She felt people patting her on the back, reaching for her hands, guiding her along the path, and up the shaking stairs. Or were her legs shaking? Sight blurred with tears, she crossed the stage to stand in front of Sam.
“I want to take this moment to publicly thank Levisa Harris for making me into a new man. She believed in me and worked with me when others laughed and ridiculed me. She saw through my Pigtown accent to my potential and helped transform my life. I am eternally grateful.”
Applause and cheers filled the arena up to the rafters with sound, until Sam held up his hand for them to stop. Rooted to the spot, unable to speak for fear of blubbering, Levisa smiled and nodded, then turned to go.
“One more thing.”
She turned back to him, his black hair slick and neatly placed under his cap, brown eyes bright, and a broad smile across his face. Then, before all and to her breathless amazement, he got down on one knee and said, “I love you, Levisa. Will you marry me?”
She froze. The arena fell silent and she could hear her breath coming in short, shallow puffs. The butterflies in her stomach quivered in a question mark, her hands and legs trembled, and her field of vision compressed to a tunnel, with Sam at the end of it. She stared into his eyes and saw the depth of his passion—and her future. The trance broke.
Levisa reached for his hand, pulled him up to standing, and said, “Yes, Sam Parker of Pigtown, Bawlamer, I will marry you.”
Cheering and stomping roared from the crowd.
A Sizzling Smooch: Bonded for Life
~*~
CHAPTER ONE
Lola Getz climbed out of the salt water pool and shook out her long black tresses. Every man standing guard around the compound stood at attention--above and below the waist. And she knew it. Pretending not to notice the looks of lust, she toweled off her legs with upward languid motions. When she reached her hot pink bikini bottom, she wrapped the terry cloth around her butt and slowly rubbed it back and forth.
A new guy groaned and his peers laughed, and then fell silent, when the head guard ordered them to shut up.
She threw a leopard cover over her lush curves, prompting sighs of disappointment. She smiled. “Show’s over, muchachos.”
As she sashayed into the stucco covered mansion, curses swelled behind her—all aimed at the new body guard. She knew they’d straighten him out, or kick him to the curb.
Flora, her loyal housekeeper, greeted Lola with a hot cup of coffee and a gap-toothed smile. Lola had offered to buy the gray-haired woman new teeth, but the elder had declined, saying at her age she wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy them. Aztec blood ran through Flora’s veins, so it was hard to tell if she was sixty, or six-hundred years old.
Lola took a sip of the scalding café con leche. “Has the mail arrived?”
“Si. On the front table.” Flora handed her a cloth napkin and stared at the floor.
“Lo que es? What is it?”
“Lo siento, so sorry. The envelopes were all open when the mailman he gives them to me.” Flora shook her head and sighed. “Things are getting worse, Senora.”
Dammit. What was wrong with the mail service? Hadn’t she just paid an exorbitant ‘service fee’ to the post master to keep her mail private? Ever since her husband died last year, things had been going downhill.
When they had married ten years ago, Rico was an ambitious young car salesman. Over time, he became a wealthy dealer, catering to those who wished to travel in style and safety. The specialty of the dealership was protection: bullet-proof cars with tinted windows. He began with Mercedes, then moved into Hummers, just like the ones used in the wars in the Middle East, minus the camouflage. These big rides were tricked out in metallic colors and artistic detailing that corresponded with the tattoos preferred by each cartel.
Perhaps he'd still be alive today, if he'd used one of the custom vehicles himself, instead of run off the road on his beloved Harley.
Lola knew it was the work of a rival car dealer, someone who paid a mobster to kill him. But, of course, there were no witnesses. And the corrupt cops just shrugged when she went to them crying and screaming for justice.
After she buried Rico, she sold the car dealership to her wealthy cousin, Isabel Ramirez, for a pittance. In exchange, Izzy provided twenty-four/seven bodyguards for Lola’s estate. Her cousin warned her to be vigilant; kidnappings of family members of affluent families for exorbitant ransoms were rampant in the province. Izzy insisted Lola keep a 'go bag' packed and a throw-away phone pre-loaded with a list of emergency phone numbers. In addition, the same paranoid, the end-is-near-cousin helped her set up safe houses in and outside Mexico. For the past eleven months, Lola had felt protected in her fortified enclave—until today when the mail arrived, already opened.
A little shudder ran up her spine, but Lola was not about to give in to her cousin’s paranoia, and told herself she was chilled from the cool marble foyer and nothing more.
She set the coffee cup down, before picking up a large envelope covered with grubby fingerprints. The pig that opened her mail must have been eating chocolate at the same time. She stared at the postmark, it had been mailed months ago. God only knew how long it had sat in the Mexican post office.
Summerville, New York? It couldn’t be. She tore off what was left of the paper and read the invitation, squinting at the words half-hidden by a large smudged thumb print.
Dear fellow alumna,
Hard to believe it's been 25 years since we last walked the halls of Summerville High. Wouldn't you like to know what's going on with former classmates? The Reunion Committee has worked hard to plan a fabulous, fun-filled three day celebration on the last weekend in June at the historic Summerville Inn.
