by Tanya Holmes
Icky finding religion was about as silly as a gorilla in a dress. “Tell me somethin’, choirboy,” I said. “This conversion of yours. Was it before or after you slapped my sister?”
“I was using then and you know it!”
“How do I know you’re not usin’ now?” I searched Icky’s face. Dilated pupils. Glassy eyes. He was high as hell.
Icky fixed his gaze on the bumpy road. Frozen trees flew by as the car sped through traffic. “What if I did set you up?” he finally said, breaking the angry silence. “Either way, you learned a valuable lesson.” He rammed the gears. “From the warm reception you got, isn’t it obvious folks don’t want you here? Your enemies outnumber your friends.”
“Which group do you fall in?”
Icky sighed. “Just stay out of my marriage, okay? We were fine until you poisoned her against me. She’s my wife.”
“That could change if you go postal on her again.”
Icky stewed for a minute, then made a hard left into the hospital parking lot. After we skidded up to the ER in a spray of sleet, he stared straight ahead, nostrils flaring. “Get out.”
I blinked slowly. “I won’t forget what you did today. Not by a long shot. And if you touch my sister again, I swear—”
“Fuck off.”
Biting back a curse, I went for the door, but Icky beat me to it by shoving it open. Once I got out, he dumped the pillowcase in the slush. I just stood there, eyes like slits, my anger spiking. Then he ripped into the glove box, snatched a tabloid magazine, and tossed it at my feet.
“Happy reading,” he said with a nasty smirk, then peeled away in a cloud of sleet, leaving me to glare after him as the tabloid pages fluttered in the wind.
CHAPTER TWO
Hell Freezes Over
TRACE
____________________________
I’d busted my chin. Almost witnessed a vehicular homicide. Quite possibly incited a lynch mob, and had alienated my brother-in-law. Then there were the five stitches, tetanus shot, and X-ray that had put me in debt for close to a grand. All this and I’d been free less than a day.
When would this nightmare end?
I sat in the lobby waiting on my cab. Thanks to the snow, ER patients from Willow’s Corner, Temptation, and New Dyer were crammed together like crayons in a box.
Between the crackling intercom, the coughing, and the wailing babies, I couldn’t decide which was worse: Temptation Memorial or prison.
My cut ached and my head felt like somebody had hit me with a shovel. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. ‘Course, the place was abuzz with gossip. The gaping and finger pointing started minutes after I’d signed in. Doctors and nurses, up to their elbows in patients, snuck peeks while exchanging whispers from behind their clipboards.
Nosy sons-a-bitches.
Boredom made me remember Icky’s tabloid—The Dirty Dish. I grabbed the damp magazine, peeled the pages open, and read the stupid headlines topping the pictures of stars, weirdos, and wannabes.
Then I saw it.
On page seven.
Society Scoop
By: Erica Davies, Senior Editor, The Dirty Dish
Darlings, twelve years ago Tracemore Dawson—the notorious “Butcher Boy” of Temptation, West Virginia—was convicted of second-degree murder in the stabbing death of Lilith Bradford. The victim, a former beauty queen turned interior decorator, was the widow of advertising magnate Harrison Parker Bradford.
Labeled a crime of passion, the case can still trigger a debate among the residents of this sleepy little town. Officially, 18-year-old Dawson worked as a handyman and chauffeur on Bradford’s multimillion-dollar estate. He also moonlighted as an exotic dancer at a few of the local nightclubs.
Some say he was Bradford’s glorified boy-toy. Others are convinced he’s a cold-blooded sociopath. There’s also the lunatic fringe who call him an avenging angel. They say Lilith “Mommie Dearest” Bradford only got what she deserved.
Charges of child abuse were leveled against Bradford at the time, but her 14-year-old daughter Shannon claimed they were false. The teen was the prosecution’s star witness, and her taped deposition helped convince a jury to return a guilty verdict.
As I reported last spring, Shannon Bradford, now a 26-year-old realtor, is engaged to former Dawson prosecutor Darien Montgomery. “Dashing Darien” as the press so aptly named him, is currently defending pop idol Kidd Mann in a scandalous murder trial that has rocked Hollywood to its core.
