“I’d appreciate that.”
“Ain’t nothing. It’s more for me than you. Like I said, it’s gonna bug me to death ‘til I figure it out.”
Luther adjusts his spectacles on his long, thin nose as he rifles through his receipt book. As he thumbs through the yellow, carbon-copy pages, Ford thinks about how rare it is that anybody keeps paper copies of anything anymore. But that is one just one of the things he loves about Chalice Bay. In a lot of ways, it’s stuck in time – just the way he likes it for the most part.
“Taz. Taz Palmer is her name. She’s staying out at Yip Palmer’s old place. Well, they called him Yip. I know he had a proper name, but nobody ever knew it. At least, nobody I knew. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Ain’t nobody lived in that place for years. Somebody paid to keep it up, but I’m assuming it needed some sprucing up, cuz she comes in here most every week getting stuff like paint and spackle; stuff you need to do small fixing-up projects.”
“Taz,” Ford repeats, rolling the name over on his tongue. “Taz Palmer.” He’d seen the lights on in the old farmhouse at the edge of town when he’d passed it a few weeks ago. He thought that maybe the place had been sold; hadn’t given it a second thought since then.
“Yep, that’s it, Taz Palmer,” Luther repeats. “Gotta nice piece of land out there, with a couple of good finishing streams on it. Nice and quiet, away from everybody. The perfect retirement place. I had eyes on it a couple of years ago. Even went so far as to approach a Realtor about buying it. But I got word through the lawyer handling the estate that it was definitely not for sale, and never would be; that it would always remain in the Palmer family. Just glad somebody’s living there now. Too pretty of a place to sit all closed up.”
“It is a pretty piece of land,” Ford thinks. And on the heels of that, another thought comes.
His sleek black brows furrow into a single, soot-black line.
Chapter 5
Preacher
“How hard can it be to find one woman who doesn’t have a penny to her name?”
“Maybe that’s why she’s so hard to find,” Kenwood, the private detective, says. “It’s a lot easier to disappear when you don’t have a digital footprint. Maybe you should have let her have a credit card, or something – anything.”
“I don’t pay you to make excuses for why she can’t be found,” I reply. “I pay you to find her. And so far, you’ve come up with squat. Seven fucking months, and nothing!”
“We’ve turned over every rock, and ...”
“Well turn over some more dammit! You’re supposed to be the best in the business. How can one stupid woman outsmart your whole fucking agency? I want her found Kenwood, or I swear to god, I’ll ruin you.”
“I told you we’ll find her,” Kenwood says, assuaging his angry client. He doesn’t take Preacher’s attitude personally. It’s all part of the job. The rich are used to having what they want, when they want. “Don’t worry, we will.”
“Let me clarify that ‘will’ part for you. I want her found this century. Do we understand each other?” I say, the gel from the stress ball I’d taken from the PI’s desk oozing through my fingers.
I LOOK AT THE BIG CLAWFOOT tub I had installed just for her. Just like she wanted, she had a view of the Empire State Building. Just like she wanted, there is a full-length mirror, and double sinks and a vanity. I finger one of the voluminous make-up brushes in a crystal vase on the vanity. My hands curl into knots remembering the feel of her soft, right-from-the-bath, skin; the wisps of damp curls tumbling free from the bun she always wore on top of her head when she took a bath. Although the bathroom has a shower that could easily fit ten, Taz loved baths, so I gave her the bathroom of her dreams.
The house of her dreams.
The cars of her dreams.
The clothes of her dreams.
The life of her dreams.
I gave her everything. And still, she betrayed me.
Disobeyed me.
Embarrassed me.
Her father had promised me that she’d be loyal. That she’d make the perfect wife. That they’d make the perfect couple, especially for where I was going in life.
“TAZ IS HEADSTRONG, but she’s been sheltered all her life. She needs a man like you, Preacher, to keep her safe. Don’t you break my baby girl’s spirit, but keep her safe. Can I trust you to do that?” JD, asks.
“You can, and I will,” I say, looking at Taz as she flits from table to table.
She is a social butterfly; the most beautiful thing, especially when she spreads her wings like she’s doing right now at our engagement party. Everything in her immediate vicinity is drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
Effortlessly, she commands attention. Her laugh is like bubbles in champagne – free flowing, plentiful and light. Her smile makes an evening sunset seem like an orange rotting in the sky. Her touch is soft and warm, yet intense.
One thing I love about her is how effortlessly she oozes love. It literally flows from her. I’ve never been near something so precious. And to have her love is to feel an all-encompassing glow; like the world is a beautiful utopia where nothing wrong ever happens. She is exactly what I need.
As soon as I met her, I knew I had to have her. At thirty-three, I’ve had my share of women, from the hoodrats and whores, to the high-society belles of the ball. But none compared to her. It’s time to settle down.
And she made it so easy, which is why her father’s request was so easy to agree to.
