Divorced, Desperate and Dead

by Christie Craig

  “No.” Chloe Sanders said without looking at her friend, Sheri Thompson, who power-walked beside her. The view of the quaint storefronts of Old Town Hoke’s Bluff, Texas—one of which belonged to her—lining the streets usually made her regular Sunday morning, five-mile exercising regiment enjoyable. But not with Sheri beside her, trying to interfere in her life.

  Chloe didn’t need interference. She could make a mess of her life all by herself. She’d proven that when she’d let Jerry slip an engagement ring on her finger. Oh, it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at the time, but a year later, a week before the wedding and . . .

  “Look, Dan’s good-looking and a nice guy. A cop. Detective Dan Henderson. Even his name’s hot. He might even be willing to help you out with a couple of those parking tickets.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Sheri asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Chloe looked up at the flashing sign attached to the street corner light pole as it started counting down the seconds. Ten, nine, eight . . .

  Time was ticking. She picked up the pace, swinging her elbows and feeling her blood zing.

  “It’s not him, it’s me,” Chloe said, attempting to make the street before the “Do not walk” message appeared.

  Sheri moved in step beside her. “You must be confused. That’s a break-up line. I’m trying to fix you up.”

  Sometimes Chloe was certain Sheri had gone into the wrong career. The job of graphic designer/PR specialist didn’t require bullheadedness, and if her friend excelled at anything, it was being headstrong. “And I’m telling you no.”

  “It’s been a year.”

  Blast it! The sign flashed red a foot before she reached it. Time was ticking. A year, and sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Heck, she still had two wedding gifts to mail back—not that it was her fault. Her mother’s old neighbor and Jerry’s great aunt hadn’t answered her email request for the return addresses.

  “I know exactly how long it’s been,” Chloe said, frowning at the “Do Not Walk” sign. Had Sheri, Amber, her assistant manager, and her mom held some kind of intervention and forgotten to invite her? Why was everyone suddenly worried about Chloe’s non-dating status? Trying to keep up her heart rate—though this conversation was getting it up all on its own—she commenced to walking in place.

  Sheri did the same, her feet tapping against the sidewalk. “I know you’re still hurting but—”

  Hurting? Chloe stopped moving and stared at her best friend, who she loved more than books—and she really loved her books—but at times the girl could drive her bat-shit crazy. “What I am is pissed. And I’m getting this close to being super pissed at everyone else who thinks I need a man in my life. I’m happy.”

  “You’re not happy. I see it in your eyes. You’re twenty-eight, Chloe. You should be dating, having sex, enjoying life.”

  “I’m enjoying myself just fine. I have the Sweet Tooth Bakery, my friends, my family, my cat, my writing when I get back to it, and a fine piece of machinery that gives me better orgasms than Jerry ever did.” And the reason she could name them off so quickly was because she’d had this same talk with herself just that morning.

  Sheri stopped walking, stared, and proceeded to burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Chloe asked.

  “You’ve got a Bob?”

  “A Bob?”

  “A battery operated boyfriend?”

  Chloe made a face. Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have told Sheri everything. “There’s nothing wrong with a Bob,” she spouted in self-defense.

  “I agree,” Sheri said, still chuckling. “I just never thought you, Miss I-write-children’s-books-and-bake-cupcakes-for-a-living would get one, and if you did, I never thought you’d tell anyone.”

  Chloe made a face. First, she hadn’t been able to write in over a year. Second . . . “I didn’t tell anyone. I told you. And if you repeat it to a soul, I’ll tell everyone you . . .” She paused trying to think of something Sheri didn’t want leaked out. And it wasn’t easy. Sheri, a preacher’s daughter, her dark hair sporting streaks of pink for about three months, was pretty much an open book. Chloe had to mentally go back twelve years before finding one of Sheri’s secrets. “I’ll tell everyone you and Harry Bucklesmith went skinny dipping in the baptism tank.”

  “Oh, that’s low,” Sheri said, but laughed. “You already vowed to never tell that.”

  “And that shows you how serious I am,” Chloe said. “Bob is my secret.”

  The green sign beeped and they crossed the street, picking up their pace.

