Talking After Midnight

by Dakota Cassidy

  “No. I added this.” She stuck her tongue out at him to reveal a small gold bead embedded in it, then laughed at his expression.

  Tag growled, deep and husky. “For me?”

  She pulled him inside, closing the door and heading for the bedroom. “You’ll just have to wait and see, Hawthorne!”

  * * *

  “Wow,” Tag muttered against her lips. “Gotta say, I had my doubts about the tongue ring, but kudos.”

  Marybell chuckled from beneath him, luxuriating in the vestiges of their lovemaking. She arched upward, loving the feel of his rippled muscle pinning her to the bed, and sighed when he began kissing her still-flushed skin, working his way down toward her belly.

  He made her forget this lie between them. He drowned out the noise.

  Tag kissed the spot where her tattoo was. “Tell me about Doby?” He didn’t demand she do it, and tonight, she didn’t feel he was asking to seek information about who Marybell Lyman really was. Rather that he was interested.

  “Doby was my dog.”

  “You said that.”

  Did she say he was the only reason she’d kept breathing? That she’d found him tied to a stairwell in an abandoned building in one of the places where she’d squatted when the nights got cold? Whining for freedom, his squiggly golden-furred tail wagging at her as if she could offer help was all it took to capture her heart.

  Had she mentioned even though she’d had nothing, Doby’d given her everything?

  Let him in, Marybell. Just a little. You don’t have to tell him you were homeless. You can tell the truth without the gory details.

  She swallowed hard. The memory of Doby still ached. “He was just a stray I found. I was going through a pretty rough time in my life. Doby helped.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes understanding. “Animals are amazing healers.”

  “At that point in my life, Doby was the only living, breathing thing that loved me.”

  Tag paused, his hands still. She saw him turn her words over in his head before he asked, “What happened to him?”

  She’d kept him for six months. They’d hunted scraps together. They’d slept on the streets, under bridges, in condemned houses together. She’d loved Doby more than anything in her life ever. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I had to give him away. I just couldn’t take care of him. Take him to the vet, get him shots and checkups and all the things a dog like Doby needed. It wasn’t fair to him. I gave him to a little girl and her family in front of a restaurant I used to... Parker’s. It was called Parker’s. I went there a lot.”

  A flashback of that day at the end of the alleyway, when Doby had gotten off his leash by one of their favorite restaurant garbage bin haunts and run toward a chubby-cheeked little girl as if he’d always known her, seized her.

  The little girl’s squeals of excitement, the hope in her voice when she’d asked her parents if she could keep him settled deep inside her. Reminded her she was incapable of taking care of herself, let alone Doby.

  When the little girl’s parents protested that her beloved dog belonged to someone else, Marybell had stepped in, telling them Doby was a stray she’d found, but he needed a good home with a big backyard and a warm bed and a nice little girl to snuggle with at night.

  Not at all put off by her wild makeup and hair, they’d chatted with her for a little while and then agreed to take Doby. He was getting bigger every day, making it almost impossible to keep him well fed. She knew he was too skinny for his size just by comparing him to other dogs of his muttlike origins. The vague impression of his ribs said as much.

  Saying goodbye to him, pretending she was happy he’d found a home, yet knowing he’d have all the things she couldn’t give him from someone else, had taken a chunk of her soul. That first night without Doby giving her his back as a pillow had been the worst kind of torture.

  That pain trumped being shuffled from foster homes, leaving behind the sparks of friendships she’d begun to make, losing her scholarship, going hungry.

  Tears threatened to fall, but Tag stroked her skin, soothed her ache. “Did you keep in touch with the people who took him?”

  “I lost track of them, but I know he’s happy. At least, I have to believe that.” Or she’d go out of her mind. Doby was running in the park, eating the best kibble money could buy, chasing a ball and tearing up rawhide bones by the dozen.

  That little girl was scratching his back just the way he liked it, and giving him kisses before bedtime every night.

  That had to be how it was. She’d accept nothing less.

  “You must’ve really loved him to get a tattoo of his name.”

