Divorced, Desperate and Dead

by Christie Craig

  “You wanna know something sad?”

  “No. Why would I want to know something sad?”

  “Pooch misses you. He keeps running from room to room, looking for you. He wouldn’t even take the bacon treat I gave him.”

  “Tell him I’m not that lovable.” He saw a car pulling down the street and didn’t want his sister to know he wasn’t cozied up on the sofa. “Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk later.” He dropped his phone again.

  He sat in his car for a few seconds, listening to the motor purr, debating if he shouldn’t just . . . The hell with it. He was going to Chloe’s place.

  Snatching his phone, he found where he’d saved her address. Ignoring the throbbing in his leg, and the thought that he very well might be making a bigger ass out of himself than he had on the phone, he drove off.

  Friday’s seven o’clock traffic moved at a crawl. Then he got stuck behind a pink Cadillac driving thirty miles below the speed limit.

  “Damn it, if you want to go that slow, just walk,” he seethed when he finally drove past the car.

  As he moved in front of the Cadillac, the truck in front of him started to slow down. He put his foot on the brake and glanced in his rearview mirror. And there, staring back at him in the pink Cadillac was Beatrice Bacon. Or at least a woman who looked like her. Her head barely cleared the dash of the car. She held on to the steering wheel with one hand, and was sticking the other hand out of her window, shooting him the bird.

  His gaze stayed locked on the rearview mirror. Too long. He couldn’t have been going five miles an hour, but he rear-ended the red Dodge truck in front of him.

  “Damn it!” he seethed, and when the truck pulled over, he did the same.

  When he looked back, the pink Cadillac was gone.

  Gone.

  How the hell did that happen?

  Friggin’ hell. Maybe he was a nut case.

  He grabbed his badge and his insurance papers from his glove compartment and made sure his gun wasn’t exposed. Then, just in case Chloe returned his call, he took his phone, too.

  The guy’s truck didn’t have a scratch on it. Cary couldn’t say the same for his Camaro. The guy’s trailer hitch made a nice little dent in his car.

  Fifteen minutes later, he gripped the wheel and drove a little more cautiously, constantly on the lookout for a pink Cadillac, and headed toward Chloe’s apartment.

  It took ten minutes to get there. Another five to find the right building. He sat in his car, eyeing the big red brick apartment structure. Was she at home? It was Friday night. She might be out on a . . . No, she wasn’t dating. And for some reason, he liked knowing that.

  But she might be enjoying a night with Bob. An unexpected smiled pulled at his lip. And that’s when he realized that coming here might not be all about protecting her. He wanted to see her, damn it. Wanted to tell her she had to get back to writing.

  Right or wrong, he just needed to talk to her. Talk to her like they’d talked in his crazy dream.

  He got one leg out of his car and remembered that she was just the type of woman he swore to avoid. The kind he couldn’t love and leave.

  Coward. Beatrice’s voice echoed in his head. He let out a deep gulp of air and pulled his leg back in. He should at least try to call her again before barging in.

  He hit redial. She didn’t answer.

  He didn’t leave another message. The first one was bad enough.

  He looked up at the apartment building again. Then he glanced back at his phone and went in search of Danny’s name. For an update on the case, not anything more.

  Although, if he was concerned about getting too close to a woman, it would definitely be Danny who he’d call.

  But he wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t.

  • • •

  “You did say Italian was okay, right?” Danny asked, slipping his hand on her waist.

  “Yeah, it’s fine.” Chloe moved up, away from his hand, and dropped into the chair. Mr. Blond and Gorgeous sat in the chair across from her, but something about his expression said he’d been aware that she’d been avoiding his touch.

  The short ride over here hadn’t seemed so short due to the awkward silence. So she’d asked him about the case. The smooth, charming look on his expression faded and went into one of frustration as he basically told her they hadn’t found the guy yet. But they would. Had to. The guy had shot his partner.

  “And you. I mean, he hit you,” he added as if embarrassed.