  “I’m serious, too,” Sheri said. “You need to start dating. Bobs aren’t as good as the real thing.”

  “Then you haven’t met my Bob,” Chloe said and giggled. They zipped past a mom with a baby in a stroller and a five- or six-year-old girl wearing all pink, holding the woman’s hand.

  Chloe couldn’t help but think that not so long ago, she’d wanted that. Marriage. Two kids. A home. But Jerry had killed those dreams.

  “What about cuddling? Bobs don’t cuddle. And they suck at pillow talk.”

  Chloe couldn’t deny it. She missed cuddling and pillow talk. “I told you I’m fine.” They almost got to another crosswalk. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven . . .

  “If you believe that, then you’re lying to yourself. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t written a new book.”

  Six. Five. Four . . . “I’m not lying to anyone. And I’m plotting a book right now,” she said, and inwardly recoiled when the words tasted bitter on her lips. She was trying to plot. The fact that it wasn’t getting anywhere was another thing. Oh, hell! Maybe she wasn’t fine. But she was better. She’d stopped blaming herself. And started blaming Jerry.

  How could she have been about to marry a man she knew so little about? Easy, she’d trusted her heart. The dang thing had let her down. She wouldn’t trust it again.

  Three. Two. One . . .

  They got to the street one second too late to make the light. Chloe stopped and drew in a deep breath.

  “Lucy, wait!” The scream came behind them.

  Suddenly, the little girl in pink shot past Chloe, jumped off the curb and ran into the street.

  The sound of an engine roared. Chloe’s gaze shot to the black pickup racing forward. The truck’s driver was looking down as if messing with his phone.

  “Stop!” she screamed and darted out in the street to catch the little girl.

  Chloe caught the child’s hand and looked up. It felt like time slowed to a crawl. She saw the truck barreling toward them. She saw the blond, pale-skinned driver glance up, shocked. She heard the sound of breaks.

  But the truck kept coming.

  Chloe pushed the little girl out of the way at the same time the truck swerved, fishtailed. Suddenly, the air felt sucked out of her lungs.

  Chloe knew she’d been hit, but oddly it didn’t hurt. She felt herself being propelled into the air and everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  “Mother fucker!” J.D. ground out, barely stopping before he hit a parked car. Burnt rubber flavored his quick intake of air. As if seeing it in slow motion, he watched the woman land face down on the street. Why the hell had she run out? Then he saw the dazed looking little girl standing a few feet from his truck.

  At least he hadn’t hit the kid. But he had hit the woman. His gaze shot back to the body, lying so still. Oh, shit! Was she dead?

  Another woman stood at the curb screaming.

  He looked at the beer in his cup holder. At his gun on the floorboard beside what was left of his white powder. Panic churned in his stomach. This one wasn’t his fault. But he couldn’t hang around to be proven innocent when he was so damn guilty of other stuff.

  Guilty. It was his fault. His fault that other dude died. He had to open his mouth and tell Jax what he knew. He’d wanted to fit in. Thought by sharing the info, Jax would accept him more. But look at the price. J.D. could still see the fear in that ol
’ dude’s eyes right before the bullet took off most of his head.

  The cop hadn’t been part of that plan. Why had the cop shown up? He’d seen the guy’s gun, and fired his own weapon before he recognized him. It was the same cop who’d arrested him a few months back. J.D. hadn’t meant to shoot anyone, just to make sure he didn’t get shot. J.D. couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That cop was just unlucky. Now J.D. was gonna be unlucky. Everyone knew what cops did to people who shot one of their own.

  He released his foot off the brake and hit the gas. Doing what he’d done since he was fourteen and his stepfather had beaten the shit of out of him for the third time. He ran away.

  • • •

  “Room Six,” a voice said. But Chloe couldn’t see who said it. Everything was all black. Then the blackness started to fade. Replaced by a blinding light. Slowly, things started to come into focus.

  “Excuse me?” Chloe asked, feeling lost and completely out of it. Where the heck was she? She eyed the walls, all white. The ceiling. All white. The floors. All white. Then a guy—obviously the owner of the voice—dressed in . . . all white . . . standing beside a big white desk, staring at a computer screen.

