by Destiny Ford
Shit.
“Why is it,” Drake asked, coming closer to me, “that whenever I think I’m going to spend some time with you, another guy shows up?”
I backed up to move away from him. “Well, that’s not really what happened, is it?” I pointed out. “Spence was already here when you arrived.”
“Is there a reason you invited him?”
“Does the reason concern you?”
He put his hands out and looked at me like I was an idiot. “I’m here aren’t I? So yeah, it concerns me. I thought I was coming over for a family dinner.”
“So did I,” I said. “But then you showed up.”
“I was invited.”
“Not by me.”
He moved closer. I moved another step back. “You know,” he said, pointing at me with an annoyed look on his face. “I saw a video of you today. I knew you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you to stay away from Hawke, but practically having sex with him on the tabletop of a family restaurant with kids in the room is bad manners at best.”
“That’s quite an imagination you have.”
“Have you seen the video?”
“I was there; I don’t need to see the video to know what happened,” I answered, and then took it a step further. “And I can promise you” —I paused, letting the corners of my mouth slide into a sly smile— “I would remember if I’d had sex on the table—especially if the sex was with Hawke.”
Drake scowled and a vein near his temple was so enlarged it looked like it was about to burst. “You could see what Hawke wanted just from looking in his eyes, Katie. And I was watching a grainy cell phone video,” he shook his head. “The Bradford story is dangerous for you to keep pursuing, and so is Hawke.”
My eyes narrowed into slits. “Here’s the thing about me, Drake,” I said. “And it’s probably something you should remember. Write it down if you need to because you might even have to do some research to understand it. I’m not the type of girl who does what she’s told, or gives people what they want just because they want it.”
“Is that so?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well, here’s something you should remember, so write it down if you need to,” he said as he kept walking toward me. I backed up until I ran into the countertop and I was literally in the corner. “Hawke’s not the type of man to stop until he gets what he wants.” He moved in until our bodies were parallel and we were standing only an inch apart. The tension was running at an all-time high. I was dangerously close to giving in to my hormones. “And neither am I.” He put his hands on my waist and moved his head until his lips were inches from mine. “I don’t do things halfway. Halfway is bullshit. Halfway and you get hurt.”
Up to that moment, I’d been falling under the Dylan Drake sexy-charm-trance. As soon as he quoted a line from The Cutting Edge, I lost it. I burst out laughing. “That’s your move? Quoting a line from an eighties movie?” I asked, still giggling. “How old are you?”
He moved his hands from my waist and took a step back, clearly annoyed the moment had been ruined. I wasn’t. Regardless of how fitting it would have been to have my first kiss with my teenage crush in my parents’ kitchen a decade later than I’d wanted it to be, I could think of better places for a kiss like that to happen. And I wasn’t ready for what a kiss with Drake would mean anyway. Plus, I was still pissed off at him for his comments about Hawke.
“It was made in the nineties,” he said, “and obviously you know the movie the line comes from, so you have no leeway to mock.”
I pressed my lips together to make myself stop laughing, but I couldn’t hide the amusement in my eyes.
“At least you’re laughing now and not telling me to get over myself and everyone else to go to hell,” he said.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “Next time you act like a jackass and piss me off—which I’m sure will happen sooner than later—just quote me another movie line.” I grabbed the food off the table and nodded in the direction of the plates and glasses. “Can you get those?” I asked, opening the door. Drake picked up the dishes, and followed me to the back yard.
I’d been through a lot of awkward moments in my life—most of my teenage years had been one running tally of embarrassing situations—but nothing compared to dinner with Mom, Dad, Spence, and Drake.
Mom watched me closely, trying to discern whether I’d been telling her the truth earlier, or if I was actually having clandestine relations with both of the men at our weenie roast. We sat at the table making small talk while we ate. Dad asked Spence about the paper, and Mom asked Drake about the legislature. As fake boyfriend number one, Spence wasn’t sure how to react, but seemed rather amused by the situation. As fake boyfriend number two however, Drake seemed less than thrilled. Oh, he was polite, but he wasn’t sincere about it. And he eyed me suspiciously every time I paid attention to Spence.
We gathered around the fire pit to roast marshmallows and the conversation died down into uncomfortable quiet. Unaccustomed to the silence, my mom perked up. “Kate, why don’t you tell us about this story you’re working on that seems to have you so—busy.” She said it like she was trying to find another word for hussy.
“I’m investigating Chelsea Bradford’s death.”
My mom looked up, confusion on her face. “Why? Her death was an accident.”
“That’s what it was ruled as, but I’ve found information indicating there might have been foul play.”
“Who would have murdered a nice girl like Chelsea?” my mom asked. “And murder? It’s absurd! People don’t get murdered in Branson Falls!”
I thought it was interesting the rumors about Chelsea, Shawn, and her pregnancy hadn’t filtered through the grapevine yet. The Bradfords, and even Piper, really were keeping the information under wraps—a feat I would have thought impossible to accomplish in Branson. “I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I said.
“No offense, Sophie,” Spence said, “but a lot happens in Branson Falls that people would have a hard time believing. If we could print the stuff we can’t back up with facts yet, people would be shocked—to say the least.”
