Bouquets and Buckles (Crimson Ridge)

by Elliott Rose

I roll my lips together with eager excitement when I see Jere standing on the far side of the room. He’s looking down, his gaze fixed on something I can’t see. Light brown hair flops over his forehead, those metal rim glasses giving him that scholarly hottie vibe, but there is an unusualness in his expression. Enough so, that it makes me pause before I reach out to grab the door handle. I see the way his hand moves, partially obscured by the countertop. Something about this scene isn’t right. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, not because of the winter’s air, but because if I didn’t know any better, he’s mouthing words. If I didn’t know any better… Oh god. That’s when the entire damn script flips right before my disbelieving eyes. The reason his hand is doing something becomes apparent. Dumping realization on me, cold and brutally sudden, like a slab of snow falling off the roof. It’s fisted in some bitch’s hair. Her glossy blonde head comes into view as he drags her to stand up. She’s been down there on her knees.