Free Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call by Rob Cornell

some eye-liner marked one cheek like a bruise.
    Autumn might have cut off our relationship without explanation, might have treated me unfairly, but she had never lied to me. I could give her the benefit of the doubt, buy some time before Tom sunk his teeth into her. And I could make sure Autumn was given a fair shot.
    I could do that much.
    But I also knew I could do no less.
    Looking at her, even in the shadows, even with her eyes all puffy and make-up smeared, even with her damn husband a corpse in the living room, I couldn’t stop the ache just under my breastbone that made me want to swim back in time and pick up where we had left off. My hands remembered how she felt, and craved that sensation again. My body recalled how it fit against hers in bed after making love, and needed that sense of belonging once more.
    “Okay,” I said, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”
    I was going to help Autumn. Only this time I wouldn’t lie to myself. This time I knew I was helping her for all the wrong reasons.

    Sheila’s house sits on about fifteen acres just outside of Hawthorne, a farm town where most the farms are now defunct, the land sold to people from the city and suburbs who decided they wanted some space and a simpler life. I doubted any of them had simpler lives, but there’s definitely something to be said for space.
    As I pulled into the dirt driveway, I noticed Sheila’s porch light was still on, and could see some light through the window coming from deeper within the house. I was worried about the hour, but at least it looked like I wouldn’t have to wake her up.
    I parked, left the engine running.
    Autumn stared out at an oak tree illuminated by the headlights. A frayed rope from where a tire swing used to hang looked like a snapped noose.
    “Wait here,” I said and turned off the headlights.
    Sheila stood waiting on her porch by the time I reached the house. She wore a set of silk pajamas. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. I hadn’t seen her without make-up in a while. She looked older, the lines sad and deep in her face. She held a wineglass filled to the brim with red wine. It occurred to me I had never in my life seen her drink anything alcoholic.
    “She just going to sit in the car?” Sheila asked.
    “I need your help.”
    She pulled open the screen door.
    I thought we might sit in the kitchen to talk, but she led me through the house and out onto the back deck. A pair of lights flanking the door cast a yellow glow. A metal rocking chair sat before a wastebasket. Empty corn husks peeked over the basket’s edge like thin, curious fingers. To one side of the chair a brown shopping bag rattled in the night breeze, but remained weighted by its contents. A glass bowl on the other side of the chair had a few ears of shucked corn resting at the bottom. Beside this set up, on the deck floor, sat a half-empty bottle of wine.
    “You shucking corn in the middle of the night?”
    “Sleep doesn’t come as easily as it once did.” Sheila grabbed my elbow and pointed to the rocker. “Sit and shuck.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Don’t waste my time. I’m entertaining a gentleman friend tomorrow and I have a feeling you’re going to upset me. The bags under my eyes can only stand so much make-up.”
    “All this corn for you and a guy?”
    “There’s another two couples coming along, but they’re merely cover. I’ll be damned if I’m going to look desperate at my age.”
    I sat, dug an ear of corn from the paper bag, and tugged at one furry end, not making much progress. I swore I’d seen this done somewhere before.
    Sheila set her wine glass on the deck and swiped the corn from me. “Look.” She made a quick fluid rip that didn’t seem to have any more technique involved than mine. She slapped the corn back in my palm and sat in a matching chair, wineglass back in hand.
    I started tugging with similar results to my first attempt. I finally wrenched a