by D. A. Bale
THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK
Book Two in the Bartender Babe Chronicles
By D. A. Bale
Copyright by D. A. Bale, 2016
ISBN 9781311290649
Cover design by D. A. Bale
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the author and copyright owner listed.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
As always, a great big thanks goes to the members of my critique group – thank you so much, Brainstormers, for your insight on that first draft. I wrote this one way too fast to not have a plethora of mistakes for you to wade through.
Deb and Sandra, my devoted beta readers for this series, your constant encouragement on what you love about Vicki kept me going on that final draft. This one required so much rewrite, I wasn’t sure at times if I was going to keep story continuity straight.
Geraldine, Glenn, and Dayna, thank you for helping me muddle through some of the details about the history and structure of the Alamo. My anality was on display with all of my itty, bitty, detailed questions. You were all so blessedly patient.
The world’s biggest Dallas Cowboys fan – Wes, you helped me ‘see’ the new Cowboys Stadium and hear the crowd from a real, live spectator’s perspective. Without your excitement and appreciation of all things silver and blue, I doubt if I’d have included the scene I wrote near the end of this novel. Instead, you gave it the life it needed.
Dedication
To my nephew, Wes
Because you’re the world’s greatest Dallas Cowboys fanatic, even though I still root for the 49ers to whoop their tush every year. I hope you share the same warm memories of that Christmas I sang to you my personal rendition of Cowboys Roasting on an Open Fire set to the tune of Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. It continues to make me feel all toasty inside, even though the revised wording is long out-of-date.
Chapter One
Temptation has a name – and his name is Zeke Taylor.
And if circumstances didn’t change pronto, I’d either succumb to temptation to tango between the sheets with him or end up committing something short of murder to avoid that thar Texas Ranger. No matter what I did to resolve the tension between us, I’d still be screwed, which would then put me in a position potentially rivaling the epic breakup we went through more than two years ago.
Strawberry sweet tea swirled as I stared into the glass, wishing for something stronger with lunch. Something more in the range of the Long Island variety.
“Victoria? Victoria!”
Mom’s voice finally seeped into my gray matter. “Huh?”
Pursed lips greeted me across the linen covered table of my mom’s favorite Dallas restaurant. The server interrupted, setting Wedgewood china bowls on the ruby-red chargers then placing a small matching tureen on the table.
Old elm trees outside arched overhead and swayed in the furnace of a stiff August wind, intermittently pecking the soaring glassed-in atrium. The staccato rhythm of the tapping tree limbs was out of sync with whichever movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons the string quartet played.
A classical music aficionado I’m not. My taste of the classics runs more toward the rock variety. My best friend Janine, however, could tell you not only the current movement being plucked by the strings, but also which measure they were at in the sheet music and whether the key was in A, B, C, or D.
I may have left something out there.
The aroma of lobster bisque sent my mouth watering like a wolf sniffing out prey. Lobster made me think of Alaska, where the sweet and succulent critters originated. Alaska made me think of cooler temperatures. Cooler temps brought to mind the approaching football opener – all of which meant more comfortable weather loomed on the horizon. I sighed, wishing it was already here.
After the waiter ladled a miniscule portion of lobster bisque in each bowl, Mom waved him away with a flick of her wrist.
“Have you even heard a word I’ve said since we arrived?” she asked.
“Sure,” I responded too cheerfully over the stringy strains.
“Then what have I been talking about for the last ten minutes?”
“Um…a sale at Macy’s? No wait, Neiman Marcus.”
Mom just shook her head. You know the one – full of impatience, disappointment, and irritation. It’s a reaction I seem to get a lot these days, from more than just her.
“There’s been another delay with your apartment.”
“Again?” I whined.
“And Reginald said it may be a few weeks more before you can move back in,” she finished.
I plunked the spoon into the bowl and sank my face into my hands with a groan. This was so not what I needed to hear right now.
Five weeks ago my mom and her interior designer corralled, confiscated and basically took over my apartment after an uninvited co-worker decided to change the décor from Mid-Eighties Motif to Early American Landfill. You know, trash the place.
Oh hell, the guy pretty much released a nuclear bomb in my apartment and left me with little but the clothes on my back. Let me tell you, if Bud had done anything during his rampage to hurt my sweet tabby cat, my former co-worker would’ve ended up with more than a bullet through his brain.
But I digress.
This apartment rearrangement left Slinky and me temporarily homeless. If not for the good graces of the aforementioned Ranger Taylor, the cat and I might’ve spent those weeks sleeping in my cramped and uncomfortable Corvette. It was a sweet ride, but not made for sleeping. I was between boyfriends, after all. Er, uh fellow nighttime excursion enthusiasts. Alright fine – hook-ups, ‘cause I didn’t do the boyfriend and girlfriend thing anymore.