My mom considered that for a minute before saying, “But Chelsea is from such a good family! Her parents were just devastated when they found out what happened, weren’t they, Damon?” she said, bringing my dad into the conversation. My dad knew Chelsea’s dad, Brian. They’d been golfing together a few times.
“Yeah,” my dad agreed. “It couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Brian Bradford has spent the last couple of years trying to get a contract with the state for one of his businesses. He was getting close to closing the deal when Chelsea died and everything was put on hold.” My dad poked the fire, moving some of the logs around to redirect the smoke. “I think the deal is probably one of the reasons they had Chelsea’s funeral so fast.”
I stared at my dad in stunned silence for a few seconds before I asked, “Are you saying they rushed Chelsea’s funeral so Brian didn’t have to worry about his daughter’s death and could work on his business contract again?”
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds crass,” my dad answered.
“It is crass!” I yelled. “What kind of dad acts that way?”
Drake shrugged. “One who’s trying to provide for his family.”
I turned to him with a suspicious expression. “Did you know about the deal Brian Bradford was working on?”
Drake got up to get a graham cracker and some chocolate for his marshmallow. “I’d heard bits and pieces about it, but it’s not a surprise. Brian is an entrepreneur and knows a lot of people at the capitol. It’s how his businesses have been so successful. He works hard and gets things done.”
I shook my head. “I just can’t believe work was more important than the death of his daughter. Most parents would take time off from their job to grieve if their kid had just died, not jump right back into work.”
“People deal with death in different ways,”
my dad said.
“If that’s how you ever deal with my death, I’ll come back and haunt the hell out of you.”
My dad laughed and Spence and Drake both chuckled a little. My mom wrinkled her nose at my swearing. Luckily, “hell” was one of the lowest swears on the “threat to eternal salvation” level.
“At least being a journalist in a place like Branson is pretty safe,” my mom said. “It’s not like bigger cities where you’d have to carry Mace, or maybe even a gun.” Mom looked like she was contemplating me with a nine millimeter and shuddered. She had serious fears about big cities. Every time a murder happened in Salt Lake while I was in college, she’d call to make sure I was still alive. She kept thinking of the city as a larger version of Branson, only with way more gang members, prison escapees, and killers.
I looked over and saw Drake smiling. He was like me. He lived in Branson but considered himself more metropolitan than small town.
As the fire began to die down, I turned to Spence whose eyes were drooping. “Are you ready to go?” I asked.
He startled, shaking his head. “Yeah.” He got up from his chair and looked at my parents. “Thanks for dinner. It was really great.”
I gave my mom and dad a hug, thanking them for the food.
Drake stood up. “I should go too,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality and the wonderful dinner, Damon and Sophie. I’m glad I finally got to see the beautiful home Katie grew up in.” My mom beamed at his compliment. I had to admit Drake sounded much smoother than Spence. The charm came from being a politician, but it just made me more suspicious of him. When a person lies for a living, it’s hard to get cynics like myself to trust them.
I walked out to the front of the house with Drake and Spence. Drake’s Hummer was parked in front of the driveway. That would start a whole new slew of rumors. I unlocked my Jeep, opening the door. Spence walked around to the other side while Drake paused by me. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but looked past me to Spence and instead just said, “I’ll see you soon.”
I got in the Jeep and leaned my head back against the seat, shifting my neck until I could see Spence. “I’m sorry about tonight. I didn’t know my mom had invited Drake. Instead of asking me what was going on, she listened to the current rumors about Drake and me dating.”
“I was wondering about those rumors myself,” he said, like he was waiting for a response. When I didn’t answer he changed the subject. “Honestly, it wasn’t the worst night I’ve ever had.”
I smiled. “What was?”
“That’s a longer story than I want to tell right now.”
I woke up the next morning to sun streaming through the window. It would be another hot day. I stumbled down the stairs and put bread in the toaster while I poured myself a glass of milk. I spread my special mixture of butter, peanut butter, and honey over the still warm toast. I was watching the morning news while I ate when I heard a knock on my door.
I got up to answer it and my seventy-year-old neighbor, Phyllis, was on the other side wearing a red morning dress. A pink scarf covered the curlers wrapped around her white hair. She was one of the sweetest women in town and she made excellent treats. She’d brought me homemade brownies when I’d moved in, and helped me unpack while we watched The Bachelorette. We shared an appreciation for baked goods and hot men. “Good morning, Kate,” she said, though the worried lines at the corners of her mouth didn’t indicate there was anything good about it.
“Hi, Phyllis. Do you want to come in?”
She slowly shook her head. “Actually, I’d like you to come outside.” I looked down at the bright blue soccer shorts and white tank top I’d worn to bed. I decided the outfit wouldn’t be too appalling to wear in public. I slipped on my flip flops as I followed Phyllis out the door. When we got to the end of the sidewalk, she paused and glanced up at me. “You might want to prepare yourself, dear.”
I wrinkled my brow, growing more concerned by the second. Phyllis moved out of the way as I stepped onto my driveway and froze in stunned silence.
