by Tanya Holmes
With a long-suffering sigh, Auntie made her excuses and followed after him.
I’d had enough. Ignoring Mead, I said a polite goodbye to Francine, kissed Granny Mae and a snoozing Digger, then threw the double doors open and stalked out. I’d almost reached the end of the hallway when shouts exploded from the foyer. It was two men. The echo reverberated in the house.
My stomach dropped like a brick once I recognized the deeper of the two voices.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shall We Dance?
TRACE
____________________________
“Leave now before I call the police.”
Anchoring a hand on the jamb, I leaned over the blonde tool at the door, using our height differences to my advantage. “Suit yourself, Jeeves, but I’m not going anywhere ’til—”
“What in the world?” Shannon squeezed between us and gave the blonde lackey a reassuring nod. “It’s okay¸ Gerard. I’ll handle this.” She tugged me to the other side of the porch. “What are you doing here?”
I shrugged her hand off. That its warmth lingered annoyed me. As did the fact that she looked damn good. Her hair was done up in one of those fancy French braid ponytail things. She wore suede knee boots and a silky blue dress that hugged every curve.
I tore my eyes away, focusing instead on the nervous little man scampering toward us. In the thirty seconds Shannon had been out here, the troll had somehow managed to fetch a shawl.
“I’m not gonna say it again, Jeeves,” I barked. “Go. Get. Him.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Bradford,” the servant sputtered as he draped the fluffy white afghan over her shoulders. His hands were shaking. After she thanked him, he said, “I told Mr. Dawson the family wasn’t receiving any more visitors today.”
“And I told you, I don’t need to see ‘the family.’” I sliced a glance at Shannon who’d swaddled her upper body wholesale. “I’m looking for Mead. His office said he’d be here. If he’s not available, Sears’ll do.”
She shivered. “But you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
As if on cue, Mead strolled onto the porch, his hands balled in the pockets of an expensive-looking suit. Malice gleamed in his blue eyes. “Well, so the Butcher Boy is a party crasher.”
“What was the plan, Bradford?” I marched right over to him. “Stir up so much hate that folks go rogue and run me and mine out of town?”
Shannon appeared at my side glaring daggers at Mead. Pink blotches stained her cheeks. “What’ve you done now?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Mead flashed a palm and took a step back. “I’ve no idea what this nut is ranting about.”
I gave a bitter chuckle. “Unfrickenbelievable—a lying politician. It wasn’t enough that you and your daddy are keeping Cholly’s club in limbo. Or that your cronies told Jerome Dillon he wouldn’t get that contract if he hired me—”
“Seriously?” Shannon gaped at Mead in genuine surprise, if not horror. “I knew you were a reptile, but this…this is—my God. What is wrong with you?”
He pressed his hand to his chest. “Wrong with me? Hey, I’m innocent here!”
“Bullshit!” I growled. “Now the town’s following your lead. Not only did they vandalize my sister’s salon, they desecrated my mama’s grave.”
Color drained from Shannon’s pink cheeks.
“That’s right.” I gave my head a sharp nod. “Somebody tossed a bunch of dog shit on my mama’s cemetery plot. Pissed on it too. Then they spray painted MOTHER OF SATAN on her headstone in red. Wrote somethin’ similar on Bev’s nail salon.”
“Oh, my God,” Shannon wheezed behind her hand.
Mead’s face deadpanned. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“You and your daddy are the puppet masters, that’s what. Y’all were plotting and scheming even before I left the joint, and this is the fallout.”
Mead whistled soft and slow. “Looks like we can add paranoid delusions to your growing list of mental issues.”
“Paranoid? Naw. Try awakened.” I eyed him up and down, contempt churning in my stomach. “I answered a ton of local want ads months before I got out, but everybody turned me down, including folks who used to support me. Now I know why.”
“You give us too much credit, Dawson.”
Shannon’s narrowed eyes sharpened on Mead. “Did you do it or not?”