  She’d grinned, letting him off the hook, not at all offended that she wasn’t at the top of list. She’d been too busy trying to figure out how to ask about his partner.

  Now, as she picked up the menu, her phone rang . . . again. She’d turned it down, but it could still be heard singing from her purse. On the ride over here, she’d checked it after the first call—just to be sure it wasn’t her mom or grandmother—family did come first. But Anonymous Caller lit up her screen, so she’d anonymously ignored it. She had enough on her plate and didn’t want someone trying to sell her a burial plot or a new credit card.

  “If you need to get that . . .” Danny said, nodding at her purse.

  “No, that would be rude.” She plastered a smile on her face and glanced over the menu at him.

  He smiled back. The awkwardness bloomed again.

  “So, how long have you known Sheri?” he asked.

  Finally, a subject she felt comfortable talking about. “Forever. We met in second grade. The teacher told us the church was getting a new Preacher, and how he had a girl our age who was going to be in our class. We were all expecting this preacher’s daughter to be an angel.”

  “And she wasn’t?” he asked, his eyes bright with interest.

  Chloe laughed. “She is not what you would call an angel. And here I thought you knew Sheri.”

  “I do,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know her really well. We’ve talked at a couple of parties the last few months. I just wouldn’t go so far as to say she wasn’t angel material. She seemed . . . nice enough.”

  Chloe heard something in his remark, something that hinted that Sheri’s infatuation with Dan wasn’t one-sided.

  “Let me just say that her personality wasn’t as meek as one would consider an angel. The first day of school, she cold-cocked Bradley Butler for trying to look up her dress. And she did it again when he tried to look up mine. That’s how we became friends.”

  Dan laughed. “I can almost see her in second grade, but as crazy as it is, I still imagine her with those pink streaks in her hair. Which I hate to say it, are a bit much.”

  Chloe grinned and set her menu on the table. “You know what the pink streaks are about, don’t you?”

  “No. . . What?”

  “Her mom got breast cancer about a year ago. Sheri wanted to shave her head when her mother lost her hair, but her mom wouldn’t let her, so instead, Sheri added the pink streaks and told her mom that until she was cancer-free, she was going to keep them.” Chloe sighed. “So I guess you can say that while she might not be meek like an angel, she has a heart of gold. As long as you don’t try to look up her dress.”

  Dan leaned back in his chair. “Damn, I feel sort of bad. I was teasing her about her hair at Lacy and Chase’s last barbeque.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think that bothered her. She likes you.”

  “Really?” he asked in a tone that spoke of male eagerness. Spoke so loud, that apparently even he noticed it. “I mean, I didn’t mean . . . I know she’s engaged.”

  Chloe laughed. “Don’t worry.” If anything, Chloe was sort of relieved knowing he wasn’t going to be devastated when she didn’t accept a second date.

  “So, what are you having?” he said looking back at his menu.

  “I’m thinking chicken marsala,” she said.

  A ring sounded. This time it wasn’t her phone, but his.

  “If you need to get that, go ahead,” she said.

  He hesitated one second. “No, as you said, it would
be rude. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just check who it is.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, looked tempted to answer it, and then said, “I’ll call him back.” He sat the phone on the table.

  “Seriously, if you need—”

  “No, it’s just my partner. I’ll check in with him later. Which reminds me, the waiter hasn’t taken our order yet.”

  He looked up as if trying to catch a waiter’s eyes. Chloe hadn’t wanted to ask, but since he’d brought Cary up. “How is he?” She even picked up the menu hoping to appear only mildly interested.

  “The waiter?” he asked, having focused on the young man wearing a white apron.

  “No, your partner. He was shot, right?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s doing fine. Got out of the hospital yesterday.”

  “Good,” she said, now slightly more curious than embarrassed if Cary had said anything about her visit. But how did she go about asking? Did he mention I popped into his hospital room and saw him naked and hit him where it hurts a couple of times? “By the way . . . I was at—”

  “I’m sorry it took some time to get to you,” the waiter interrupted. “What can I get you two love birds to drink?”

