The Art of Getting Away
A companion short story to
The Art of Living Series
Nicole Sorrell
Copyright 2016 Nicole Sorrell
All right reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Print ISBN: 1537323997
EPUB ISBN: 9781370833115
Table of Contents
Title page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from The Art of Going Home
Chapter 1
Sunday, August 16, Present
CARLOS DROVE THE winding two-lane highway through the Missouri Ozark Mountains to Table Rock Lake. Two weeks ago, when an acquaintance offered to rent him a cabin there, he’d jumped at the chance for an impromptu vacation.
Now, spending six days alone with his thoughts didn’t seem like such a great idea.
He’d considered canceling the reservation. But his anger, building over the last month, had finally boiled over and onto a complaining customer. Carlos's boss, his Uncle José, had smoothed things over with the client. Afterward, he’d suggested Carlos use the solitude of his getaway to cope with what had happened. What a load of crap.
Well, too late now. He’d either drink himself into a stupor from boredom or go crazy.
Two hours from his hometown of Clantonville, and he was thirty minutes from his destination. The cabin was supposed to be nice. Close to its own beach surrounded by trees with a view of the sunrise. Great for swimming. Lots of privacy.
His heart slammed into his throat as he hit the brakes around the next blind curve. The rear wheels of his truck broke loose, and he struggled to maintain control. He skidded to a stop two feet from an SUV sitting in the road.
He leaped out of the cab, shouting obscenities at the idiot who’d almost gotten him killed. The ability to speak escaped him when he saw a girl standing by the 4Runner. Tears ran down her face. Shit. Nothing got to him more than a crying female.
“I’m sorry!” The words tumbled out of her. “It died as I was driving. I can't push it out of the way, and I don’t know what to do. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
In a slow sweep he took her in, from her head to her feet and back. Beautiful was the only word his brain could latch onto. With long shiny hair, she was slender and stood eight inches shorter than his six foot two. And young. In a simple tank top and cutoff jeans, her sculpted legs went on forever. His gaze got caught on her breasts for a moment before skimming to her unusual eyes. The color of turquoise, they were mostly blue with a hint of green. He mentally shook himself. Had she asked a question?
“Yeah, fine. Just rattled,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I'm sorry.” If only he could stop her tears. “Let’s get it out of the way. You get in. Don’t apply the brakes until it’s off the pavement.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said under her breath as she swiped at her cheeks. Louder, she added, “I can push, too. I don’t need to add my weight to it.”
“No, it’s not safe without someone steering. And you can’t weigh more than a sparrow. It’s okay, get in.” She huffed but did as he asked. “The handbrake is off, right?”
“Yes!” she said. Her feisty attitude cheered him up more than anything had since the funeral. With an extraordinary effort from his muscular frame, he got her old Toyota rolling. When he’d pushed it under the oak trees, Carlos quickly moved his Chevy behind it. Thank God that stretch of highway had a shoulder. They were scarce on these twisting roads.
He walked over, took her hand to help her out, and then held it. “I’m Carlos,” he said.
“My name’s Pandora,” she said in a husky voice. When he showed confusion, she added, “It’s from Greek mythology. You know, the woman who released troubles upon humanity? Mom said I looked mischievous when I was born. People call me Dora.”
Not sure mischievous fits. Sassy, maybe. “Nice to meet you. If you want, I’ll check it. Pop the hood?”
“Do you know what the trouble might be?” she asked as she bent into the interior. He couldn’t keep from noticing her perfect ass. When she straightened he glanced up too late. Busted.
“Huh?”
“Do you know anything about engines?” she repeated.
“A bit.” It was an understatement. He’d been a professional mechanic for ten years, and a good one. “It’s not out of gas, is it?”
“It’s three-quarters full!” Again, that cheekiness. Damned if he didn’t break out in a smile.
“When’s the last time it was in for service?” he asked.
“I had it in for an oil change three weeks ago,” she answered. “And my boyfriend said the oil level was okay before I left St. Louis.”
Damn it. The mention of a boyfriend pissed him off. Under the hood, it took five seconds to see that the battery terminals were corroded. When he touched the positive cable, it wiggled.
“You have any coke?” he asked.
“What?” she screeched.
He raised an eyebrow. “The beverage.”
“Are you thirsty?” He shook his head in answer and accepted the cola she retrieved without comment. He poured a small amount on the battery. At his truck, he got his toothbrush from his duffle bag and a wrench out of the toolbox.
“I’ll need water, too, if you have it,” he said. She returned with a bottle and stood with him as he brushed until the corrosion was removed. The water washed away the debris.
After tightening the loose cable, he said, “Let’s see if that’ll get it to start.” The SUV fired immediately when she turned the key.
“You did it! You got it running!” she squealed, hopping out.
Her delight brought him another honest-to-God smile. “You’re welcome. I doubt that’s the only problem, though. Have a good mechanic do a diagnostic test as soon as possible.”
“I guess I owe you one. Can I pay you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Repay me by having it repaired, okay? That way I won’t worry you’ll be stranded again and get hurt.” His concern transformed her features with wonder.
