an F,” I say. “Fina was my friend growing up, that’s how I got to know Deacon.” Fina left Culver Creek around the same time I did, but she never moved back, even after her own marriage fell apart.

Marcus eats slowly, chatting with me while I lean back against the prep counter, watching cars and trucks driving slowly down the highway, splashing slush and ice as they go.

The morning ticks by as we laugh and joke and talk, and I feel those damn flutters in my stomach again. He’s so charming and sweet, and all I want, more than anything, is him to ask if he can come by some night to go to dinner or to take me to a movie.

A while later, my cell phone rings and I look at the display. May Anne’s home phone number.

“Sorry, I think May Anne is calling to see if I’m open today,” I tell Marcus apologetically. “Hello?” I answer, stepping back into the kitchen.

“Emma?” The voice doesn’t belong to May Anne, but her mother. There’s an undercurrent of desperation to it.

“Hi Ms Opal,” I say. “Is everything okay?”

“Is May Anne there by chance?”

“No, I was gonna call her in a bit and tell her not to come in today.”

“Oh,” Ms Opal says, and I can hear her let out a shaky breath. “If you see her, will you tell her to call me?”

“Sure Ms. Opal. Wasn’t she home this morning?”

“She was supposed to stay over at Jess McNally’s house last night, but she promised to come home this morning before the storm got too bad. I called over there just now to see if she wanted her daddy to come pick her up, but they said she left almost an hour ago. It shouldn’t have taken her that long to get home.”

“Sheriff Pike is here having his breakfast,” I say. “Do you want me to tell him to get one of his deputies to go look for her?”

“I hate to bother him. I’m sure I’m just being a worrywort,” Ms. Opal replies. “I just can’t shake this feeling that something's wrong. It’s a five minute drive. Her daddy went out to see if she slid off the road.”

“He won’t think it’s a bother. I’ll talk to the Sheriff, I know you don't want to take any chances with this weather,” I promise.

“Thanks Emma,” Ms. Opal says, and I can hear the worry in her voice. “Thank the Sheriff for me too, please.”

I hang up, and feeling worry in the pit of my own stomach, I step back out into the kitchen. Marcus looks up at me, smiling, but the smile changes to concern when he sees the look on my face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“That was May Anne’s mother,” I say, my mouth dry. “She was supposed to be home an hour ago, but there’s no sign of her.”

“Is she answering her phone?”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone,” I say. “Her family is pretty poor, and she wants to go to college in the fall, so she’s been getting by without one. Service out here is so spotty most people still have home phones anyway,” I rambled nervously. “I was going to ask if you could ask your deputies to keep a look out for her.

“Sure,” he says. “Was she on foot?”

“No, she drives my mom’s old buick skylark. It’s light blue.” Marcus seems surprised by that.

“You two are close, huh?”

“I think of her like a little sister, I guess,” I say. “She reminds me a little of myself when I was her age, but she’s so much brighter than I ever was. She has a full ride to UMD in the fall and I wasn’t using the car anyway.”

Marcus nods gently and asks me for more information about May Anne before he calls the Sheriff’s station and asks dispatch to radio his on duty deputies to have them on the lookout for May Anne.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” he says. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Not really. She has a crush on Billy Johnson, but he doesn’t like her back, according to her. And May Anne isn’t the type to run off without telling anyone where she’s going.”

“We’ll find her,” he assures me. “I’m sorry Emma, I wish I could stay here where it’s cozy and warm, and smells like vanilla pancakes all day but duty calls.” He pays his tab and pulls his coat back on. “She’ll turn up,” he tells me again.

I nod bleakly, but I can’t help but worry. Culver Creek isn’t a big place, but it’s still plenty dangerous. Wild animals like Bear and Elk are plentiful, and the roads are narrow and winding. She could have hit an animal or swerved to try to avoid hitting one and wrecked. I shiver, hoping she turns up.

I am no more good the rest of the morning. I spend the hours pacing the length of the diner, looking out the window at the falling snow, and checking my phone obsessively for texts or calls about May Anne.

I only see one more person that morning, the driver of an 18 wheeler that pulls up in the parking lot just after 10. The driver gets out of the truck and makes his way up to the cafe. I’ve never seen him before, but that’s not an uncommon thing. Lots of Truckers stop through here, traveling through the scenic byways to avoid weigh stations.

