by Tanya Holmes
“Shannon….”
Sympathy filled me as I surveyed him with new understanding. “To keep it alive, you stash people in boxes, stuffing them into categories. That makes you feel safe, doesn’t it? This way your preconceived notions go unchallenged.”
He flung the bandana, went for the worktable again, and started clearing it with ruthless precision. A line of boxes filled with nuts and bolts bordered the wall. He was in a frenzy, sorting screws and whatever else lay before him.
“Now here I am,” I said, “trying to make things right between us and it’s driving you mad. I’m an anomaly. That’s why you’re frustrated. You’re used to trashing what you can’t label. What doesn’t fit, you wish into a cornfield.” He kept sorting, so I opted for bluntness. “I know your mother was deathly ill with cancer when you first came up for parole.”
He gripped the table. “Leave it alone.”
“All right. I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” I whispered, my heart and soul aching for him. “I’m so very sorry.”
I felt like an empath. Pain—his pain—coursed through me with paralyzing speed. Filling my lungs with much-needed air, I scooped the last page of the letter from the floor and stood next to him at the table.
Now I was more physically aware of him than ever.
My hands shook as I removed an inkpad, a rubber signature stamper, a pen, and a stack of index cards from my purse. I flipped the inkpad open and pressed the stamp against it. Once I’d made an imprint on an index card, I grabbed the letter’s signature page.
“What are you doing?” he asked me.
“Just look. Please.”
I lined the signature page up with the index card I’d just stamped and placed them side by side. Next, I got another index card and signed my name, three times. Placing that beside the other two pieces of evidence, I pointed to the signature on the parole letter, then to the scripted signature I’d imprinted with the rubber stamp. “See.” I glanced at him. “They’re identical.”
He stared in silence.
“No two signatures are exactly alike,” I said, tapping the index card with the three autographs. “Even those penned by the same person. But a stamp makes the same impression every time.” I stuffed the pad and stamp inside my purse and left everything else. “As soon as I saw the letter, I recognized the signature for what it was. A stamped copy.”
We looked at each other and something—hope, affirmation maybe—dawned in his eyes. In my heart I knew he desperately wanted to believe me. He tore away to hold the cards up to the light, giving them a thorough inspection.
His face was a stony mask.
“If I had sent that thing,” I said, “I would have signed it myself. And I wouldn’t have used company letterhead.” I slipped my purse over my shoulder, fished a business card out and dropped it on the worktable. “I’m not the girl who put you in prison. Your best bet would be to forgive her and move on because she’s gone. You’re stuck with me now.”
“And who are you?”
“Someone who wants to get to know the man you are today. So if you believe me. If you can own up to the fact that this…fury raging inside of you has nothing to do with the letter—if you can admit that you do harbor some resentment against me, against the girl I was, and that maybe you even blame her, just a little, for ruining your life, then call me.”
His face was expressionless, but his eyes…yes, his eyes, burned with the first flicker of warmth, of feeling.
I crossed the garage and slipped my coat from the peg. “I’ve got clients flying in from New Orleans and several open houses to attend, so I’ll be tied up for the next few days. That should give you time enough to think about everything, to decide. And if you don’t call, I won’t bother you again.”
TRACE
____________________________
“Is it nasty?” Amber asked from across the kitchen table that same night.
I glanced up from my plate. “Huh?”
“Your dinner. You’ve hardly eaten a bite.”
She’d slaved over this meal, and I’d done nothing but pick at it. Guilt made me spear a piece of broccoli smothered with Velveeta. I crammed it into my mouth and gave an enthusiastic nod. “Naw, it’s good. So’s the chicken.”
“That’s not chicken, shug. It’s fish.”
I hastily forked a slice, shoveled it in as well. “Mmm.”
“All right, that’s it.” She tossed her napkin. “You’ve been on Mars since you got home. What’s wrong?”
I sighed and set the fork down. It was no use. My appetite was shot. After giving my food a last once-over, I pushed away from the table and went for a Corona in the fridge. “It’s just been a long day.”
