The Devil Wears Tank Tops

by Destiny Ford

  The card had a border of frilly pink loops, and a message written on the inside in strong, angular letters. It said: I hope I get to see your wild side again soon.

  My mouth fell open. And stayed there. I knew two men with handwriting similar to that. One I’d be happier about witnessing me in my screw-me clothes than the other. Regardless, though. It was humiliating. And the fact that I couldn’t remember any details at all made it even worse. My number one goal was to avoid both Hawke and Drake until my memory decided to return, and I knew whether I should be grateful to them for not taking advantage of me, or if I should hire a hit man.

  I sat back, thinking through everything all over again. I’d gone to Annie’s, antagonized Drake, argued with him while checking out his great ass, and then I’d gone home and eaten myself into a cookie coma.

  I picked up the phone and called Annie. “Hey,” I said when she answered. “Did you or Rich have any strange reactions to our food last night?”

  “No,” Annie answered, confusion in her tone. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?”

  I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “No, I’m fine. I just had some memory issues this morning.”

  “Too much sparkling cider,” Annie said, her voice teasing.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, let me know if you want me to take a look at you. Or if you’re feeling strange, go to the hospital.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

  I probably should have called Drake to ask him about his health situation too, but I wasn’t ready to deal with that conversation if he’d been the one to see me in nothing but lace.

  The thought of Drake made me remember his challenge to investigate him like I’d investigated—and defended—Hawke. I pulled up the Tribune’s background search software and typed in his name. I got a list of all of his properties—which were substantial—bank accounts—also substantial—and found out he’d never been married. Surprise, surprise. I snorted, thinking the background check service would be envied by many women in Branson. If the Ladies knew about his financial state, they’d be trying even harder to wrangle him. Money didn’t impress me; however, character did.

  The background check was helpful, but not exactly what I needed for information about who Drake really was. I did a search for Dylan Drake’s personal life. I found several articles about the charities he was involved in, including the children’s hospital in Salt Lake. He was also a huge fundraiser for one of my favorite animal shelters. No wonder he spent so much time in Salt Lake instead of Branson. Aside from his duties with the legislature, he was on the board of trustees for so many non-profits that he’d have to live there just to make it to all the meetings.

  Reading about his philanthropic efforts made my stomach flip, and I thought I might be having a change of heart about him until I clicked on images, and saw all of the women he’d been photographed with. They were all stunning with bodies that would make a goddess jealous, and ginormous boobs. I hated every single one of them. My eyes narrowed as I realized I was feeling envy for the women on Drake’s arm. I didn’t want to be one of them…did I? I was contemplating this unwelcome question when Spence called to me from his office. “There’s a story at the high school you need to get to.”

  I lifted my eyes to meet his. “About what?”

  “Immodest clothes. The TV news stations are on their way, and I’m sure it will go national.”

  I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes. Someone had probably been sent home for wearing shorts that were shorter than three inches above their knees. Legs are scary. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  I grabbed another doughnut on my way out the door. If anything could make me feel better at this point, it was copious amounts of chocolate frosting and sugar.

  All high school seniors in Branson Falls had senior portraits done every summer. The photos usually had several different shots, and each student could choose which photo they wanted to use for their senior picture in the yearbook. They were supposed to pick the finished photos up on the first day of school.

  Some seniors—all girls—had gone in to get their pictures and realized that their photos had been altered. Some of them were wearing a lot more clothes than they had been during their photo shoots. One girl’s neckline had been altered to be higher, even though the shirt she originally wore showed no cleavage; another girl’s tattoo had been removed; and three girls’ tank tops now had sleeves. In every instance, the photos had been changed to correspond with Mormon Church modesty standards. I was annoyed. I thought I’d eventually get used to crazy stories relating to the church governing everything in the state, but this was ridiculous.

  By the time I arrived, there was already a group of angry parents and students arguing in the main office. The sides were clearly divided into Team Tank Top, and Team Modesty. The arguing was impressive.

  “You don’t get to decide what’s okay for my kids to wear,” one angry mother pointed out to a mom on Team Modesty.

  “Well someone has to,” another angry mother shot back, “because you’re not doing your job.”

  Blood rose in the first woman’s cheeks, her anger visible. “You have no right to judge me—or my daughter.”

  “Your daughter’s clothes are temptin’ my son!” A Team Modesty mom shot back. “When he does something he shouldn’t, it’ll be the fault of girls like your daughter!”

  I was furious at the opinion, and I wasn’t the only one. Blood started to rise in Team Tank Top’s face, and I could see her pulse beating furiously at her neck, adrenaline and anger coursing through her. “It’s not a woman’s job to regulate what someone else feels. If showing shoulders in a tank top is too tempting, someone needs to teach your son self-control. And it doesn’t say much for what you think of your son if you believe seeing a girl in a tank top is going to make him an uncontrollable sex fiend.”

  One person on the Team Modesty turned to me and hissed, “This is all your fault. You’re the one who started wearin’ tank tops. You made girls think that was normal and tempted them into bein’ Jezebels. You need to realize what your immodest clothes are doin’ to people.”