Something about this man unsettles me a little bit, though. He’s older, mid fifties at least, with a little bit of a belly, but he looks like he’s pretty strong. He’s got a ruddy, weatherbeaten face, and white-blue eyes. His fingernails have muddy grime stuck beneath them, and a heavy odor clings to him; a mix of unwashed flesh, mustiness, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t place, but the smell is so strong, I can feel my eyes watering even across the counter. He stares at me as I get his order together, black coffee and the rest of the eclairs.

“You here all by yourself?” he asks in a rough, low voice.

“No, my husband's back in the kitchen doing inventory,” I say breezily. Maybe he’s harmless, but something tells me that I don’t want this man thinking I’m here alone. He gets up, taking his coffee and eclairs with him. He gets in his truck and drives off, but I see him pull into Jimmy’s Texaco just up the road and turn off his lights. He might just need fuel, I tell myself, trying not to let his unpleasant smell color my perception of him. Some time later, I look out again and he’s gone.

Finally, a little before noon, I lock up and turn the lights off. I head out to my truck, trudging through the deepening snow… But as I walk up to it, I notice the tires are flat. All four of them.

“Shit,” I hiss. I pull my cell phone out and call Jimmy.

“Baker’s Towing,” he answers crisply.

“Jimmy, I need a tow.”

“I can’t help you for a couple of hours Em, I’m on a call for the state,” he said. “Big accident up in Dour County.”

“All right, well give me a call when you’re freed up,” I say.

“Sure will Em.”

I am about to go back inside to wait for Jimmy, wondering how long he’ll be, worrying about May Anne, and worrying about my animals back at my little farm, when I see headlights pulling into the parking lot.

Marcus. My stomach flutters again. He pulls alongside me and rolls his window down.

“I wanted to swing back by to tell you to get on home, the roads are getting bad, but also to tell you that we haven’t found any sign of May Anne. Ronald is talking to her parents now.”

“I’m headed home,” I tell him, but I see his eyes look past me, at my tires.

“Doesn’t look like you’re headed anywhere,” he says, putting his jeep in Park and climbing out of the driver’s side. He walks over to my truck and then he realizes it's all four tires. “Son of a bitch,” he says. “Come on, hop in.”

“Jimmy’s gonna come give me a tow.”

“Jimmy’s gonna be tied up with the state all day. I heard it on the radio. He’s not gonna turn down state money. Come on Emma,” Marcus says, holding the passenger door open for me. “I’ll drop you off at home and we’ll figure out what to do with your truck once the worst of the storm passes.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I know. Get in.”

I hesitate, but as another icy blast of wind cuts through my coat, my sweater and my clothes, I shiver and climb inside his jeep.

“I suppose you know how rare it is for four tires to spontaneously go flat,” he says as he turns the heat up slightly.

“I do,” I say. “Deacon isn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“You wanna file a police report?”

“Yes, and no. I should, because it’s the right thing to do… but I don’t wanna fuck up his parole. I mean-” I blush a little. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.”

“Be a lady,” my father would admonish me.

“I don’t mind,” Marucs says softly. He carefully navigates the jeep back on to the highway. “Anyway uh… Maybe you should fuck it up.”

“What makes you say that?”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the white road ahead of him.

“Sometimes guys like him need to go to jail for it to sink in.”

I don’t reply to that. We travel along in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember where the turn is.”

“Oh, it’s about five miles up, on the left,” I say as we pass Jimmy’s Texaco station. The main highway is plowed, I know from years of living here that the backroads probably won’t see a plow til the morning, maybe not for a few days, depending on how bad things get. Marcus pulls off the highway and makes the first turn.

“So you really lived here all your life?”

“Yeah… I mean, I left for a few years after I turned eighteen.”

“College?”

“No, with Deacon,” I say. “I didn’t go to college.”

“How come?”

“No money, and I was young and dumb and though I was in love.”

“Now you don’t?”

“My idea of what love is has changed,” I say. “The next turn is coming up. It’s just up around the bend, on the left,” I tell him.

“If Deacon’s back in town…” he says, but he pauses. “Just… You can call me if you need anything. Even if you’re just scared.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m fine,” I assure him. “That’s my driveway. You can drop me-”

“I’m not dropping you off in the middle of the street.”

“No, I just meant-”

“I’m dropping you at the door and waiting til you get inside,” he says firmly. He pulls the jeep up the steep drive and turns into the little parking turn out by the front porch.

“Thank you for the ride,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome,” he says softly.