“No,” he said with an arrogant shrug. “But we’re not the only ones who want him gone.”
“You lying snake.” I fought with my temper and barely won. “Folks wonder why prison reform doesn’t work. It’s ‘cause of assholes like you. A con can get trained and certified up the yin yang, but when he gets out, he’s gotta deal with you fuckers. What’s your endgame, Bradford?”
Mead looked bored. “Again, I haven’t a clue what you’re—”
“Damn it, you’re hurting innocent people,” I insisted. “Cholly’s only working at Fontana Exxon while his daddy recuperates from hip surgery. Now, thanks to you, the old man’s business is suffering. But that wasn’t enough. You had to go and attack The Slam Dunk before it even got off the ground.”
“You have my deepest sympathy,” Mead said, his hand pressed against the place where a heart should’ve been. “But I still fail to see what any of this has to do with me or my family.”
I closed my eyes and counted to five. Once I found the right words, I spoke with icy calm. “If you steal a man’s dreams, destroy his livelihood, attack his friends and family—then prevent him from protecting the weakest of them, what’s he got left?” I paused and lifted a brow. “Hope. That’s what.” Sidling closer, I narrowed my eyes. “But what happens when you take hope away?” I tilted my head. “I’d say that man is now a dangerous foe. ‘Cause he’s got nothin’ left to lose.”
Mead’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you threatening me?”
“What do you think?”
“Okay, that’s it.” Shannon stepped between us, arms spread, her narrowed eyes flicking back and forth. The throw hit the porch. Given our heated words, she probably didn’t need it anymore. “Please, let me try and sort everything out,” she said, searching my face. “I promise, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Shannon to the rescue again,” Mead chimed in using a mock sports announcer’s voice.
I considered her pleading expression, then Mead’s cocky smile. What she planned to do, I wasn’t sure, but if I didn’t leave, I was seconds away from ripping the bastard’s throat open.
With a scowl, I tossed my hands. “I’m out of here.”
“Wait!” She grabbed my sleeve. “I need to speak with you.”
Been there. Done that.
I wrenched my arm away and kept walking.
Mead chuckled. “Ah, look. A lover’s spat. Well, at least this saves you from becoming his whore like your mom.”
I rounded just in time to see Shannon slap the shit out of her cousin.
“Fuck!” Mead roared.
He cupped the pink welt blooming across his cheek, and immediately raised a hand to her, but I was already on him. All I could see was red, hellfire and brimstone red. I grabbed the worm’s arm, twisted it behind his back, wedging it there. Tightening my grip, I forced Mead to his knees.
“Stop it!”
Somehow, Shannon’s voice doused the firestorm in my head. I blinked past the red haze, shoved the asshole away, and ran a shaky hand over my jaw. A swanky-looking woman with a narrow face rushed to the mayor’s side. Hesta Bradford clung to Sears in the doorway as a police siren wailed from afar.
I went for my bike. Shannon and I exchanged a look. Sadness filled her eyes. Well, whatever. She’d made her feelings clear at her office, so we had nothing to say to each other.
“That’s the authorities,” Sears announced, his silver brows forming a bushy V. “You may as well wait on them, Mr. Dawson because they’re coming for you.”
Mead smirked while he nursed his shoulder. “Oh, now you’ve done it.”
A dark gleam made his eyes sparkle. “You’ll be sleeping in Gainstown tonight, you murdering piece of trash.”
“No, he won’t,” Shannon said, her voice firm, then for my ears alone, she whispered, “Take the back road.” Her expression held a strange combination of fear, resolve, and reassurance. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”
SHANNON
____________________________
Percussion drums and classical violins thundered through the walls when I slipped into The Slam Dunk hours later. I shrugged my hood off and made my way down a long corridor that reeked of sawdust and paint. It fed into a large open area, the first of three dance floors, which is where I found Trace—doing his own version of‘The Angry Dance’ to the frenzied beat of David Garrett’s“The 5th.”