This doesn’t mean Montgomery skips playtime. On the contrary, a source claims he and Bradford are diehard swingers who dabble in S&M. The kinky stuff aside, their 22-year age gap does push the May-December envelope.
But what’s a little cradle robbing between satyrs?
Since Bradford’s cousin Mead is the frontrunner in the state’s gubernatorial race next year, one can only wonder if these juicy distractions will affect his campaign.
By now you’re probably saying, “Erica, what the #&%@ does all this have to do with the price of bonbons?” Well, darlings, Dawson, 30, will be released from Gainstown Penitentiary this week on parole, and my source confirmed Bradford is hosting an engagement party this month. What will Dawson do when he learns the two people who sent him to the pokey are getting hitched? I don’t know about you, but for Bradford’s sake, I hope the Butcher Boy isn’t a party crasher.
I gaped at the pictures. There, the bewildered face of the boy I used to be stared up at me. Fear abounded in his young eyes. I compared that photo with the one next to it—a recent picture of me in the prison yard. How the leeches got the shot was anyone’s guess.
Vintage photos of Lilith, Shannon, and that pissant Montgomery were beneath mine. Mr. Prosecutor. What the hell could she possibly see in that piranha?
“Well, looky here.”
The deep voice broke into my mental rant. I glared up to see Eddie Gray edging toward me like a hunter sneaking up on a wounded bear.
Wearing full rent-a-cop regalia, complete with a ‘GRAY SECURITY’ patch on his black uniform’s breast pocket, Sheriff Jackson Gray’s firstborn son held a billy club in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.
He was only three years older than me, but hard living had taken its toll on him. His thick blond hair looked as greasy as his pockmarked face. Back in the day, Eddie had been built like a linebacker. Now he was just a bloated, wannabe cop stuffed into a rumpled uniform.
Eddie muttered into his walkie-talkie. The static resonated around the lobby as he seated the black box into his belt clip. I dug out my iPod and put the earbuds in—my way of ignoring the asshole. First song up: Jamar Rogers’ “Hard Cold War.”
Quite fitting considering the circumstances.
“Heard you was back, Dawson.”
I pretended to read. The last time I’d seen Eddie, the bastard was grinning at the trial. Before that, he’d been at the other end of my fist.
He pointed the billy club at my chin. “What happened?”
“Shaving accident,” I mumbled.
“Always the smart-ass.” Eddie looked me over. “The Fontanas set you up real nice, didn’t they? A mechanic’s job at the old man’s garage and carpentry work at Cholly’s new club.” Then he said in a stage whisper, “But Cholly can’t even get a local contractor to renovate ‘cause of you. Got folks boycotting Mr. Fontana’s garage too.”
I flipped a page. It wasn't like I wanted to come back, but the conditions of my parole left me no choice. I needed a job and nobody but my best bud Cholly and his dad would give me one.
Eddie lurched closer. His eyes glinted like black diamonds. “Twelve years in the pen. I’m surprised they didn’t shiv your ass.” He tugged at one of my earbuds. “You must have a guardian angel.”
I lowered the paper. “Don’t do that again.”
“Or what? You gonna stab me?” He chuckled. “Nah, that’s not your style. Whack jobs like you only prey on helpless women.”
I ripped my earbuds out and shoved the iPod into
my pillowcase.
“You ain’t mad, are you?” Eddie cocked his head and poked my shoulder with his nightstick. “I’m just trying to be helpful. Temptation trailer trash may ignore you for now, but they’ll send you packing soon enough. Hell, if you ask me, they should’ve rode your whole nutbag family out years ago, boy.”
The tabloid crumpled in my hand. “I got your ‘boy’ right here, Eddie.”
“Temper, temper. I’m only speaking truth, is all. Your brother’s a loon; your daddy was a drunk. Then there’s that airhead sister of yours.” His lips stretched into a crooked grin. “But as I recall, her brain wasn’t her best asset.”