  My mouth fell open. I’d been blamed for a lot of things since moving back to Branson Falls, but corrupting people as a result of my clothing choices was a new sin. I’d have to write it down so I’d make sure to remember it—and do it again. When someone tried to tell me what to do, I made it a point to do the exact opposite.

  I really shouldn’t have said anything, but passive-aggressive was not something I’d ever been, or ever would be. I’d rather get my feelings out on the table, deal with them, and move on instead of harboring resentment and trying to get my point across in a sneaky way that would most likely be lost on the individual anyhow. So, I spoke up, like usual. And would probably pay for it later. At least I’d been true to myself. “I believe Mormons are taught that they have the free agency to make choices, and they’re not supposed to judge people for their decisions. How is your reaction to these girls’ clothing choices honoring either of those things?” I asked.

  The Team Modesty woman’s face went fire engine red, and I could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. I could tell she wanted desperately to launch into an argument with me. The problem was, she didn’t have one. No counterpoint. At all. I was certain she was about to attack something completely unrelated to my question when the principal stepped into the room. “Everyone,” his voice was deep, and louder than the fervor. “Let’s try to discuss this in a civilized manner,” he said, attempting to calm everyone down.

  Aside from my argument with Team Modesty, there were a lot of smaller arguments happening all around me. The situation was only escalating as the principal kept talking. He eventually got the two sides separated in different rooms, and that’s when I was allowed to talk to them in my capacity as reporter.

  I had empathy for the girls. They were sitting with their parents, and someone had procured Saints and Sinners
Cookies and put them on a plate in the middle of the table. I thought that was smart; I knew from first-hand experience that desserts were a good way to diffuse emotions. The cookies looked tasty, and I wondered where they’d come from since Drake and Annie said the cookies had sold out at the fair.

  “You have Saints and Sinners Cookies?” I asked one of the office assistants who had just come in with some bottled water for everyone.

  She nodded. “They’re selling them in a kiosk in the cafeteria before school and during lunch.”

  Interesting. I knew what my next stop would be. Not only did a cookie sound good, but I still hadn’t been able to get the cookie company to call me back. I was hoping I’d have more luck at the kiosk.

  The meeting went on, and I talked to the Team Tank Top girls and let them know I was on their side personally, even if I did have to tell Team Modesty’s story in the Tribune. “I understand. Every time I wear a tank top in town, I get glared at.”

  “It’s too hot!” one of the girls said, throwing her hands in the air. “And why are tank tops bad, but swimsuits are okay? The cheerleaders and dance team are allowed to break clothes rules, so why can’t everyone else?”

  I shook my head in disgust for the silly policies. “I never understood that either.”

  I went to the Team Modesty room next, and got glared at while I asked questions. I got the quotes I needed for the story, said hi to some of the TV reporters I knew who were now on the scene and getting ready to do their stand-ups for the noon news, then quietly excused myself.

  Since it was just before lunch, the cafeteria was open. I looked around the room at the various kiosks. Branson students were allowed to leave campus for lunch, but with only a thirty minute meal period, it was hard to leave, eat, and get back before classes started again. Because of that, the school allowed a few restaurants around town to serve their food in the cafeteria. I saw the bright blue Saints and Sinners Cookies sign and headed in that direction. Then almost tripped when I realized who was manning the booth.

  Amber Kane.

  Amber was one of The Ladies, and an evil one at that—more evil than most. We’d had many run-ins, both before I left Branson Falls for college, and especially since I got back. She seemed to be under the impression that I was diddling every eligible bachelor in town. Before last night, I could have called her a complete liar. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  Her harassment had resulted in threats from Spence, Drake, and Hawke to leave me alone. She hadn’t been happy about those, either.

  She looked up and saw me, her frizzy, permed hair becoming even more electric before my eyes. Her face screwed up into a look that said she might try to kill me with one of her cookies. Her hands showed white knuckles as I approached.

  “Hi, Amber,” I said with a too-sweet smile. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  Her nostrils were flaring so hard I thought they might shoot fire. “I just started.”

  I nodded. “How do you like the company?”

  “Why,” she said with a sneer, “you lookin’ for a job? I bet you’re great at sellin’ things—like your soul.”

  I gave her a smile meant to be unpleasant, and asked another question instead of responding to her provocations. “Do you know the people who run the company?” I’d left two messages, but still hadn’t received a phone call back. I wanted to interview them and find out more about their treats, and why they thought everyone was obsessed with their cookies.

  “Selma saw you talkin’ to Drake at Annie and Rich’s house yesterday,” Amber said.

  I held back a sigh. Amber had a bee in her bonnet—as usual when it came to dealing with me. I knew I wouldn’t get any other answers out of her. “Selma is almost ninety. I don’t think I’d use her as one of your watchdogs.” She’d probably confuse Drake and a bear.

  “His truck was there. She’s not the only one who saw it. Then, his truck was at your house for over two hours last night.”

