Sophie Littlefield - Bad Day 05 - A Bad Day for Romance

by Sophie Littlefield

  “Oh,” Stella said carefully.

  “I want to tell you don’t ever do that to me again.” His good hand was back on her shoulder, squeezing, but Stella didn’t dare flinch, afraid he might stop. “I want to, I don’t know, lock you up so you can’t ever scare me like that. But I can’t. Damn it, woman, I can’t make you mind me and I can’t keep you out of trouble. I can’t even keep you safe. So I’m going to have to settle for trying to pick up the pieces when you get in a scrape.”

  “You mean…”

  “I guess I don’t need to know what’s behind that door. In fact I’m going to go get in my truck and head back to Prosper in a minute. And I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d keep whatever you got in there to yourself until I’ve had a chance to let folks know I’m back in town, where I couldn’t have had anything to do with… whatever you done.”

  “I can do that,” Stella said quickly. “I can definitely do that.”

  “And when the news breaks, I’m not going to take any interest in it at all. The Quail Valley crew’s going to handle it—hell, Daphne can handle it for all I care—and I never want to discuss it again. Ever. You hear?”

  “I hear,” Stella whispered. She tried to ease out of his grasp, but he slid his good hand down her arm until he was gripping her bicep, keeping her both immobilized and with nowhere to look but directly in his eyes.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Dusty, I got a few more things to say to you.” He sounded even angrier, if such a thing were possible, as if might just snap her arm in half and use it for a toothpick. She swallowed hard.

  “I can accept your off-hours activities, as long you never put me in a position of having any firsthand knowledge of exactly what’s going on. And you will never use anything you might accidentally learn from me for your own… purposes. And for God’s sake, woman, I never ever want to see an unregistered firearm anywhere near our house.”

  His voice had gone so low and growly that Stella figured soon only dogs would be able to understand him, and she wondered if she’d misheard that last part.

  “Our?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said ‘our house.’ ”

  “Damn right I did. I’m moving you in with me, where I can keep an eye on you. And what’s more, we’re doing it legal.”

  “Doing… what?” Stella wondered if she was hallucinating. Because this was starting to sound like a proposal. Either that, or he was putting her under citizen’s arrest.

  “I mean to make this official, Dusty. You and me. Just as soon as things calm down around here. So for the love of everything holy, could you maybe not get yourself kidnapped again until I have a chance to buy you a ring? I’ll engrave my address inside it so the bad guys know where to drop you off when they get tired of your sass.”

  Goat barely paused for breath before barreling on. “The thing is, I’ve learned something since I met you. Try as I might, I can’t keep everyone in line… not even everyone in one little podunk town. And stubborn as you are…” His hand slid down her back to rest tantalizingly on her hip. “As crazy as your methods might be…” He tugged her a little tighter, and Stella melted against him, feeling his heart beating through the soft cotton of his shirt. “I can’t help but notice you do some good around here. And I can’t stop thinking about you for one damn minute, and it’s interfering with my ability to do my job. So, yes, I want to marry you, just the way you are, so you can drive me crazy for the rest of my life. What do you say, Dusty, will you have me?”

  Stella had barely got out a “hell yeah” when Goat Jones took her breath away with a kiss for the record books. She wriggled closer, yelping when her gunshot wound came in contact with his splint. Goat immediately pulled away, gently lifting her sweater and taking another look underneath. “Aw, hell,” he said, tracing the outline of the bruise tenderly. “Hell.”

  And then he kissed her, once more, very softly. “Call me the minute you get back,” he said, and then he stomped down the hall like he meant to hit something with his hand that wasn’t already broken.

  Epilogue

  November

  “Everybody pay attention!” Stella said. “The show’s about to start!”