Close to losing my shit, I crammed the tabloid into my pillowcase. Eddie’s crude remarks about Bev had spawned our last disagreement.
“Did I poke a button?” Eddie asked in mock innocence. He nudged my shoulder again. “Speaking of poking, you do any of that fancy dancin’ for your butt buddies during shower time?”
SHANNON
____________________________
I had just claimed a payphone outside the cafeteria when I heard the scream—a woman’s. The crash that followed jarred me like a lightning bolt.
Two security guards charged down the corridor soon afterward; the ensuing breeze ruffled my bangs. While their faces looked familiar, their names escaped me. All I knew was they were related to Eddie Gray.
The duo raced around the corner yelling into their walkie-talkies. Static drowned out most of what they'd said, but one word was unmistakable: Dawson.
Before I realized it, I was hobbling after them, bruised hip, sore leg, and all. The noise led me to the lobby and what I saw froze my blood. The two guards had pinned Trace to the wall while Eddie punched him in the ribs.
I evaluated the situation in a glance.
At least sixty people looked on, but no one moved to stop the beating. The men were transfixed, the women frightened. All seemed caught up in the moment, like spectators at a prizefight.
Time slipped back, and I was at the plaza again. What are you waiting for? Trace didn’t hesitate when he saw the Jeep.
I sighed and crossed myself. “God help me.”
Weaving through the crowd, I reluctantly limped my way over to Eddie. Getting there wasn’t easy—it was standing room only. People were rooted in place, unwilling to give any leeway, which was absolute murder on my leg.
The shouts, whistles, and catcalls grew louder the closer I got. Half a minute went by before I reached them.
“Stop it,” I finally said, catching my breath. “That’ll be enough!”
The noise level dropped and everyone turned in my direction.
Eddie shot me a dismissive look while the guards held Trace. “Why don’t you go back to terrorizing my daddy instead of sticking your nose in here?”
He was talking about my calls to Sheriff Gray, calls the old cuss had yet to return. “That’s none of your business.”
“And this is none of yours.” To his men he barked, “Gimme some cuffs.”
But Trace had other ideas. Seconds later, Eddie had a thick wad of spit oozing down his sweaty forehead.
Before Eddie could retaliate, I blurted the first thing that popped into my mind. “Touch him again and you’ll have a pink slip within the hour.”
Eddie rounded on me, chest heaving. He angrily wiped the spit from his fat face. “What’d you say?”
“My uncle is chairman of the Bradford Group—the same philanthropic organization that saved this hospital from financial ruin two years ago. And I’ve a seat on the board of directors.” I levered my chin. “Contract or not, Gray Security can be replaced in a heartbeat.”
“Why, you little bit—”
Eddie cut his own words short and stared beyond me, his eyes wide with dread. I glanced over my shoulder only to see Eddie’s wife elbowing her way through the mob. A frizzy-haired brunette with bad skin and bushy eyebrows, Dee Dee Gray worked part-time in the hospital-billing department. She’d had a baby in her belly for five of the six years they were married.
“Get back,” she yelled at Eddie, parking her pregnant body between us.
“But, honey, she threatened my job!”
Dee Dee glowered at me. “Typical. You Bradfords are all alike, throwing your weight around and everything.”
“If anyone abused power, your husband did.” I fired a look at Eddie. “So do me a favor and don’t force my hand.”
Eddie glared at Trace who’d since wilted against the wall. “It don’t matter anyway. Dawson violated parole when he threw his first punch.”
“I never touched your sorry ass,” Trace barked.
Eddie’s bloated face turned a frightening shade of red. “You jumped up and kicked me when I tried to make a citizen’s arrest. That’s assault in my book.”
“And of course you did nothing to provoke him,” I said, keeping my voice low. When the ape smirked, I realized that had been his intention all along. “I don’t make idle threats, Edward. You want to keep your job? Let it go.”
Ignoring his crude response, I glared at the other two guards. They knew the score. Walk away or risk scouring the want ads. The choice was theirs and they made the right one.
“Come on.” Dee Dee tugged Eddie along. He slung a murderous glower at me, then grudgingly followed his wife.
