Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

by Christie Craig

  “Look…” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. His hold on her hand softened, and that took her back to them in his kitchen, in that chair. She stared at his naked chest and remembered running her hand over his flesh. No! Why was she thinking about that now?

  “I know I’m asking a lot,” he said. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “Give me some time to get in touch with the right people. I’ll have this taken care of.”

  Kathy sighed. This was crazy. Was she really going to trust him? Did she have any other choice? It seemed she didn’t.

  For the following half hour, she kept her eyes closed. Not that she slept. It was as if she had Dr Pepper in her veins, buzzing through her body, fizzing through her brain, accompanied by a number of flashing images and sound effects that played and replayed for her entertainment. She tried to find the button to stop it, but her mind wouldn’t shut off. She could see the man lying facedown on the faded yellow linoleum floor, blood pooling around his head. She could hear the toilet lid crunching into his skull, hear the bullets pinging against the van. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart pounded against her chest.

  Then, just like that, her mental clock turned back twenty-one years and she could hear the popping sounds hitting her father’s old truck. She could hear the last words her father ever said to her: “It’s gonna be okay, Sweet Pea.”

  A knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed it down. Her daddy had lied. It hadn’t been okay.

  Sometimes, when she got wrapped up in memories, she’d feel the pinch of self-pity and it seemed nothing had been okay since that day. Then she’d think about her son. If all she ever did in this life was create him and a few good bouquets of flowers, she’d have to call her life successful. He was without a doubt the best thing she’d ever done. Maybe it was just melancholy or the aftershock of thinking she was going to die, but right now she missed that little boy so much that breathing hurt. And just as soon as she was away from all this mess, she was calling Tom and insisting he bring her son home. Screw Paris. Screw the education her son would get from traveling, the hell with trying to make a life for herself outside of being a mom. Look where her little adventure today had landed her! Nope, she didn’t need anything in her life but Tommy.

  “You okay?”

  Not-Stan’s voice pulled her from the hazy place between sleep and panic. Not-Stan? What was his real name, even? Was she an idiot to trust him? Should she attempt to jump out of the moving van? Should she…? She opened her eyes, and the vision of him without a shirt had her brain misfiring with all sorts of messages and questions.

  “I’m great,” she said, her tone so thick with sarcasm that she could barely get the words out. She spotted her phone in his lap. She recalled him talking to someone, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember anything that had been said.

  “Did you talk to the person you needed to talk to?” she asked.

  “He’s not answering. I left a message.” A flash of concern pinched his brow, right before he refocused on the road.

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you call someone else?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Bam! The image of the hairy man, blood pooling around his head, flashed again in her mind’s eye. “Do you think I killed him?” she asked.

  “Killed who?”

  “The man on your bathroom floor.”

  Not-Stan turned his head and stared right at her. “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?” She wrung her hands in her lap. In spite of being cold, her palms were slick with sweat.

  “Because he was the one shooting at us as I pulled away.”

  “Are you sure?” She wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “Positive. You heard the bullets, remember?”

  “But wasn’t there someone else with him?”

  “Yeah, but I hit my guy harder than you hit yours. He couldn’t get up so quickly.” He smiled. “Of course, your guy was bigger, so I guess you should get points for that.”

  Somehow she sensed his attempt at humor was to make her feel better. Too bad it failed. “You’re one hundred percent sure?”

  His smile faded, and only concern etched his face. “Seriously, I saw him in the side mirror as I pulled away.”

  She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself as a chill snaked through her body. It wasn’t cold in the van, but that didn’t stop her from feeling an unnatural iciness all the way to her bones. Goose bumps crawled on her skin and a drop of sweat slipped between her breasts. Of course, she knew what was happening; this wasn’t her first walk in this park. These were all the effects of shock. She remembered the same symptoms from when she was eight: the cold, the flashing images, the sweating.

  At least she’d mostly stopped trembling. If it was like the last time, it might take a while before the images stopped. Of course, maybe this go-round wasn’t as bad as the last. No one had died. Or had they?

  She looked out the window again at the mirror and remembered the sound of the car crashing behind them. “What about the guys in the wreck? Do you think…?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “But we didn’t cause that wreck. They just lost control of the car.” His gaze focused on her again. “It wasn’t our fault. Stop worrying.”

  She nodded; but even though she knew he was right, it didn’t change a dang thing. Just running over a possum ruined her spirits for a week. Being responsible for another person’s death might possibly ruin her life—though that hadn’t stopped her from smashing the guy’s head in. She supposed she could blame it on panic or maybe self-preservation. Perhaps if a possum was after her, gun blazing, she could run it over.

  She saw a road sign pass in a blur. “Where are we?”

  “A couple miles off Cypress Springs.”

  “Shouldn’t we be farther than that? I mean…I thought we were leaving town.”

  “They’ll expect us to leave. I’m hoping they leave looking for us.”

  “So…where are we going?”

  “First, I’ve to get some clothes.”

  Her gaze shifted to his chest again. “Clothes would be good. Maybe then I could think straight.” Did I say that out loud?