  “Room Six. It’s to your left.”

  “But, I don’t understand. Where—?”

  “Chop. Chop,” he said, smiling, exposing . . . extra white teeth. “It’ll be peachy, young lady.” He pointed down the hall.

  Peachy? Who the hell said peachy anymore? Questions sat on the tip of her tongue. She frowned at the guy, and then decided not to argue. Maybe someone in Room Six would be a tad more cooperative.

  She started down the hall to the left. The doors were clearly marked. She found the door with a big six on it and cautiously pushed it open and took a tiny step inside.

  She started at one end of the room and let her gaze shift around the chairs lining the wall. Most of them were occupied. Her gaze shifted from one elderly person to the next. Where the heck was she? The place reminded her of Denny’s at four in the afternoon. Or her grandmother’s retirement condo in Florida.

  Chloe had just come back from there three weeks ago. She loved her Nana, but if she didn’t have to play another game of pinochle for a year, she’d be happy.

  Just as her complete circle around the room was almost done, her gaze lit on a man. And not an elderly man. Brown hair that flipped up on its ends and a chiseled face that reminded her of . . . Wow. Johnny Depp. Only bigger. She’d heard that Johnny was actually a small guy. Even sitting this man towered a head above all the little old people in the room. Wearing jeans that fit his long legs and a navy short-sleeve button-down shirt—left open with a T-shirt under it—he sat with one ankle thrown over the other. Cowboy boots covered his feet. In his lap was an AARP magazine, and he flipped pages like a bored kid.

  The sight of him, amongst everyone else, reminded her of the kid’s workbooks where you picked out what didn’t belong. He didn’t fit here.

  Neither did she. The thought ran around her addled brain, but she wasn’t sure what it meant.

  Unlike all the senior citizens, he hadn’t looked up. She could almost hear him muttering something under his breath. The chair next to him stood empty.

  “Another young one,” an elderly man said.

  “A shame,” said a woman.

  What was a shame?

  Chloe felt her stomach knot.

  The young, didn’t-belong-here man stopped flipping through the magazine and lifted his gaze. Dark brown, piercing eyes studied her. Yup, Johnny Depp all right.

  In the traditional male way, his gaze shifted down and then up her body. Chloe suddenly realized she was wearing her exercise clothes. Short yoga pants and a sports bra. Not that it was indecent, and considering most of the females in the room wore muumuus or nightgowns, she probably shouldn’t feel self-conscious.

  She still did.

  When those eyes focused back on her face, his right eyebrow arched ever so slightly, and he offered her a slight nod. A smile pulled at his lips. She got a crazy feeling he was happy to have someone his own age joining him. She took the seat next to him—not because of her silly crush on Johnny Depp—but because . . . well, just because.

  She sat straight, aware of everyone’s eyes on her.

  He shifted and his shoulder almost touched hers. Her heart jumped a few beats. “You okay?” he asked.

  Taking a deep breath, she voiced her question. “Where are we?” Chloe waited for dark-haired hottie to answer, trying not to squirm in her chair, feeling as if every elderly person in the room had her in a locked gaze.

  He leaned in. “That depends on who you believe,” he said, his voice low as he motioned to a very unhappy elderly man sitting right across from them. “Sylvania over there says it’s hell, ’cause that woman wearing curlers and the blue nightgown next to him is his ex-wife. Don’t ask why they got divorced, it gets nasty.” He smiled but quickly ran a hand over his face as if to hide his expression. He motioned to another woman wearing a bright purple housedress. “Gertrude Talbot says it’s heaven ’cause her bad hip isn’t hurting. And Mr. Jefferson,” he pointed to an African American gentleman sitting still with his hands folded in his lap, “says it’s purgatory. He’s Catholic, by the way.”

  When he finished talking, a memory flashed across Chloe’s mind. The little girl in pink. Lucy. Lucy running into the street. A black truck racing forward.

  She gasped and placed a trembling hand over her mouth. Had the little girl lived? Please let her be alive. “Oh, God.”

