CrissCross (Crossroads Book 1) Read online

  Jimi motioned to Nova. “Come on back and see.”

  Chance wasn’t invited, but he followed anyway. She’d led them to the second bedroom of the two-bedroom apartment. His contained a small office set-up in the corner, a workout bench, a bunch of junk he had nowhere else to put, and his large gun safe stashed in the closet behind some sports gear.

  Jimi’s, on the other hand, was a magical room of color. The room wasn’t large (which he’d already known since he had one just like it). Even so, one entire sidewall was covered with a huge shelving unit made up of diamond-shaped cubbies full of yarns in every color he’d ever seen. And some colors he’d never even dreamed of. There was a floor loom in the center of the room with a small wooden bench in front of it. The half-finished woven piece still in the loom was an intricate design of variegated yarns in autumn colors.

  A work table at the far side of the room held a jumble of smaller tabletop and lap looms, some wooden parts he assumed were used in the various looms, winders and spools, hooks and cutters, clippers and needles of various sizes.

  On the wall across from the yarn cubbies was another unit of rough but sturdy shelves that ran the entire depth of the room. Some of the upper shelves held stacks of woven pieces all organized in a way he knew Jimi had a system. The bottom two shelves were deeper than the others and held beautifully designed pieces of ceramic pottery glazed in swirls of rich color. There were vases of all sizes, large charger plates, pitcher and basin sets, and various sized serving bowls—some with lids and some without. The designs were on the rustic side, but the glazes were intricate and elegant.

  Chance stood just inside the doorway taking it all in. He finally focused on the two women. Jimi had pulled a few of the woven pieces off shelves and was spreading them out, going on about table runners, placemats, and scarves. Nova was oohing and aahing over the beautiful patterns. Finally she dropped to her knees in front of the pottery and listened as Jimi explained some of the newer pieces and informed her that she had others that would be ready to pick up at her friend’s studio. Apparently she did her clay work at her friend’s place and fired her pieces in the kiln there.

  “Looks like you have a lotta good stuff for festival season, baby,” Nova said as she stood up. She wandered over to the corner where a beat up coat tree stood next to an old-fashioned sewing machine cabinet. The stand was covered with hanging macramé belts similar to the one she still wore around her hips. She began looking through them. “I like that you’ve branched out to the macramé. These’ll sell really well at the rallies.”

  “They’re fun to make.”

  “That remindes me . . . you wanna caravan with us to Ozark Rumble BikerFest?”

  “No, I’ll drive down on my own. Pops is letting me use his truck to haul my stuff like always. Have him call me when I can get it.”

  “He’ll bring it over and he and Axel’ll help you load it up, I’m sure.”

  “That’ll be good.”

  “Maybe even Uncle Zip,” Nova suggested.

  Jimi snorted. “Maybe he can help with the woven pieces. I don’t trust him with the pottery.”

  Chance couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so entertained. He shifted to lean against the doorjamb. His movement apparently caught Jimi’s attention because she spun toward him.

  “Oh!” she blushed. “I’m sorry, Chance. I forg— . . . you must think I’m terribly rude.”

  “Not at all,” he said blithely.

  She looked uncertainly toward her mama who was smirking. Her face straightened when her phone chimed and she dug it out of her back pocket.

  “It’s Jock,” Nova reported.

  “Where is Pops?”

  “He was working late, but I guess he finished, got home and is wondering where I’m at.” Nova was texting furiously with both thumbs. “I better go,” she said to Jimi.

  “Okay. Thanks for bringing the yarn by.”

  “No problem. I was wanting to see your new stuff anyway.”

  Both women approached the doorway where Chance was still leaning, relaxed and smiling against the frame. Nova shot him a grin.

  “I should get outta here anyway and leave you two to whatever you wanna get up to. If I’d known you had a bad boy living so close I—”

  The smile dissolved right off his face. Most mothers would be shooing a strange man out of the apartment to protect their daughter’s virtue.

  “Mama!” Jimi interrupted her, mortified.