SEVEN YEARS AGO, AT just twenty years old, Taz captivated me; stole what I had that passed for a heart. She even made it beat like a normal person’s – for a while.
I waited year after year for the spell she wrapped me in to disappear; to lessen; to unshackle me from her. But it only intensified. She had all the power in our relationship, the one thing I never gave – freely or otherwise.
It is the one thing that drives everything I do: power. Nothing or no one holds power over me, Preacher Wells. Ever. It is too dangerous. Life had taught me that lesson early – and brutally.
I am the power holder.
The power guarder.
The power wielder.
There can only be one power broker in any relationship, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to let it be a woman, even if that woman is my wife.
Especially if that woman is my wife.
Chapter 6
Taz
Around every corner for the last seven months, I had prepared myself to run into him. It wasn’t a matter of if he would find me. But when. Somewhere deep inside, I had accepted that.
I didn’t realize I’d accepted it until I decided my running days were over. And I decided that because Chalice Bay had become home. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find me. I could hope. I did hope.
In truth, I expected to be found and dragged back in a few months. And that’s why I lived my first few months of freedom like they were my last.
I ate what I wanted, hence my weight gain.
I listened to the kind of music I wanted. I didn’t realize that I loved country music.
I combed my hair the way I wanted. Short suited me. My hair would never be long again.
I dressed the way I wanted. Jeans; they were now a wardrobe staple.
All the things I hadn’t been allowed to do in my marriage, I did them – and then some.
But now freedom was starting to calcify in my bones. And true freedom means not running. How can I be truly free if I am always preparing to run? So I prepare for something else. I prepare to fight.
One thing I love about living in a little sleepy town in rural Alabama is that everybody and their brother has a gun. It’s as natural as having a salt shaker on the kitchen table, and almost as expected. The five acres of land my late great-grandfather’s property sits on has plenty of places to shoot without anybody raising an eyebrow. I take an unconventional route to learning how to shoot. I watch YouTube videos.
The only way to keep people out of
your business in Chalice Bay is to do it behind closed doors, I reason. And even then, people still seem to know what time you wake up to pee, and what you eat for dinner.
I’m still not very good at shooting, but I can hit the broadside of a barn now, and maybe even a circle on the broadside of it. The old shotgun I found in the master bedroom closet gives me comfort when I sleep at night. And Yip, my stray German Shepherd, allows me to sleep through the night.
Nothing is getting close to my little farmhouse with Yip here. And if the confines are breached, I have Buddy, the nickname I gave my great-grandfather’s shotgun. I assume it was his. I never knew him. In fact, I only learned about this property – and him – upon my mother’s death.
They say a mother’s love is never-ending. And my mother had rescued me and given me a safe haven, even after her death.
Yip’s ears stand up, and he lets out a loud bark. I grab Buddy, my hand shaking as every cell in my body prepares for flight. It is the first reaction fear evokes in me. I wonder if that is true for everybody. Somehow, I don’t think it is for Ford Burns. Then, I wonder where the hell that thought comes from.
Yip’s barking becomes more insistent, turning to a snarl as he stands at the front screen door.
“Taz. Taz Palmer,” a voice calls out. A voice I recognize, even though I’ve only heard it once.
Part of me relaxes, while another part goes into sensory overload recalling the manly smell of him. Dear lord that man had smelled good.
Ford stands at the bottom step of my expansive porch. Besides the kitchen it is my favorite part of the old farmhouse.
“What are you doing here?”
“Since you refused to have dinner with me the other day, I figured I’d officially welcome you to town and bring you lunch. You gotta eat, right?”
My eyes go to the cloth-covered plate in his hands. His hands were huge, I notice. It seems I can’t help but notice a new part of him every time I see him. “What is it?” I ask, distracting myself from thinking about parts of him.
“Just your standard country fare: fried chicken, corn on the cob, garlic mashed potatoes, butter beans and corn bread.”
“That’s not lunch. That’s a full-on feast. Who cooked all that?”
“I did.”
“You cook?”
“I do,” Ford grins. “Most firemen do, didn’t you know that?”
“The only thing I know about firemen is that they put out fires.”
“Well we also happen to cook, and we clean too. Have to; when you live in a firehouse for days on end with a whole bunch of just guys usually, you have to do the work yourself, or it doesn’t get done.”
“Interesting. Sounds like being part of a frat house, but without the cooking and cleaning.”
“Never thought about it that way because I never belonged to a frat house.”
“I can believe that. You don’t strike me as the college type.”
“I went to college; just didn’t do the fraternity thing. Kinda not my cup of tea. You know, in these parts, it’s considered impolite not to invite somebody in when they stop by, especially if they stop by with a plate of food.”
Yip barks.
“I think your protector agrees. Glad to see you have one.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ford says, noting her shotgun. “So am I coming in, or what?”
“And if I said, ‘or what?’” I tease.
“With that thing in your hand, I won’t press my luck. And, your dog here will be having a great meal.”