However, the current sleeping arrangement of me on the living room couch while Zeke slept with only the thin wall of his bedroom to separate us was doing more than trying the soul of this bartending babe. It also made it achingly more difficult to honor my early summer pledge to lay off the getting laid.
Which had me almost on my knees before my mother in the very public and proper restaurant setting. Not a very lady-like thing for a once proud twenty-six year-old debutante. Besides, if I hadn’t restrained myself, I’d have risked scuffing up my new tiffany-box-blue pumps on the travertine tile floor.
“Please, Mom,” I begged. “I’ve gotta get out of Zeke’s apartment before I’m the one who ends up in jail for murder.”
Mom dabbed the linen napkin on her rose-tinted lips before replacing it in her lap and straightening her shoulders like a good former Miss Texas. “That’s not funny, Victoria.”
“Who said anything about being funny?”
That got me the stare. You know the one. It’s something mothers perfected before squeezing their young from the womb.
I’m ninety-nine point nine per
cent certain those moments an expectant mom spends standing in front of the mirror aren’t merely for judging her expanding girth. She’s being proactive. Practicing. Those hormones are doing more than merely changing her physical appearance – they’re changing her brain chemistry. Giving her that sixth sense. Eyes in the back of her head.
That’s gotta be it ‘cause this kid never stood a chance getting away with crap from the moment I was born, though that might’ve had more to do with the fact that I had not only a mom and dad watching me but a full-time nanny too.
Which is another reason why I missed living on my own.
“You just helped clear Bobby Vernet’s name of the murder of his wife, at great bodily trauma to yourself I might add, not to mention the emotional trauma to your mother,” she sniffed, then fanned her face with the napkin in true southern style. “Don’t joke about such things.”
“Who’s joking?” I quipped, remembering every last bump, bruise, and bashing I’d endured at Bud’s hands to avoid being tossed off my apartment building rooftop like a ragdoll.
“Is Zeke no longer being hospitable? I’d be glad to call his mother.”
“I don’t need you to call Mrs. Taylor, Mom. I just need to return to my own space. Rediscover my Zen. Plus his couch is killing my back.”
Mom’s brilliant green eyes widened. “Are you telling me that man has left you sleeping on his couch all this time?”
“Would you rather I slept with him in his bed again?”
That narrowed her eyes real quick and earned us furtive glances from nearby tables. “I meant, why has he not given you the bedroom and taken the couch for himself? That would be the safest and most gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Zeke’s a Texas Ranger,” I emphasized. “They haze the gentleman out of them during initiation week.”
“Well, you could stay with your father and me, you know. There’s plenty of room at the mansion.”
“Yeah, that would work real well, Mom,” I returned, sarcasm dripping from my words. Or maybe that was sweat.
“Though I must say, I’m glad to know you’ve learned to restrain your…” Mom paused to fan herself again with the napkin. “…urges.”
That almost sent lobster bisque down the wrong pipe as I struggled to restrain laughter. My mom tries so hard to modify her language to avoid anything that sounds overtly sexual. In Mrs. Audra Bohanan’s vocabulary – and pretty much everyone else from Mom’s church social circle – a woman isn’t pregnant, she’s with child. A married couple doesn’t have sex, they have relations. If it wasn’t for the fact that I existed, I’d have sworn Mom was still as pure as the Virgin Mary.
Me? It’s a well-known fact I’m more the Mary Magdalene type. So well-known, there’s a police report from the summer of my fifteenth year to back up my claim to non-virginal fame. That was when the aforementioned Bobby Vernet and I got caught with our pants down – or more like tossed into the nearby pasture – while doing the deed in the bed of his brand-spanking new Ford F-150.
Did I also mention he’s the only son of Mom and Dad’s pastor?
With that wedge of understanding between us, it’s sometimes difficult to bridge the ever-expanding gap between my mom and me. Our Tuesday lunches and shopping excursions are one way we’ve tried to stay connected since I moved out on my own nearly three years ago. My escape to freedom was a matter of self-preservation – and my only saving grace where my dad was concerned.
The truck bed debacle cost the sperm donor upward of ten million dollars toward the building of the new Celebration Victory Church, a building dedicated to the spreading of Dennis and Mary Jo Vernet’s version of the gospel – the kind that involves more fleecing of the flock than shepherding. The donation to the building fund was my dad’s way of offering penance for bringing me into the world.
Like father like daughter, I guess. At least in one way. I’d discovered the photographic evidence long ago to prove it. It’d take a whole hell of a lot more than ten million to absolve dear ol’ dad of those sinful multitudes.
I took a long drink to stem the blazing heat signature inching closer from the glassed-in reflection. Or maybe it was to delay the uncomfortable conversational turn. Funny how the idea of having a conversation with my mother about urges devolved into a struggle for me this time. Guess I’d learned avoidance from the best.
