Broken in Love (Studs in Stetsons Book 2)

by Megan Hetherington

  “But being quiet meant nothing to me, we’re paid anyways, and I’m more likely to earn tips when there’re fewer folks around—you know, men are more bold when there’s less competition.” Yes, Lemon, I know what you mean. “So, I got up on that podium and danced like I always do.” Her body relaxes and her smile blossoms as if she’s recollecting something pleasurable and an image percolates of Lemon dancing to relieve whatever makes her sad. I nod for her to go on. “After an hour or so, we went for our first break. I grabbed a soda from the bar—”

  “Soda?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Jack and coke, then I went to the dressing room, covered up with my shorts and jacket and snuck out the back exit for a cigarette. Not because we’re not allowed to go for a break, just that we’re sometimes followed. And who needs that shit?” Her shoulders slump and she blows out a raspberry, because that’s what she got. Shit. Her voice lowers and she drifts into a flat tone where she attempts to mask the horror of what happened. “I didn’t have chance to light my cigarette before that guy turned up and… well that’s all I remember.”

  My brows knit together. I’m sure on the video she smoked her cigarette.

  “So how long would you say you were outside before he turned up?”

  “Not long. The headlights on the pickup were blinding and I don’t remember him even getting out really.” She looks confused. “In fact, I remember nothing after that.”

  I take a gulp of the bitter beverage. Thinking better of asking Lemon if she has any creamer, I reach for the sugar pot.

  “So, you think it was a pickup? Did you notice the badge or bodywork color?”

  With a sharp shake of the head she says, “Nope, and to be honest, I’m not sure it was a pickup. I just assumed it was because it didn’t seem odd.”

  Quietly, I ask, “So… is there anything at all you remember about the actual attack?” I swallow deep, for the first time in my career unable to separate my feelings for the victim from the thought of what happened to her.

  “No.” She stares without blinking and I don’t believe her. “I blacked out.” She maintains her wide eyes as if daring me to question her further. But I’m confused; the paramedics report said she was conscious when they reached her. And Lola and Penny’s statement said similar. Unless she had too many JDs and coke, but no-one commented on her being drunk either. There was alcohol in her blood stream according to the hospital test report, but not an excessive amount. Maybe there was some concussion and that’s what the hospital were concerned about when they kept her in an extra night.

  “Can you think of any reason that someone would want to harm you?”

  She shakes her head and sets her jaw tight.

  “No arguments with anyone recently?”

  She huffs and I close my eyelids for a second. Lemon is the victim and without getting heavy handed with her it seems this is as much as she will say right now. It’s likely I’ll have to ask for a female officer’s help. Draft someone in from Visalia. I sip at the frothy crema on my coffee and try and think of a fresh approach. It tastes good. I should buy a Keurig for the office, it makes good coffee. Or maybe I should keep the coffee in the fridge?

  “Do you usually work Saturdays?” I ask, softly.

  She blinks and tips her head from side to side. “I haven’t had a normal working pattern in a while.”

  “Oh?” I lift my chin for her to elaborate.

  She releases a quivering breath. “I—, I haven’t been feeling too good for the last few months. What with one thing or another. So, I’ve taken less shifts.”

  I bite my tongue and brace myself for where she takes this conversation.

  She lifts her watery gaze to me. “But I was getting it together.” Her bottom lip trembles and she takes ahold of her emotions by clamping the plump flesh in between her teeth.

  I’m desperate to wrap an arm around her and pull her into my chest. Kiss the top of her pretty blonde head and tell her it will be okay. But I can’t. That would overstep the mark.

  “Are you getting help with that?”

  “Nope. I’m fine on my own.” Defiantly, she sniffs away her sadness.

  “Are you sure? Because I can help.” I lean forward onto my elbows. It may not be appropriate as either a friend or the local police officer to ask Lemon to open up to me, but there are plenty of organizations I can put her in touch with.

  She switches on her smile. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me. Saturday night was an occupational hazard and I should have known better. It won’t happen again. In fact, I’m enrolling in a course. Blue always said I should do something with my life.”

