Candy popped another bubble with her chewing gum. “I totally tried to friend you on Facebook last night, but I couldn’t find you.”
I’d deleted my account. “Yeah, I consider social media a big time waster.”
“I do believe you’re the only person I’ve ever met in her twenties who’s said that.”
We walked into a little dive with only eight tables and a breakfast counter. The outdated decorations left a lot to be desired, but at least the place looked clean. We sat at a corner table and ordered our food.
“So, any more ghostly sightings or evidence?” She took a long sip of her orange juice, her eyes lit with curiosity over the rim of the glass.
Now that she mentioned it, I could really use someone to chat with about what I’d experienced. Candy already seemed crazy, so maybe I wouldn’t feel so off my rocker if I told her about the music. I wiped the corners of my mouth with a napkin. “Something strange did happen.”
Her eyes widened. “Tell, tell.”
I licked my lips, gathering my courage before admitting what was sure to sound unbelievable. “My first night here I heard someone open the gate leading into the backyard. Then last night when I was in bed, I heard someone playing the guitar in the other room.”
She plunked her glass back on the table and her lips parted slightly as she stared at me. “What do you mean playing the guitar? Like, someone snuck in and just started playing?”
I shrugged, wishing I had an explanation. “I don’t know. It was weird, but I clearly heard some strands from a guitar. I didn’t even know Lana had a guitar in the house.”
“Are you sure she does?”
Chills danced up my skin again. It was the AC, I told myself. Just the AC. “I found it in the guest room. In the closet.”
“She’s never mentioned that before.”
“I’ll ask her next time she calls. She told me something about a lady who was murdered in the house. You know anything about that?” Tension mounted between my shoulders as I waited for her answer.
Her bottom lip dropped and she shook her head. “No way...I can’t believe Lana didn’t tell me that. Are you for real?”
“That’s what Lana said. Maybe she was yanking my chain.”
Candy leaned closer, as if conspiring some devious plan. “You know, I have a friend who’s one of the producers for Ghost Chasers. I could call him, see if they could come out to your house and do an investigation.”
Ghost Chasers? The TV show? I shook my head forcefully. “No, absolutely not.”
“Why not? They can do these thermal heat imaging tests and these electronic voice recordings that will prove whether or not a paranormal being is living in Lana’s house with you.”
“A paranormal being?” I realized I started to consider the possibility and stopped, shaking my head. “No. There’s an explanation. Something logical.” I just had absolutely no idea what it was.
She raised her eyebrows as the waitress set down plates of steaming eggs, bacon, biscuits and hash browns. Not good for my waist, but extremely good for my appetite.
I started to bow my head and pray but stopped myself. Old habits. They were like an ex-boyfriend that wouldn’t go away. Or a ghost. Or a bad reputation, for that matter. The list could go on and on.
“You should seriously think about it. It would be crazy fun to have them come out. I’ve never done a paranormal investigation before.”
“No.” That just sounded like a bad idea any way I looked at it.
“Think about it.”
“Fine.” I took my first bite of over-easy egg, ready to put that conversation behind me. “So, if you’re this into all of this Hollywood stuff, why do you live in Minnesota?”
“I decided I wanted to be the big fish in a small pond. I’ve done lots of local commercials and I’m really active on the Internet. Access Entertainment actually featured me once as an Internet celebrity to watch out for.”
Impressive. I took another bite of egg and realized it needed some salt. I quickly remedied that problem. “What kind of stuff do you do on the Internet?”
“I’ve done lots of stuff, but I’m mostly known for doing parodies and man-on-the-street interviews. I’ve organized two flashmobs. My blog and YouTube channel are called iCandy.”
“I’ll have to check out some of your stuff sometime.”
Candy studied me for a moment as she tore off a piece of her bagel. “Your sister said you’re a blogger too? Something about ten-thousand followers or something. Not bad for a novice.”
“I used to be a blogger. Not anymore.” I’d taken the blog off-line, and, most likely, I’d delete it completely. I just couldn’t bring myself to do that yet. That blog had been my masterpiece, my legacy. At least, that’s what I’d thought at one time.
Someone stopped beside our table. I looked up, expecting to see our fifty-something waitress standing there. Instead, my gaze continued climbing upward at the six-foot-plus man standing there with a broad grin across his face. And he was staring at me.
Candy slapped her hands on the table and stood. “If it isn’t Mark Champion.”
“Hey, sugar.” He gave her a hug, but his gaze lingered on me. “Who is this fine piece of work with you?”
“This is Lana’s sister, Tara. You gotta remember Lana telling us that she was coming.”
He stepped back and extended his hand. “I’m Mark. Pleasure to meet you.”
Fine piece of work? Was that a compliment, or had the women’s movement just traveled back in time several decades? I reached for his hand, fussing at myself for the flutters I felt in my stomach.
