Dylan shook his head and leaned back in his chair. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised by what he read. She hadn’t mentioned the restraining order, of course, but there were several important things she hadn’t mentioned. Being stalked by an angry dwarf was just one of them. He wondered what else he didn’t know.
Over the course of the next week, Hope refused to keep herself locked up in her house. She drove to Sun Valley to shop in the trendy boutiques and spent a lot of time with Shelly. She learned how to can pickles and hunt for huckleberries and she worked on her stories. She finished several for The Weekly News of the Universe and had most of the rough draft down for her article on Hiram. After writing fiction for so long, nonfiction was proving more difficult than she expected, but she was enjoying the challenge.
From Shelly, Hope learned that the Donnellys had been a picture-perfect family. The three children were older than Shelly, but she remembered that they never got into trouble and kept mostly to themselves. Two boys and a girl, raised by the county sheriff and his God-fearing wife. Together, Hiram and Minnie had been the moral compass of the community. Holding themselves up as the perfect family, yet their children had never come back to visit once they were out of the house. Something had been horribly wrong with the picture. But what?
It had taken Hope a few days of digging to find out more information on the Donnelly children. Although none of them would speak to her directly, what she discovered was enough to answer her questions and add a new dimension to her article.
She learned that the older son had died of alcoholism, the younger was in prison for domestic abuse, and the daughter was a crisis counselor. Hope didn’t need to hear the particulars to figure out that behind closed doors, the picture-perfect family was dysfunctional as hell. What Hope found particularly amazing was that they’d managed the facade in a town that fed off everyone else’s business.
Most of the time Hope spent trying to forget about Dylan, but she never succeeded for very long. He appeared in her sleep and in her daydreams as well. He’d even made an appearance in her work, too. In her latest alien feature, she’d added a bit of a new slant. A new character in the form of a cross-dressing alien sheriff. She’d named him Dennis Taylor.
The morning the story was due to hit the stands, she drove to the M & S and grabbed the most recent issue of The Weekly News of the Universe from the magazine rack. She flipped it open to the center spread. Once again, her article was the featured story. This was the first article featuring Dennis, and it showed him as a muscle-neck cross-dresser with a gold star pinned to his marabou teddy. While that should have made her feel vindicated, it didn’t.
She chatted with Stanley as she paid for her paper, then left. Walking to her car, she thumbed to the gossip section. Her gaze skimmed the columns, but there was no mention of Juliette and Adam. It would appear, though. Probably in next week’s edition.
Hope folded the paper and took her car keys from the pocket of her jeans. Her stories were doing better than she’d ever imagined, yet she felt nothing. Not happy. Not sad. Just blah. There was more to life than successful alien articles. Like living. Like opening yourself up and falling in love and getting your heart stomped on by a size-twelve cowboy boot.
She thought she heard someone yell her name, and she glanced up from the keys in her hand to the far end of the parking lot. A big cardboard sign caught her attention. It said: Make Micky a Stud Muffin. She couldn’t see who held the sign, just a pair of little sneakers peeking out from beneath the cardboard. That was all she needed. She knew, and it shoved her heart into her throat.
Myron had found her.
She jumped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot, startling a family riding bicycles. As she drove down Main, her hands shook and her heart pounded in her ears.
She didn’t know if her restraining order was in effect in Idaho, or if Myron was free to harass her here. She really didn’t know what to do until she pulled into a space behind the sheriff’s office. She needed answers and she needed help, but she really didn’t want to involve Dylan. Maybe she could just talk to one of the deputies. She was sure someone besides Dylan could tell her what she wanted to know.
She looked for the sheriff’s Blazer and spotted it by the back door. He was in his office. Her pounding heart skipped a few painful beats. She didn’t want to involve him in her problem. The last time she’d seen him, he’d told her to stay out of his life. He’d meant it. And as much as that hurt, and as much as she thought of him every minute of every hour of every day, she meant to get over it. To get over him, but she couldn’t if she had to see and talk to him. Then she remembered his guard dog of a secretary and relaxed. Even if she wanted to see him, she didn’t believe Hazel would let her past. Not even if her hair was on fire and Dylan held the only extinguisher.
Hope took a deep breath and glanced in her rearview mirror. She reapplied her red lipstick and wished she’d worn something nicer than her white cotton shirt that buttoned up the front, jeans, and black leather belt. Not that what she wore wasn’t nice. It just wasn’t going to make anyone kick himself in the ass for dumping her.
Chapter Fifteen
PROOF: HEAD BANGING CAUSES BRAIN DAMAGE
Hope approached the information desk and waited for the female deputy to look up. “I need some information on a restraining order,” she began.
“Is this an emergency?”
“I think so.”
“Have you been assaulted?”
“Not yet.”
The officer picked up the telephone receiver and punched a button. “Hazel, I have a woman out here who needs to obtain a TRO.”
“No.” Hope shook her head, stopping the deputy before she made the mistake of involving Dylan and his secretary. “I already have a restraining order. When I lived in California, I had to take Myron Lambardo to court. I won, but I just saw him at the M and S Market.”
