Twice Upon a Roadtrip

by Shannon Stacey

  She was rocking back and forth ever so slightly, and Ethan felt a pang of worry. He’d been so wrapped up in his predicament, he hadn’t even given a thought to how scary it was for her. She was a pain in the ass, but as far he knew this was a first for her as well. “You didn’t cause this. Like you said, it’s just a misunderstanding they haven’t given us a chance to clear up yet. And I’m the one who took the wrong damned car.”

  He expected her to perk up at his admission of fault, but she said nothing. “Hey, sunshine, if I can get them to let us use the phone, is there anybody you want to call?”

  “Sure.” She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “My family’s probably huddled around the phone right now, waiting for me to call and ask to be rescued from my latest scrape.”

  The way she said it made it clear this was a phrase she’d heard a lot in her life. Jill’s scrapes had no doubt given her mother plenty of stories to share with her friends over coffee. He wondered if it had ever crossed their minds they’d flushed her self-image down the toilet.

  He added her parents and her sister to the list of people he was pissed off at. And Kenny Sanford, too, just because who knew what the opportunistic gigolo would get up to with yet another unsupervised night with his mother. Then he got mad at himself for behaving like a child where his mother was concerned, but dammit he was her child.

  “Sheriff Dodd!” he bellowed in the direction of the front office.

  He had to shout three more times before the man appeared. His eyes were narrowed and his pace was slow, as if he was expecting masked accomplices to leap out of the shadows at any second.

  Ethan hoped the excitement of walking to his cell wouldn’t put the sheriff to sleep. The man kept a suspicious eye on Ethan, but leaned close enough for him to speak quietly.

  “Look, we’re not really criminals,” he said earnestly. “Neither of us have any weapons or the power to bend bars. Is there any chance of letting us share a cell?”

  Sheriff Dodd shook his head. “I didn’t just fall of the turnip truck, you know. Not supposed to put suspects together. Don’t want to give y’all time to get your stories straight.”

  “There aren’t any stories. Just one simple explanation, which your Deputy Parker is supposed to be verifying. We’ll be out of here in no time, but in the meantime, Jill’s scared and I’d like for you to move her in here.”

  The sheriff considered the request while Ethan watched the vein throb in his forehead, hoping the decision wouldn’t prove too overwhelming.

  “I guess there’s no harm in it,” Sheriff Dodd said. “But no hanky-panky, you hear?”

  Ethan snorted. He hadn’t developed any incarceration fetishes that he knew of. “No problem.”

  “One of my deputies is over at Bobbi Jo’s house right now, trying to get a report from Joe.”

  That cheered him immensely. Once Joe explained the whole situation, they’d be free in no time. They’d all share a good laugh and they could still make it to the hotel in time to make sure his mother wasn’t being romanced out of her bingo money.

  “The ornery ol’ cuss won’t say a dang word,” Sheriff Dodd continued. “Just keeps repeating his name and social security number over and over like a broken record.”

  “He what?” When had his life become a comedy skit? “Any chance I could call him—let him know I’d really like for him to…confess?”

  “It’s just gonna have to wait, seeing as how I’ve got an important meeting to get to.” The sheriff hitched up his gun belt. “I’m the Grand Masked Master of the Nickel Hill Raccoon Lodge.”

  Ethan laughed. Sheriff Dodd’s gaze hardened. “Oh. You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “What sort of things do you guys do at a Raccoon Lodge?”

  “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Ethan waited, not even blinking, for the sheriff to laugh. Or at least break a smile. Nothing. A shiver of fear tickled his spine.

  Great, he thought. I’m afraid of a man who falls asleep when he breaks a sweat.

  “Do you get to wear a hat?” Ethan pictured the sheriff in an authentic Davy Crockett raccoon cap. Still no smile.

  “You sassin’ me boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sheriff Dodd stared at him long enough that Ethan got nervous. Were his eyelids drooping? Was it possible to nod off standing up with your eyes wide open?

  “I’ll get your girlfriend,” the man said finally, grabbing the big ring of keys off his belt.

  “She’s not my…okay.”

  She wasn’t his girlfriend, but she was something. He wasn’t sure what, but now didn’t seem to be the time to argue about it.

  * * * * *

  Relief gave Jill a much needed burst of energy when Sheriff Dodd unlocked her cell. She practically skipped to the door.

  “See, Ethan,” she called over to him. “I told you they’d understand.”

  “You quit moving so fast,” the sheriff ordered, looking a bit red about the ears.

  Jill stopped like a kindergarten freeze-tag champion. No way could this man take a siesta when she was so close to freedom. “Okay. Is there any paperwork involved?”

  “Well, normally in a prisoner transfer situation there would be, but seein’ as how you’re only going across the hall, we’ll skip it.”

  “Across the hall? You’re not letting us go?”

  “No, ma’am. You got some mighty serious charges against you. I’m just moving you over with your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my…okay.”

  Jill felt like an inmate who’d spent ten years digging a tunnel with a broken spoon, only to find herself in the prison cesspool. Freedom—so close, yet here she was, still stuck in a steaming quagmire of trouble.

