Then P.J. saw Juliet.
She had just stepped out from the edge of the forest. The sun had broken through the trees at just that moment and dappled her with a kaleidoscope of moving light. She stood very still as if on a precipice. It was as if Juliet knew that she couldn’t go back but moving forward was unthinkable. P.J. made a move towards Juliet, but when her eyes hit his he felt something powerful hit him square in the chest. It had the power to stop him cold. P.J.’s reaction to Juliet was a primal, visceral thing, a response as old as the ages.
“Juliet!” Layla’s voice threatened to break the spell.
But when Juliet tried to turn away from him, P.J.’s eyes held her gaze. He stayed very still and refused to let go of Juliet’s eyes.
Layla was almost upon Juliet before Juliet was able to break herself away from P. J’s spellbinding stare. And when P.J. lost the fight to hold her, he felt an inexplicable surge of anger course through his body. His fist clenched by his side, and his abdomen tightened as if waiting for a punch. P.J wanted to run after Juliet, caveman her up over his shoulder, cage her, and keep her all for himself.
Frowning now, P.J kicked the lid off the cooler, and reached into the icy water. He left his hand in there just long enough to freeze the stupid right out of him. Because really who the hell did he think he was? He had spoken to the chick probably no more than a half a dozen times and he had absolutely no claim to her.
Yet. P.J. had no claim to Juliet yet.
P.J. grabbed himself a beer, leaned against the house, and watched as Layla took Juliet Jones under her wing and welcomed her in. Juliet looked good. Real good. Gone was the black hooded waif with the tired eyes and hard angles. She was still too thin, and her shoulders still slumped. Juliet still looked haunted. But she was doing better.
And lately when she stopped in at the market, P.J. had pretended to hardly notice her. And it seemed that P.J.’s restraint had gone a long way in making Juliet feel more comfortable. Her stride had become more relaxed, her eyes were lifted, and when she had smiled at him last week, two dimples popped out in her cheeks. Her voice was stronger, too. She could hold his gaze a little longer now without turning away. And even though they would never set the world on fire with their dazzling conversations, P.J had stopped baiting Juliet and she had stopped running away from him. In fact, sometimes she would take a moment to sip her coffee or look at a magazine before leaving the store. The other day she had a full five minute conversation with Vivien about the merits of something called gel nail polish. It was the first time he had seen Juliet totally relaxed. Her easy demeanor and smiling countenance had given P.J. his first glimpse into the woman she once had been.
After that first time, Juliet had never mentioned the gun again, and P.J. wondered if the situation that set the need was gone, or if the security check would expose something that she would prefer not to have revealed. P.J. still wondered about the woman in the license and wished he had taken a better look at the name.
Now, he watched on as Layla moved Juliet into a circle of the neighborhood women. It came as no surprised to him that she seemed uneasy. From his perch against the tree, P.J. couldn’t tell what the women were saying, but he could see their mouths moving rapidly and their hands gesturing in the exuberant way that women tended to do. Juliet’s hands remained tightly closed at her sides and she hadn’t added more than a couple of words to the conversation.
Damn, will you give the woman a break? P.J.’s inner voice chided him. Not everyone is comfortable in a crowd. Maybe she’s just shy. Or maybe she can feel your eyes boring into her skull. That’d make anybody a nervous wreck. Give it a rest, man.
But when P.J. moved to turn his eyes away, Juliet made a movement that brought his attention reeling back. The fingers of her right hand began to nervously twist around the ring finger of her left hand. It was as if she was playing with a ring that wasn’t there.
That gesture hit P.J. hard and triggered a long forgotten memory.
Larry Tyler.
Larry and his family had moved to town when P.J. was in middle school. Larry’s stepdad, Titus, had been a steel worker and had moved his family up from Detroit to work on a union job. Larry had been skinny with bright red hair, big ears, and a lazy right eye. He had been a quiet kind of kid who kept to himself a lot. But sometimes on his way home from school, Larry would stop at the Hells Saints garage. He’d sit there in the grass and eat a snack he had saved from school that day. He didn’t say a word or otherwise bother anyone. Larry just liked to watch the club members work on their bikes.
P.J. used to hang out at the garage with his dad while he waited for his mom to get home from work. One day, on his way to see his dad, P.J. saw some kids picking on Larry. To his surprise, Larry