Her brows crashed together. The woman had a sixth sense about her, a talent she’d probably honed during her prison guard days. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nothin’ to tell.” I lifted the beer to my mouth.
Her doubtful expression said she wasn’t buying it. Not that she should.
After I’d removed the broken screen door outside earlier today, I’d spent the next two hours stripping the living room floor without speaking a word. Once we sat down to eat, my attention had drifted more than a few times. I’d tried to keep the conversation going, but my mind kept wandering back to today’s unsettling encounter with Shannon.
Her intelligence, sincerity, and the ballsy way she’d stood her ground fascinated me. Yet so did her mind-blowing accusation. It had gnawed at me all day. Was she right? Did I really resent her testimony deep down? Hell, no. She’d completely missed the mark on that one. Hadn’t she?
I drained half the bottle. “Think I’ll call it a night.”
Amber frowned. “I got a key lime pie from Noëlle’s.”
“Naw, I’m beat.” I made a silent burp into my fist and pointed the Corona at the dishes. “Need some help with those?”
“No worries, shug. Go on up.” She started collecting the plates, but then she set them back down. “On second thought, I think you could use a little ‘help.’” With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she took hold of my arm and tugged me into the living room. After she stood me in front of the La-Z-Boy, she undid my jeans and yanked them and my boxers to floor.
I blinked. “What the—”
Amber shoved me into the chair, then slipped to her knees. Once she took me into her mouth, the bottle hit the floor, spewing suds. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I ran my fingers through her short hair. Two minutes later, I was ‘thisclose’ to storming the pearly gates when the phone screamed. Scowling, I wilted into the worn leather chair. Sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I wiped at my brow with a fist and groped for the phone with my other hand while Amber continued to torture me.
“Daaawson,” I breathed, jamming the receiver to my ear. Dead air answered, but below my waist, things were pulsing to life. My lids trembled shut against the pleasure. “H-hello?”
More static, which meant another crank call.
Amber’s wicked tongue beckoned, so I dropped the phone, threw an arm over my eyes and let nature take its course. Weird thing was, instead of Amber’s face, another rose from the darkness. Golden hair. Chocolate eyes. Lips as pink as cherry blossoms, and the heady, seductive scent of Poison….
Shit. She’d snuck inside my mind again.
I drew a ragged breath, forcing myself to focus on Amber’s perfume, Amber’s tongue, and the toe-curling sensations they gave me. Yet minutes later, when my body exploded in pulsing waves, my eyes widened in shock. Strange couldn’t begin to describe the scary realization that rocked me. I sagged into the cushions as Amber sank back on her heels, but not before kissing my cock, which now rested like a spent warrior against my thigh, semi-limp, damp, and sated.
Brows furrowed, she studied me. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh, nothin’.” I blinked twice. “Nothin’ at all.”
“Stop lying. You look…weird.”
I started righting my jeans
. “It’s nothin’, now hush.”
She was still frowning when she headed back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, I sat in dazed silence, trying to wrap my mind around—
What was that fifty-dollar word Shannon had used before? Enigma? No, enigmatic. Yeah, that was it. Enigmatic, meaning mysterious. Enigmatic, meaning hard to understand. That’s what had just happened here. Something enigmatic.
Because when frustration trapped me in limbo, and orgasm seemed like an impossibility, visions of Shannon’s hair, Shannon’s face, Shannon’s mouth and Shannon’s tongue—not Amber’s—crept back into my mind.
Only then did I see those pearly gates.
TRACE
____________________________
Four days later, I threw my street clothes on and left the men’s john at Fontana Exxon. Running a comb through my wet hair, I skimmed the jungle of Post-it notes on the garage corkboard. One coded message from my watchdog Zander, warning me of a ‘surprise’ home visit next month, two from Tori Mills, an old flame, but still no word from Amber.
I’d awakened to an empty bed yesterday and no note. Hell, things hadn’t been the same since the night she’d made dinner. I’d tried to make it up to her the next day with a bouquet of flowers, but she’d acted uncharacteristically distant.