“Just a minute, Hazel.” The woman pressed the hold button. “And you’re positive it was him?”
“Yes. You can’t miss Myron. He looks a little like Patrick Swayze, only shorter.”
“How short?”
“He’s a dwarf.”
The officer blinked twice, then lifted her finger. “Hazel,” she began again, “the woman here says she’s being stalked by a dwarf from California. She wants to know about a restraining order.”
Hope groaned. “Oh, my God.”
“Just a sec. I’ll ask her.” The deputy looked Hope up and down. “Are you the woman with the peacock boots?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.” The woman pointed to the double glass doors that led to Dylan’s office. “Go right in there and Hazel will help you.”
Hope looked at the big gold star painted on the doors, and her dread of seeing Dylan replaced any lingering fear of Myron. “I just want some information. Can’t you help me?”
The deputy shook her head. “If a stalker has followed you here from California, the sheriff needs to be informed.”
Hope figured she had two choices. She could be an adult and brave it out, or she could run and hide like a coward. She stood frozen for several indecisive moments. Maybe it wasn’t Myron. Maybe it was some other dwarf who wanted her to make Micky the Magical Leprechaun a stud muffin. If she left, she could always return on a day when Dylan was out of the office. Maybe if she just ignored Myron, he’d get tired and go away. Problem was, she’d tried that and it hadn’t worked.
Hazel swung open one of the glass doors and settled the issue for her. “Sheriff Taber said to come on back.”
Hope’s stomach got a bit queasy as she moved toward Hazel and followed her past her desk and down the short hallway. The closer she got, the worse she felt. And then there he was, standing as she entered his office, looking better than she remembered. Tall and handsome, his hair rumpled as if he’d combed it with his fingers. Her footsteps faltered and she stopped just inside the doorway.
“Shall I hold your calls, Sheriff?” Hazel asked.
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“Yes,” he said, and the sound of his voice after so many days without it poured through Hope like warm sunshine on a December day. “Unless it’s the prosecutor’s office.”
Hazel shifted her gaze to Hope as if she were a scanner, trying to detect the true nature behind Hope’s visit. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me, Sheriff,” she said, then left, and Hope was alone with the man she loved, her broken heart, and her queasy stomach.
“Why don’t you sit?” Dylan offered.
“No, really. I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to disturb you. I just have a quick question that I thought one of the deputies could answer for me. I guess no one knew the answer and just assumed you’d want to see me. I know that you don’t, and I wouldn’t have come if I’d known-”
“What’s your question?” he asked, interrupting her.
She placed a hand on her abdomen and took a deep breath. “Is a restraining order obtained in California enforceable in Idaho?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She let out her breath and took a step backward. “Thanks.”
“Why?”
She stood close enough to see his green eyes, close enough to see him looking back at her as if she were just any ordinary citizen stopping by to fill out a complaint. As if he’d never shown her Sawtooth Lake and Cassiopeia spinning around on her head.
In his gaze, there was no spark of hunger nor even the interest that had been there from the first moment she’d met him. There was nothing, and she hadn’t realized until it was gone how much she’d delighted in it and how desired he’d made her feel. The backs of her eyes stung and she slid her palm over her stomach as if she could hold in the pain of seeing him.
“Why?” he asked again.
Looking at him made it hard to think of anything beyond how much she still loved him and how little he felt for her now. She lowered her gaze to the clutter of paper on his desk.
“A few months ago I was granted a restraining order against a man named Myron Lambardo.” She paused and her fingers nervously rubbed the smooth leather of her belt as she told herself not to cry. “He was part of the reason I came to Gospel. I needed to get away from the whole mess and stress of the court hearing.” She glanced up. “I saw him when I was coming out of the M and S.”
“Today?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“What did he say?”
“I think he called my name.”
“What else?”
“He held a big sign that said, ‘Make Micky a Stud Muffin.’ ”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Who else could it be?” Dylan was so professional. So impersonal, and although she wouldn’t have thought it possible, he broke her heart just a little bit more.
“How close was he to you?” he asked.
“A parking lot away.”
He pointed to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat, Hope.”
Finally he said her name, and she wished he hadn’t. It made everything so much worse, reminding her of all the other times he’d said it, or whispered it against her neck or into her mouth.
“I’m okay,” she said but took a step further into the room.
He looked at her for several long moments; then he sat in his chair and typed something into his computer. “Are you afraid he’ll physically assault you?”
“Not really. He’s never touched me, but he used to threaten me with a tombstone.”
He glanced up.
“It’s a wresting move.”
“I know.” He read something off the screen, then lifted his gaze to her once again. “By following you to Gospel, he has violated the terms of the restraining order,” he explained. “Of course, he can always say he’s here for some other reason, but I doubt a judge will believe him.”
“What happens now?”
“I’ll bring him in, and depending on what time he’s actually booked into jail, he’ll go before the magistrate either today or in the morning. Bail will be set as well as a court date.”
“I’ll have to go to court again?” Hope didn’t want to go through another hearing.
“That depends on his plea. He might plead guilty, pay his fine, and leave town.”
