This bloody damn town never changed any of their other rules before, so she’d not been prepared for any such rule changes this time around. Why would they have started doing so now? Good grief!
She did get the picture. No annulment. Not now. Not ever. Did she not just tell you this town sucked?
Her life, her existence because of one very bipolar rule change in a strip-mining, blood sucking, black hole was now ruined.
In less than twenty-four hours, she’d hit rock bottom. And damn, if the impact wasn’t hard to her already damaged knees.
Chapter Two
Shoving the thick pack of unsigned annulment papers into her four hundred dollar leather briefcase, Liddy could not help but close her eyes, groaning aloud as mere afterthought. She couldn’t help but hate the past.
She met up with Theodora Rosebud a half day ago. Theodora was Jake’s boss. The old woman lived at the far end of Roundabout Road. Though their years were sixty-four in difference, Theodora and Liddy . . .they burned their bridges to the ground for a man who did not deserve the time of day from either one of them.
And every Sunday since the beginning of time, Theodora went about Preacher’s Bend in her Bitch cycle. Damnit! She was quite good at this, too. And Jake? Jake hadn’t come home for two whole days.
He was living at the back of Theodora’s peach orchard in a one-room shack specifically made for the beekeeper. Giggle, giggle. Tsk, tsk. Sorry about that. She was still having a very difficult time at picturing Jake with a large swarm of buzzing bees; and not thinking it so damn funny she could pee her pants.
Nevertheless, his not being there for two whole days meant either he was in deep shit with his parole officer, or he was sleeping with her; under the circumstances, the latter not very likely. Preacher’s Bend had only two law enforcement officers, if you could really call them officers—or even enforcing any laws. Chief Ceril Berken and Deputy Debra Wesley did what little they had to, to earn a paycheck.
Berken, bless his soul, could shoot a man in the back if ever the need was there. His eyesight was impeccable. He’d wanted the position of Sheriff, but thus far got passed over for the younger men to obtain the position.
Debra Wesley wanted the job, too. But she was a woman, and even those brain-dead know Preacher’s Bend wasn’t going to let a woman have political bargaining power and a gun at her hip.
Even so, Debra was a woman no one should mess around with. She was what those living in Preacher’s Bend loosely termed a rather highly explosive individual caught on steroids. The woman was bloody damn dangerous—to a fault. She could be a real nasty witch, too.
Liddy could say this about her, because she knew Debra Wesley like the back of her hand, as well as she knew Jake Giotti. Debra was Liddy’s sister. Sister-in-law, really. As said, Jake and she still married technically made her related to Debra.
God help us all!
Liddy was quite certain Jake wished he were an only child. But he had Debra and another half-sister Bets. Liddy was certain he was proud of both these fine upstanding women.
Okay. Wait. Let her dry her eyes on that one, too.
Christ! She still hadn’t gotten over the idea of a swarm of bees around his head. Therefore, she wasn’t exactly the greatest at lying through her teeth about one’s ill-collected family.
Although Jake wasn’t an only child, Liddy, in fact, was. Her parents considered their options and chose to quit while ahead. Once they’d figured out having children together—as in, with each other—would put a kink in their drinking habits, they’d stopped having sex altogether. Even she knew skeletons in one’s closet were usually best left alone when long dead. But what one would call the product of one very lust-driven Curt Giotti, Jake’s father, who’d consorted with a whole lot of woman from the wrong side of the tracks, and who got away with it for twelve full years, Jake, the darling man, was the only legitimate Giotti around these parts.
Yet, no matter who or what he was, Debra was now his parole officer. And Liddy could bet Debra was getting a real kick out of seeing Jake sweat it out. If it wasn’t so damn funny to even think about—good ole` Debra telling sweet, terribly innocent Jake what to do, when to do it, and why—Liddy was certain she could have cried in her soup bowl.