Come for one day or all three—but register early for the SHS package discount. Bring your spouse or come stag. You won't believe the surprises waiting for you!
RSVP to [email protected]
How had they found her? Damn the Internet and its googling eyes. One of the New York galleries that showcased her work must have given them her address. Was there no way to escape from the assholes of high school past?
Unbidden, hot tears welled up in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. That year, her senior year, without a word of explanation, and despite her protests, Lola’s parents shipped her off from the exciting city of Chihuahua, Mexico to the boring town of Summerville on the shores of Lake Ontario in Western New York State.
The cheerful wording better described an invitation from hell that would occur ten days from now. With the anniversary of her beloved Rico’s death approaching, the last thing she wanted was to relive wretched memories of Summerville, New York.
Never—Ever, again.
“Flora, where’s the shredder? Didn’t I tell you to leave it there?” She pointed at a spot to the right of the table.
“Ah, Senora, don’t you remember, you asked me to move it to your office? So you could get rid of your husband’s old business papers?”
Lola bit her lip. “You’re right. Gracias.”
Flora bobbed her head and hurried toward the kitchen.
Aromas of cinnamon and chocolate wafted in the air. Was chicken mole on tonight's menu? Lola’s stomach growled. She needed to get the salt water off her skin and hair before dinner. She grabbed her mug, stuffed the invitation into the pocket of her leopard cover up, and headed for the shower.
~*~
Packed with every self-serving merchant in Summerville, the community center room was so hot and the air so charged, it felt as if a thunderstorm would break at any moment. First dabbing at the sweat dripping into his eyes with a monogrammed hankie, then removing his expensive tailored suit jacket, Richard, aka Dickhead, Heade blathered on.
“And as you can see from this diagram, the band will be on the stage, facing the head table,” Chief of Police Heade paused in his Power Point presentation. “Get it? Head table?”
A few suck-ups snickered; one woman, who laughed like a chicken, clucked along
with them.
Dick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Ahh, I kill myself.”
Webster Bond covered his face with his hands and moaned. If he had to sit through one more of these reunion planning meetings he'd eat his sidearm. Thank God, the nightmare would be over in ten days.
“You got a problem, Dweebster?” Dickhead's whine had all the charm of a droning buzz saw.
Web leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no, I love going through the same slide show over and over and over again, all for a frigging high school reunion. The only thing we’re missing, Chief, is the picture of you in your awesome 1985 mullet.”
Chicken woman commenced clucking and the snickering grew to roars of guffaws.
Heade’s cheeks reddened. “So, do you believe you’re too good for this committee, Dweebster?”
“It seems to me, the SPD has matters that should take a higher priority, like aliens slipping over the border from Canada.”
“Trafficking of illegals belongs to ICE, not SPD.”
“So as the Chief of SPD, that’s your official position?” Web tilted back, lifting the front feet of his chair off the floor. “Seems to me, we just got a BOLO for a delivery of Chinese packed in hidden compartments in cement freighters out of Toronto.”
As Heade’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, he strode to Web’s chair, reached out and gave it a yank. Web leaped to his feet just in time to avoid toppling to the floor. Under his breath, Heade murmured something for Web's ears only. “You'll pay for that, Bond.”
Web stared at him. On any day, Chief of Police Heade was a manipulative charmer, especially for the public. This display of teenage crapola went outside the box. What's going on here?
He flipped into cop mode, conducting an almost instantaneous visual assessment. Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils and hand tremors. A runny nose?
Oh shit. This was worse than Web originally thought. He kept his hands at his sides, not moving a muscle. If he flinched, the former school yard bully—now town bully, would win. The room went silent, including chicken woman.
“I’m not one of your rookies,” he retorted, “scared of their own shadows. Go back to what you do best—blowing hot air.”
Dickhead's eyes bulged; a slow trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. Very smoothly, he lifted the silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and covered the end of his beaked nose. Just then, his over-dressed, over-endowed wife stepped between them.
“Boys, for God’s sake.” As Dick continued to dab at his nostrils, Beth Heade yanked at her husband’s arm. “We have more important things to work on than some juvenile pissing contest.”
Heade lowered his fist and allowed himself to be led away, all the while glaring at Web. “I’ll make sure you’re on the night shift the rest of your life, Dweebster.”
Web shrugged. There were worse things in life—like being married to Dick Heade, for one. He sat down and listened to Beth pick up where her husband left off, her high-pitched voice artificially cheerful, as if she was on the Home Shopping Network hawking a particularly garish lot of jewelry.
“Okay, then,” Beth pointed the remote control and clicked to the next slide, showing downtown Summerville. “It is going to be very busy time. Between the reunion and the Arts Festival, every hotel room in town and in the neighboring villages are booked. This is a great opportunity for homeowners to rent out rooms to our visitors.”
The next slide showed Beth’s downtown real estate office. Web assumed she couldn’t resist the opportunity for a bit of shameless self-promotion
Despite the fact that their rival hogged the spotlight, two other local realtors, Susan Cloutier and Sam Kruger, seemed unperturbed by Beth’s hype. Web knew for a fact that many clients defected from Heade Real Estate when they grew tired of Dickhead’s intrusions into his wife's business dealings. His overbearing boss just had to be in charge of everything and everyone in his realm.