My attention swept to Trace who sat slumped on the floor, hugging his ribs and coughing. Broken glass crunched beneath my boots as I stooped next to him. I could almost feel the crowd’s reproving eyes searing me, but even I had to question my own actions. Not one to abuse the power behind my name, I hated the threats I’d had to make, but I couldn’t think about that now. There would be time enough to fall apart later.
Trace didn’t recoil once I cupped his face. The day’s growth rasped my palm. He had a split lip and an almond-sized knot under one eye. God only knew what his chin looked like beneath that bandage. “Are you okay?”
He coughed out a “Yeah.”
“Why were you fighting with Eddie?”
“We’ve got…issues.”
“Issues?”
“Yeah.”
My concern deepened. “How’s your chin?”
“It’s nothin’,” he said while time took another breather.
Just like at the plaza, our gazes held. He searched my eyes with a thoroughness that gave me pause. His stare felt invasive, as if he was trying to peel away my protective layers. I trembled inside. A question that had plagued me for months centered my thoughts. Was his the last face Mother saw?
“Trace.” I swallowed. “There’s something I need to—”
“Why?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
His brows flickered in question. “Why’d you help me?”
A horn blasted outside the hospital, the noise invading the surreal cocoon that encircled us. I looked up to see a yellow cab idling beside the curb.
“There’s my ride,” Trace said.
The spell was broken.
I anchored my shoulder under his and wrapped an arm around him. The contact made me shiver. He must’ve felt it too, because he tossed a bemused glance my way. His stomach muscles rippled beneath my fingers while he fought for balance. He was so close his heat branded me and his scent tugged me back to the past. He smelled the same as before. Like Ivory soap and man.
The cabby rode the horn.
“Wait,” I breathed. “You need a doctor.”
He limped away. “Forget it. I’m gone.”
Cradling a hand to his ribs, he scooped up his belongings and headed for the exit. Wind rushed the lobby once the automatic doors slammed back. It blew the flaps of his jacket open, but he didn’t button up. A heaviness squeezed my chest when he winced as he eased into the cab. It was insane. I was actually worried about him. Oh, God, was I losing my mind?
I was about to slink away when the taxi pulled off, but the brake lights flashed twice. The vehicle backed up and lurched to a stop. Muffled shouts followed and the door flew open with Trace
tearing out of the cab.
Pain must have stabbed him because he winced again, then yelled a litany of four, five, and six-letter-words. The cabby barked a choice word in answer, then flipped him the bird and roared off. Obviously, the man recognized him and decided he posed a danger.
I watched Trace’s shoulders fall, like all the fight had been sucked out of him, and compassion welled in my heart. As if in a trance, I stepped through the automatic doors, closing the distance between us. Tall as a god, he towered over me. His shadow blocked what little sunlight squeezed past the clouds.
Snowflakes drifted while we studied each other, but this time, his gaze bore an intensity and wonder that rippled through every cell in my body. For a moment, I’d have sworn I’d seen a flicker of the boy who’d taught me to dance.
He tilted his head to the sky and snow melted on his bruised face. “What’re you doin’, Shannon?”
Good question.
I hugged myself, sifting through a labyrinth of emotions. Yes, I had big doubts about him, but if he’d wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have tried to save me. As for the gossipers, since I’d been seen with him twice, the damage was already done. Besides, I needed to talk to him. Desperately. So I decided to shove my doubts aside.
For now.
“I was about to call for a car,” I said. “Do you need a ride?”
TRACE
____________________________
If someone had told me I’d be riding in anything owned by a Bradford, I would’ve thought they were nuts, but the day had been full of surprises.
As the sun fell below the horizon, a black stretch limo pulled into Temptation Memorial. Steam hugged every inch and a dewy row of tinted windows lined either side.
I watched a thirty-something driver with curly blonde hair exit the dark beast. Decked out in a topcoat, leather boots, and a cap, he looked familiar to me.
“Good evening, Miss,” the man beamed. His zeal was as cheesy as the smile he wore.