  Closing her eyes, she squeezed them tight, not caring that it would smudge her eyeliner. “I got it after I got the job at Call Girls. In his honor. Because he gave me so much when I had very little.”

  Tag was quiet for a bit, probably absorbing her words. They weren’t light words. They weren’t the funny words she and Tag shared. They were the words from inside her. Words she’d never shared—not even with Landon. “You’re a good person, Marybell. Just plain good.”

  Tag slid back up her length and rolled her into his embrace, pulling her so close she almost couldn’t breathe. Yet she burrowed into his solid strength, anyway, the myriad emotions Doby’s name brought up made her feel.

  The feelings hurt. Just like so many lately.

  But they were feelings. Uncomfortable, disjointed, scary.

  But indeed Marybell Lyman was feeling them.

  * * *

  After Tag left, she pulled the box from beneath her bed. The box that held all the things she treasured—things that were small and could be packed up at a moment’s notice.

  She sifted through the few items, her fingers shaky, her heart shakier. Her sixth-grade report card where the teacher had said she was a shining star and had stamped it with a happy face.

  A piece of the baby blanket she’d been found under at Child Protective Services. Just a scrap of pink satin and white fur after years of dragging it behind her until it became too tattered and full of holes.

  A grainy picture of her from ninth-grade algebra—a candid shot taken by the photography club and circulated in their school flyer just before she’d been plucked up and moved to a different foster family.

  A shoelace given to her by one of her foster sisters, in her favorite color, pink, and the only time she’d had shoelaces that weren’t white and secondhand.

  And Doby’s leash. A red-and-white nylon rope she’d acquired burns on her palms from when she’d first begun to teach him how to walk, not run beside her.

  Marybell twisted it around her fingers, clenching it, remembering.

  And then she saw Tag’s hat, reminding her that every small tidbit she revealed about herself was a piece of her life puzzle. Tag hadn’t asked questions, he hadn’t pried, but she’d seen them in his eyes.

  If she wanted a relationship with Tag, she was going to have to do something about it. Do something fast.

  Tonight, when he’d realized Doby touched a still-raw nerve, he’d held her and let her mourn in silence.

  That was the moment she’d decided she wanted a real relationship with Tag. Not just the fun, flirty variety, but a real one where she could finally unload this heavy weight and find out if Tag would understand why she’d asked for time.

  Maybe he wouldn’t understand. Maybe he’d hate her for duping him thus far. Maybe even proof of her innocence wouldn’t make up for all her lies so far.

  Maybe he’d never forgive her.

  But maybe, if he was falling in love with her the way she was with him—he’d find a way to understand.

  Maybe.

  Fifteen

  Marybell headed across the square after grabbing plum fritters and coffee for the girls on her shift.

  A crowd of noisy people with more picket signs than the last time followed a path behind Louella. As she got closer, she saw a news van from an Atlanta station, unloading gear. Cameras, lights,
laptops. All things she was far too familiar with.

  She knew that van. The people inside that van had hunted her mercilessly for months.

  Her legs froze, her heart hit the top of her feet. The press was in Plum Orchard.

  She’d been found.

  How? How could they have figured out who she was? Someone had been digging. That had to be it. Since that picture of Leon had surfaced, everyone was speculating about her again, too.

  Oh, God.

  Clutching the coffee carrier, Marybell struggled to find an avenue of escape. Her eyes looked over heads, scanning the crowd, catching sight of Dave Davison, one of the sleaziest of the bunch who’d hunted her like a wounded animal.

  He’d know her. He’d hear her voice and he’d know. No one had ever caught her speaking on camera but Dave Davison. He’d blocked her path the day she’d tried to leave the dentist office. At her wits’ end, she’d threatened him by offering to take a shot between his legs if he didn’t move.

  He’d made a snide comment about her voice. He’d said he could almost understand Leon cheating on his wife with her because of her seductive, innocent voice.

  She had to get away—run as fast as she could. Call in sick— Do something, Marybell, instead of standing here like some deer caught in a pair of headlights.

