I step into a garagelike entryway.
No one in sight.
Sticking close to the wall, I follow the voices down a hall.
“This is the last time you cross me!”
I stop. My breath hitches. Jake—that’s Jake.
“You can’t stop me! No one can!” Evil, menacing laughter echoes through the building, making the hair on my neck rise.
I take three more steps but freeze at the sound of punches thrown, grunts of pain. What if Jake’s in trouble? What if Jake is the trouble?
My feet have carried me to a set of double doors. He’s in there.
His voice booms again. “I can stop you! I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with.”
I sure don’t know who I’m dealing with.
I’ve got to go in.
Somebody falls to the floor. A scuffle. And then a loud, piercing roar.
And I bust through the doors. “Stop!” My camera phone flashes.
Crap! I meant to hit SEND. “I’m calling 9-1-1!” Or taking your picture. Whatever.
Two men lie tangled in a heap on the floor. Jake has a man pinned to the ground with his legs. Sweat drips from his face.
Jake’s eyes are crazed, wild. “What?”
I stomp forward, my legs trembling. “Let him go.” My voice squeaks. “I said let him go, Jake.”
He stares at the man beneath him. Then back at me.
“I don’t know what this man has done to you, but strangling him with your thighs is probably not the answer.” I brave a glance at his victim and notice he’s naked from the waist up. “I’m onto you, Jake. I’ve known about your sneaking out for a long time. Secret rendezvous are one thing, but killing someone is so not going to go over with my mom.” Unless he offs me before I tell her.
Jake releases the guy then jumps to a standing position.
And that’s when I notice that he’s just wearing pants too. Black spandex. And his foe is in hot pink.
I take a giant step back. “What kind of place is this?” Two guys wearing spandex rolling around on the floor is not a healthy sight.
“Bella, I—” He moves toward me.
“No!” I hold out a hand and jump back. “Keep your distance, you—you—spandexy perv! I’m calling Mom. And the police. And . . .” Jerry Springer?
“It’s not what you think.” Jake swipes a hand through his dripping hair.
“Oh yeah?” I plant a hand on my hip. “So I didn’t see you entangled with another man, decked out in shiny Lycra, and your legs in places that scream highly inappropriate?”
He blinks. “Um . . . okay. That part is right. But let me explain.”
“Save it.” I spin around, showing him my back, and head for the doors. I can’t wait to pack my bags and get out of this town.
“Bella, wait! You have to listen to me.”
I glance back. “Why?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Because . . . because I’m—”
“Captain Iron Jack.” A cape appears over Jake’s shoulders.
Out from behind him steps that man—the bald guy from church. The one who stopped when the truck broke down.
I wrinkle my nose at Jake. “Are you an exotic dancer?” Ew!
“Of course not.”
The bald man speaks. “He’s a wrestler, that’s what he is. And soon to be a professional. I’ve never trained anyone so talented— even if he is a little late coming into the game.”
My head hurts. Can’t process it all. “Mom doesn’t know.” It’s not a question.
Jake’s eyes briefly flit away. “No. But she knows I get up early and leave.”
“And what does she think you’re doing, warming up the maxi-pad maker?”
“She thinks I’m working out. And I am. I’m training.”
“But she doesn’t know why.” She is so going to flip when she hears this. She doesn’t know she’s married to Hulk Hogan.
“I was going to tell her.”
“When? When you were on Pay-Per-View?”
“No. But that would be kinda cool.” He shakes his head. “No, I mean of course I was going to tell her. Soon. Bella, this is really hard to explain.”
“Well, the visuals have been quite lovely so far.”
The other two men leave us and retreat to another part of the room.
“I know it’s crazy . . . but have you ever wanted something so bad you could taste it?”
Like a one-way ticket out of the heartland?
“Ever since I was a kid, I would watch wrestling on TV and I would think, I want to do that. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. I wrestled in high school. Then a little bit after that, and things were going really well. But then my family came along, and one day I woke up and I was raising two boys by myself and I didn’t have time for silly little dreams.”
Silly little spandex dreams.
“You’ve betrayed my mom’s trust. There’s this huge part of your life that she doesn’t even know about.”
“I couldn’t tell her at first. I had enough trouble with all that online dating business. I sure couldn’t say, ‘Hey, my name is Jake and when I grow up I want to wrestle.’ I just wanted to wait until I had gained some ground with this before I talked to your mother about it. It’s just been the last six months that things have taken off.”
I run a hand over my face and wonder why I got out of bed this morning. I so need a latte or two right now.
“It’s not just a pipe dream, Bella. This is going to work. I have a manager now.” Jake gestures to the back where the bald guy rearranges some weights. “Mickey’s training me. I’ve had a few matches, and . . . I think I might actually be good at this.”
“You have to tell my mom.” And the sooner you do, the sooner I can get back to Manhattan. “Like today. This morning.” I pull on the door handle and swing it open.
“I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.”
I just stare at my stepdad. There’s just something about looking at a grown man in tights that robs a girl of any words. “I gotta go.”
“Don’t tell your mom before I get home.”
Right.