Theodora Rosebud didn’t know where Jake was. Debra was not privy to his whereabouts. Or, if she was, she sure as hell was not saying where to Liddy. And Lord knew Debra was mad enough, at not only Jake, but at Ceril, too. Chief Berken had gone off without her, chasing ghostly shadows down in the abandoned quarry, for God knew how long, and only for God knew why. Ceril tended never to tell Debra what he was up to.
He left Debra behind to tend to the police department all on her own. This included manning the phones. Hell, as far as Liddy figured, Debra Wesley didn’t know one end of a telephone from the other, but she could shoot a man, right between the . . . Her aim was always between the, um, eyes.
She was paid for what she was good at—being mean and a real bitch.
To those who no longer lived in Preacher’s Bend, Sundays sucked around here, especially if you were now considered an outsider; a backstabbing, life-altering treacherous snake to each of its Christian-minded elders. That would be her, precisely.
Liddy hadn’t done any real harm to those still in Preacher’s Bend—past or present. She never took anything they weren’t willing to give away. What she’d done was leave without saying Good-bye. And without question—the part of her leaving without saying Good-bye—was the deadliest of all sins to commit in a town so small-minded it couldn’t see its ass even if bent over.
No one was to leave Preacher’s Bend without its residents acknowledgeable of where it was the person was to end up. Disappearance severed gossip lines and those around here lived for the connection.
Christ! Even she hadn’t known where it was she would end up. Liddy just knew she had to go; if not for herself, then for the well-being and personal safety of one incredibly gorgeous Jake Giotti. You know? The guy dressed in form fitting leather jacket, big snake tattoo, and his sweet ass seated comfortably on a custom-built, low-riding Harley.
God, she hated him! She hated Jake so much her teeth were starting to ache.
She’d been hurt so deeply by the man, and so angry with him ever since, and filled with such a violent temper toward him . . . even she could have shot him right between the eyes that fateful night—without flinching, chipping a nail, or breaking into a sweat.
But the past was the past, as it should be. She’d let it go.
While thinking this through, while she sorted her thoughts together as best she could, get the bile to lower from her esophagus, she turned her head to glance out the large window of Rachel’s Café . . . and precisely when a world she thought she knew came to an abrupt end.
She hadn’t touched the plate of food in front of her simply because she wasn’t as hungry as she’d been when first coming through the doors. But when one’s world ends so abruptly, food should not matter a hill of beans to the scheme of things.
She could not pull her gaze from the window even if her life depended on it. Time had seemed to speed up momentarily—fast forward, then slammed directly into her heart and considerably staggered her.
Coming up . . . No. Christ, it was more like waltzing up, with a most definite and very familiar swagger . . .
Was it? Good God! Could it be?
Jake Giotti? The same Jake Giotti who was technically her husband, but a slightly new and improved version of the man?
He was dressed in what looked to be a very expensive silk suit but minus one perfectly God-forgiving, forty-five-thousand dollars, custom built Harley Davidson motorcycle stuck between his legs. As well, minus at least twelve inches of gorgeous brown hair he’d always tied in a ponytail with thick leather strap. Unless a certain someone untied it for him, but no one was mentioning any names now, were they? Or stating this very same someone had been in the throes of blessedly hot and sweaty sex with the man, either!
T
hee Jake Giotti?
Jesus! He was walking right toward the window, coming straight for Rachel’s Cafe with a sly grin on his face.
In the blink of an eye, Liddy’s life flashed before her eyes. It came into view in full Technicolor, and all she could do was staring at the change ten years in him had done. From head to toe, he was no longer the Jake she remembered. Good God! He’d physically grown into something far better, something far more dangerous, and something far more devastating to the naked eye.
To peace of mind and state of well-being, he was . . . he was wearing a suit for Pete’s sake!
Bloody Hell! Why would he be wearing a suit?
All men looked hot in a suit.
Was her heart beating faster under her stubborn jackass hide by just looking at his physique, his swaggering walk? Surely not. Liddy was marrying the love of her life in less than a few short weeks. Because of this, how could her heart betray her as such?