I reach for the door and step out of the jeep, but suddenly, the world is flipped upside down and I feel my legs sliding in two opposite directions. There’s a popping noise and pain radiates through my ankle. I let out a small cry, and get a mouth full of snow for my trouble.

“Emma!” Marcus says, and in a flash he’s out of the Jeep, kneeling beside me in the snow. He carefully brushes snow off my face and out of my hair. “Are you okay?”

“My ankle,” I say, and I feel tears stinging my eyes. “Fuck,” I swear.

“Come on, put your arms around my neck,” he says.

“Don’t, I’m too heavy.”

“You are not. Come on.” I put my arms around his neck and he pulls me to my feet. “Can you put any weight on it?” He asks, carefully holding me. I try, but I immediately fall against him.

“I’ve got you,” he says, getting a good grip on me, pulling me close to him. Despite the pain in my ankle, the cold, and my own embarrassment, my brain can’t help but clock how good he smells. “Easy does it.”

In one fluid motion, he lifts me up in his arms, carrying me up the porch steps. He holds me steady as I unlock my front door, and then he carries me inside, setting me down gently on my couch.

“Let me take a look,” he says.

“It’s fine.”

“Emma, I heard a crack. It might be broken.” He looks up at me, those big brown eyes of his so full of concern. “Please, let me help you.”

I swallow hard, and I nod.

“All right,” I almost whisper. He gently unlaces my boots, and I hope that my feet don’t stink. He pulls off my sock and rolls up the hem of my pant leg slightly. His hands are cool against my skin as he gently feels my ankle.

Then he sees the long ugly scar that runs from the top of my foot just past my ankle bone.

“You broke your ankle before?” He says, his brows knitting together.

“...Yeah,” I say, but he catches the moment of hesitation. I bite my lip.

“Deacon,” he says darkly. I nod. “He beat you up?”

“I figured you knew, no one in this town can keep their mouths shut. It was the first time he put me in the hospital. I’m embarrassed to say it wasn’t the last.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed about that, Emma.” He continues to examine my ankle. “I think it's just a bad sprain, but you’ll need to stay off it until Doc Amron can take a look at it.”

He glances out the window at the snow, which is still falling heavily.

“I have animals to tend to,” I say before I can stop myself.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

“No I-”

“Emma,” Marcus says gently. “You’re hurt, and I ca- I’m your friend. Let me help you,” he repeats, his voice that same, low husky tone from earlier.

“You don’t know what needs to be done or where anything is.”

“I’m sure you can guide me.”

I start to protest again, but his deep brown eyes catch me off guard.

“Thank you,” I finally say softly. I give him the rundown of where to find things, and he heads back out into the cold. The wind is howling something fierce and a distant rumble of thunder causes me to shiver.

A half hour later, Marcus comes back into the house, and to my surprise, he takes his boots off by the front door and hangs his coat on the coat rack.

“The animals are all fine,” he says. “I fed your ducks and goats. You didn’t mention your cat though, so I wasn’t sure where to find her food.”

“I don’t have a cat,” I said, and I felt my eyebrows knit together.

“Well, you have a visitor then. She was quite friendly, so I thought she must be a pet.”

“Poor thing, she must have wanted to get out of the cold.”

“Yeah, she’s curled up in the barn with your goats.”

“She’s welcome to ride out the storm with them,” I say softly. Marcus looks around, a smile playing around his full lips.

“What?”

“Your house doesn’t seem very… You.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the Cafe seems like you, with all the pink and stuff… This… not so much.” He gestures to the dark wood paneling and the blue and green plaid furniture.

“No, this is my dad… I’ve been so busy getting the cafe up and running that I haven’t done much in the way of fixing up the house since I moved back here.” I say.

“Can I get you anything or do anything for you? Ibuprofen? Blanket?” He asks.

“yes thank you. There’s some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, it’s just down the hall over there,” I point. “Please.”

“Coming right up,” he says, and he disappears. He comes back a few minutes later with a small cup and the bottle of ibuprofen. I take three and swallow the water in one gulp.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here with your ankle like that,” he says. “Why don’t you come back with me to town? I have a spare room that’s comfortable.”

“What about my animals?” I ask.

“I’ll come back in the morning to take care of them.”

“I doubt the roads will be plowed. It’s supposed to snow all night,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that…You seem to have a hard time asking for help, and a hard time accepting the offer.”

“I’m just used to doing things on my own.”