  “Oh lighten up, Jimi baby,” Nova chided, stepping around Chance and heading back up the short hallway. “Live a little with a dangerous man.”

  Jimi fell into step behind her. “I can’t believe you, Mama. Besides, he’s not dangerous,” she argued.

  “Looks dangerous to me.”

  By the time Chance followed and paused beside the yarn-laden table, Nova and Jimi were at the front door. Nova turned to look at him and went directly to the source. “Are you dangerous or not?” she asked with a naughty smile.

  A smile stretched over his face. “Not to you. I’m only dangerous to people who want to hurt me or any of the good guys.”

  Nova laughed bawdily. “Oh, you’re dangerous . . . but you give off that ‘truth-justice-American way’ vibe too,” she declared. “You’re not a cop—are you?” she asked suspiciously.

  Jimi rolled her eyes. “Stop harassing Chance, Mama. He’s an international man of mystery and if he tells you his secrets he’ll have to kill you.”

  “Ooh,” Nova breathed, studying him closer while he chuckled.

  Jimi continued, “Pops is waiting for you, so you better get going.”

  The two women hugged each other goodbye and Nova looked at him over her daughter’s head. “See ya, Chance,” she called flirtatiously. Then she was gone.

  Jimi leaned her top half out the door, treating him to the amazing sight of her behind in those low-rise pants and baring the small of her back. “Hey, Mama!” she called. “Tell the guys I can’t have a bunch of hammered Vagabonds hanging around my booth scaring off the customers at BikerFest.”

  Chance heard Nova’s, “I can try,” drifting up the stairs.

  Jimi edged out of the doorway and closed the door, turning to face him.

  He studied her for a moment before teasing, “So, what is it we wanna get up to?” He paused before flirting suggestively, “I mean, I know what I wanna get up to.”

  She crossed her arms around her middle and scowled at him. “I wanna get up to sorting and putting my yarn away.”

  He grinned. “Axel wasn’t kidding when he said you were the white sheep of the family—huh?”

  She didn’t answer, but simply walked over to dump the contents of the first of the plastic bags onto the table. He’d forgotten the bags were full of hemp too.

  “Your mom’s a hoot,” he commented. “Hard to believe you come from a wild woman like her.”

  Jimi dumped another bag. “Look, my mama’s as wild as they come . . . but don’t get it twisted. She’s only wild with my pops.”

  Chance’s gut twisted a bit. When he didn’t answer at first she looked at him in concern.

  “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

  He picked up the last two stuffed-to-the-gills bags and handed her one. “No. I just think it’s nice that your folks are still together.”

  “Oh sure,” she cracked. “It’s really heartwarming until you’re trying to watch a movie with them in their living room and they start making out like teenagers whose parents are out of town.”

  He burst out laughing. “They do that? Still?”

  “Yep. It’s mortifying.”

  He shook his head and mused, “I think it’s nice.”

  “Well, obviously you never had the experience,” she dismissed. “If you did, I think you’d change your tune.”

  “My parents haven’t spoken a word to one another—except through their attorneys—since they split when I was eight,” he informed her flatly.

  She stared at him stricken. �
��I’m so sorry. I forgot they weren’t together.”

  “Not only are they not together, my mom’s on marriage number five—which is circling the drain as we speak—and my dad’s on number four. And—since the age of eight and three—River and I got shuffled back and forth to whichever parent wasn’t so immersed in their new relationship they could give us the tiny bit of attention they could spare while looking for their next significant other.”

  Jimi continued to stare at him at a loss for words.

  He shook his head regretfully. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. Maybe I did it because I’m a little envious of you over your parents.”

  “I get it. I shouldn’t complain about them. It can be awkward, but I am fortunate to have them.”

  Chance looked down and started picking up yarn skeins and balls in yellow shades. “So, how do we do this? By color?”

  She smiled. “You don’t have to stay and help. I can do it. We’ve kept you long enough.”

  “You didn’t keep me. I stayed for the entertainment. This is fun. Especially after dinner with Mom,” he finished bitterly.