The drive to the house takes forever, but it’s much easier with the rising sun and headlights.
“Mom!” I tear through the kitchen and down the hall. “Mom!”
She sticks her head out of the downstairs bathroom. “What’s wrong?” The towel on her head falls to the floor.
“Your husband . . .” My brain is on warp speed, words and thoughts spinning like there’s a tornado in my head. “He . . . he’s a . . .” I close my eyes at the image. “A pirate.”
“What?”
“Jillian?” Mom and I turn toward the sound of Jake bursting through the kitchen. “Jillian?”
“In here!” She picks up her towel and bestows her “disgruntled mom” look on me. “Bella, I am trying to get ready for work—my first day. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but if I’m late, I will ground you.”
“I am telling you, Mom, the man you married is not who you think he is. You think you know everything about him, but you don’t.”
Heavy breathing and pounding steps precede Jake’s appearance in the hall. “Jillian.” He studies her face, then goes to her, his arms manacled to her shoulders. “I have to talk to you.”
My mom looks between the two of us—her out-of-breath husband and her ticked-off daughter. “What in the world is going on here?”
“He plays dress-up!”
“I’m a wrestler!”
Our voices overlap and cancel each other out.
Mom shakes her wet head. “What did you say?” I open my mouth, but she stops me. “Jake first.”
Um, putting Jake first is what got us onto this tragic detour of life.
“Jillian . . .” Sir Spandex takes a slow inhale. “You have to know I would never do anything to hurt you. You believe that, right?”
Her smile is hesitant. “Yes. Of course.”
Lemme talk! M
e! Me!
“When we met online six months ago, my life changed. Within weeks of our first phone conversation, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
And that’s fine—if you’re on an MTV reality show!
“And I was afraid to do anything that might scare you off.”
Like show you his collection of Hulk Hogan pants.
My mom’s smile fades and worry tightens her brow. “What are you talking about, Jake?”
“You and I progressed so fast . . .”
Maybe not in dog years.
“And I thought I’d have plenty of time to tell you, but before I knew it, we were making plans, and I just didn’t want to do anything to mess it all up. I tried so many times”—Jake looks toward the ceiling like he’s trying to will down some holy help—“but I never could find the words to tell you.”
My mom steps closer to her husband. “Are you sick?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” His laugh contains no humor. “I’m botching this up.”
But on the bright side, if you were trying to tell my mom you’re dying of brain rot, this would be going really well.
“Jillian, when a man puts off a dream, something he’s wanted his whole life—it doesn’t just go away. It haunts him, follows him for the rest of his life.”
Should I start humming a Josh Groban song here?
“And . . . see, my dream . . . it’s like a tree. And then you came along . . . and that tree grew these new branches—”
“Oh, for crying out loud! This morning I caught your husband with his legs wrapped around another man!”
chapter twenty
I walk out into the Monday morning sunshine and shut the door on an explosive argument between the newlyweds.
And find a couple waiting on the front porch, ready to knock.
“Um . . . can I help you?” If you’re selling Avon, now is so not a good time.
“We’re the Petersons.”
“Uh-huh.” My attention strays to Budge, who pulls his hearse out of the driveway with his brother slumped in the passenger seat.
“We’re here to get the cat.”
I snap back to focus. “What?”
The wife speaks up. “The Persian cat—we talked to Mrs. Finley about it. We’re here to pick the cat up.”
“It’s for our son,” her husband says. “He wants to call him Tigger.”
Tigger? They want to take my precious cat, give it to a snotty-nosed kid, and rename it after some ADD character from Winnie-the-Pooh?
“I’m sorry, but she’s spoken for.” I’m not totally lying here. I’m speaking for her. And Moxie wouldn’t want to go home with these people.
“But Mrs. Finley said—”
“Mrs. Finley is busy right now.” Hopefully calling the airport to get two one-way tickets. “But the cat is not available. I’m sorry.”
The woman lifts a dark brow. “We’ll come back this evening, then.”
And I’ll be waiting.
I skirt past the pair and escape to my sherbet-colored Bug, for the first time somewhat relieved to be going to school.
I barrel down the dirt road and punch in Hunter’s number.
Voice mail.
I try again.
“Hunter, it’s me.” You know, your girlfriend. “Where are you? I tried to call you last night when I got in.” I dodge a crater-sized pothole. “Anyway, I miss you already . . . and I’m sorry I was so moody this weekend. Some stuff ’s hit the fan here, so call me.”
In English class, I reach into my backpack and dig for The Scarlet Letter. When I come back up for air, novel in hand, Budge has parked himself in the seat beside me. “Hey,” I mutter.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever you pulled this morning has my little brother very upset.”
I feel a rubber band snap on my heart. “I’m sorry that Robbie’s—”
“Crying,” he bites. “My brother was crying all the way to school.
He wanted to know why his dad and new mommy were yelling. And when I looked in their bedroom, there you were. Right in the middle of it.”
I swivel in the seat and face him with my whole body. “What are you getting at? That their argument was somehow my fault?
That makes a lot of sense, Budge. For your information,” I hiss,
“your dad is the problem here. Why don’t you ask him what he did?”