Okay, she might be pissed about me being distracted in the sack. My plumbing had worked, but she’d said I was a million miles away. Then she’d hit below the belt by saying she may as well have been fucking a robot. The fact that I’d had a couple wet dreams didn’t help. I thought those would’ve ended after stir, but maybe I was still adjusting.
As the bay door lifted, I pushed my bike out into the cold. Sidewalk trees, stripped bare by winter’s kiss, swayed when a gale howled across the lot. I straddled my Harley and drew a lungful. The air had a bite, but I didn’t mind. Seeing the sun for more than ninety minutes a day made up for it.
The bay door thundered back down. I slipped some gloves over my hands and glanced down the road, my attention straying to that damn billboard.
Her billboard.
I raked my gaze at the sky. “Not again.”
See, this was why I couldn’t think straight. It was all Shannon’s fault. She’d called me a coward. Claimed I shoved folks into boxes. That I was angry and resentful. As if I didn’t have a right to be. What happened to my mama was a prime example. She’d been bedridden for months, and the only thing she wanted was to live to see me make parole. But God had other plans.
To survive Gainstown, I’d had to prove myself 24/7. Yeah, I’d gotten into some trouble—through no fault of my own—but I’d also put my associate degrees to good use and taught a weekly dance class. I’d even gone to sunrise service every day, despite the fact that I’d lost faith in God a decade before. All this, so I could see Mama one last time.
When they gave her six months, I begged God not to let her lose hope, but apparently, The Man Upstairs wasn’t taking requests. A week after she learned I hadn’t made parole, my mama, Dorotea Annabelle Dawson, downed a vial of sleeping pills. She died believing her son was a pervert.
Soon after my father found her body, he put a shotgun in his mouth. His suicide note said he didn’t want to live without Mama. Since he’d made her life hell, it seemed fitting. But what happened to Cole was a major injustice. The kid had a bright future. Multitalented with mega brains, he was a self-taught musician, had the voice of an angel, and could draw like nobody’s business. He even earned a free ride to college, but fate dealt him a devastating blow.
A recent visit to Cole at Saint Mary’s had nearly wrecked me. The sight of my baby brother wearing a straightjacket and mumbling to invisible friends would never go away.
Nyle Weathers. Bev and Icky’s marriage. The parole hearing. Mama’s death. Daddy’s suicide. Cole’s breakdown. It was the old domino effect. They all had the same first cause….
Shame melted the steel in my spine as an awful truth, one I couldn’t deny, rammed me in the gut.
Shannon was right.
“Heard from Amber yet?”
Cholly’s voice broke into my thoughts. Hands bunched inside a pristine Washington Wizards jacket, he strolled down the salt-covered walkway, shoulders hunched, his breath misting.
“Naw,” I muttered distractedly. “Prob’ly her time of the month. She’ll call once the fog clears.”
Fontana shrugged. “Females. Who can understand them?” He leaned a shoulder against the garage door. “You decide what you’re gonna do about Shannon Bradford?”
I zipped up my jacket. “Haven’t given it much thought.”
“Want some advice?”
“Not particularly,” I said, tugging my helmet on.
“Too bad.” Cholly nodded a few times. “Now you see why I wouldn’t tell you what was in the damn letter. I still can’t believe that witch showed it to you.”
“Cholly—”
“Don’t even start,” he insisted. “I was here. I saw what it did to your mom.”
“She didn’t write it.”
Cholly stared at me in stunned silence. “You been snorting Icky’s dope?”
I lurched up, kick-starting the bike. “It wasn’t her.”
“Yeah, right,” Cholly yelled over the rumbling engine. “I’m telling you, she’s bad news. The girl had a hood on when she left. It covered half her face. She’s ashamed to be seen here.”
“Ever think she might’ve been cold?”
Cholly’s hairline slipped back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’d worked some roots on you or something.”
