She got in the car and slammed the door, yanking the keys out from under her ass where he’d tossed them. She wanted to whir out of there, leaving him far behind, but the damn car wouldn’t start. It wasn’t just not turning over; all she heard was the clicking sound as the key turned. What the hell? She put her head on the steering wheel, certain she would never get out of here—this lot, this town, this state.
There was a tapping sound on the glass next to her and she cautiously raised her head to see Fynn’s fucking face staring back, mouthing, “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. It’s this fucking stupid car!” she yelled in the confined space. Then she opened the door and got out, planning to kick the door closed and throw herself down on the pavement in a show of protest—
But he interrupted her plans. “Did you charge it?”
She looked at him blankly. Why is everyone so damn interested in my finances? What does that matter?
“Charge it,” he enunciated slowly, like she was a lip-reader. Then he pantomimed two fingers inserted through a hole he made with his other hand. It looked like some kind of sexual overture.
She blushed. “I really don’t know what my credit card matters.”
“The battery,” he said plainly. “It’s an electric car.” He pointed to the “E” near the doorframe on the side.
Oh my God! She literally had to stop herself from smacking a good-grief hand on her forehead. Now the conversation with the woman at the rental desk made sense….
-26-
There was a knock on the cabin door, but Catherine refused to hear it. She was still facedown on the bed where she’d thrown herself when she got back from the most mortifying grocery trip ever, even trumping the time she had knocked over a display of pickles, breaking every single jar and sending green pickle juice like a flashflood through aisle four. It also trumped the time she accidentally pushed her cart right into the glass panel next to the automatic door and broke the retraction mechanism. But at least those things had happened a full year apart. She was no longer sticking to one humiliation per annum, or even per diem. No, today she had upped her own ante at the checkout with the damn dead battery in the parking lot—the whipped cream on her terrific week so far, which would make the look from the tow truck guy the cherry on top of that, telling her in no uncertain terms that she was an idiot for driving such a car in the first place and a complete moron for not knowing how to charge it. And to have all of it happen right in front of him? Kill me now. She had weathered her share of humiliations, but this—there was just something about this Fynn character that brought the most awkward, goofy, embarrassing parts of her personality into full view. She liked to hide her inner geek, and he was dragging it out into the sun.
Another knock, bordering on pounding.
“Go away,” she moaned into the mattress. It could only be one of two people—neither of which she wanted to see right now. Mr. Stilman could be coming to kick her out, which would probably be a blessing in disguise. Or maybe it was Fynn to get another laugh… or another peep show.
More insistent knocking.
“I’m not here!” she hollered, lifting her head just enough to be heard.
The door opened just as she realized that she’d forgotten to lock it behind her. She whirled around on the bed, sitting up, eyes blazing at the intrusion when she had so certainly voiced that she didn’t want company. She was sure she would be eyeball-to-eyeball with Joel Trager masquerading as Fynn, or the other way around—she didn’t even know who pissed her off more. But the image that greeted her stunned her speechless.
“Cat, is that any way to greet friends?” Tara reprimanded from the doorway, backlit by a halo of sunlight, and behind her Catherine glimpsed Georgia’s blazing red hair.
“But I—”
“But you can’t tell us what to do, and we were already on our way. You think we were going to disembark the plane on the middle of the tarmac because you told us to stay home? They don’t take kindly to those games on airplanes…. And what the hell is with that car? You catch some kind of environmental disease?” Tara asked incredulously. “Is that thing even allowed on the highway?” She spoke fast and furious and sounded so much like home that it brought tears to Catherine’s weary eyes.
“Yes, it can go on the highway,” she said lowly.
Tara looked back at her doubtfully.
“Why… what did you guys get?” Catherine eked out.
“A car for normal-size humans,” Tara said, her eyes now focused on the cabin at large.
“But this was all they had—how—”
“Triple-A, baby,” Georgia said, brushing past Tara and into the room.
“I knew I should have kept my membership,” Catherine groused. “Wait a second, back up—how did you find me?”
“We went to the only hotel in town and the guy there said that he’d sent a woman fitting your description here for a room,” Georgia answered plainly.
“My description?”
“We showed him your picture like we were looking for a perp,” Tara chimed in. “Told him we were bounty hunters.”
“Oh, great. Add that to my list of humiliations,” Catherine groaned, falling back onto the bed. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with relief.
“We did not,” Georgia said, eyeing Tara darkly while patting Catherine softly on the shoulder. “But we did find you, and we’re here to take you home—”
“After we save your ass,” Tara added.
Catherine looked to her oldest friend. “Really?”
Georgia paused. “Yes,” she sighed. “What do you need us to do?”
Tara was already busily poking through the cabin, picking up the plastic laundry bag and pulling out the humiliating moments of the last couple days like she was unearthing artifacts of a less than stellar life. “Well, obviously the girl needs reinforcements,” she said, holding up the coffee-stained pants with her forefinger and thumb like she had just plucked them out of the sewer.
“That’s coffee,” Catherine said, in an attempt to clear her good name.
“Got ‘em right here.” Georgia tapped the suitcase she’d plopped down at her feet.