Shirtless and sweaty, he wore nothing but a pair of distressed jeans and black sneakers. His considerable height had no effect on his grace and agility. Neither had the last decade. If anything, the years had refined his talent.
I watched him do a running dive, roll twice, then push himself into a one-armed handstand. He bounced to the beat, balancing his weight on his palm. From there, he jackknifed up and took a flying leap across the dance floor. Once he landed, he executed a dizzying series of grand pirouettes, only to slip into a circular moonwalk after Michael Jackson’s “Morphine” crushed the ending notes of Garrett’s feverish violin.
I couldn’t look away. The man was breathtaking.
He’d just completed a trio of aerial flips, when he froze. There he stood motionless for several breathless seconds before pivoting to stare me dead in the eye. Music screamed around us while his chest pumped up and down. He regarded me intently, appearing to deliberate before snatching a towel from a metal chair. Then he stalked to the sound system right next to me and punched a button, cutting the roaring bass to a raspy whisper.
His face was an iron mask as he rubbed the blue towel in a lazy circle over his rock-hard stomach. He had narrow hips and long arms roped with veins and sculpted muscles that rippled underneath his glistening skin. An indigo tattoo of thorns bordered his right bicep.
Another tattoo, that of a fire-breathing dragon, covered the tanned swell of his left pec, and his massive chest had a light dusting of hair that disappeared down the tightest washboard abs I’d ever seen.
His gray and white underwear peeked out from beneath a pair of low-slung jeans. The logo OBVIOUSLYembroidered the elastic waistband, with a♂ symbol replacing the second ‘O.’
I swallowed, but the lump wouldn’t go down. “Um. I-I remember you used to dance alone in the carriage house when you…when you were upset. You said it helped—”
“How’d you get in?”
The sharpness in his tone pushed me into a blinking fit. “I still have a set of keys from the sale. Cholly never—”
“Who told you I was here?”
If he aimed to rattle me, mission accomplished. “I went to your house, then to Cholly’s. After that, the garage. It was a simple process of elimination.”
He scrubbed the towel through his hair. Despite the sweat pouring off his skin, he smelled shower-fresh. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want? I had to be sure…I needed to—” I tossed a hand. “Are you okay?”
“If you’re worried I’m going to pop off again, don’t. I’ve made peace with it already. Whatever happens…happens. It’s all good.”
“Well, nothing’s going to happen. I took care of everything.”
He hung the towel around his neck. “And that means what exactly?”
“No one’s pressing charges. Another scandal is the last thing my family wants. I also spoke with someone about Cholly’s liquor license and the other delays. Everything should be cleared up by next week.” I drew a steadying breath. “Oh, and Jerome Dillon got the library contract. I called him myself with the news. He said to tell you the job is yours if you’re still interested. They’ll be starting up in the spring.”
Momentary surprise softened his expression. As the seconds wore on, his lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but they hung open, voicing no sound. In the end, he nodded curtly, mumbled a, “Thanks,” then turned away to poke at some buttons on the stereo unit.
A sultry acoustic guitar instrumental whispered over the sound system as he made adjustments to the mixer.
“I’m sorry for the pain my family caused you.” I clasped my hands. “I swear I didn’t know what they were up to.”
He braced the table. “I never thought you did, Shannon.”
Those six words allowed me to breathe again, but I still needed to tell him what I’d longed to say at Briar. What I should’ve said at my office. Yet from his resigned tone and the tension in his shoulders, I sensed he had something more to say, so I waited on him.
“Listen,” he began, his back still to me. “I know I told you I don’t give a shit what the town thinks—and I don’t—but I can’t ignore the victims any more. They keep piling up. Cholly. His daddy. Bev…Mama.” He sighed long and hard. “Anyway, I’ve been chewing on somethin’ since I left the cemetery. And…um, with all that’s been going on, I figure the only way I can protect the folks I care about is to clear my name. The town won’t leave them alone otherwise.” He slowly turned to face me. “So in light of what you did for me and Cholly today—well, if you still want my help, you got it.”
My shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, God. Really?”
“Yeah.” He gave a resigned nod and gripped both ends of the towel hanging from his neck. “In fact, I’m working on an idea, but I gotta make a few calls. You can come by my house tomorrow at five. I should have somethin’ by then.”
That I finally had someone on my side made me want to weep. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I gushed.
He leveled a palm. “Hold up. There’s nothin’ concrete—”
“No, no, that’s fine. I’m just happy you’re—” I cupped a hand over my giddy smile. “I swear you won’t regret this.”
“I’m sure I won’t.” He pulled a stick of gum from his pocket and tore off the foil. “When we’re done, nobody will doubt my innocence. Not even you.”
That last bit nipped at my heart. “Trace?”
“What?” he asked folding the gum into his mouth.
My tongue got stuck the moment our eyes latched, yet in my mind, the words flowed with ease.
He’d come to my office in lieu of calling. He’d apologized for doubting my honesty. He’d confessed that he’d resented my testimony, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself.
With his life on the line, he’d refused to let his attorney cross-examine me. Would a guilty man do that? Would a murdering psychopath put a girl’s welfare above his own?
No, but a hero would.
Yes, I had a bad memory, but the sweet boy I’d grown up with didn’t murder anyone.
That sort of evil just wasn’t in him.
“Well?” he prompted, chewing his gum.
I pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Okay, I need you to understand what I’m up against. How difficult it is for me to trust you or anyone. Especially since I don’t even trust myself.” Shaking my head, I glanced off. “When I think about all I’ve either suppressed or forgotten, I get…nauseous. No lie. But you want to know what really makes me sick? My family. I’ve known them my entire life, so I should be able to trust them, right? But I can’t because they’ve done nothing but lie to me. And after today, I’m convinced they have a secret agenda.” I paused for a beat. “But you don’t.”
His hard expression flatlined. “Shannon….”
“No, I want you to hear this. It took a lot of courage for you to come back here. Especially given the backlash you’re facing. All you wanted was to live your life and you didn’t care if the town thought you were guilty. You only cared if I did.” I nodded. “I totally get that now. So, yes, I trust you and I’m sorry for doubting your word. I know you didn’t kill Mother.”
He was si
lent for a long moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, uncertain. “If you trust me, why’d you flinch when I tried to touch you the other day?”
Talk about coming out of nowhere. “It-it wasn’t you.”
“That’s funny, seeing how I was the only one there.” A shadow crossed his face. “You did the same thing in the limo.”
“I know, but honestly, it’s not you. I think it has something to do with Mother—with the abuse. It’s a reflex action. I’ve had it since she died.”
The tension around his eyes eased, but skepticism still shaded them. “Is that the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He eyed me for a languid moment. Then, without another word, he grabbed my purse, tugged off my coat and tossed them. After that, he went for the sound system and punched some buttons. A couple moments later, an old song, Terence Trent D'Arby’s “Sign Your Name” oozed from the speakers.
Uneasiness squeezed my stomach. “W-what are you doing?”
“Skipping down memory lane.” He cranked up the volume and spoke over the bass. “Recognize that?”
“What are you doing?” I repeated, warily.
“I taught you cha-cha and salsa on this song. For that contest you entered. You did a solo. Remember?”
As if I could ever forget. Back then, Trace danced rings around some of the professionals on TV. He was self-taught. A natural. So when he agreed to choreograph a routine for my junior high talent show, I’d rejoiced. Every day during spring break, he’d instructed me with such patience and skill that, although Eddie Gray’s little sister Nina won the competition, I placed third—a solid achievement for a girl with three left feet.
Those endless hours of dancing were intense, yet I’d never had so much fun, never felt so alive and free until Trace. Only in his eyes, I was just a silly girl with a crush. Never once did he give me reason to believe otherwise, but that was then and this was….