Hope doubted it. “Can’t you just talk to him? He’s easy to spot in a crowd. He’s not even four feet tall and he looks a bit like Patrick Swayze. Maybe you could just scare him into leaving?” But she doubted fear of Dylan would send Myron running. Dealing with him had never been that easy.
Dylan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “If that’s what you want, but you still need to swear out a complaint. Just in case we need something to take to the prosecutor.”
Hope raised her hands to her face and rubbed her forehead. She was sorry she’d come here. Myron would pay a fine, and then be free to hassle her by morning. She’d accomplished nothing by talking to Dylan, and ultimately, she would pay for it more than Myron. Myron would pay in cash, but looking at Dylan, hearing his voice, and loving him cost Hope another chunk of her heart.
She dropped her hands and shook her head. “Just forget it,” she said. “I guess that little weasel is free to harass me.” The tears which had stung the backs of her eyes since she’d walked into the room collected on her bottom lids and blurred her vision. She wasn’t sure if she was crying out of frustration with Myron or because the man she desperately loved didn’t feel anything for her. “The restraining order means nothing to him, so just forget it.”
As if he could no longer stand the sight of her, Dylan turned his attention to his computer monitor and seemed to become instantly absorbed in whatever he read there. One appalling tear slid over her lower lashes and down her cheek.
“Just forget I was here,” she said and practically ran from the room before she embarrassed herself further.
Dylan watched Hope leave his office and rose from his chair. He started to go after her but stopped. If he caught up with her, he wasn’t certain what he’d do. He wasn’t certain he wouldn’t pull her against his chest and bury his nose in her hair. The second he’d heard she was in the building, his body had responded to her. His chest got tight and that was before she’d even walked into his office, looking incredible in a simple white shirt and jeans just tight enough to hug the curve of her sweet behind.
Thankfully, he’d been able to ignore his body. He’d been in control and handling the situation as if she were just another citizen off the street. Until she cried. Seeing her tears, he’d about jumped out of his chair and gone to her. Even after everything, she still tore him up inside. He still wanted her.
He leaned his behind against his desk and stared at the framed accommodations and service awards hanging on the wall. He remembered the day he and Hope had hiked to Sawtooth Lake and she’d joked about coming to his office and filing a complaint just in case she got lonely for him.
Ten minutes ago, when Hazel had buzzed to say Hope was in the reception area, the memory of that day had popped into his head with the subtlety of a lightning bolt. The memory of her hand on the zipper of his Levi’s and her tongue in his mouth had had him holding his breath, wondering if she’d made up an excuse just to see him. When he realized she hadn’t, there was a part of him that was disappointed as hell.
He missed Hope, or rather the Hope he thought he knew. He missed talking to her. He missed the sound of her voice and the scent of her skin. He missed making love to her and waking up seeing her head on the next pillow. But perhaps most of all, he missed looking across his dinner table and seeing her face.
He crossed one foot over the other and studied the razor crease running down the leg of his pants. As much as he missed her, and as much as he wanted her, he distrusted her that much more. Although he couldn’t reconcile the Hope he knew with the Hope who worked for a sleazy tabloid, he knew she was one and the same person. She’d put her loyalty for her job over him. She’d had two choices: her desire to report a big juicy story, or her desire for him. She hadn�
��t chosen him.
Dylan walked to the corner of the room and grabbed his hat from the coat rack. Now he had no choice but to forget about her. And he would. Just as soon as he took care of her problem with Myron the Masher.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Myron Lambardo sat on a stool at the Cozy Corner, munching on French fries and polishing off a BLT. He’d eaten in worse dives, he supposed. Wrestled in them, too.
Some kind of shitty country-and-western music poured from an old jukebox, and he wondered if they had any head-banging music, like Metallica. The place was deserted except for the cook, who’d gone on a break in the back, and a waitress with a long braid. Paris; he’d read her name off her tag and thought it sounded exotic. She had big hands, big bones, and big breasts. Just the sort of woman he loved to wrestle. There was a lot to grab. She brought him a refill on his Coke and didn’t stare at him like he was a freak.
“Thanks, Paris,” he said and decided to strike up a conversation and maybe get information. “Are you named after Paris, France, or Paris, Texas?”
“Neither. My mom just liked the name.”
“So do I. It sounds exotic.” He took a drink of his Coke, then asked, “How long have you lived here?”
“All of my life. Where are you from?”
“Everywhere and nowhere. I’m a professional wrestler, so I move around a lot.”
“You’re a wrestler?” Her eyes got wide, and her cheeks flushed red with excitement. “Do you know The Rock?” she asked.
“Sure,” he lied. “We’re tight.”
“Really! He’s my favorite wrestler.”
He was every woman’s favorite wrestler. The Rock was famous, and for a short time, Myron had touched a bit of fame himself. While he’d been Micky the Magical Leprechaun, people had wanted to talk to him. He’d even swung a few matches in higher-ranking venues and wrangled a few dates with normal-sized chicks. Then that bitch of a reporter, Hope Spencer, had turned him into RuPaul, and poof, it was all over.
True Confessions Page 26