  She was docile, following Sheriff Dodd to Ethan’s cell, standing quietly while he unlocked it. But it was hard because all she wanted to do was throw herself at Ethan and let him hold her. She wanted him to tell her again that everything would be okay. Because it certainly wasn’t looking that way right now.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the sheriff when he swung the door open.

  “No hanky-panky now, you hear? Your boyfriend wanted you over there with him, but he promised there’d be no monkey business.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes as she stepped into Ethan’s cell and his waiting arms. She didn’t even wince when the door clanged shut behind her.

  “How are you holding up?” he whispered into her hair.

  “This is even worse than the time my nephew flushed my sister’s prized African Violet down the toilet while I was bawling through Steel Magnolias for the fiftieth time.”

  “But not as bad as…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Spending the afternoon in jail can’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Jill pulled out of his embrace so she could frown up at him. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I don’t go around accidentally triggering nuclear meltdowns, you know.”

  “I know, but something must have happened to you that was…less pleasant than being arrested on a felony charge.”

  “Well, there was the time I was trying to show the neighbor how to light up his…uh, gas with a cigarette lighter and set a stack of old newspapers on fire, which was too close to the gas can and I blew up my dad’s first Harley. That was much worse.”

  Ethan nodded mutely for a second. “I should say so. But see—now you can look on the bright side. It could be worse.”

  Jill managed a little laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

  He led her over to the small cot and they sat side by side. It would only be comfortable for about ten minutes.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “how old were you when you blew up the motorcycle?”

  “Eight. And it was two weeks before Christmas.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That’s what my behind said.”

  “So you’ve always
been disaster-prone?”

  “Yup.” This wasn’t the most cheerful conversation to have in a jail cell. She was looking for comfort, not depressing memories piled onto a really bad day. “I broke the television and the stereo learning to walk.”

  Ethan laughed long enough that she sidled away from him. Not too far, since the cot was only about five feet long, but she made her point. If he didn’t change the subject, she was going to have the sheriff transfer her back to her own cell. At least she didn’t have to share the cot.

  “They should have had sturdier stands,” she muttered. “And who keeps old newspapers and gasoline right next to a Harley?”

  Ethan reached over and physically hauled her back against his side. It was a caveman move that had her heart beating double time and her hormones paying attention. “Maybe all this stuff happens to you because you and your family expect it.”

  “Oh, now who got a psychobabble license out of a cereal box?”

  “I’m serious. It’s like a…self-fulfilling prophecy thing.”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “I think you’re right! Right before I got on the bus I kept thinking what if I get stranded and then kidnap an old guy who’s not related to Shoeless Joe Jackson while stealing a car? And it came true.”

  “Smartass.”

  “Since you figured out why Lady Luck throws me the rejects, have you figured out how to get that stick out—”

  “I am not uptight,” he interrupted quickly. “And we’re talking about you, not me.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  They sat in silence for what could have been fifteen minutes or an hour. She wished, not for the first time, that she’d quit leaving her watch in the dish next to her kitchen sink. There was no clock in the cell, and at the moment that vexed her more than the steel urinal hanging on the other wall. Although that would probably change. Soon.

  Ethan scooted back on the cot so he could rest his back against the wall, somehow managing to take her with him. Leaning into his chest and shoulder was too comfortable to resist, so she let herself relax against him.

  He was so solid, and she couldn’t help but feel secure in his arms. It was nice not to have to suffer through this latest disaster alone. Of course, if not for him she wouldn’t be sitting in the Nickel Hill jail, but right now, with his arms wrapped around her, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  “Why did you ask Sheriff Dodd to bring me in here with you?” she asked when she couldn’t stand the quiet for another second.

  “There aren’t any pillows, so I thought if you just lean back against the wall, I can lay my head on your lap and take a nap.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” She laughed and slapped his leg. “You heard the man—no hanky-panky.”

  “Since when does sleeping count as hanky-panky?”

  “When it’s done with your face in the general vicinity of my crotch.”

  He was getting better. The color in his cheeks only reached bubble gum pink on the mortification scale. She’d have to start working harder to keep him on his toes.

  “Have you ever noticed,” he asked, “that the more upset you are the more wise-mouthed you get?”

  “Nope.” Like she’d never been told that before.

  “You do. And judging from the last few minutes, you’re nervous as hell.”

  “Yeah…well, I’m on a first name basis with the emergency room staff, rescue squad, police department and poison control people back home, but I’ve never been charged with a felony before.”

  He chuckled against her hair. “It’s not on my resumé, either.”

  Resumés. Jill winced. She’d been trying not to think about how desperately her resume needed updating before she could start looking for a job.

  How on Earth could being incarcerated not be her biggest problem? Even if they released her right now and put her on an express bus back to New Hampshire, her life would still be a mess.

  There was no hope for it. She would have to ask Liz for help and swallow more than one dose of I told you so. But her sister worked for the department store and what good were family connections if they couldn’t get you a minimum wage job?

  Ethan’s offer to help her get her job back was tempting, but she couldn’t bring herself to take him up on it. No matter how much he claimed the sex didn’t factor in, she couldn’t believe it had nothing to do with his decision. And facing his mother after she’d quit once would be hard enough without having had vacation sex with the woman’s son.