  For a long moment I search her eyes and find a myriad of emotions, covered over by her belief that she is strong enough to get through this. And I have to believe her and let her get on with her life. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye out, protect her back, and give her a helping hand wherever I can.

  I press both palms on the table, ready to push back my chair. “Look Lemon, I’m here for you. And although we have little to go on there was some forensic evidence left at the scene and…” She lowers her gaze to the table. “I will do whatever it takes to bring this perpetrator to justice.”

  She releases a sarcastic laugh, the notes tinkling ominously in the desperate air. She lifts her chin and holds my stare. “Don’t worry about it, honey. You have more important things to focus on right now. What with that motorcycle gang and what went on at the Corrigan ranch. I’m not pressing charges. I’ve learned my lesson. Another one.” She flutters her long fair eyelashes onto her cheeks.

  “No, Lemon, this is a serious offense and the perpetrator must be caught. There will be more interviews unfortunately, but you should understand you didn’t ask for it to happen to you.”

  Nonchalantly, she shrugs her shoulders. “Fine, whatever you say, but I’m over it already.”

  She stands and walks toward the front door. Her gown hovers behind her.

  “Thank you for visiting, honey.” She stands at the door with a painted-on smile.

  I shake my head and amble toward her, stopping within a foot of her beautiful face. The pupils in her deep-sea eyes widen as I come close.

  “Lemon…” I want to help her in any way I can. I want to tell her I care about her and that she is important to me and others. But I don’t because I can’t find the words, so I switch it for a more mundane sentence. “The gun. Do you remember anything about it? The attacker shot it when you tussled to the ground.”

  “Gun?” Her eyes narrow and she swiftly shakes her head. She looks frightened. “No Carson, I don’t remember a gun.”

  This is too much, too soon. I can’t push her any more than I already have. “Okay,” I whisper. “Anything else at all?”

  She stands with saucer-like eyes in front of me and it’s almost too much. I take a disciplined step back.

  “Oh, yes. My purse, is it at your office? The hospital said they didn’t have it.”

  “No, we didn’t find your purse.” I make a mental note to ask Ledowski because it wasn’t in the inventory of items found at the scene. “I’ll be in touch soon. And I appreciate this is hard for you, but we need more details. I’ll have someone else contact you, someone you can open up to.”

  I settle my hat on my head and leave with a heavy heart at the uncertainty that surrounds this whole incident and my obvious inability to handle it with the professionalism I’ve curated these last few years.

  Five

  Lemon

  My jaw aches as I stand in the doorway and maintain my smile. Carson pauses at the side of his vehicle as if he may return. His hesitancy makes me want to give in to how I truly feel. To run down the driveway, launch myself at him, and let his muscular arms wrap around me. The way he looks at me from under the brim of his hat sends a shiver down my spine. I know he cares for me; I’m not stupid and I can read the signs. We were once close friends but drifted apart, and although now is not the time to do anything a
bout that, I sure could do with a hug.

  He rests his forearm on the roof of his car and shouts across. “Hey, it’s the late summer picnic this weekend. You going?”

  I shake my head. Ever since Josie came back on the scene, I’ve kept away from the community. I told Josie I would give her and Blue space by taking a vacation. Instead, I holed up here for two weeks, then only ventured to the Green Parrot to dance away the night (and my misery) and earn a few bucks to keep everything ticking over.

  With a last nod of his hat, Carson climbs in his car and pulls away. I wave after him as if I’m the happy-go-luckiest person around until he’s out of sight, and I can relax my face. I push the door shut and roll my upper back on it. Now, where did I put that bourbon? Me and that bottle have a date on my couch for the rest of the day.

  Grabbing the bottle from the sideboard, I switch on the TV and turn up the volume to drown out the noise in my head. I kick out at a blanket draped over the couch arm until it drops to the floor and throw my head on the cushions to get comfy. But I can’t. On top of that, the bourbon tastes rank and the step-in host on the TV game show is annoying as shit.