  He didn’t look at her, but he smiled. “I guess I wouldn’t think well if you had your shirt off.”

  She ignored the flirtatious remark and asked one of the questions that had been zipping around her confused mind: “What’s your real name?”

  She forced her gaze to stay on his face. In spite of the shock buzzing through her body, the man still looked good. Instantly she recalled how it felt to have his hands on her breasts, to feel the hardness of him pressing between her legs. Her nipples tightened against her bra and the muscles of her thighs tensed. Was she actually getting turned on? Oh, gawd, she was! Embarrassment chased around the unwanted hormones stimulating her body and fogging her brain. How could she be feeling this when she’d just been shot at, when she’d been forced to use part of a toilet to defend herself?

  Maybe she was feeling this because of what she’d been through. Hadn’t she read once that adrenaline actually heightened arousal hormones? The embarrassment filling her mind eased. The arousal, not so much. Her gaze wandered down his torso again.

  Not that what she was feeling meant diddly-squat. She had zero intention of acting upon the attraction. She’d learned her lesson.

  His dark blue eyes met hers. One banged-up eyelid hung a little lower than the other.

  “What’s your name?” she repeated.

  “Luke Hunter.” Holding the wheel with one hand, he smiled and reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kathy Callahan.”

  When she didn’t shake, he placed his hand back on the steering wheel. Her gaze followed that hand to his arm, to his muscled bicep, ending at his naked chest. She recalled touching him in that chair.

  Catching her breath and stopping her thoughts from returning to what had happ
ened in his kitchen, she closed her eyes. His words replayed in her head: Nice to meet you. She opened her eyes just as the image of the bloody guy on the floor flashed in her head. “Nice? I had to crunch in someone’s skull with a toilet tank lid.”

  “And you did a hell of a job.”

  He was smiling. Staring at his profile, she could see his bottom lip was still a little swollen. She blinked, and the image of the man on the floor flashed across her mind again.

  “Nice isn’t exactly how I’d describe it.” She hugged herself again to ward off another chill.

  He glanced over, and a look of concern appeared on his face. “The day started out nice,” he offered, and there was heat in his voice. Heat that helped chase away the unnatural cold eating at her bones. For just a second, she wondered if that was why he was talking to her, to get her mind off the other stuff. And that maybe it was a good plan.

  “Yeah, well, that was before I knew you had a girlfriend.”

  He laughed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, so Claire’s just a friend, right?”

  “Claire’s my landlady.”

  “Who just so happens to have a key to your place and feels comfortable using it? Don’t deny it. I heard the key turning the lock.”

  “I wasn’t going to deny it. But that doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend.”

  “Just your bang toy, huh?”

  “Bang toy?” He spat out the words as if they hurt him to say. His swollen eye widened again.

  “That explains why you keep so many condoms on hand—for her visits.”

  “Condoms, for…Claire?” He shook his head. “My head’s not wanting to wrap around that one!”

  “In your medicine cabinet and below your sink.” She let the accusation hang heavy in the air and fought the goose bumps crawling up her arms.

  “Oh, those.”

  Was that guilt flashing in his eyes? Some of the anger she’d felt when she’d been ordered to the bathroom with her bra came back. She latched on to it, because at least that emotion she could deal with.

  “Yeah, those. The ones you use when Claire stops by and lets herself in with her key. Of course, she’s not your girlfriend, she’s just your wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am toy.”

  “Okay, you’re going to have to stop saying that, because the images are giving me stomach cramps.” He let out a laugh. “If you got a peek at Claire, you’d be feeling silly right now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s…old.”

  Insecurities swept over Kathy like a hurricane on oiled wheels. She actually welcomed that, because, like the anger, she understood them. “Like that matters.”

  “Oh, it matters,” he said.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of cougars?”

  “Claire lost her cougar status about twenty years ago. She’s old enough to be my mom. Or my grandma.”

  So was the woman who’d managed to steal Kathy’s husband—the same woman who was now Tom’s wife and was prancing around France with Kathy’s son. She could still remember Tommy asking her, Why does Daddy’s girlfriend look like Grandma?

  “Age doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Kathy said.

  Her husband hadn’t left her for a younger, prettier model. He’d left her for a woman almost twice Kathy’s age. Maybe if the woman had been rich, Kathy would have felt better, but nope. She was old, wrinkled and poor—and yet somehow Tom had preferred her to Kathy. Had she sucked that bad as a wife that Grandma Moses could tempt him away from their marriage and his own son?

  “Believe me, it has something to do with it,” he said.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Kathy tried to concentrate on Tom and the bucket-load of insecurities his leaving caused—anything not to think about the men and the guns. But bam, just like that she could hear the sound of the bullets hitting the van. She reached up and pressed her hands over her ears. Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t help, but logic wasn’t getting through right now.

  “You okay?” Luke’s voice seemed distant.

  “No,” she answered honestly, and didn’t move her hands. “I keep…I keep hearing the bullets.”

  “That’s normal,” he said. “Try not to think about it.”

  She stared at the dashboard and did what he said: tried to not to think about it. She felt the back of his hand move over her shoulder and up to the side of her face.