“Why don’t you and your mom go back to New York?”
“Why don’t you jump off a cliff?”
He draws himself up. “I know why that couple was at the house this morning.”
My face sobers.
“They came to get your cat.” Now Budge grins. “And let me guess—you didn’t let them?”
“So? They can’t have my cat.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Hey, I know! Maybe you can talk to your dad about it in between his shift at Summer Fresh and slamming somebody to the ground in his pirate suit.”
Budge’s face turns one shade darker than his hair.
“That’s right, stepbrother, I know. So apparently this was a cute secret between the Finley men, but I found myself in the neighborhood of a certain gym this morning. It’s amazing what people are up to at four in the morning.”
“And I bet you couldn’t wait to tell your mom.”
I roll my eyes. “Her husband plays dress-up. She needed to know.”
“You think you’re so much better than everyone else.” He faces the front as Mrs. Palmer enters the room. “I’m proud of my dad. He was on his way to making it in the big-time until you and your mom showed up.”
I snap open my binder. “Anything else you want to blame me for? Global warming? World hunger? Lindsay Lohan’s last movie?” I gather my things and move to an empty seat two rows away—but still not far enough from Budge Finley.
In journalism class, I sneak a peek at my phone to see if I have a message from Hunter. Nothing.
“Bella, I need you to outline your article ideas you’ve been working on. Have that for me in fifteen minutes.” Luke paces near my desk. “Looking at your preliminary notes and some of your pictures, I think you have a strong lead for a few articles on the need for recycling.”
I push my phone back into my purse and try to look interested.
Luke jots something down in his pocket notebook. Yes, seriously, the boy keeps a fifty-cent notepad in his shirt. If it weren’t for the fact that he has the face of that Clark Kent guy from Smallville, he would be a full-fledged dork.
His pen stops. “We’ve been trying to get recycling bins for years, but the board won’t go for it—too expensive. Your story could change all that. I want you to go to the library and do some research.
And hit the last campus Dumpster after school.”
“Can’t.”
“What?” He rolls up his sleeves, exposing tanned forearms. “I didn’t really mean you had an option.”
“I told you about giving me notice.”
“I tried. I called your phone three times this weekend. I left a message for you to contact me.”
Oh. That.
Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I was in a Barneys dressing room when the calls came. Who could blame me for forgetting about it?
“Sorry, Luke, but I have to go straight home after school.” I have a cat to save and a room to pack up. And I want to say good-bye to Robbie. “But I was wondering if you know anything about a party Thursday night?”
He blinks at the topic change. “No.”
Of course you don’t. I’m sure he’s too busy reading the Wall Street Journal or watching PBS to get party invites. Especially from athletes.
“Bella, I don’t really care about your need to get your dance on.”
I turn my head before he sees my face split into a wide grin. Somebody’s been watching too many Fresh Prince reruns.
“But we have a story to do. Trash does not wait on us.”
Can’t contain my laugh this tim
e.
Luke swings a chair around and straddles it. His face is inches from mine. “The trash will be picked up tomorrow. This is your last chance before your deadline.” His smile is far from friendly. “And your last chance before you’re out of here. I hear the small engine repair class now has a few openings.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“As your editor in chief, I’m saying that if you don’t follow through, you’re gone.”
I stare at the center of his chiseled chin, willing myself not to spill out my whole morning’s story and beg him for mercy. But I refuse to grovel. “You . . . are a piece of work, Chief.”
By lunchtime I have the whole high school percussion section pounding in my head. Neither my mother nor Hunter has returned my calls. I have to find a way to intercept that cat-stealing couple this afternoon, and I have another date with a Dumpster.
“Whoa, you look like somebody just kicked your dog.” Lindy slides her tray next to mine. “Bad day?”
I pick through the lettuce in my salad and go straight for the croutons. “One bad day, I could take. It’s my entire life that’s totally jacked up.”
Lindy runs a hand through her highlighted hair. “You should come to Wednesday morning FCA—Fellowship of Christian Athletes. We meet once a week in the library before school.”
Duh. “I’m not an athlete.” But if being a loser were a competitive sport, there would be a trophy with my name on it.
“You don’t have to be an athlete. Matt and I go. Lots of people go.
Come on.” She opens her Gatorade bottle and tips it back.
“No!” I snatch it back. “Remember what I told you?”
She huffs. “I won’t burp when I’m done. I told you I wouldn’t share that talent anymore.”
“A straw, Lindy. You don’t want to mess up your lip liner.”
Muttering under her breath, she gets up and walks back to the kitchen area.
Seconds later, Matt Sparks sits down. “Hey, heard you girls had a great time in the Big Apple.”
I manage a weak smile. “Yeah, we had lots of fun.” And I really did. Lindy might not know a pencil skirt from an A-line, but she didn’t bore me for a second. And even though I don’t get her sports world, we do have some things in common. We’re both closet High School Musical fans, neither one of us can stand the smell of green peas, and if sad movies have us reaching for the Kleenex box, it’s only because we’re laughing so hard.
A Charmed Life Page 12