  Exhaling a deep breath, I appraise the room; the place is a mess. I saw it in Carson’s eyes, although he was too polite to say so. And if he’s sending someone else here to question me, I at least need to show some pride and tidy this crap up. Plus, my recollection of what happened on Saturday night is hazy enough already—I don’t need a hangover fuzzing the details further. There are parts I think I saw and others I may have dreamed. I can’t have the cops wasting their time on a wild goose chase. They’ll find the facts in the forensic evidence. I shouldn’t complicate it.

  “Dammit.” I plonk the bottle of liquor on the coffee table and flick the TV station over to the breakfast show.

  This is not how it should be for me right now.

  When my momma said she named me after the sunniest of days and sweetest of sodas, I believed her and couldn’t understand why everything in my life didn’t turn out as positive as it should have. On reflection, it was mostly fine until Blue and I lost our baby early in my pregnancy. Overnight, my outlook changed and I became sad and stuck with the sour, cheek sucking version of my name. Inevitably, our marriage broke down completely and in doing so emptied me. But recently, I hauled myself out of the gutter, dusted myself off, and set Blue and Josie’s wedding day as a marker in the sand. Past that point was my fresh life.

  Sadly, this is not it.

  This is no different to before and it will stay this way unless I do something about it.

  Hauling myself off the couch, I stomp through to my bedroom.

  I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. Especially not Carson Perrins. What took place at the Green Parrot will not happen again and I won’t use it as an excuse to get wasted and put me back to the desperation I sunk to these past months. So, I will say as much as I have to and nothing more to have this investigation over with as quickly as possible. I’m fine. No harm done and the best thing for me is to suck it up and move on.

  In my bedroom, I pull out several items of clothing from my closet before I find something suitable to clean this pigsty of a house.

  Kane Brown’s “Used to Love You Sober” sounds out from the TV. He’s a guest on the breakfast show discussing his first single; the lyrics are oh so poignant.

  “You and me both, babe,” I holler at him.

  Drinking is not the way out of this. I know that. I need to rip open that pocket of inner strength I have concealed deep in my gut to see a way through this.

  If there was anything positive to come from my relationship with Blue, it was the realization that I am a strong woman and when I get something between my teeth, I don’t let up. Now, I knew I should have given up on pursuing Blue long before I did, but staying to the bitter end taught me I have tenacity in spades. I just need to find something positive to channel that dogmatic will, and there’s no way that can be another man. Shit, the last few years of my life have been consumed by loving someone who didn’t love me in return. I’m not going willingly down that route again. That’s surely the worst feeling in the world. Putting myself together now that I’ve lost that battle can’t be half as bad. Can it?

  I take another shower, because my skin still crawls from the attack and my time in hospital. And I start this day over. Pulling my damp hair into a functional ponytail, I dab zinc ointment over the graze on my forehead, then step into slouch pants and a loose cropped tee. I wrap my wedding band in a soft cloth and stuff it in a jeweler’s box along with my engagement ring. One step closer to being tossed out for good.

  I pause in front of the mirror and make myself a promise to move on. Today, I will clean this shit up and enroll in the beautician course I’ve been threatening to take for years. I puff out my chest. “Onwards and upwards, Lemon Gillespie.”

  I turn off the TV in favor of music. Ed Sheeran’s “Happier” pumps through the sound system, so I flick it on to the next song before I end up wallowing in self-pity again. I know all the words to every inward-looking song on the radio. And I honestly wish I didn’t. At least those songs helped me to come to terms with where I was. The next up is Kenny Chesney, “Here and Now”, and a few beats in I’m swinging my hips as I run the vacuum around the floor.

  Dancing makes me happy and, given the opportunity, I will do it anywhere. I love my job for only that reason. Actually, dancing at the Green Parrot wasn’t a job to begin with. It was a way to get back at Blue. I figured Colt, a onetime regular there, would tell his brother what I was up to. For a while, it was fun when Blue turned up and tried to drag me away, but I soon got bored with that and so did he. That’s when I realized I loved to get lost in the music; it’s a total hedonistic escape and feeds my soul like no man could.