  That was assuming the offer was even still on the table. Criminal law wasn’t her forte, but she was pretty sure felons weren’t supposed to work with children.

  Approaching footsteps wrenched her attention back to the here and now. They both sat up straight and she felt Ethan breathe a sigh of relief.

  A short, well-rounded woman in a June Cleaver dress came around the corner balancing a heavy tray. Jill’s hopes nose-dived. This didn’t look good for getting out anytime soon.

  “I’m Missus Carter,” the woman said. “I own the cafe over yonder and Sheriff Dodd asked me to bring y’all some supper.”

  Ethan got to his feet so fast he almost dumped Jill on the floor. “Did he say anything about letting us make a phone call?”

  “No, he didn’t. And ya’ll need to stay where you are or I’ll give this to my dog.”

  The tray looked heavy and Jill held her breath while the woman figured out how she was going to slide it through the slot in the bars. They’d already had supper, but there were two coffee mugs on that tray and one spilled drop of that precious liquid would be the last straw.

  “Would you like help with that, ma’am?” Ethan asked.

  “You just stay back. Young lady, you come take it.”

  Mrs. Carter finally managed to fit the overflowing tray through the slot in the bars. Jill took it, letting the heavenly odor of strong coffee fill her senses.

  But as she turned and handed the tray off to Ethan, another thought struck her. As much as she needed to re-caffeinate her veins, she had another pressing problem. Maybe one this woman would understand.

  “Mrs. Carter, I need you to do me a favor.”

  The woman’s mouth pursed in immediate disapproval. “If you need something you should ask Sheriff Dodd.”

  “It’s kind of personal. I can’t pay you right now, unless you’ll take a credit card, but I’ll mail you a check as soon as I get to Orlando.”

  The woman shook her head. “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck last night. I ain’t taking no check from a felon.”

  “Alleged felon.”

  “What the hell is a turnip truck?” Ethan shouted.

  She ignored him. “I’ll send cash. Please. I need some clean clothes.”

  Mrs. Carter considered the plea for a few seconds, and then sniffed. “I reckon I could take a look around the church basement. Jeb’s been collectin’ stuff for the big rummage sale next month. Might be something to fit you in one of the bags.”

  “Oh, that’s…great. Maybe something in orange velour?”

  Mrs. Carter sniffed again and Jill wished she could reach out and shake the words back out of the woman’s ears. “Wait, I—”

  “I don’t need your snippy attitude, young lady. You wait ‘til tomorrow and you’ll be dressed in orange, all right. An orange jumpsuit.”

  She walked away and Jill wanted to throw herself down on the cell floor and kick her feet. Her mouth had just cost her clean underwear.

  “Way to go, sunshine. You managed to piss off the only person who was actually going to help us.”

  One…two…three…four… She gave up. She’d have to count to at least five thousand to cool her temper and her coffee would get cold.

  Ethan sat on one end of the cot and put the tray down in the middle. Jill sat on the other end and lifted the lid on her plate. It was that deep-fried, gravy-smothered feast all over again.

  Her mouth watered in response. If Mrs. Carter always did the cooking, life in prison might not be so bad af
ter all.

  Chapter Ten

  Sometime during the night, Jill pulled Ethan’s elbow out of her rib cage for the umpteenth time and cursed him for being such a nice guy. She might have been lonely and scared in her own cell, but at least she didn’t have to share a cot.

  The insensitive sleeper in question mumbled incoherently then rolled onto his back. For a second Jill was certain she was going to fall, but Ethan hauled her with him. She sprawled atop his body with her head on his chest, surprised by how comfortable it was.

  “Better?” he mumbled.

  “Much.”

  When his arms wrapped around her back, she sighed and tried to go back to sleep. For an insensitive jerk, he could be a really nice guy.

  Too nice, she mused as sleep clouded her mind. He made her think about profane words she had no business thinking about—like forever and permanent and I do.

  Here was a man she could picture waiting for her at the end of a flowery, beribboned aisle. As her eyes drifted closed, Jill could almost hear the organist pounding out “Here Comes the Bride”.

  There was her mother, mascara-tinted tears of joy flowing down her cheeks. There was Liz, looking very big-sisterly in her matron of honor dress. There were Liz’s kids, duct taped to the front pew.

  Jill snuggled against Ethan, smiling as she walked down the aisle. She imagined the love shining in his Hershey’s Special Dark eyes when he recited his vows.

  I promise to love, honor and cherish you, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, day after day after day…every single day until we die.

  A baby’s cry ripped through her dream and Jill looked down. Gone was the bouquet. Gone was the pouffy gown. Gone was her waist.

  Her subconscious conjured up a kitchen furnished with a beautifully refinished table and secondhand avocado appliances. Somebody—presumably Ethan—was hiding behind the morning paper. The baby in her arms was trying to gnaw his way through her shirt to a nipple that seemed to be pointing straight to her navel.

  A little dark-eyed girl tugged on her pants. “Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama.”

  This was bad since she hadn’t worn pants with snaps and zippers since the oldest—of how many?—was born. The worn elastic waistband headed south, threatening to take her too-comfy maternity undies with it.