by Sarah Title
That was another thing he hated. Being thirty-one. Thirty was not so bad. Thirty-one seemed like: no turning back now, buddy. And what was he doing with his life? Well, aside from being Midwest Regional Sales Rep for Bateman Veterinary Supply, and kind of sucking at that. He had made about three sales in Indiana. Now he was just hoping for his next appointment to go well so he could go back to his dinky apartment above his cousin’s garage and watch everyone sing holiday songs and drink cocoa and get fat.
He looked quickly at his smartphone. No reception. Dammit. His cousin had warned him about two things: one, that in Kentucky horse country, veterinary supplies were big money, and if they wanted to break into the market, they would have to start small; and two, don’t get lost on any dirt roads. It was late, and he was beginning to feel lost as soon as he pulled off the interstate. He thought he would just find a place to stay, then call on . . . whoever it was early in the morning, then start the long drive back.
But when he pulled off the interstate, there were no hotels. No restaurants, not even street lights. He was beginning to think his cousin was playing one of his practical jokes, the kind that made Ed laugh and made Andrew end up with his pants around his ankles or stone-drunk in a biker bar. Kentucky wasn’t even in the Midwest. He tapped his GPS, and it sputtered a direction at him. It had only worked sporadically since he crossed the border. Maybe he was just imagining that. Southern Indiana was pretty hilly; surely he’d had reception problems there, too. All he knew was that the satellite wouldn’t pick up the signal unless he tapped the GPS. He was used to electronic equipment behaving when he asked it to, but this was getting ridiculous. He would have just turned it off and followed signs to—what was the town called? Hollow Bend, said the nice lady on the GPS. But there were no signs. Only darkness, and hills, and snow.
Billie Monroe loved snow.
She loved that feeling of putting on your snow boots and zipping your coat up to your chin and seeing your breath as you walked everywhere because it was too dangerous to drive. Besides, it hardly ever snowed in Hollow Bend, at least not enough to stick, and never this early in the winter. She was going to enjoy it.
She tried her best to skip as she approached the entrance to the Cold Spot, Hollow Bend’s answer to a hipster hangout. Of course, there were no hipsters in Hollow Bend, so the Cold Spot adjusted accordingly. Everyone was happier with a honky-tonk anyway.
Her best friend, Katie Carson, was standing outside, shivering without her coat and talking to Trevor Blank, who was smoking a cigarette. And shivering. Billie rolled her eyes. Those two were doing their dance again. She had gone out with Trevor once or twice—every girl in town had—but found him a little . . . dumb. That’s not very nice, she thought. But man, it was true. All those beautiful farm muscles and she still couldn’t work up much enthusiasm. It was hard to get too excited over a guy who thought Shakespeare was a fancy mixed drink.
Billie called out and Katie nodded in greeting, keeping her hands under her arms. But her face lit up in a big smile.
“Nice hat, Monroe,” she said.
“You don’t like it?” Billie said, fingering the red pom-pom bouncing on her head. “You’re just jealous because Miss Libby made a hat for me and not for you.”
“Oh, she made me a hat,” said Katie, smiling. “I just conveniently lost it in the woods. In eighth grade.”
“I like it,” offered Trevor with a shrug. So cute, thought Billie. So cute and so, so dumb.
“Thank you, Trevor.”
He smiled at her. Not happening, thought Billie. You better stake your claim on Katie before Chase gets here.
“Where’s my brother?” Katie asked, stomping from one foot to the other. “I thought you said he was coming.”
“Ugh, he’s staying home,” said Billie. “Today is the two-month anniversary of his coming back to work with my dad. But he said we celebrated enough for the one-month anniversary.”
“And he wanted to get home to his pregnant wife?”
“He told you?” Billie asked. She had figured it out for herself. Mal had been sick every morning for a month but was still walking around with moony eyes. Keith was much worse, twice as moony as Mal, and every time she passed him, he would put his hands over her belly. For a man who barely spoke, Keith Carson was terrible at keeping secrets.
“No. We all figured it out when they came over for dinner last week. He wouldn’t let Mal lift anything and every time he stood next to her, he put his hand over her belly. Miss Libby hasn’t stopped crying.”
“Yeah, when he came into the office last week, he couldn’t stop smiling, even when he had to pull half a dish towel and a wristwatch out of the Coopers’ dachshund.”
“Well, I guess we’re drinking alone,” said Katie, opening the door.
“I’ll keep you ladies company,” said Trevor, following her inside.
Billie shook her head. She should be annoyed that her impromptu celebration was turning into a third-wheel night, but she couldn’t muster up any irritation. She had been a good girl all autumn, and she wanted to cut loose. Besides, she had a lot to celebrate. Thanks to Keith, her father was finally getting ready to retire, it was a week before Christmas, and the night was young. She was about to get drunk with her best friend and a very handsome, if dumb, guy, and it was snowing—really snowing. That never happened in December. Nothing was going to ruin her night.
Until a car skidded on the street in front of her and crashed into the side of the bar.
One minute Andrew was shaking the GPS, because surely this was not the town his cousin had booked his sales call in. It hardly seemed big enough for a dog crate, let alone a vet practice. And the next his life was flashing before his eyes as he felt the back wheels lose traction and spin out. It was a short flash, which surprised him because he felt like this drive had aged him about seventy years. There were the plastic fire helmet, the Big Wheels, his first Mohawk, his mom making him grow out his first Mohawk, his first girlfriend, his first girlfriend dumping him, graduation, cubicle, cubicle, cubicle, pink slip. The car finally skidded to a stop with the help of a very sturdy-looking brick building that had no windows. The first thought Andrew registered, as his head snapped in slow-motion toward the air bag, was that he hoped the equipment samples in the trunk were okay or his cousin was going to kill him.
He let his head hit the air bag. What was the point?
Then everything came into sharp focus: his engine steaming, his shoulder burning under the locked seat belt, his head throbbing. Everything felt broken. If he died because of a sales call in Kentucky, he was going to kill his cousin.
A teenager with psychotic-anime eyes was pounding on his window. Oh, please, he thought, don’t let me die here. Not until I get to kill my cousin. He focused on her face, every part of his body taking forever to respond to his command to MOVE.
She seemed to be shouting at him. He looked at her lips, and was startled that they were very pretty. No, he thought. He was not falling into this trap. If he went with her, he’d be dead and then he wouldn’t be able to kill his cousin. But even through the foggy window and his haze of pain, he could see they were nice lips. He wondered if she would let him kiss her?
“Okay, okay,” he read on her lips. Whoa, he thought. Kentucky was a nice place to die.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Title
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3114-9
First Electronic Edition: June 2013
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