I stared at what had once been my beautiful black Jeep—it now resembled a cream puff. White foam dripped from the hood, roof, and doors. At least two dozen egg yolks and shells made the SUV look like some kind of strange contemporary art. I was pretty sure the foam wasn’t cleaning solution either. I walked up and smelled the cool mint scent of shaving cream and started to swear. When I was finished with a verbal tirade that would have impressed the British, I turned and realized Phyllis was still there. “I’m sorry,” I said with a wince.
She patted my arm. “It’s all right, honey, I said a few of those words myself when I looked out the window while I was waiting for my cof—hot chocolate—to be done and saw your car. Will you be all right?”
I nodded. “I just have to call work and let them know I’ll be late. Thanks for telling me. Hopefully I can get it clean before the paint is ruined.”
She gave me a genuine smile. “You just call if you need anything.” She walked down the driveway and back to her house.
I stared a few minutes longer before I flipped open my cell phone. When Spence answered I asked, “Are you at work?”
“Yeah, where are you?”
“I’m at my house wondering how long the shaving cream and eggs covering my Jeep have been on it, and if I’ll be able to get it clean before the paint is destroyed.”
“Damn,” Spence breathed the word out in a stunned tone. “Do you know who did it?”
“Would I be standing here talking to you if I did?” I started picking pieces of eggshell off the Jeep and that’s when I noticed the note plastered to the window on the driver’s side. I peeled it, still dripping in egg yolk, from the window. “Hold on, I just found a note.”
I read the note as Spence asked, “What does it say?”
“Stay away,” I answered with a snort. “And get this, it’s written with letters from a magazine.” I didn’t add that it looked eerily similar to the other note I’d found on my desk at work.
“Apparently someone’s trying to send you a message. I’m coming over.” I could hear Spence’s keys jangling over the phone.
“A message to shave and bake a cake?” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. “You don’t have to come over. I’ll just call the police. They can write a report, and I’ll start scrubbing.”
“Kate,” Spence’s voice sounded almost worried, “maybe you should stop investigating Chelsea’s murder? I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I balked at the idea. “No way! Other reporters have gone through a lot worse than this to find out the truth.” I threw some more eggshells on the ground. “Plus, my car got hurt, not me. Insurance probably covers this kind of thing, right?”
“Eggs and shaving cream? I have no idea. But ask your mom, I’m sure she’d know.” Spence’s voice had a slight lilt to it that let me know he was smiling. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Call me if there are any story emergencies. You might have to pick me up if I can’t get the Jeep clean. I’ll let you know if I need help.” I hung up.
I called the police next. My house is only half a mile from the police station and, like usual, there was nothing else going on so they arrived within two minutes of my call. Officer Bob got out of his car and pulled his pants up, adjusting his belt. He walked a circle around my SUV. When he reached me, he gave a long whistle as his eyes moved from the front to the back of the Jeep. “Who did you piss off?”
“The possibilities are endless,” I replied.
I showed the police the egg and shaving cream covered note drying on my lawn. They took some pictures and gave me a case number to call my insurance with before they left. I knew the incident would be mentioned in the Tribune’s police report. I couldn’t wait to find out what rumors started because of it.
I needed to get the Jeep clean as soon as possible so I got the car wash mitt from inside the house and filled a bucket with warm, soapy
water. It was sticky, but it was coming off and my paint seemed to be surviving. The vandalism must have happened recently. Luckily, I’d gotten to it before the morning heat baked it into a crusty mess. I’d still have to take it to the detail shop for a serious cleaning and wax job once I got the crap off of it though—that money would have to come out of my grocery budget for the month.
As I went through bucket after bucket of soap, I tried to figure out why someone would choose to ruin my SUV as a threat? They could have just as easily stuck the note to the front door. And regardless of where they put the warning, I wouldn’t stop investigating, so the damage was pointless. Though I had to admit, the situation made me uneasy. First I’d gotten the note, and then my house might have been broken into. Now my Jeep was destroyed and another warning note came with the vandalism. Things had been escalating. I couldn’t help but wonder how much further they’d go.
I was scrubbing in circles, my chest leaning over the hood of the Jeep as I tried to get a particularly stubborn egg spot out when I heard a deep voice say, “You can do me next.”
I looked up, soap bubbles dancing on my face and in my hair. Hawke was standing there looking as hot as ever, and decidedly less wet and bubbly than me. “Hey, what’s up?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow at my comment and grinned. I looked down under the guise of vigorous cleaning, but really it was an attempt to hide the flush creeping into my face.
“You just decided to do an early morning car wash?”
“No, not exactly,” I said, still scrubbing. “I’m trying to get my Jeep clean before the paint is ruined. Someone plastered it with shaving cream and eggs last night.”
I glanced up. Hawke did not look happy. “Do you think it was just a prank?”
“I did until I saw that note taped to the window.” I pointed toward the paper drying on the grass with ‘stay away’ written on it.
Hawke walked over to it, read the warning, and frowned. “What are your plans today?”
I shrugged. “After I get the Jeep clean, I’m going to change and do some more investigating on Chelsea’s murder.”