  “Okay,” she agreed, her face softening. “We sort it by weight. Then by color and hue.”

  “Color and hue,” he muttered with a rueful grin.

  She showed him how to find the weight listed on the still-labeled skeins. While he sorted those, she pulled out the partial balled up skeins and gauged their weight by practiced feel, winding loosened strands tighter after their attempted escapes out in the hallway earlier. They worked together for awhile before he broke the silence.

  “Who’s Daisy?”

  “My little sister.”

  “Oh. Where is she that she had to ship this to you?”

  “She lives in an artist colony in Maine.”

  “Wow. So, she’s an artist too . . . like you. Your stuff is beautiful, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” she said, ducking her head in embarrassment. “But Daisy’s not an artist like me. She’s an amazing quilter, and she oil paints too . . . mostly landscapes. Sometimes portraits.”

  “She could do all that here,” he mused. “Why is she in Maine?”

  “She followed a boyfriend there,” Jimi answered with a frown.

  “You didn’t approve?”

  “I would have approved if I liked the boyfriend. He’s just not very nice to her. It concerns me that she’s so far away without us for support if things go worse for them. And we don’t hear from her much lately. I think that’s due to him being so controlling.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  They continued to sort hemp in silence for awhile before he broke it again. “How did you learn to weave and do pottery?”

  “I took a mixed media art class in high school and fell in love with weaving and pottery even though we just skimmed the surface.” He remembered River teasing her about winning awards for it. “One of my pop’s Vagabond brothers helped me build my first lap loom. The club’s old ladies started buying my stuff . . . I’m sure to be nice . . . to be encouraging. Then one time at a rally, my Uncle Zip announced loudly—right in front of one of the vendor booths—‘Jimi girl, you make better stuff than this guy!’ It was so rude and I was so embarrassed,” she laughed. “The next rally we went to, the brothers had taken up a collection for a vendor spot, brought along a rickety folding table and informed me that was my booth. I didn’t know Mama had brought along some of my weaving and pottery pieces.”

  “Did it sell?”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “Mostly to Pop’s buddies . . . and I suspect some of the other sales were strong-armed by his brothers.” She shook her head. “I had been bitten by the bug by then and now I’m all in. I do fairs and festivals all over the region. And, of course, bike rallies where the merchandise is a little different. The high-end expensive stuff doesn’t sell at those. Hence, the macramé belts and pottery beer coasters with felt glued to the bottoms,” she grinned cheekily.

  He smiled back. “I might be in the market for some of those beer coasters myself.” After a pause, he asked, “Does that kind of talent run in your family? Are your parents artistic?”

  “Oh, no,” she scoffed. “Well . . . people pay my Uncle Zip good money to custom airbrush gas tanks for their bikes. Sometimes they’re used for memorial urns. He’s really good.”

  “Do people pay you good money for your stuff?” he teased.

  “I do okay.” She gestured grandly around the living room/galley kitchen open plan room. “You think a mere church receptionist could afford all of this?” she cracked.

  “Probably not,” he played along.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Okay! See ya later,” Jimi chirped, turning from the concessions stand with a bag of popcorn clutched in one hand and a paper cup nearly overflowing with soda from the other. It was Friday night football season in the town she’d been born, raised and lived her whole life. Needless to say, she saw faces all around her that were not only familiar, but that she knew well.

  Normally Isla would be with her for the Friday night game, but her bestie was out of town to attend some sort of insurance professional seminar. Jimi had decided to go without her. Surely there would be someone she could find to sit with. She and Isla always ended up sitting with some group or other anyway. She liked to be there to support some of the New Hope youth group kids who played on the team, cheered or performed with the school pep band . . . but also just because it was a fun way to spend a Friday evening.

  She made her way toward the home-side bleachers, pausing occasionally to chat with friends she’d gone to high school with because—thanks to Isla’s acceptance of her—she’d been able to make some good friends from middle through high school. She also came across fellow church members, as well as acquaintances she’d never be able to remember how she’d met in the first place. She even chatted up a couple of biker friends of her parents who had sons that played for the Carrefour HS Trappers.