  Realistically, I need shifts at the Green Parrot for a while longer. It’s gonna take me time to become qualified as a beautician and then to land a job somewhere. And the stay in the hospital has wiped my savings. So, in the meantime, I need the money. I’m not completely broke or nothing; the divorce settlement that Austin Barclay, the town lawyer, had me agree to saw to that. The deal was simple enough—I keep the house in return for no ties over Blue in any other area. Honestly, I didn’t even want the house, but making myself homeless would make me a martyr to my cause. However, I fully intend to repay Blue for every penny he put into this house. Although that is not likely to be for a while at the rate Vincent Crabstein pays me. And, actually, with the Green Parrot closed for the foreseeable and Vincent no doubt blaming me for his strife, I may need to consider alternative work.

  Shaking off that thought, I put my back into cleaning.

  The entire house sparkles when I’m done and rather than the Jim Beam, I take a glass of lemonade into the backyard for a break—although I’ve stuffed the bourbon at the back of a cabinet, I’m not ready to trash it yet.

  Outside, I sit on the scorched grass which prickles on my bare skin and I enjoy fresh air as it breezes through my toes. The music from inside the house is muted out here, and I take a moment to listen to the birdsong in my neighbor’s garden. They have hedges and bushes and plants that wildlife appreciate, in stark contrast to my yard, which is a scrubland with nothing welcoming in it. It’s maybe another project for me to channel energy into this fall. I remember my mom saying it was the best time of year to scratch everything back and start again. Or was that a euphemism for her love life?

  The gate at the side of the house rattles. It’s bolted at the top, but if whoever’s wrenching it doesn’t stop soon, the whole fence will collapse as it’s only held together with rope.

  “Hey.” I rush over, lifting on to the tips of my toes, and straining to see over the gate.

  “Got a delivery for you, ma’am.”

  What the hell? I sink to my heels as an icy river snakes up my spine and lands as fog in my brain. Is this really a delivery driver? Because I haven’t ordered anything. After the attack and my vague understanding of what happe
ned, I’m understandably nervous.

  “What is it?”

  “Um, don’t know. A large box.”

  “Come to the front of the house.” I say with as much authority as I can muster.

  Scurrying through the house, I dip into the bedroom to grab my handgun from my purse, which I always hang on a hook in the bedroom. As I spin around the edge of the door, my heart thumps dramatically in my chest. My purse is here. How did I miss it earlier?

  Storing my gun in my purse is a casual recklessness, but exactly where Blue told me I should keep it. I argued to leave it in my bedside drawer, but he convinced me that’s the first place a burglar would look and of no use if I was attacked on the street. I swallow the confusion and catch a heavy rap on the door.

  “Hold on,” I shout back, fumbling with the cartridge on the gun. I’ve never shot this gun but know I should check the cartridge. It’s full. As it should be. I stuff the loaded gun in the back of my waistband and peer through the spyhole in the door. Another one of Blue’s concerns for my safety. It was as if he couldn’t or wouldn’t protect me, so, to keep his conscience clear, he compensated with multiple security devices.

  The guy looks like a delivery driver, in a brown shirt and khaki shorts, and beyond him in the street is a delivery van.

  “Jeez, Lemon, stop being so goddamn suspicious,” I mumble as I unlock the door and fling it open with a smile.

  He thrusts a clipboard into my hands.

  “What is it?” I look at the box we’re both leaning over.

  He shrugs. “It’s from the store.”

  I study the clipboard and the paper attached to it has a Handles logo at the top which means the delivery is from the grocery store in town.

  “I’m sorry, honey, I haven’t ordered anything.” I shove the clipboard back toward him. “There’s been some kinda mix-up.”

  He shakes his head and pushes the clipboard back to me. “Nope. There’s no mistake. All chosen and paid for by…” He cranes his neck to locate the name of the person who made the order. “There.” He points with an outstretched finger. “Mr. Perrins.”