“I will.” She hesitated, looking over his handsome square jaw, black hair, and dark brown eyes. Then she surprised the hell out of him by putting a hand on his neck and tugging him close. The rich perfume of sandalwood reached him as velvet lips brushed his. “Thank you,” she whispered. Before he could move, she was gone.
~~~
Sitting in his parked truck in front of a diner in Timberline City, Carlos rubbed his temple. He needed to get a grip. He was as infatuated as a horny teenager gaping at his first centerfold.
Pandora. What kind of goofy name was that? Didn’t fit her. Neither did Dora. Pandie? Nah. That sounded like a Chinese Chihuahua. Andie? Yeah, she looked more like an Andie, with that glint in her eye. Definitely sassy. He recognized that somehow she’d eased his burdens. He chided himself. She would've forgotten him in five minutes.
As he crossed the parking lot he overheard a couple arguing in their Mercedes convertible. The man was about Carlos’s age of thirty-four, wore a starched white shirt open at the collar and had slicked back hair. The woman looked about fifty, and was elegant with tousled blond hair, designer sunglasses and diam
ond earrings. She sneered at the restaurant.
“I’m not setting foot in there,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t care how wonderful the catfish is supposed to be. I’m surprised it hasn’t been closed for spreading salmonella. I can’t believe I let you talk me into driving to Dallas.”
“Come on Estella. This place is famous. You went to a local restaurant in the hills of Tuscany and loved it.”
“The cuisine in La Casa Casciano was prepared by an Italian chef who had owned a three Michelin star restaurant in Rome. That’s hardly the same as eating lake scavengers fried by a barefoot hillbilly who wouldn’t know a Michelin star from a Hollywood star.”
“Have it your way, then,” the man said, throwing up his hands. “I’ll just run in and get a sandwich to go. I promise I’ll only be a minute.”
Carlos heard the car door shut. Moments later the sound of screeching tires made him glance back. Estella was racing away, and the man tore after her in what had to be expensive Italian leather shoes. His shouts rose over the luxury car’s motor as it shot down the street. Carlos shook his head as he entered the restaurant. Tourists.
Fried channel cat did sound good though.
“Dinner for one?” the pimply boy at the hostess station drawled.
“Hello,” he answered. “No, thanks. I’m here to pick up the key for one fifteen Log Sluice Road.”
As the young man went to the office he inhaled the smell of hot cooking oil. When the waiter came back he requested Carlos’s ID and had him sign the lease agreement. “Your cabin’s across the bridge, off route thirteen. Turn left on Possum Hill Lane. After a half mile and the curve to the left, take a right on the private gravel drive.”
“Where’s the closest place to it to get a beer?” Carlos asked.
“Gabe’s. You’ll pass by it on Possum Hill. It’s a bar, and they got pizza and wings, too.”
Carlos took his copy of the paperwork with the key and headed out. Ten minutes later he almost missed the driveway. He followed it about a quarter mile to the cabin which was smaller than he’d expected. The board siding was brown, and a porch on the east side held two beat-up chairs. The water, barely visible through the forest, was four hundred feet from it. Inside, it was utilitarian and plain, yet clean. A kitchenette ran along one wall. There was a scratched wood dining table and mismatched furniture. Thrift store lamps with crooked shades flanked the sofa.
After inspecting the bedrooms, Carlos left his duffle in the one with the best mattress. A bathroom was in the corner beyond the kitchen. Not impressive; however it would work for a week. He brought in his cooler that contained a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer. His first and only order of business was drinking.
Out on the steps, he guzzled two cans. The instant buzz made him calmer. He’d had nothing to drink since his bender the night Aunt Ceci died.
He recognized why dealing with her death was becoming more difficult. His mom had abandoned him when he was four. Cecilia became a mother to him, and he’d loved her as much as any son could. Tears pricked, and he pushed his fists into his lids until he saw starbursts. Fuck! This wasn’t working.
As he buckled his seatbelt, he guessed his blood alcohol level was over the legal limit. He was beyond caring. Gunning the engine made the tires spray dirt and gravel. At the road, he turned left for Gabe’s.
The restaurant was only a few yards away. Within walking distance. Neon signs advertising beer seemed out of place on its rustic log exterior. The interior held twenty tables between the booths that lined opposite walls. The bar stood against the back, with the kitchen behind and restrooms in the corner down a short hall. He sat in the farthest booth to avoid any misplaced ideas he wanted conversation.
A sixtyish waitress approached him once he'd settled in. In a stained white apron over jeans and a shirt two sizes too large, she smiled with her whole face.
“Hey there,” she said. “I’m JoAnne. What can I get for you, hon?” She held a pad ready.
“Hi, JoAnne, I'm Carlos. I’ll have a Coors draft, and keep them coming,” he said. “Also, a small pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and beef.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. A shot of whiskey, please.” She made a note and brought his drinks a minute later. He sipped the liquor, resisting the urge to gulp it.