  She set the tray of mugs of Irish coffee down on the coffee table, stepping over Tucker, who was sprawled on his stomach coloring on a stack of scrap paper Ian had brought over from the office. Some folks might consider Prosper Municipal Annex booking sheets and budget reports fodder for the shredder, but Ian must have figured that at four years old, Tucker didn’t pose much of a security threat. Chrissy was still protesting that she wasn’t sure where her romance with Ian was going, but he and her son, and everyone else in town, had it figured out pretty well.

  Stella looked around for a seat, and came up short. Chrissy and Ian were tucked in next to Tilly on the couch. Irene Dorsey and the Green Hat Ladies were lined up in Stella’s kitchen chairs, which Goat had dragged in and arranged to give them a clear view of the TV. Noelle and Cinnamon were snuggled up in the love seat, and Taffy—who had been in a bit of a funk since starting divorce proceedings against her husband, whose defense team was having a hell of a time figuring out how to deal with the taped confession they’d found in his pocket when the grounds crew found him tied up on the Ozark Shores golf course—balanced a cup of tea on her lap in the upholstered chair.

  As for Goat, he’d stretched out with his back to the love seat and his long legs taking up the only clear patch of the carpet next to the coffee table.

  “Get that shapely ass down here, woman,” he growled, just loud enough for Stella to hear. Before she could even blush, he’d grabbed her hand and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “Oh my,” she breathed happily as he wrapped his arms around her and she nestled her head against his chest. She joined her hands with his, mostly so she could admire—for the millionth time—the ring he’d given her on Halloween night, after the final trick-or-treater had come and gone. The little diamond sparkled mightily and Goat nuzzled against the back of her neck, his hot breath doing the sort of thing to her insides that usually resulted in them staying up until the wee hours.

  On the TV, Jack Mackenzie—host of Hollywood Edition—gave the camera his trademark salute. “And we’re back, with several of the ladies from the much-anticipated second season of My Side Of the Mountain, which is going to be filming in…” He made a show of looking at the little card he held. “Peabody, Arkansas. People, I don’t think I could even find Arkansas on the map!”

  “Dumbass,” Irene Dorsey observed. “Don’t they teach geography out there in California?”

  “Hush up now,” Novella scolded. Then the room erupted in shrieks as the camera panned down a row of three young women sitting on a couch—with Divinity in the middle. She was wearing a low-cut fuchsia blouse and short skirt, her hair teased in a giant mass of blonde curls.

  “These ladies will be battling for a half-million-dollar purse,” Jack said. “It’ll take strength, daring, and endurance, not to mention forging alliances with other members of the cast. There will be six men and six women to start—let’s hear how these young ladies are planning to deal with those odds!”

  The camera zoomed in on the first contestant, a tall, athletic-looking girl with bleached hair. Jack introduced her as a Florida State volleyball player who had a shot at the 2016 Olympics.

  “Just look at how damaged her hair is,” Noelle exclaimed. “The cuticle’s completely wrecked. I can’t believe they let her go TV on looking like that!”

  “You’re known as The Club around the locker room,” Jack said. “Why is that, and how will that help you on the show?”

  “Well, Jack, part of it is from my playing style. A reporter from the Sun-Times said I ‘club’ the ball when I spike. But I also like to think it’s because, even though we may face each other across the nets, all the players in the ACC are like a big club. It’s like we�
�re all pulling together, you know?”

  “Sounds like you’ll be looking to win by forming alliances,” Jack said, while The Club beamed and the audience clapped their approval.

  Divinity made a most unladylike snort. The other two girls glanced at her with expressions that suggested they were staring at dog excrement stuck to the soles of their shoes.

  “We’ll get to you in a minute,” Jack said hastily.

  “He’s got her number!” Chrissy crowed. Stella stole a glance at Taffy; she’d started to feel a little sorry for the woman since her fortunes took a turn for the single. Taffy’s face hadn’t changed; it was a mask of stiff propriety. Still, there were clues to her unraveling—her blouse hadn’t been pressed, and her lipstick was a bit askew.

  Stella tugged at Tilly’s pant leg to get her attention. “Is Taffy okay, do you suppose?”