Mark Champion. The man Lana wanted to fix me up with. He was certainly handsome enough in a big, overblown way. Meaty muscles, tight T-shirt, gelled hair, a smile that I was quite certain showed off veneers. I cleared my throat. “Same here. Nice to meet you also.”
He nodded with approval. “Tara. I like that name.”
Why was I blushing? “Thank you.”
“Sorry to stare. I’m sure you’re used to it, aren’t you? Someone as pretty as you.”
Where did this man come from? Was he always so over-the-top when he flirted? Even scarier, was it working? “It’s been awhile, actually.” The last man who’d hit on me had been a weirdo who recognized me from the news. He’d actually enjoyed the negative coverage I’d been receiving.
“That’s too bad.” Mark nodded toward the kitchen area. “Listen, I’m about to start my shift. I’ll see you two tonight at the rave, though, right?”
You two? A rave? What in the world was he thinking? I shook my head. “I’m not a rave type of girl.” What was a rave exactly? A big party with electronic music and dancing and lots of alcohol?
He smiled again. “You could be. You should give it a shot. It would be fun.”
Fun? Wasn’t fun making cookies for the residents of a local nursing home? Or going on mission trips and leading children in Mexico in songs about how much God loves them? Or sitting around a campfire and talking about Jesus?
Fun was certainly not a rave.
He winked. “You should come hang out. We’ll be gentle on you your first time.”
“Gentle on me?” I’d reduced myself to repeating everything he said.
“Think about it.”
I would not be thinking about it, I thought as he walked away. Even with my failures, I still had some standards to live by.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Candy raised her eyebrows at me. “That was fast.”
“What was fast?” Me rejecting the rave?
“That you caught his eye. He’s a hot commodity in the area, you know. Businesses have actually paid him to show up at their parties.”
“Why in the world would they do that?”
“If Lana is Party Girl, then he’s Party Boy. He has an entourage with him wherever he goes. He brings in crowds.”
“Why?” I wiped my mouth, suddenly fearful that I had toast crumbs on my chin.
“Did you see him?�
�
“Handsome faces are a dime a dozen.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Okay, it’s like this. He played college football for a while. He got canned because of some knee injury or something. I don’t know. Then he was cast on one of those survival shows. He didn’t win but he did get some endorsement deals from it.”
“Why is he a waiter then?”
“The party lifestyle isn’t cheap. He blew through all of that money pretty quickly. Don’t worry. He’ll get more deals and quit this job. When that money dries up, he’ll find some more part-time work. It’s the nature of the business.”
I leaned back and chewed on her words. His story wasn’t that much different than Lana’s, I supposed. Lana was the type of girl who got noticed wherever she went—she always had been and always would. Sometimes that came out in positive ways—like when she was a cheerleader. Other times it came out negative ways—like when she danced on tables at restaurants on a dare.
In college, she auditioned for Sunset House, a reality TV show where people lived and partied together for three months while cameras captured their every drunken move. She became an instant sensation when her cutthroat abilities and unwavering deception pushed her to the top and she won.
She stayed in L.A. for a few years, trying to keep her reality TV star shining bright, but it had eventually dimmed. She followed a boy out to St. Paul. Their relationship ended after a year, but she found a job as a receptionist for a publicity and marketing firm. Then she started doing a lot of local gigs, including her biggest one as the spokesperson for a local car dealership. She’d gotten the Hummer out of the deal. She’d also done some other jobs and gotten herself jewelry, clothes, and a lifetime supply of dog food.
I had to work twice as hard at being the good daughter to make up for Lana’s “heathen” lifestyle. That was only the start of my problems, though. I’d worried about everyone else when I should have been worrying about myself.
Had Lana really thought I’d be interested in someone like Mark? Sure, he was handsome. But he was the opposite of my type.
Which was probably why she thought I should go out with him. She’d always thought I was too uptight. She was probably right.
I pushed my plate away and looked up at Candy. “Ready to go?”
“We should probably pick out your outfit for the rave tonight.”
I shook my head. “It’s not happening, Candy. I’m not going to the rave.”
“It’s gonna be fun.” Her voice sounded singsong.
Still, I shook my head. Nope, a girl needed standards.
End of argument.
~*~
Who needed standards? Maybe I should go to the rave. Look where standards had gotten me so far. Nowhere.
That’s all I could think about as I held the corner of a bed sheet up to the window frame and pressed a tack into the wall. Instant curtains, right?
What would it be like to go to a rave? I wondered as I pulled another fabric corner to the edge of the window. Why shouldn’t I? I mean, it was just like one, big party, right? And I’d already been accused of being a fuddy-dud. What would it be like to step outside of my comfort zone?
No. I could never do something like that. There was walking away from my faith, and then there was embracing a hedonistic lifestyle. I needed to waver between them and not simply embrace everything I’d ever preached against.
Maybe it was time to get out of my comfort zone, to try new things. Maybe I should hang out with Candy and Mark and go to parties and “let down my hair a little,” as Lana had said. I didn’t have to go crazy, but I could be a casual observer. A lukewarm heathen.