  Right then, her phone started to ring again.

  • • •

  “It’s me again. Cary Stevens,” Cary said into his phone leaving another message for Chloe. “I really need to speak with you. And I’m worried my last message didn’t sound . . . logical. Call me. Please.”

  He dropped his phone in the passenger seat and decided to just go knock on her door. Pulling himself out of his car hurt a little, but not enough to stop him. The sun was halfway sunk into the west and a dusty darkness clung to the last of daylight. He got three steps from his car when he looked up and saw . . .

  “Shit.” He blinked to make sure he was seeing correctly in the dusk. Nothing changed. Walking away from Chloe’s apartment building was J.D. Andrews.

  Cary pulled out his gun and started running. Only to realize running hurt.

  “Police. Stop right there!”

  The kid swung around.

  Cary, expecting to see a gun in the kid’s hand, stopped moving and tightened his finger on the trigger. The kid had almost killed him once. Not again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cary’s breath caught and released the trigger a fraction of a second before shooting when he didn’t see a gun in the kid’s hands.

  J.D. yelled out something. Cary couldn’t be sure what it was, but it sounded like he said he was sorry.

  Sorry for what? Shooting him?

  “Stop,” Cary yelled again, even though the kid hadn’t moved. A terrible thought hit. Had J.D. already gotten to Chloe? Was that what he was apologizing for?

  The kid was a good 200 feet from him, and Cary knew if the kid ran, the chances of catching him with his bum leg were near impossible.

  He took another eight steps, his gun still aimed, his leg throbbing from trying not to limp. Trying not to look weak.

  J.D. just stood there, his eyes locked with Cary’s, looking way too young, and yet resigned—almost as if waiting to see if Cary would shoot him.

  “Get on the ground,” Cary yelled. “On the ground, now!”

  The kid didn’t do as ordered. He just continued to stare.

  “I said—”

  The kid finally turned and took off. Not extra fast either. Not dodging between cars. He stayed in the open, almost giving Cary the chance to shoot.

  “I said stop,” Cary yelled and pointed his Glock. But that haunted look in the kid’s eyes flashed in his mind. No way in hell could he shoot an unarmed kid. Not even when the kid had sent him to the afterlife just a few days earlier.

  Before Cary got close enough to do any good, the kid hopped into his black pickup and took off.

  “Damn it,” he growled, and took aim to shoot at the tires. But he heard voices and didn’t want to chance hurting someone else.

  Then, remembering the kid saying he was sorry, a knot pulled at his gut. Had he hurt Chloe? He took off, forgetting his leg, and praying he wasn’t too late. As he took the stairs up to the second story, all he could think about was being with her in her bed—sharing secrets and laughing.

  • • •

  Chloe took another sip of her wine and pushed her plate aside. The chicken marsala was good, but not great. She hadn’t asked Dan if Cary had mentioned her. Why did it matter if he did or not? He said he didn’t remember her, and even if he lied, if he wanted to talk to her, he could find her.

  And he hadn’t.

  “So, how does someone like you not have a guy attached to your hip?” Dan asked, staring at her over the rim of his wine glass.

  For one second, she considered telling him the truth. But it wouldn’t come out. Why had it seemed easier to tell his partner? Because it hadn’t actually been real. But it had felt real. More real than this right now.

  “Maybe I’m not that good of a catch,” she said.

  “I don’t believe that,” he said.

  “Oh, so you didn’t check me out for priors?” she teased, hoping the humor would ease the awkwardness.

  “You have priors?” he asked, missing her attempt at humor and looking almost scared.

  “No, I promise. I was just joking.”

  “Not funny,” he said. “I once dated a woman for a week before I learned she had a warrant out for her arrest.”

  The conversation throughout dinner had been better than the food. While she felt no sparks for Dan, she could admit he was pretty good company. He talked about his years on the police force, and shared a couple humorous stories. For a second, she almost wished she was attracted to him. She even searched her heart to try to find some little spark.