  But suddenly she was swept up in the crowd, pushed forward, stumbling and spilling cups of coffee everywhere.

  Then Louella Palmer was in her face, dragging Dave Davison behind her. “This is one of them, Dave. She works right in there with the rest of those filthy women.”

  Like the days of old, a microphone was thrust under her nose, and Dave Davison was looking her square in the eye. His sharp eyes roving over her face, judging her based on her makeup and hair, no doubt.

  She held her breath, panic keeping her rooted to the spot. There was nothing left to do but raise the white flag. Everything inside her sank to her toes.

  “This is Marybell Lyman. Marybell, this is an old friend of mine, Dave Davison. He’s doing a human-interest story on the dirty little secret this small town’s been hidin’. Care to comment?” she drawled, so sure, so cocky.

  Strong hands landed on her shoulders, reassuring, warm, safe. Tag grabbed the microphone from a speechless Dave and spoke into it. “No, she doesn’t care to comment, but I do. I don’t know what you’re up to now, Louella, but while you’re busy here with your old friend Dave, isn’t the bitter old maid society missing their leader?” He launched the mic like a football across the square and bent down low in Dave’s face. “Go fetch.”

  Taking Marybell by the hand, he pushed his way through the crowd until they made it to the path leading to the guesthouse.

  Sanjeev or Dixie must have worked some kind of magic, as four large WWE-looking men waited at the entrance with stern faces and bunched muscles.

  Tag wasn’t intimidated. He pointed at her. “She works here. I’m her boyfriend.”

  “Name?” the man with the shortly cropped hair asked.

  She finally found her voice, weak from fear. “Mary...Marybell Lyman.”

  He looked over a list, then nodded, moving aside so they could pass. The moment they entered the foyer was the moment her legs threatened to give way. She took deep breaths of the warm, perfumed air, letting Tag lead her toward the reception area.

  Call Girls wasn’t in the chaos she’d expected to find. Instead, everyone’s head was down, buried in something on their desks.

  Marybell was still in too much shock to speak. Relief flooded through her when she realized the reporter wasn’t here for Carson Chapman, and then anger took its place. They were going to wreak havoc in her friends’ lives. Shred them, poke and prod until everything blew up, and somehow she had to warn them.

  “What’s goin’ on?” she asked Em, her hands in the air.

  Em flipped to the next page of her paper. “Louella. Again.”

  Marybell’s eyes flew open in response to her very casual remark. “Is that it? Is that all you have to say?”

  Em’s face held confusion. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “What else would you like me to say, sugarplum? It’s just Louella stirrin’ the pot like she’s always done. Nothin’ new.”

  “The press is here!” she yelped, pulling away from Tag and clapping her hands on the desk Em sat behind.

  Nella dropped her glasses in a clatter.

  Dixie shot out from her office and into the entryway.

  Em patted her hand to placate her. “I know, MB. We have it handled, or did you miss Big, Brawny, Brute and Brawnier just outside the door? We’re safe in here.”

  She couldn’t believe they were taking this so lightly. Did they have any idea what the press would do to their small town? A town, even with those heartless troublemakers, she happened to love. They’d take every little thing and turn it into something heinous and dirty. They’d blow things out of proportion, speculate, misinterpret. She wouldn’t let that happen.

  “We have to do something! Why are you all just sitting around like it’s no big deal an Atlanta news station van is parked right outside, just waitin’ to chew you all to bits?”

  “Dave Davison? He’s hardly Matt Lauer, Marybell,” Em scoffed. “He’s to be taken about as seriously as TMZ.”

  Tag put a hand on her arm and squeezed. “Honey, calm down.”

  Honey? Calm down? She shrugged him off with an angry shake. “No! I won’t calm down. They’re going to distort this company until you won’t even recognize it and make us all look like pariahs.”

  Dixie barked a laugh from across the room. “MB, just in case you missed the memo, we are pariahs. Nothin’ they do can hurt me. We know who we are. That’s all that matters. It’s business as usual.”