  My eyes widened and I fought to keep my expression under control. Now I knew the identity of the flower sender—and the person who had gotten me to bed…at least, I hoped I knew, and that he just put me to bed, and didn’t crawl in too.

  My face immediately got hot as the humiliation sunk in. A humiliation I still couldn’t fully remember. It wasn’t like I could ask him what had happened. He’d think I was insane. Ugh. This would have been so much easier if my mystery lover had been Hawke. Still embarrassing, but he knew about my quirks and had his own issues. He wouldn’t judge me.

  I took a deep breath and put everything to the back of my mind so I could answer Amber’s accusations. “Drake was at a dinner at Annie and Rich’s. So was I. And it’s really none of your business.”

  She tsked, and her lips formed an annoyed sneer. Drake had been at the top of Amber Kane and Jackie Wall’s—the Ladies’ leader—list of replacement husbands after they’d both gotten divorced. Drake didn’t seem interested in either one of them, and for some ridiculous reason, actually seemed to be paying attention to me instead. The Ladies had made me pay for Drake’s attentiveness ever since I moved back to Branson earlier this year. “You live in Branson, Kate. Everything is our business.”

  I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t going to get into this with her. It wasn’t worth it. I had work to do. And now I couldn’t get a cookie either because Amber was serving them. She’d probably poison mine.

  “Thanks, Amber. You’re always such a pleasure to talk to,” I said in a sarcastic tone before walking away.

  I was still irritated at the photo altering, and that combined with the Amber altercation made me feel like eating all the sugar. In the world. I left to go back to the office and work on the Show a Little Shoulder story—including a comparison photo of the digitally altered pictures, and what the girls actually wore.

  I got back to the office and was immediately distracted by the pretty flowers on my desk, which I now knew were from Drake. I spent a good five minutes reorganizing my space and trying to pretend they—and the implications of the message attached to them—didn’t exist. I was baffled by the fact that I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. What caused selective memory loss? Ruffies? I was pretty sure I hadn’t been slipped one of those. I was at a dinner with friends, not jerks who wanted to cause me harm. I lost track of time as I stared at the wall, obsessing about my memory loss, and trying to figure out what had happened to me. I finally moved the flowers to the shelf behind me so I could concentrate.

  I decided to actually do some work and checked my email. There were several community news articles in my inbox.

  If you can believe it, there are even smaller towns that surround Branson Falls. The Branson Tribune serves each town, and each town has a community reporter with a column to report on what has happened during the previous week. Some of the town populations are between twenty and eighty people, so that means a lot of columns are about what movies the Winns watched on Netflix that week, and the exact contents of the Jorgensens’ dinner, as well as their bedtimes.

  Spence came out of his office and sat on the edge of my desk. “What are you working on?”

  I glanced up at him. “Editing the community news.”

  Spence picked up the stress ball by my stapler, and started throwing it in the air and catching it. “That’s why I hired you,” he said with a grin, “so you’d have to edit it instead of me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why don’t we get rid of the columns? There’s never real news to report, and if anything important ever does happen in one of the towns, I’d be the one to write the article.”

  “We tried to get rid of that section,” he said as the stress ball hit a stack of papers on the table behind me and knocked them to the ground.

  “When?” I couldn’t remember a time The Branson Tribune didn’t have the community news.

  “About a year ago. The uproar over the missing columns was legendary. There were more letters to the editor about it than there were when the Democrats got con
trol of the House and Senate and won the presidency.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head at the ridiculousness of the situation. “I guess we’ll have to keep the columns, then.”

  Spence nodded, and kept throwing the stress ball. I watched him for a minute, the ball going up and down, narrowly missing light bulbs and the flat screen TV on the wall behind me, before changing the subject. “How well do you know Drake?” I asked.

  Spence pushed his bottom lip out. “Well enough, I guess, why?”

  I lifted a shoulder slightly and tilted my head. “I’m just trying to figure out if he’s the person everyone says he is.”

  Spence eyed me like he was dissecting my question. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it, then opened it again. “I met Drake when I first bought the Tribune. He was one of the nicest, most accepting people in town.” Spence emphasized “accepting,” making me think Drake might also know, or at least have suspicions, about Spence being gay. “I think he has a bad reputation, by no fault of his own. He lives in a small town. You know what that’s like.” I did, and that’s what scared me. What if Drake really was the person I’d always dreamed he’d be. How would I handle that? “I’ve never seen Drake do anything to deserve the reputation he has.”

  “Yeah, but he’s smart enough that he’d know how to cover it up, too.”

  Spence shook his head. “I don’t think he’s like that, Kate.”

  “His dating history alone is terrifying.”

  “Whose dating history? Are we talkin’ about Hawke? Because I really hope we’re talkin’ about him. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him for a while,” Ella said, sauntering in from the archive room. She must have come in while I was at the school covering the I’m-too-sexy-for-my-shoulders story.

  “Hawke’s out of town on business,” I answered. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “That’s a pity,” Ella frowned. “Who were you talkin’ about, then?”