Or was she about to marry the love of her life?
Had she not thought to do that already in life? Married a man who was supposed to be the only real love of her life, and then some?
Well? Hadn’t she?
****
Jake slowly moved his sunglasses off his eyes to the top of his head and entered Rachel’s. He was late, and he knew far better than anyone around here that he was. But to a man, being tardy always had good reasons. A regrettable delay, he had an alibi. At least one a wee bit more reliable than the last one he’d tried using on Debra.
And, of course, Debra would certainly be furious with him by now; the woman out riding with a posse, searching high and low for his whereabouts just to pick his carcass clean. She’d been gunning for him to screw up for the last three years. He was only adding more fuel to the fire.
Debra, on any given day, made it a point to be mad at someone on a daily basis. With any hope, he could smooth the woman over this time. She might even have had a good night’s rest. There were times when Debra could be a real pushover to his many likable charms, if he played his cards right.
Yeah, right! And the huge tattoo on his arm, a tattoo he’d been itching to get rid of as of late, was nothing more than a cute cuddly kitten sporting angelic wings. Debra was no pushover. She was a cop, large and mean. And if ever a reason for being just plum mean to him, today would be the day.
Jake hated cops about as much as he hated . . .
No. Jesus! He surely could not go there now! The past was what it was . . . the past.
His half-sister was nothing more than an overgrown bitch. The woman could eat a gallon of lead paint and not feel a thing. She was practically inhuman. Jake being tardy was going to be the tip of the iceberg that would set her off.
He almost felt sorry for Preacher’s Bend this morning. Almost. He wasn’t quite there yet. How in the hell he’d gotten stuck with her as his parole officer . . .?
He let the door to the diner close behind his back with a distinct hiss. The welcoming cold filled his lungs as he drew in a deep breath of the greasy aroma and strode with long, steady strides toward his usual booth set over by the large picture window.
Every Sunday this place smelled like crisp bacon and over easy eggs. Rachel must have been trying something new today, because he could swear there was the permeation of blueberries in the air.
Preacher’s Bend had certainly changed a lot in the many years since he’d been living here. The café not as much. Nevertheless, as long as his booth remained empty when his stomach was, he had no real reason to complain about any of the town’s alterations. Changes meant better things were coming in the near future. And who wouldn’t look forward to better things?
Rachel Rosebud was now the only owner of the diner. Petty Tressle passed away—in fact, her funeral was last Thursday. The old car lot at the far end of the block stood empty. Except for a few rusted-out Buicks in back that didn’t run, and no one had ever been persuaded to buy when they had, and the stray dogs and cats roaming freely at night, things pretty much remained the same in Preacher’s Bend. Life went on as it should in a town of this size.
Except him. He figured he’d changed the most of all those here. But at least he could hold his head up high and look folks right in the eye. As an untamable youth he’d never been able to look anyone in the eye, unless they were of the female variety and somehow his gaze never quite went any higher than beyond the neck.
Even then a wayward eye had gotten him in a whole heap of trouble.
Women? Women had always been his downfall, but not anymore. A long trail of tears was not his thing anymore.
All the closed-off memories of his past hit him like a ton of bricks; almost as if he could sense their presence straight through his soul. Inside here he could remember her.
Damnit! Today was not the day for any past ghosts to be haunting him, any more than they were going to when dead.
Jake’s long sleepless nights were already filled with more than enough past ghosts scratching at his soul. He simply needed food in his belly, another ten minutes to get his head screwed on a bit tighter, then?
If all goes in the direction it’s supposed to, he’ll then head over to the ever-lovely Debra . . . and check in.
Check in? Shit! That was almost like saying Preacher’s Bend’s police station was the closest thing to a legitimate motel. Yet, in many respects to it, the place could be called that. Those who seemed to be in permanent residence tended to stayed a bit longer than they really had to.