When JoAnne brought his food, she nodded to the empty shot glass, asking, “You want another?”
“No, thanks. That'll do it.”
Numbness slid over his brain, and he relished it as he slowly chewed. The pizza was good, with lots of cheese and generous portions of meat. Hungrier than he’d realized, he polished off the whole pie with the beer. He caught JoAnne’s eye, motioning with his glass. She brought another, seeming to understand he wasn’t interested in chitchat. She scooped up his empty, saying only, “Here you go, hon.”
The place was getting full by the time Carlos was deep into his third drink. It was the peak of the tourist season. He glanced over his shoulder when someone entered and saw an extremely skinny guy. Hitching up his pants mid-stride, “Skinny” wore ragged jeans that had holes in the knees. They resettled low on his hips. He had greasy hair, and his goatee was long and unkempt. He was twitchy and sneered as if he owned the world.
Carlos whipped around the second Andie came in. Aw, hell. She would have to show up here. Carlos assumed this was the boyfriend though it was hard to tell. When they passed by she followed three steps behind Skinny, who ignored her. They took barstools near his booth.
“Couple of Bud drafts. Hurry up,” he demanded. The old bartender didn’t reply, drifting off to fill the order. Skinny bounced his leg faster than a machine gun.
This guy was full of charm. What the hell was such a great girl doing with that loser? Well, Carlos wouldn’t waste time worrying about it. None of his business.
“Shit,” Skinny said, turning to Andie. “I forgot my smokes. Go get ‘em for me.” Head hanging, she passed Carlos without noticing him.
“Damn it!” Skinny yelled at her when she’d returned. “There’s only two left in the pack, stupid! Get me a full one out the carton.”
Carlos almost jumped up to throttle the guy. He was treating her like dirt, and she seemed to take it with no objections. Where’s the sassy girl I met earlier? She turned and her big turquoise eyes locked with his, then she hurried by.
A few seconds later he stood. To signal he wasn’t skipping out on his tab he put his keys on the table and rushed out. Just in time to see her stunning ass as she reached into her worn-out SUV. Despite his seething anger the sight made him pause. Too soon, she’d retrieved the cigarettes and closed the door.
“Hi,” he said, walking over.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Any more problems with it?” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but getting more personal wouldn’t be appropriate.
“No, it’s running great. I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened if you hadn’t helped me.”
“I’d do anything for you, Andie.” To hell with appropriate. He stepped so close she had to tilt her chin up.
“Andie?” she asked.
“Yeah. You don’t look like a Dora to me.”
“No one’s ever called me that,” she said. A slow smile stole over her. “I love it.” The breeze ruffled her hair, and he smoothed it into place.
“Why?” he whispered.
She was staring at his mouth. “Why what?”
“I’ve watched him for ten minutes, and can tell he’s bad news. You deserve to be treasured, not disrespected.”
“James is... he’s only...” her words faded.
“He’s an addict,” Carlos said. “You know that, right? He’s too thin. And the fidgeting is another sign.”
“He told me he quit last month.”
“Has he gained weight since?” he asked.
“No,” Andie conceded. Her expression was one of the saddest he’d ever seen. He enfolded her in his arms. She stiffened before relaxi
ng against him. God, she felt good. He sighed and kissed her hair.
That seemed to bring her back to reality, and she sprang away. “Thanks again for your help with the 4Runner.” She scurried inside.
Aw, shit. What the hell had gotten into him? He blew out a long breath and went to settle his tab.
Chapter 2
IN THE SHOWER, CARLOS stood with bowed head and clenched fists until the water ran cold. He struggled with his mounting frustration. The way Andie had been treated renewed his sense of defeat. Instead of punching something he toweled off and pulled on sweat pants, then grabbed the whiskey. After two long pulls from the bottle, he sagged to the sofa.
A band of sunshine crept across the room. When it reached him he flung an arm over his eyes. Ugh! Grime coated his mouth. His head pounded. Even his nose hurt. He picked up his shaving kit from the duffle bag and dragged himself to the bathroom.
Damn! Yesterday in town he'd forgotten to get another toothbrush. Hand soap worked pretty well to clean the gunk from Andie’s battery. After brushing, he shaved off his two-week-old beard.
The heat of the day was rising, and it amplified his hunger. In flip-flops, he went to a convenience store for groceries. With bread, chips, ham, bologna and cheese in the basket, he added a six pack of sports drinks. Gotta replace those electrolytes. Two bottles and three sandwiches later, he’d almost returned to normal.
Out on the porch the air smelled fresh and sweet, reminding him of the day they’d laid his aunt to rest. His mom had shown up after thirty years with no communication. At the funeral of the woman who was a real mother to him. Like she could just pop back into their lives.
Childhood memories washed over him. Night after night, begging for Mom to come home; crying himself to sleep for weeks when he understood she wasn’t. Had he made her leave? Maybe he’d been bad.
No, it wasn’t me, he told himself for the millionth time. That was all on her.
The Art of Getting Away (Companion Short Story to The Art of Living series) Page 1