“You brought me my clothes?”
“Of course we brought you clothes…. Although we didn’t have a key to your place so….” Georgia looked toward Tara.
“So what?” Catherine asked hesitantly, blinking from one to the other, afraid that she knew what they were saying.
“You really are closer to her size,” Georgia said, thumbing casually toward Tara.
Catherine looked over at her less conservative and infinitely more hip friend who dressed in decidedly more experimental, man-made fabrics, wondering if she could just wear the grass-stained outfit from last night one more time. Tara was just so… high-end hooker.
“Don’t worry. I found the most neutral stuff I could,” Georgia whispered. “And by the way, what is going on with your hair?”
Catherine ran her hand through her ponytail self-consciously. “I just don’t have the stuff I need to do anything with it—”
“No, it looks terrific. It has life and body I’ve never seen before!” Georgia exclaimed.
“That’s called cheap shampoo-plus-conditioner in one bottle. I don’t even know what brand it is.”
“Well, you need to use that more often. It really looks great.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m totally serious. This place seems to agree with you.”
“What the hell is this?” Tara hollered from the other side of the room, like she’d just found a rat. “Have you been sleeping with a lumberjack?” Disgust quickly turned to intrigue. “Is he hot?”
Georgia’s eyes skimmed the red union suit and then rested on Catherine expectantly. “Is that what this is all about?”
Catherine jumped off the bed and grabbed the thermal suit out of Tara’s hand huffily. “That’s mine, thank you very much. It’s warm. And comfortable—”
“Especially when it’s covering the body of a hot lumberjack!” Tara giggled.
“Grow up!” Catherine snapped.
“So, wait… you really are holed up here in a dilapidated cabin just trying to buy a toy from some guy?” Tara asked, dejected.
“Some asshole,” Catherine grumbled. “Sorry to disappoint.” She tossed the union suit onto the back of the chair where she’d left it this morning.
“Cat, really, what gives?” Georgia asked.
She chewed on her lip, appraising her friends. It was so much easier to be evasive over the phone. And they had come all this way presumably to help. And she’d already pretty much exhausted all conventional and legal means for acquiring the dollhouse. Now it was time for the ugly truth.
“Spill it.” Tara plopped herself on the loveseat expectantly.
Georgia had taken up residence on the bed.
Catherine was standing before an audience and she didn’t know where to rest her eyes that she wouldn’t feel totally foolish. She took a calming breath, reminding herself that these were her friends and they liked to razz her but they also loved her. “Okay, here goes. I had this doll set when I was little. The doll’s name was Caramellie, and she lived in a sundae-shaped house.” She spoke directly to Georgia since Tara had actually seen the dollhouse on eBay, plus, being that she and Georgia were the same age, maybe there was a chance Georgia would remember the Sweet Treats toys and relate better. But so far there wasn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition on her face. Catherine continued, including Tara in her line of sight now. “There were several different styles, but Caramellie was the only one I had. I loved that little doll. She was so tiny.” She held up her hand, showing them the size with her fingers. “And she had this huge head with bright orange hair…. Anyway, I gave her to my sister when I outgrew her, you know, so she wouldn’t just end up stored away in the attic.” Her voice started to choke up. “But after Josey died, one day my parents just moved everything out. That morning I passed by her room and peeked inside like I did everyday, and it was still Josephine’s room, but by the time I got back from school everything had changed. The door was open wide—it had been closed for months—and there wasn’t even a trace of her. All of a sudden it was a guest room. I never knew what happened to Caramellie or any of the stuff that was in there.” While she talked she ran her little ring along its chain, comforted by the whirring sound. Her sight wavered with tears as she looked from Georgia to Tara, wondering if she sounded like the little lost girl she felt like right now. They probably thought she was being ridiculous. “Anyway, when my parents said they were moving and wanted me to come get my stuff, I guess it just reawakened it all—Josey, Caramellie, my lost youth, the fact that I’m in my mid-thirties and not married or dating or even having sex… ever. It just hit me like a ton of bricks.”
“If you want to get laid, I know people,” Tara joked.
Georgia shot her warning daggers; then turned to Catherine. “Sweetie, whatever you need from us, we’re here for you,” she said softly, in mothering tones. It was obvious that Georgia was already a mom. She was moving on because she was ready, not because she wanted to leave her friends behind.
Catherine swiped at her tears. “Well, I need to rescue Caramellie from this total dick. He goes by Fynn, at least sometimes.”
“Like on a fish?” Tara asked.
“Exactly. He is slimy and smarmy, like a fucking fish,” Catherine said spitefully.
“Wow, he’s really gotten to you,” Georgia observed.
“Yeah, because he’s a total ass. I went to him entirely reasonably, asking to buy it off of him for a profit—a huge profit no less—and he turned me down. Told me to leave. I’ve tried everything!”
“Did you tell him what you just told us?” Georgia asked lightly.
“Well, no…. But it’s none of his damn business. It’s just supposed to be a simple business transaction. He has no right to my life story.”
“So what’s this Fynn guy look like? Old? Young?” Georgia asked, searching.
“What the hell does that matter?” Catherine brushed her off, averting her eyes.