“You don’t have to, though.” He sits on the couch, not quite next to me, and looks at me for a long moment. I feel the fluttering in my stomach again. He opens his mouth to speak again, but before he can, a terrible gust of wind rips through the afternoon, and the house shudders. The lights flicker for a second, and a loud clap of thunder booms almost directly overhead. I look out the front window, but all I see is white.

“Wow,” Marcus whispers. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Snow Squalls are pretty common out here,” I say. “They’re dangerous.” I cast a look over at him. “You can’t drive in that.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “You can stay here,” I go on, again before I can seem to stop myself, my heart pounding a little faster.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got snow tires on the jeep-”

“It’s more than that,” I blurt out. “You won’t be able to see anything. It’s white out conditions. You don’t know the roads this far out real well yet, and-”

“Emma-”

“Please,” I say. “Don’t try to head back to town. You might think you know, but Marcus… If anything happened to you…” My voice trails off. “Please stay.”

“I don’t want to impose on you Emma.”

“You just told me I could stay at your place because of my ankle,” I argue. “Now who’s being stubborn?”

“Touche.”

“You can’t drive in that,” I say again, and to illustrate my point, another gust of wind causes the house to rattle again.

“No, I don’t think I can,” he agrees, getting up and going over to the window. “I can’t even see my jeep.”

He looks over at me, a small smile on his face.

“I can sleep with the goats. If it’s good enough for a cat, it’s good enough for me.”

I feel myself smiling despite the pain in my ankle.

“I have a spare room, too, you know.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“I wouldn’t make you sleep with the goats,” I say, still smiling.

“I could do worse,” he says. He sits back on the couch. “I’d love to stay, thank you for the offer.”

“Thank you for everything,” I return.

“What are friends for?”

Friends, I think, and I can’t help a little pang of disappointment at the word. My cell phone rings. I give him an apologetic look as I answer it.

“Hi Ms. Opal,” I answer

“Emma,” she says tearfully. “She still isn’t home.”

I feel terrible. With Deacon showing up, my ankle, and now Marcus spending the night, May Anne had slipped my mind.

“I’m with Sheriff Pike right now,” I look over at him. “One sec,” I tell Ms. Opal. I mute the phone and look at him. He shakes his head, and I understand his meaning. No updates, no news. But then to my surprise, he holds out his hand for my phone.

“Ms. Opal, hold on, he wants to speak to you.” I hand him the phone.

“Hi Mrs. Collins,” he says. “I have my deputies on the lookout for her, but with the storm, there’s not much we can do. Hopefully she’s just holed up with a girlfriend-”

I hear Ms Opal’s desperate voice interrupt him.

More crying, and I feel sick to my stomach with worry.

He talks to her for a while longer, never losing his patience, repeating his words of comfort over and over. Eventually Ms Opal hangs up, and he looks at me sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to me. “I’m sure she’ll turn up after the storm passes,” he tries to reassure me.

“It’s not like May Anne not to at least call,” I say.

“I know, but Emma, she’s a teenage girl.”

“May Anne isn’t a normal teenage girl. She’s not the kind of person to let her parents worry.”

“Even if she was seeing someone they didn’t approve of?”

“She wouldn’t keep that secret from me,” I say. May Anne confessed many a crush to me over the years.

“Even if she thought you wouldn’t approve?”

I don’t know how to make him understand, so I just shrug.

“May Anne is the most responsible person I know,” I say after a minute. “But I hope you’re right.”

A long silence passes between us.

“You were going to say something earlier,” I say after a moment. “Before Deacon showed up.”

“I was? Huh, I don’t remember now,” he says, but he avoids my gaze as he says it.

“You’re a lousy liar,” I say.

“I am,” he replies. He looks back over at me. “I dunno if now’s the right time.”

“Why not?”

“You’re worried about May Anne, your ankle… Deacon…”

“Trust me, Deacon is the last thing on my mind.” I shift slightly on the couch, wincing as I do.

“Are you in pain?”

“It’s not bad,” I say. “Anyway, I could use something to take my mind off of it… And off of May Anne, since I can’t do anything until the storm passes anyway.”

Marcus sighs.

“There’s about a million ways I’d rather do this… Smoother, more charming ways.”

“Do what?”

“I was going to ask you if you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime,” he says.

I blink, surprised.

“I…”

Next Chapter

#pedro pascal #fanfiction #Marcus Pike #plot with smut

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