I darted a glance at the billboard again and muttered, “Or somethin’.” Then I shrugged and roared off, heading south toward Bradford Realty.
CHAPTER NINE
Noise Pollution
SHANNON
____________________________
“Here’s another from the Camelot theme, sweetie.” Auntie added a snapshot of a medieval-style wedding gown to the photo stack. Hummingbird small, the wispy five-foot-nothing matriarch came around my desk, and a cloud of Muguet Du Bonheur followed. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She tapped a pearl-white fingernail on the picture. “They’re amber studs. The belt comes with gems or in faux gold. They call it a cotehardie.”
I gave the photo a halfhearted glance, my attention everywhere but on the dress. “It’s lovely, Auntie.”
“And the train is attached by cabochon buttons. There’s even a matching velvet cape. Perfect for a winter wedding….”
As Auntie prattled on, my attention drifted to the wall clock for the millionth time, and to the undeniable conclusion that Trace hadn’t believed me.
If he had, he would’ve called by now.
Keeping my mind on work proved impossible. I’d tossed and turned last night. Hadn’t eaten all day. How could I when my stomach was tied in a million knots?
When Auntie had stormed in an hour ago toting a Rubbermaid box filled with wedding paraphernalia, I’d wanted to scream. Hesta Bradford was an adrenaline factory.
Normally, that energy was infectious, but concerns about Trace, Darien, tomorrow’s anniversary luncheon, and my ignored calls to Sheriff Gray had left me ill-tempered and distracted—so distracted I’d forgotten the videographer appointment I’d scheduled weeks ago.
My staff had already fled for the evening—anything to avoid my unusual show of temper. It had been a slow day anyway, so when Auntie showed up, I’d had no choice but to summon interest in medieval wedding gowns, Old English calligraphy, and a dozen other prenuptial annoyances.
I gave the clock another glance. Four-thirty-five p.m. and ten seconds.
Forget it.
He’s not calling.
“…and instead of flowers, you might want to carry a white Bible,” Auntie went on. “Or we could do the traditional—” She snapped her fingers. “Hello? Anyone there?”
I drew myself up. “What?”
“Sweetie, time is running short.” She looked exasperated. “Do you realize how much we have to
do?”
I closed my eyes. Details. When did commitment get so complicated? You get a license. Buy a dress. Find a priest and say, “I do.” A simple process if there ever was one. Or at least it would be if not for Auntie.
She’d loved and cared for me as her own, been mother and father, friend and confidante. She also had an inner glow that shined through. So to rob her of the joy she derived from this grand event was unthinkable.
Auntie licked her thumb then smoothed back an errant curl along my temple. “You’re about to live every woman’s dream. Why aren’t you excited?”
“Who says I’m not?” I mumbled, folding my arms.
“I do remember how a bride-to-be is supposed to feel.”
I produced a smile, waiting with feigned interest for the coming stroll down memory lane, a stroll Auntie took often.
“I never told you this,” she said, pulling up a chair, “but my wedding was a debacle. When Sears defied his parents and married me anyway, you’d have thought it was Armageddon.”
Considering their scandal paranoia, it was funny how my relatives could find it without fail. The Kennedys had nothing on us. An old-moneyed family, whose wealth and power were substantial, the Bradfords went all the way back to West Virginia’s glorious birth. We were a household name across the state and beyond.
“So what happened?” I asked.
Auntie gazed off into yesteryear. “Granny Mae and Digger couldn’t afford much, but they made do. Of course, Mother and Father Bradford boycotted the wedding, so we went to Saint Ann’s. The sisters made pigs-in-a-blanket and pizza bagels for hors d’oeuvres.”
I gaped in horror.
“Oh yes.” Auntie chuckled. “It was quite the scandal. But the family eventually accepted the match, and I never gave them cause to regret it.” She clasped my hands. “Do you see why this wedding has to be the event of the year? I only want the best for you, sweetie.”
I saw the opening and took it. “And I, you. That’s why I’m hoping the luncheon will do you and Uncle good. You hardly spend any time together.”