Georgia gave Tara a knowing look.
“He’s totally hot isn’t he?” Tara blurted.
“If you’re into that kind of thing,” Catherine shrugged.
“And you’re totally into it!” Tara taunted.
“He’s totally married, Tara. And I’m not into him,” she huffed. “He rides around on a friggin’ motorcycle with his dog in his sidecar.”
“Ooh, does the dog wear a helmet too?”
Catherine rolled her eyes at Tara’s misplaced enthusiasm.
“That’s totally adorable!” she shrieked, undeterred by Catherine’s judgment.
“It’s ridiculous,” she countered.
“So what do you want to do?” Georgia asked; the voice of reason.
“Besides jump his bones,” Tara offered.
“Do you have some kind of plan?” Mother Georgia prodded, batting away Tara’s words like they were nothing but annoying mosquitoes flying in the air.
“Aside from getting hammered.” Tara pulled out the bottle of wine from the grocery bag near her feet. “Really? Is this what it’s come to, Cat? Drinking alone in the woods?”
She looked down at the floor in shame. Actually, she had almost started drinking as soon as she got back from the store in an attempt to forget what happened. But she hadn’t bought a corkscrew and her Swiss army knife was in her other purse—not.
“And what’s this for?” Tara yanked at the green cord snaking out the window.
“Don’t ask,” Catherine cringed.
Tara parted the blinds and traced the maze to the tiny car. “You have it plugged into the wall socket?” she giggled.
“That’s the general idea if I want to be able to use it,” Catherine said expertly, though she had driven it to death just hours before, completely caught off-guard by the vehicle’s strange ways and customs.
“Well doesn’t that just beat all,” Tara said in wonder. “I thought those things had to be plugged into special charging centers. I’ve seen them in the city.”
Great, everyone knew more about her car than she did.
-27-
Catherine stepped out of the bathroom feeling less sullied and definitely cleaner and more comfortable than she had in days. She had fresh underwear on, albeit it was Tara’s wicked panties—literally, “wicked” was emblazoned across her ass in red metallic, with a devil pitchfork pointing toward her crotch on the front, but at least it wasn’t a thong (those weren’t meant for sharing, or wearing period, as far as Catherine was concerned). And the bra also wielded pitchforks right where you would most expect them on a dirty girl.
She had toweled her hair dry, opting to stick with the no-name shampoo-plus-conditioner and the natural drying technique, rather than borrowing the products her friends had thought to pack. From what she could tell, they had both come here much more prepared than she had. Maybe they knew something about this place that she’d had to learn on the fly—that it was like one of those supposedly humane sticky mousetraps that caught you and held onto you until you slowly starved or dehydrated to death.
As she came around the corner to grab the clothes they’d laid out for her during her shower, she said, “Guys, I really have to thank you for coming to save—guys?” She was talking to an empty room. They’d disappeared, leaving a mess in their wake, like a couple of raccoons who’d invaded her campsite. They had opened and nibbled on, or completely devoured, everything she bought today. Nothing left was truly salvageable for a meal, hardly even a snack.
“What the hell?” she asked out loud.
She went to the front window and looked outside. Both cars were gone, the extension cord lying like a dead snake on the ground outside. They’d left her for dead to eat off the crumbs of their last meal.
Grabbing her cell, she debated whether she should call 911 and turn in whoever stole her car (probably Tara)—she wa
s that pissed off. They were supposed to be saving her not abandoning her. The little machine suddenly came to life in her hand before she could finish weighing the options. The sound of old-fashioned telephone ringing almost made her drop the phone completely. Flustered, she opened the phone with shaky fingers.
“Hello? Mom?”
The voice on the other end was unclear. She grabbed her wet towel and wrapped it around her body, over the bra and panties, and stepped outside for better reception.
“You’re cutting out, hold on,” Catherine called into the phone, uncertain if her mother could even hear her, wondering why she’d even answered—but mothers always knew. They knew when you were available and avoiding; when you were just out of state and when you were totally out of your mind.
She walked toward the lake, knowing there was good reception along the edge. She had been able to speak to her brother without a hitch. As she got closer to the water, rocks and twigs bit at her feet and ankles mercilessly. She wished she’d thought to slip boots over her tender skin—and a shirt and pants would have been nice, too.
“Mom? Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes, dear—I can—perfectly—”
“I can almost hear you,” Catherine said, keeping her pace toward the lake.
“I just—to Connor—phone,” Elizabeth Hemmings offered, dangling the words like a worm on a hook, expecting her daughter to prod for more.
The gaps were easy to fill in, but Catherine wasn’t going to bite. If her mother had something to say then she just needed to come out with it on her own.
A long pause made her wonder if she’d lost her connection, so Catherine kept walking, listening intently.
“We’re going to meet them in the city for dinner,” her mother said suddenly, her voice as clear as if she were standing right next to her instead of hundreds of miles away.
“But you guys live like a half hour from each other,” Catherine pointed out. “Why don’t you just have them over—or meet halfway?” She fought to keep her voice from a quasi-panicked pitch, as she had already deduced the reason for the location.
2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1) Page 18