  She was sure they all could hear the furious, fear-riddled pounding of her heart. They couldn’t just sit back and let this happen. She couldn’t watch it happen. “It doesn’t matter if you know who you are, Dixie! You won’t if you let them get their hands on this and run with it. They’ll pick at you like vultures until you’re nothing but a carcass. I can’t watch that happen to all of you!”

  Silence took over the room in a heavy blanket, covering her in awkwardness. No one moved. No one batted an eye.

  Em went into motion first, but Tag held up his hand to stop her. Surely, if anyone understood the press, it was Tag. His spotlight in the Kazinski case had been brief when you took into consideration he was young and healthy, and capable of earning back his retirement fund. The press had focused on the victims, the seniors Kazinski’d wiped out and the villainess—her.

  Why wasn’t anyone taking some action—hatching a plan?

  Are they all going to put on crazy makeup, spike their hair and hide on the streets of Atlanta like you did?

  “MB,” he said in quiet tones. “It’s all going to be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt any of the women. Especially you. Okay?”

  No. No, it wasn’t okay. But she nodded, anyway. Because as realization sank in, and the surprise on everyone’s face at her outburst penetrated her panic, she realized she’d gone way over the top. The usually quiet Marybell had just plumb lost her fritters and no one knew what to say or do.

  Looking down at her feet, she apologized. “I’m sorry. It was just so crazy out there, and I didn’t expect it, and I worry about all of you....”

  Em and Dixie rushed her, heedless of spatial issues, giving her hard, motherly hugs. “I sent you a text, Marybell,” Dixie said. “You didn’t answer your phone, but I wanted you to be prepared. I called Tag just in case. Now, never you mind Louella Palmer and her pathetic connections to that plastic-looking man, Dave Davison. He’ll lose interest when he finds out we have nothing to say.”

  Em bounced her head in tune with Dixie. “I’m sorry you were caught so off guard, MB. But we have it under control. Promise. Let ’em dig all they want, say whatever they want. Nobody cares about a legal phone sex company anymore. There are much bigger fish to fry nowadays. It’s not like phone sexin’ hasn’t ex
isted forever. So I don’t see what all the fuss is about. So relax, okay?” She rubbed Marybell’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You all right now?”

  No. She had a sick feeling in her stomach, a certain dread that could only be attributed to trouble. Big trouble. Yet she held her tongue and nodded, letting Tag lead her to her office.

  * * *

  An hour later, her head clearer, her fears at bay, Marybell shuffled to Em’s office on her fifteen-minute break, rapping her knuckles against the door. “Knock-knock.” She poked her head in and smiled.

  Em waved her in while nodding at the phone in her ear. “Yes, Mama. Of course I’ve heard all about it. They’re all right outside the door.” She motioned for Marybell to sit.

  Em’s mother, Clora Mitchell, if what the gossip and even Em herself said was true, was horrible. Cranky, pious and disapproving were words thrown about when it came to Clora. But since the day Em had found out Dixie’s father was her father, too, she’d watched a shift in the dynamics of their relationship.

  It was subtle, and for the most part Clora still disapproved of Em’s job, but there were far fewer moments full of tension than there’d once been, and every once in a blue moon, Marybell caught Clora smiling. Surely the earth rumbled when her lips cracked one, but she smiled, and it seemed to make Em happy. In turn, that made Marybell happy for her.

  “Yes, Mama. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Thanks for callin’. See you for Sunday supper.” She clicked off her phone and folded her hands in front of her on her desk with a sigh, smiling at Marybell. “What can I do for you today? Please don’t tell me someone else is sick. If I have to let LaDawn take one more vanilla call, we’re goin’ down.”

  Marybell laughed out loud. LaDawn’s specialties didn’t lie in the subtler phone sex. They were shouty and in-your-face demands to perform. “No. No one’s sick. So, how’s Miss Clora?”

  “Still crusty around the edges, but better. Thanks for askin’. So, what’s up with you?”

  “I came to apologize.”

  Em’s brow wrinkled. “For what, honey?”

  A squirm or two later in her chair, she said, “For my overreaction to what’s goin’ on out there. It was just so...”