  She was sparkless.

  He ordered them both another glass of wine and a couple of times, he put his hand over hers, as if a subtle attempt to heat things up. She would slip her hand out in hopes her subtle resistance of his proposed heat would prevent him from making any other advances. Perhaps saving her from having to spell out the fact that their first date was going to be their last.

  • • •

  When no one answered Chloe’s door, Cary called Hoke’s Bluff police to report seeing J.D. It took Cary five minutes to find the apartment manager, but only two to convince him to open the friggin’ door. Loud and demanding wasn’t his favored mode of operation, but people paid attention.

  Thankfully, Chloe wasn’t in her apartment bleeding or dead. After calming down, he reentered her bedroom, hoping to find it didn’t match his dream.

  It did.

  There were even two wrapped presents on a chair.

  Right then, Chloe’s cat came sweeping into the room. A black cat. It had been real. All of it. But what about Beatrice Bacon? If real, why would she be messing with him now? Thoughts of the old woman had something she said playing in his head like a recording.

  Aren’t you a cop? Did they train you at all? Where did you get your license? In the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks?

  His mind flashed to an image of Chloe in that bed wearing the angel nightshirt and them sharing their secrets. But damn it, she’d been hurt too much, she didn’t need anything else to happen. And just like that, he realized that just because Chloe wasn’t here, didn’t mean she wasn’t in danger. He needed to find her.

  The cat came and did figure eights around his ankles. He reached down and gave the feline a scratch behind her ear.

  When the cops hadn’t arrived in ten minutes, he got pissed. He called Glencoe force and told them to be on the lookout, too. The sergeant in homicide called him back and jumped his ass for working the case. He hung up on him. He’d deal with that later.

  He’d already called Danny twice and left messages, but he hadn’t answered. He’d called Turner, too, but his phone went to voicemail. What the hell? Where were his two best friends when he needed them?

  Since he was only a mile from Turner’s house, he left instructions with the apartment manager of what t
o tell the cops, and shot over to Turner’s. His friend’s car was parked out front of his small brick home. Why the hell hadn’t he answered his phone?

  Cary’s leg throbbed as he limped to the porch and took his frustrations out on the door.

  Turner appeared there in few seconds, shirtless with wet hair. “Could you have knocked a little louder?”

  “I’ve tried to call you and Danny both. Several times.”

  “I was in the shower,” Turner said. “Didn’t hear the phone. And Danny’s off somewhere trying to get laid.”

  Reese, Turner’s fiancé, walked into the room behind them, and edged up beside Turner. She slipped her arm around Turner’s naked waist as if she belonged there. Turner placed his arm around her shoulders. Tenderly.

  Reese, blond and beautiful, had wet hair too, which explained the real reason Turner hadn’t answered. Shower sex. A crazy thought zipped through Cary’s mind. He hadn’t had good shower sex in a long time.

  Hell, he hadn’t had really good sex in a long time. Nor had he had a woman touch him like that—as if she belonged beside him.

  “Hi, Cary. How are you? You want to come in, get off the leg?” Reese asked, noticing that he was leaning his weight on the doorframe.

  Chasing shower sex thoughts away, he smiled at her. He liked her. He really did. But the petite little siren had managed to convince Turner to give love another shot. And that was exactly what Turner had sworn he didn’t want. And it had been Danny and Cary’s job to make sure it didn’t happen.

  They’d failed—miserably. They’d been beaten by a woman who weighed less than a hundred pounds. But each one of those pounds was placed just right on her tiny body.

  “Thanks, but I just need to chat with Turner for a second,” he said. “I promise to give him back.”

  She grinned. “There was a time I worried you might not give him back. But not anymore.”

  Oh, he and Danny had tried to do their jobs. Well, not if you considered the guidelines Turner himself had outlined. Turner, a part of their No Ball & Chain Gang, a group of three divorced men who’d sworn off love, had stated if he ever got serious about another gal, they were to beat the shit out of him, then beat some sense into him.