“Fried chicken is bad for him, so I guess you best come on in,” I laugh, as my stomach rumbles. I’d only had a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and that was hours ago.
“YOU KNOW HOW TO SHOOT that thing,” Ford asks, referring to her shotgun, which was now leaning in a nook by the front door.
“I can put a hole in what I need to put a hole in. Thanks for the food,” I say, pulling two beers from the fridge and offering one to him. “So really, what are you doing here?”
“Like I said, I came to welcome you to our little town.”
I frown. “You know, you’re not a very good liar.”
“Touché, ”Ford responds, obviously remembering lobbing the same statement at me a few days ago in the hardware store. “So are you going to tell me what your story is? You can’t remain a hermit out here forever.”
“Why not? It’s one of the things I like about Chalice Bay. You can stay to yourself if you want to.”
“And you want to?” he asks, taking a swig of beer.
In a moment of honesty, I say, “Not really. But it’s necessary for now.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Ford declares, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other as he leans back in the kitchen chair, balancing it on two legs. “How long are you going to run?”
I have been starved for human interaction for so long – and it feels so good to have an actual conversation – it is like a dam opening. “Funny you should ask. I just recently decided to stop running. I like it here. I didn’t expect to, but I do. And I want to stay.”
“So stay,” Ford says.
“It’s not that simple,” I counter.
“All decisions are simple. It’s living with the consequences, that’s the complicated part. That’s the part most of us get stuck on.”
“He’ll kill me if he ever finds me. And I’ll die before I go back. Either way, I end up dead. Not exactly a consequence I like.”
Chapter 7
Preacher
“Here, you can have him. Just give me the stuff.”
“Mama, mama, noooo. Noooo. Nooo. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”
“NO!” I JERK UP, TAKING in the dark room. The California-king-sized bed spreads out like a vast ocean of emptiness under me. Usually, I reach out for her, which immediately calms me down. But she’s not here.
I take in a few deep breaths. My training kicks in. I’ve woken up before the worst part of the dream can start, just like I’ve trained myself to do. I can stomach the memories when I’m awake because I am in control. But, I never like them to invade my sleep. In sleep, you are vulnerable. In sleep, bad things happen over which you had no control.
Like being sold.
I was sold seven times between the ages of five and fifteen, when I finally ran away from my last buyer. It took me almost two years to get a copy of my birth certificate. It’s why I didn’t exist after five, and before seventeen. I never entered the foster care system. I was the bought-and-sold property of the very rich. And there are thousands like me bought by so-called Christian, upstanding-in-the community, businessmen. An entire underworld of forgotten children who are used and abused in ways no child – no human – should ever be made aware of. These were their ‘pleasures.’
That’s when I knew; there is no God. And there is no good in the world, except the good you make for yourself. To love, to care, was to invite abuse in.
After I escaped my bondage and tracked down my birth certificate, I finally become someone society recognized. Because you’re nothing without some kind of paper with your name on it. And I decided the day I left my last abuser that I would be somebody; somebody society would not only recognize, but reckon with.
I am a human wrecking ball on Wall Street. My official title is Corporate Raider; a name polite society gives someone with enough money to buy and destroy the lives of thousands at the stroke of a pen.
These very same men I sat in boardrooms with. Played golf with. Took out to lunch. Fucked their wives. Made money with and for. Lots of money.
You see, one thing I figured out early in life is that money gave you the ultimate weapon: power. It’s why rich men run for office. It’s not money that rules the world. It’s power. Money is just the quickest vehicle for getting it. With power, you can do anything.
Buy laws that bend in your favor.
Get into the best schools with the shittiest gra
des.
Fuck your boss’s wife.
Buy and sell children for your own twisted needs.
And that’s why power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. That’s why Taz’s father gave her to me. He knew I could protect her because I had power. Power he helped me get. And it’s why I hated him. He never should have done that to her; just give her away. Like she was one of the things he bought. He should have let her choose.
But once she had been given, there was no way I could give her back. She is a precious jewel; one I swore to protect. And I did. I loved her. I love her. And when she comes back – because she will come back – I’ll make her see that.
She’ll love me again. I know she will. I know how to make her love me. Seven years had proven that.
“Boss, we have a lead,” my bodyguard declares, breaking into my reverie.
“Where? Where is she?”
Chapter 8
Taz
“I can help,” Ford states.
“Why would you want to help a stranger?”
“Because that’s what we do in Chalice Bay. We help our neighbors. And you remind me of someone; someone I wasn’t able to help.”
“Now it’s your turn to share,” I say.
“Alright, but only if you’ll promise me one thing?”
“If I can,” I say.
“Tell me who you’re running from, and why?”
“I ... I—”
“Sooner or later, Taz, you’re going to have to tell somebody. And I’m somebody who can help. I have a special set of skills...”
“You did not just repeat a line from a tough-guy movie,” I laugh, in spite of the gravity of the situation.
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