  Jimi eventually got to the bleachers, approaching from the side instead of the back, and noticed the home team boys warming up on the other side of the fence. There was a tall blonde man standing on her side of the fence, one hand gripping the chain link beside his head. The coach was talking with him from the other side, clipboard held against his chest and eagle eyes on his boys as they ran through their pre-game rituals. The bulked up blonde man seemed familiar. He turned his head enough to give Jimi his profile, keeping his focus on one of the boys jogging downfield as Coach pointed him out. It was Chance. Her neighbor. Maybe even her new friend. Her breath caught at the sight of the field lights setting his hair to glowing in the dusk. Yeah, he was her new friend, but she might be in trouble. The way just the sight of him made her heart bump could mean she was developing a crush on him.

  Unaware that a scowl crossed her face at this new realization, she startled when a deep adolescent voice sounded from her left. Her startled jump caused soda to slosh over the edge of her cup. Aggravated, she wondered for the millionth time why concessions didn’t offer lids to fit the cheap old-fashioned wax-coated paper cups. Oh well, she thought, I’ll just deal with the dried soda stickiness. No big deal. She turned to see a tall familiar kid on the other side of the fence, his fingers threaded through the chain link as he leaned in to speak to her.

  “Yo, Jimi,” he began. He was tall and his frame seemed so scrawny it shouldn’t be able to hold up the weight of all the pads he carried on it. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

  “Hey, Jake,” she smiled.

  “Umm . . . I jus—just—” he stammered nervously, “I just wanted to tell you I think I got pizza grease on your sofa the other night.” His blush glowed under the high intensity field lights.

  Jimi fought off a laugh, recognizing that he must have been agonizing over whether he should confess about staining her upholstery or not. The angel on the one shoulder appeared to have won out over the devil on his other. “That’s okay, Jake,” she assured him. “We fo
und the stain and it came right out.”

  Jake gulped again, this time in relief. “I’m glad, but I should have told you that night about it. Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “No worri—”

  “Hey! Winslow!” a booming voice yelled out interrupting Jimi’s response.

  She jerked, sloshing soda again. She and Jake looked over to see Coach Kennedy glaring at the boy. “What’re you doing? Get out there and get warmed up.”

  “Right,” Jake called back. “Sorry!” He shot Jimi a look before spinning away and trotting out to fall in with his teammates.

  She continued on her way, walking toward the two men on either side of the fence. The one on her side watched her approach, but the other kept his eyes on his boys.

  Chance grinned, “You’re distracting the guys, Jimi.”

  “No, I’m not. Jake’s one of our New Hope kids and he just had to clear his conscious about something.”

  Chance quirked an eyebrow. “That sounds like an intriguing story. I didn’t realize church receptionists were in charge of hearing confessions.”

  “We’re not. But my couch was involved, so . . .” she let it trail off, smirked at the baffled expression on his face, and continued on her way to find some friends to join.

  She didn’t notice him watch her walk away as she scanned the crowd. She also missed the look of rapt attention on his face as he observed her climbing midway up the bleachers and taking a seat while chattering with the young women already there.

  The Trappers did a pretty good job of holding their own, only three points behind by halftime. Jimi enjoyed gabbing with her friends, cheering on the team, and surreptitiously observing Chance watch the game from the fence. But now, most of her group had headed off to the ladies’ room or the concessions stand—or both. She opted to stay in her seat.

  She’d just pulled the cardigan she’d had tied around her waist by the sleeves on over her long-sleeved CHS Trappers tee and leaned forward. Her feet were on the edge of the bleacher in front of her, elbows on her knees and her chin resting on a palm while she watched a sea of burgundy and gold—the school colors—undulating around her. One of the cheerleaders she knew from church was standing on the running track that circled the field and sent her an exaggerated wave. Jimi wiggled the fingers of her free hand in response with a smile.