Debra Wesley was mean. She did not like crime no matter the reason. And she sure as hell did not like it happening in Preacher’s Bend. With a gun at her hip she could do just about anything she wanted and get away with it. This included prolonged stay at the police station.
Locking a man up to keep him out of her hair for a day or two somehow translated into Debra being able to breathe.
Now if his other half-sister, Sister Bets, was running the local police station? Jake would be riding down the middle of easy street for the rest of his life, and he’d sure as hell still seated on his custom-built Harley Davidson motorcycle. He’d be having a lot more fun, that’s for sure.
Sister Bets was pining away her life, stuck in a convent for a God she’d not given much thought to, until He literally smacked her over the head. She might have been good for her big brother, but she was no longer here, and Jake, among many others, knew exactly what good ole` Bets was capable of. She’d done a lot throughout her seemingly shorter-than-his life. At least fifteen years of this life spent in the back seat of the old Chevy their father had disposed of by parking it down in the bottom of the quarry. She’d spread her legs apart for anyone who’d wanted them to be spread when inside that car.
The next twelve years were on her skinned, bruised knees repenting those many lustful sins.
Sister Bets was a real charmer. And Jake, at one time in his life, did have quite the ego to feed.
He shook his head, groaning inwardly. Curt Giotti, bless his satanic soul, had but one too many kids, with far too many woman that were not his loving wife.
A person could say Jake was hard pressed to find one single woman that wasn't half-related to him.
But when he had . . .
Boy! When he had . . .
No! Damnit! Not today. Not until there was food in his stomach, and not until he . . . checked in!
He dropped onto the booth’s bench, slid the salt and peppershakers over as his ass slid over, and grabbed a couple of napkins out of the metal dispenser. It was always best to be prepared when dealing with Rachel.
“Hey there handsome. You want the usual this morning?” She wiped the booth with a wet dish rag and knew exactly what he was going to do with the dry napkins.
Very quickly, she brushed the crumbs into her hand, smiling sweetly at his face.
Jake grinned back. He moved both shakers aside again for Rachel as she swiped under the remaining condiments to clean up his space. He then undid his tie and removed it, dropping the silk onto the worn seat, u
nbuttoning the two top buttons at his throat, and exposing his neckline. He might be wearing a suit this morning but the tie had to go.
“No. Not today. Just bring me burger and fries, Rach, and a cup of coffee.”
“But, honey,” she whined. “It’s only nine o’clock in the morning. Burger and fries already? You must have had a really good night.” A hasty wink came his way from a woman who knew what a good night meant.
Jake was more than aware Rachel would make whatever she wanted out of the unusual food request. As well, do whatever he asked of her. If a smile preceded the asking, that was. There came a time when a man’s unending charm had its perks in Preacher’s Bend. But Rachel also had a thing for him which certainly helped with getting what he wanted out of her in the way of food.
“Do I look like a pancake sort of guy, Rach?” He shifted in the booth to stretch out his long legs, drawing her in to his charm, almost like moth to flame.
“Not on your life, tough guy,” she admitted, shoving the rag into the front pocket of her already soaked apron and giving him another sly wink.
‘Pancakes and Jake?’ Not on her watch.
“You do look ready for the good stuff,” she said.
For the moment, Jake didn’t dare himself to question what she considered ‘good stuff’. Hopefully all of it was good.
Every Sunday morning he ordered eggs and bacon for breakfast, a side of toast, and a strong cup of coffee to wash it all down. He would leave her a hefty tip, to boot. For a man to go straight for the ‘good stuff’ around here meant a bad night under the belt, and he knew he wasn’t going to get away with pretending otherwise.
He watched the café owner dart off toward the kitchen doors. Her shapely hips were sashaying to the come-hither tune in his head. Yeah, she wanted him, bad enough to let him actually see this. Hell, bad enough to let anyone with eyes see this futile quest. All the women in this town wanted a piece of him at some time or another.
Roundabout Road (Saving the Sinners of Preacher's Bend Book 2) Page 2