“I’ve turned over a new fig leaf,” I finally responded. “Figured it was a good time to practice the art of self-control when it comes to my urges.”
Mom delicately cleared her throat. “I’m glad to hear it.”
I didn’t mention the fact that it had become more necessity at this stage. Since the uncomfortable closeness experienced at the governor’s dinner a few weeks ago, I’d not only slammed the brakes on potential budding intimacy but had shoved the transmission into reverse at a hundred miles per hour and left skid marks only a street racer would love. Now Zeke and I were doing everything we could to avoid one another – not hard at present, with Zeke on some big case and keeping odd hours. I’m a day sleeper since I work nights as a bartender. The job with the Texas Rangers made Zeke an early riser. Hmm.
I quickly quashed the mental picture that thinking wrought – like I’d been doing for the past five weeks.
“I just need to return to my own place,” I declared. “What is Reggie still waiting for? Kitchen cabinets? Countertops? A new commode?”
“Actually, Reginald is only waiting on delivery of the bedroom furniture,” she offered. “Some sort of strike at the manufacturing facility delayed everything we’d ordered from that company.”
“Do I have a couch?” I asked, grabbing hold of that informational nugget.
“Yes, but…”
“I’ll take it.”
“You can’t sleep on the floor, Victoria.”
“But you said I have a new couch, right?”
“A couch isn’t for sleeping.”
“Hello? I’ve slept on a couch for the last five weeks. The only difference this time would be that I’d be on my own furniture. In my own apartment. Breathing my own air.” For emphasis, I took a deep breath and let it out with an exaggerated sigh that again garnered the attention of nearby diners.
Mom took the hint – or took pity on me. Didn’t matter. I’d take whatever leverage that little bit of drama provided. She slid the phone from her purse and placed the call.
“Reginald dear?” Mom said to the interior designer. “Do we have any updates on the timeframe for Victoria’s bedroom furniture?” A pause. “Mm-hmm.” Another pause. “I see.” A final pause, then Mom glanced at me with a smile. “Can we get that over there today? Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re always so thoughtful, Reginald. We’ll finish up luncheon and meet you over there in a couple of hours. Ciao.”
My heartbeat ticked up a notch. “It’s in?”
“Not the furniture, unfortunately, but the mattress and box springs will be delivered to your apartment this afternoon. Do you think you could live with that in the interim?”
“Does a cat hack up hairballs?” I asked.
Mom grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “Really, Victoria.”
Chapter Two
Is it cowardly to pack up and leave a Good Samaritan’s place without telling him?
Don’t answer that.
I don’t handle emotional exchanges very well. Not that Zeke’s emotional, mind you. It’s just that over the last month and a half, he’s vacillated between showing interest in getting back together and keeping his distance. He had to be about as tired of my presence as my spine was sleeping on the sofa.
Plus, it was hard thinking about him in the other room. Wondering what he was doing. Remembering our past involvement. Imagining his mouth on mine.
Whew, it’s getting a little warm in here.
Ranger Zeke cured me of such levels of intimacy – with him at least – more than two years ago when I caught him with arms wrapped around my long-time mortal enemy, Miss Lorraine Padget. My last boyfriend quickly becam
e an ex-boyfriend, and we hadn’t spoken to each other until June when I needed his help to clear our mutual friend’s name of murder. During that time, I realized something about myself.
I can sure hold a grudge.
When that comprehension wormed its way into my consciousness, I knew it was time to forgive Zeke for the past and move on. Somewhere in the years of Sunday School lessons, I recalled God said to forgive and forget. The forgiveness part was somewhat easy, but the forgetting took on a degree of difficulty that would make an Olympic diver think twice before executing. The point was I was making progress. Sort of. Maybe.
Perhaps it was better to grab the cat and go. No preambles. No awkward moments. Just leave a check on the way out the door so he couldn’t balk again at trying to pay my share during the overlong stay. I’d figure out how to return the key to him later.
The only things to pack up from Zeke’s Country Hoedown were Slinky’s food and toy assortment and the wardrobe Mom had graciously purchased for me with her black AmEx. Until I finished gathering my things from the closet, I’d had no clue the quantity of what she’d bought. The empty gap from where my clothes had hung was noticeably larger than what remained of Zeke’s – and it was his closet.
That boy needed a girlfriend to update his wardrobe. Sorry, I wasn’t volunteering this time. No can do from my end.
The trunk of my Vette and passenger’s seat were full to bursting by the time I tucked Slinky into his crate, took one final turn about the apartment, then locked up and left. A little ache pulsed between my ribs when I pulled out of the parking lot.
Heartburn from all that lobster bisque and crab manicotti at lunch. Yeah, let’s go with that.
The heartburn turned into nervous excitement as I neared my building near Dallas’ Historic West End. Excited to be going home. Nervous to see what Reggie and Mom had concocted in my absence.