  Tilly bent down to whisper back, grabbing a pizza roll while she was at it. “Aw, don’t worry about her. She’s tough as nails. Besides, she’s gonna have to get used to the mouthing off if Divinity makes it through the first round.”

  Jack had moved down to the girl at the end of the row. “Bernadette helped found a shelter for abandoned pit bulls in her home city of Detroit,” he read off his card. “She has been shooting competitively since—wow, you were only thirteen when you won your first marksmanship award!”

  While the crowd cheered, Chrissy practically spit up her guacamole. “Time I was thirteen I could shoot a tick off my brother’s ear from a hundred yards.”

  “So what’s your strategy, Bernadette?” Jack asked. The Club leaned in front of Divinity to get a better look at her competitor—Noelle sucked in an appalled breath as she flipped her damaged hair out of the way—and Divinity, not to be outdone, pretended to adjust her high-heeled shoe, effectively cutting her out of the camera’s angle.

  Bernadette, a skinny, plain girl with tribal tattoos around both arms, ignored them both. “I think it all comes down to discipline. I follow a vegan diet and I don’t drink, smoke, take any kind of drugs, or eat processed food. I meditate every morning and practice Tai Chi, which I plan to continue on the mountain. I think this will bring me the clarity I need to focus on my goal.”

  There was an uncertain murmur from the crowd, while Stella’s living room erupted with laughter. “Only thing she’s going to win is Miss Regularity,” Novella observed.

  “A mountain lion could make a meal out of her and have room for dessert,” Gracie added.

  “And that goal, folks, just to remind our audience, is to eliminate all of the competition with these specially modified bows.” Jack held up a lightweight curved bow, as well as an arrow with bright orange feathers on one end and a quarter-size plastic ball where the point should have been. “Now they won’t be shooting to kill, only to hit the other contestants with these specialized paint pellets. When this comes into contact with a target”—he tapped the ball—“the ball bursts and nontoxic paint is released. I’m told it can’t be washed off, though it gradually wears off over a few days. And once you’re hit, you’re off the show, right, ladies?”

  Lots of nodding and smiling from the contestants.

  “All right, let’s meet our final guest. Divinity Flycock hails from central Missouri, where she’s known for her beautiful singing voice. And you’ve been performing in Branson!”

  “What’s that?” The Club asked, while Bernadette examined her short, unpainted nails. Divinity went rigid, her smile fixed and fire in her eyes.

  “Oh, The Club shouldn’t have said that,” Taffy said. “Divvy’s not going to be very happy.”

  “I believe it’s a, well, a country-music theme park, is that right?” Jack asked. “And music is your passion, correct?”

  “Yes, Jack, you’re right,” Divinity said, shifting in her chair so that her eyes were downcast, her hands folded demurely in her lap. “Ever since I was a little girl, my dream was just to sing. And it’s true that I have focused most of my energies on my music—practicing my scales, learning piano, helping sew robes for my church choir, and giving lessons to the little ones. Just anything having to do with music, really.”

  “What’s she doing?” Tilly demanded. “Is this some new strategy she came up with?”

  “She never sewed a stitch in her life, or gave anyone any lessons,” Taffy assured her sister. “I don’t know what she’s up to.”

  The audience was silent as the camera panned out to include the other guests. Bernadette watched Divinity with a predatory smile, while The Club smirked and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt.

  “And how do you plan to compete?” Jack inquired. “Do you have any survival skills you’ve been keeping to yourself? Can you read a compass, maybe? Any good at tracking?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Divinity said softly, not meeting his eyes. “I’ll probably do some singing, even if it’s just to keep my spirits up, but mostly I’ll have to learn as I go.” She lifted her eyes and looked directly in the camera, her pink-glossed lips turning up sweetly into a shy smile. “Of course, my daddy is a stone-cold killer, and they say I favor him, so there’s that.”

  After a shocked silence, the audience erupted into thunderous cheering. So, after a moment, did Stella’s guests.