  “Where?” said one of the little ol’ ladies, rousing as if she’d been half asleep. “Where’s God?”

  Chloe looked at the woman. “No, I just . . . sorry.” Then she looked back at the guy, heart still pounding. “What do you believe?” she asked.

  “I was leaning toward believing Edward’s hell theory until you walked in.” He grinned and Chloe couldn’t believe he was flirting with her. “Now, I’m thinking maybe Susie’s on to something. It could be heaven.” His smile widened.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” said another gray-haired old lady pointing her cane at the man sitting next to her.

  “That’s Beatrice Bacon,” the guy next to her whispered. “Don’t say anything about the name.”

  “This ain’t heaven, hell, or purgatory,” Beatrice continued. “This is the waiting room.”

  “The waiting room to what?” asked an old man, whose bald head was so shiny that Chloe could see the whirling fan above reflecting on it.

  She leaned forward to make sure she heard the woman’s answer.

  “The waiting room to the other side,” the little old lady said. “And if it ain’t your time, you go back. Right now you all are on hold.”

  “And you’re not?” the woman wearing purple asked.

  Beatrice just shrugged.

  “So I’m not dead, but I may be dying?” Chloe’s breath caught and she leaned back in her chair and looked at the guy sitting next to her. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” she asked ‘Johnny,’ wanting and needing him to say it was true.

  “I’ve considered that a possibility, too.”

  She recalled again running out in front of the truck to get the little girl. She didn’t regret it, but she fought the emotion swelling in her chest at the thought of what this might mean.

  Was this really the end? Was this just a crazy dream? Was she really in a waiting room to see if she lived or died?

  A knot formed in her throat and she tried swallowing it.

  “Hey,” the Depp-looking character said. “It’s gonna be okay.” He leaned over and bumped her with his shoulder.

  The touch, his touch, sent a jolt of raw emotion right to her heart. And bam, she was watching this man standing in an alley. A black pickup came hurtling right at him, he dove over a car, and then popping sounds echoed, and bits and pieces of asphalt started flying around.

  She saw him land on the other side of the car and pull his leg up to his chest. Blood, lots and lots of blood, squirted from th
e wound.

  She gasped and jerked. As soon as his shoulder shifted from her, the vision stopped and she was staring right at him.

  “Friggin’ hell,” he said, shaking his head as if he’d experienced something as well.

  “Watch your mouth, young man,” the elderly lady on the right said. “If this is the end, I don’t want your bad language tainting my passage to heaven. Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.” She held her hands up and closed her eyes.

  Chloe blinked and stared at the Johnny Depp lookalike, who appeared as puzzled as she felt. “You were shot,” she whispered, somehow not questioning what she’d seen as the truth.

  “You were hit by a truck.” He exhaled. “A black Chevy just like . . .”

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “No shit,” he agreed and then laughed as if he just remembered something.

  “What?” she asked.

  He hesitated, shrugged, and then leaned closer and whispered, “Bob? You’ve got a Bob?”

  • • •

  Cary watched her eyes widen. “Don’t,” she seethed.

  “What?” he asked, still grinning. When she glared at him, he pushed a hand over his face to wipe the smile away. But damn it, he preferred focusing on sex to all the other craziness.

  Sex he understood. Sex he liked. And he liked her—whoever she was. This, this place, whatever this was, was crazy, and he didn’t understand it. And yet he felt as if he could understand her. Why was that? Why did a stranger feel so . . . familiar?

  “How did that happen?” she asked.

  “What?” he asked, still stuck on the strange feeling when he glanced up and saw her standing in the middle of the room.

  “That?” she said. “Me seeing you and you seeing me? Is it because you touched me?”

  “Good question,” he said and reached for her hand.

  She pulled away.

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  She frowned. But, then hesitantly, she slipped her palm in his.

  Her soft palm melted against his. A current of electrical emotion stirred in his chest. The stirring, the feel of her hand, had him back to wondering why she felt familiar. The next thing he knew, he saw her sitting at a table with a man. She was laughing at something the man said. She was happy. He studied the smile on her lips, so perfect, so . . . innocent, it almost hurt to look at it.