“As always, I’m happy to help with rental agreements,” Beth announced. “Let’s not forget that in addition to catching up with our old or shall we say, mature colleagues, we have a wonderful marketing opportunity for Summerville. Some folks might decide they want to move back here to be among their friends.”
A photo of sail boats gliding across the white capped surface of Lake Ontario came up on screen. “Or they might want a summer home.” Beth flipped to a photo of a brick town home on Lake Shore Boulevard. Thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, the perpetual look of false surprise on her face grew to clown-like proportions. “We have everything here in Summerville!”
Web couldn’t decide which was more annoying. Dick's nasal annoying bombast ego driven dribble, or Beth with her incessant chirping. If it hadn’t been for his mother, Web would have escaped from this boring little burg a long time ago, and moved on to more exciting places where he could make a difference, instead of spending weekends arresting underage drinkers at the U.
The death of his father in a car crash when Web was sixteen sealed his fate. He stayed in Summerville to become his mother’s scrawny, but determined protector. Her slow descent into Alzheimer’s Disease, turned his role into a permanent one.
His mind drifted back to those dreadful adolescent years when, all arms and legs, he was known as the Dweebster. He’d spent a lot of time stuffed into hall lockers by his constant tormentor, the same back then as now, Dick Heade. The only good thing that ever came out of it was meeting Lola Getz the day she opened her locker and he fell out—right on top of her luscious curves.
They both went down, him flailing, her squealing. Then, she’d dissolved into laughter. He’d been mortified, but would never forget what she said after they finally got back to their feet and he told her his name.
“Webster Bond.”
“Hmm. Stirred but not shaken. I like that in a man.”
Her Mexican accent sent a thrill down his spine and elsewhere. Thankfully, the class bell rang before he could say anything terminally stupid.
After high school, with no money for an out of town, much less out of state university, Web enrolled at Summerville University. Knowing he wanted to get into the police academy, his Criminal Justice Studies advisor took him under his wing to mentor him. Over time, with the help of the professor, puberty, and pumping iron, Web morphed from a scrawny kid into a lean, mean muscle machine.
From that point onward, women fell over themselves to get him into bed. He’d even been told by the same professor, still his mentor, the local co-eds had a running contest to see who could get arrested by the ‘hunky cop’.
He came back to the present and tried to focus on a new slide, allegedly of Doogan’s Pub, but with the Heade Real Estate sign clearly visible next door. Talk about shameless self promotion. He closed his eyes and wondered if the years had been kind to Lola, or if she’d turned into someone like the overly surgerized Beth.
Web shook his head to clear his mind of the revolting image of Lola with artificial body parts. The only person he was remotely interested in reconnecting with from that era probably didn’t even remember him. Besides, after what happened to her, he doubted she’d ever want to see Summerville again.
CHAPTER TWO
~*~
Ravenous, Lola slipped into a plush terrycloth robe and wrapped a towel around her thick hair. She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into that chicken mole. It had been calling her name for the last thirty minutes. She slid into a pair of flip flops and flapped her way to the kitchen, the tantalizing aromas growing stronger with each step.
“Flora?”
She pushed the swinging door inward and paused to admire the room. Aside from the minor work she’d had done on her studio behind the house, the kitchen had been the last renovation on the old casa before her husband’s death. Outrageously non-Mexican, its white tile floors, black granite counters dotted with opal inclusions and white cabinets with glass fronts gave the room a clean, modern look.
Lola’s marketplace paintings, much sought afte
r in the United States and elsewhere, imbued the space with splashes of color and contrasted past with present. Mexico, with all its turmoil, crime and corruption was still a beautiful country replete with the contradictions of modern day life and a foundation of ancient civilizations that still could be seen in the faces of the common people.
A covered dish sat on the stove; the table was set for one. A glass of red wine awaited her, along with a note. She opened it. Large block letters spelled out “LO SIENTO. FLORA.” How odd. Flora never left notes. Lola had no idea the woman could even read or write.
What the hell was going on?
She looked out the kitchen door, searching for the telltale glow of the night watchman’s cigarette. Nada. She ran to each exit, trying to find signs of the usual cadre of gunslingers assigned to stand at each of her entryways.
Nada, nada and nada.
Panic bubbled through her chest. She ran to her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and picked up the house phone.
It was dead.
Her cell phone wasn’t safe. Izzy had told her that anyone with a Bluetooth headset and a computer could listen in on her conversations, worse yet, they could track her movements using the GPS in her own phone. She grabbed the 'go bag' from the closet shelf, threw in the leopard cover for sleeping, tossed the throw-away phone into her large purse, and opened the hidden wall safe. Stacks of US currency and jewelry went into her bag next, along with passports from two different countries. She hesitated for a moment when she reached for the next item.
She wouldn’t get across the border if she took it with her. On the other hand, there was a good chance she wouldn’t make it out of the compound if she didn’t.
Lola took a deep breath. Enough waffling. Her life was in danger.
She grabbed two boxes of ammo and the Glock. Good thing she’d practiced with it during the last weeks. She might just need to kill a few coyotes.
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