  Divinity wasn’t especially well regarded by the people seated in Stella’s living room, with the exception, maybe, of her mother. But she was one of their own, and they’d cheer her on as long as she managed to stay in the game.

  The segment ended, and a commercial came on. Noelle turned off the TV and got some music playing, and most of the guests wandered into the kitchen to refresh their drinks. The older ladies stayed in their seats, so Chrissy and Ian pushed the food over close enough for them to help themselves.

  “Hey, Stella, come on out back a minute,” Goat said, helping her up from the floor. “Saw something on the way over here that made me think of you.”

  Stella followed him out the back door onto the porch. “It’s cold out here, but we won’t be but a minute,” Goat said, putting his arm around her. She snuggled in close and walked out into the yard with him.

  When they were standing where the clothesline pole had once stood long ago, next to the little Japanese maple Stella had planted a couple of years back in honor of her mother, Goat put his finger under Stella’s chin and tipped it up.

  “Look at that moon,” he said.

  It was a perfect crescent, a sparkling silver sliver low in the star-studded night sky.

  “It’s beautiful,” Stella breathed. “But how does it remind you of me?”

  “Well, it’s—now don’t laugh at me, Stella.”

  “I’d never,” Stella said with all her heart.

  “That’s a waxing moon. It just turned. For the next twelve days, it’ll get a little bigger and brighter every night, and in a couple weeks it’ll be a full moon shining up the whole damn town.”

  He gently turned Stella so she was facing him. As pretty as the moon was, the view of Goat’s handsome face, his sparkling eyes, was still her favorite. Her heart did the little skippy-jump thing it did whenever Goat was about to kiss her.

  “See, you’re the same way,” he said softly. “You’re just starting to shine. You got great things ahead of you, Stella. There’s no telling how far you’ll go. And along the way, you’re just gonna keep lighting up the place for everyone else.”

  Stella wrapped her arms around Goat’s neck and pulled him closer, and the rest of the world faded as she kissed him by the light of the moon and a million lucky stars.

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  Blood Bond

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  CHAPTER ONE

  JOE BASHIR STOOD IN the glow of the streetlight shining through the triple-glazed windows of hi
s girlfriend’s Berkeley townhouse, pulling up his trousers and staring thoughtfully at the tableau unfolding in the street below.

  Six years after a thicket of half-million dollar “green” homes had been built among the bungalows that stood on these streets for nearly a century, the long-term residents seemed unimpressed with their hipster neighbors. As Joe watched, a skinny woman in a stained parka tugged at something protruding from a drain next to a shopping cart loaded with cans and junk; a few paces away a boy who looked about fourteen palmed a baggie to a man in a knit hat pulled low on his brow. In this neighborhood, it was likely to be a doub, a twenty-dollar rock, but Berkeley was well outside Joe’s jurisdiction. In Montair, folks tended to chase their highs with wine racks and hydrocodone prescriptions.

  Amaris padded down the stairs, coming to rest on a step near the bottom. She’d put her bra and panties back on, but that was all. Today she’d managed to get most of Joe’s clothes off before they made it to her bedroom. Joe still hadn’t gotten used to the vertical nature of her place: a kitchen and living room perched above the garage, and a couple of bedrooms on top of that. He’d had to come downstairs just to find his pants.

  Joe watched her watching him, buttoning and zipping by feel, unwilling to look away. This was part of it, for him.

  “Mother found me a cardiologist to date,” Amaris said. “He’s taking me to the symphony.”

  Joe shook his head and sighed. “Amaris, you really don’t understand how this works. If you’re going to rebel by dating a non-Jew, you have to actually tell your parents you’re doing it.”

  Amaris flicked out her tongue at him and smiled. “But you’re Muslim. That’s like, quadruple points.”

  “I’m hardly Muslim,” Joe said. “I go to the mosque with my dad a few times a year to make him happy, and I feel guilty when I order lunch during Ramadan. That’s about it.”