  “Breathe,” he said. “That’s good.”

  She blinked away the beginning of tears, and after a few more deep breaths dropped her hands from her ears.

  “If I remember correctly, there’s a place a few miles from here,” he said.

  “A place for what?” she asked, trying to concentrate.

  “To get some clothes. I…”

  He continued talking, but she stopped listening. When she realized he’d stopped, and was staring at her, she fixed her gaze on the side window. The landscape passed in a blue haze. The bluebonnets were out. Yes, think about the bluebonnets, think about anything but…He was talking again and she forced herself to listen.

  “…Then we’ve got to lose the van.”

  “Lose my van?” That had her thinking a little clearer. “I don’t—”

  “Not lose it. Park it and get another ride.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “Oh, gawd, you’re not planning to steal—”

  Her cell phone rang in his lap, playing “Sweet Home Alabama.” She reached for it, but he snatched it up. Once again she found herself with her hand in his crotch. The message fired from her brain was to jerk her hand away, but her brain must have been firing duds. She just sat there, half out of her seat, leaning over the cup holder, her hand stuck between his legs.

  He cleared his throat. Or was that a chuckle? Either way, he gave her hand a slow perusal. A smile threatening, he turned the phone over to read the Caller ID.

  Kathy sat up, removing her hand from the bulge growing in his jeans. Glancing back at him, she noted the humor dancing in his expression had vanished. “The call’s coming from your house. Who could be at your house?”

  “I…No one is at my house.”

  “No one?”

  The seriousness of his tone had her heart racing again, and the fuzzy feeling of panic tap-danced in the way of her focus.

  “Then it has to be them,” Luke said.

  Chapter Six

  Joey parked the rental car Corky and Pablo had been driving in front of the trailer. They’d left the two banged-up guys, who looked even worse than he and Donald, at a rental dealership to get another car.

  The trailer had all kinds of homey-looking flowers growing along the front, and Joey felt relief that the van wasn’t parked there. But then he spotted a green Honda to the side, and he hoped that Kathy Callahan—if that was really her name—hadn’t come home. Just a few phone calls to Lorenzo’s local contacts had given them the florist owner’s name and address. Lorenzo had more people in his pocket than a stray dog had fleas.

  Pulling the keys out of the ignition, Joey noted the second, smaller trailer off to the side. There was a florist sign posted out front. He reached for the door handle—and nearly jumped out of his seat when a bird came crashing into the windshield.

  “Motherfucker!” Joey spouted. At the same time, Donald yelled. Joey wiped his mouth, literally tasting the toilet brush. A bright blue bird, definitely a male blue jay, flapped its wings and haphazardly flew away. Joey smiled, thrilled at seeing the bird until he remembered a wives’ tale one of his old girlfriends had told him.

  “You know what they say,” he asked Donald, “about birds trying to get into a house? They say it’s a premonition that someone is going die.”

  Donald reached for the car door and looked over at him. “This isn’t a damn house. And what are you waiting on? Let’s do this one first.” He pointed at the trailer with the flower beds—the one that looked like a home. “I’ll go around back. You
take the front. If you find her, don’t kill her yet. We need to talk to her.”

  Yet? Dread filled Joey’s belly, and he started to remind Donald that his job description was bodyguard, not grim reaper, but Donald’s mood didn’t invite such a comment. Then it hit him: Maybe that saying about birds wasn’t just an old wives’ tale. Someone might indeed end up dead—if not right now, then later. Lorenzo had been less than thrilled with how this mission had gone, and there had been threats made that if it didn’t get done right, there would be hell to pay.

  Joey didn’t doubt it. There would be hell to pay either way. If he wound up helping kill this woman, that would be hell. If she got away, Lorenzo would probably give him a ticket to Hell, just like he had Freddy. Joey just wasn’t sure which he preferred. He supposed he’d better figure it out fast.

  He walked up to the front porch, his damn toe throbbing like a son of a bitch. Instead of kicking in the door, he reached for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. Fighting the urge to knock, Joey stepped inside.

  A blonde standing by the kitchen table holding a phone in her hand swung around to face him. He had the overwhelming need to apologize and step out. But he couldn’t.

  Her blue eyes widened in puzzlement. “Who…are you?” she asked.

  His gaze shot from the shock on her face to her belly—a belly swollen with child. “Damn!” he muttered.

  He spotted Donald through a window moving toward the back door. His mind created an image of what Donald would do to the pregnant lady. The bird hitting the windshield flashed in his mind; then he remembered Freddy and how he’d known the man might get offed and hadn’t done anything to stop it. It was decision time. Joey guessed he had about two seconds to decide which side of the fence he was on: the killing side, or the possibly-being-killed side for not killing.

  He met the blonde’s eyes and reached for his gun.

  Luke watched Kathy snatch her hand off his zipper, and if the situation weren’t so damn serious, he would have laughed. He met her wide-eyed gaze again, a sure sign of shock.

  “Kathy, I need you to take some deep breaths and think. Who could be at your house?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s either Sue or Lacy.”