I reached farther, the corner above the window barely out of reach. The stool beneath me wobbled. I shifted my weight, trying to keep my balance. I wondered if ghosts could knock stools out from underneath people’s feet. They could apparently play guitars.
I shivered at the memory. Being in this house wasn’t exactly working out the way I’d envisioned, which seemed to fit in with the rest of my life. But unlike the rest of my life, this house would not defeat me. It would be the ultimate showdown, “Tara’s Last Stand” I’d call it. This would be the place where I proved I was strong.
The stool wobbled again. I’d move it closer to the window, but an overstuffed chair and iron plant stand blocked the floor. All I needed was to balance myself....
Too late. Gravity pulled me downward until I sprawled on the floor. I grabbed my arm as a burning sensation whizzed across it. When I pulled my hand back, blood stained my fingers. The plant holder. I must have scraped the edge of it on my way down.
So much for Tara’s Last Stand…
I grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on the table and pressed it against my cut. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. Blood always had that affect on me.
First-aid kit. I needed a first-aid kit.
I kept my arm raised, trying to remember something about the dangers of bleeding out, while I ran to my sister’s bathroom. I searched the cabinets, under the sink, beside the toilet. Nothing. Not even a Band-Aid. Where else would Lana keep a first-aid kit?
Arm still in the air, I searched her closet and the kitchen. Still nothing.
My wound began to ache. I sucked in a deep breath and pulled the tissues back. What I saw made my head feel light enough to float away. Blood. Lots of blood. A three-inch cut that looked deep enough that I could see things I’d never seen before.
I couldn’t let this go untreated. No, I was going to have to drive to the store and get something to clean this with.
Except I felt like I could pass out.
Think, Tara. Think. There has to be another option.
Call 9-1-1? Nah, they’d just laugh at me.
Call Candy? Did I even have her number? I didn’t think I did.
That’s when the answer smacked me in the face. Ben Cooper. He seemed like just the type to have a first-aid kit. A really good first-aid kit, at that.
I grabbed some paper towels, covered my cut again, and then exited the house to walk toward Cooper’s. My hands trembled and my knees suddenly felt weak as I pounded on his door. I thought about Jesus dying on the cross. It might seem weird, but it was my coping mechanism. Whenever I was dealt some kind of physical pain, I thought of what Jesus endured and it made me realize that things could be worse. Despite my wavering faith, thoughts of Calvary still comforted me.
A moment later, Cooper answered the door, and I forced a smile. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” I held up my arm, and my head swam when I saw blood dripping down my elbow.
He leaned in closer, moving the paper towels again and touching the skin around my scrape like he knew what he’s doing. “We need to get that cleaned up.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
My knees suddenly felt weak. I sagged against the railing of the porch, trying to keep my balance. Pain screamed from my elbow, and wooziness circled my head.
“You okay?” Cooper cupped my other elbow as if he knew I might pass out.
I pushed myself away from the porch railing. On top of putting things in perspective with thoughts of Calvary, I also tried to avoid drama at all costs, even if it meant pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. Call it a character flaw, but having a drama queen for a sister had made me like this. “I’ll be fine.”
I followed Cooper into a neat-as-a-pin house. I could have stepped onto the pages of Better Homes and Gardens the way the place was decorated. This man definitely wasn’t a bachelor. Maroon walls, a lush animal print rug, and a sleek dark brown leather couch and loveseat were welcoming and homey. A little boy, probably four or five years old, played on the rug at the center of the room. He must be Austin.
I didn’t have time to introduce myself now, especially not since I could pass out at any minute. Cooper waited at a hallway on my right, past a walnut, mission-style table. The room smelled of citrus-tinged linen. Any minute now, I expected Mrs. Suzy Homemaker to step from the kitchen with perfectly coiffed ha
ir and a dishtowel draped over her shoulder.
I stepped across the hallway toward a small bathroom. Cooper waited at the sink. He turned glorious blue eyes on me and pointed to my arm.
“Let’s run some water over it for a minute.” He turned on the faucet, and I took a deep breath before stepping into the small space.
The scrape was deeper than I thought, and the spray from the bathroom sink burned. I wanted to squirm, but I had to keep steady, to hide the fact that blood caused me to tremble. Weaknesses were a personal no-no for me.
“You okay?” Cooper held my arm as if he knew I might jerk it away.
I nodded, as I always did. I was always okay, no matter what headed my direction.
Whatever. Even I couldn’t fool myself with that way of thinking anymore.
“Squeeze my arm if you need to. I know this can’t feel good.”
I had no intentions of touching Cooper and definitely not squeezing his arm. My mom called it having scruples. While my arm was under the water, he rummaged around the medicine cabinet and pulled out some hydrogen peroxide.
I soaked in his features again, now that he was closer, and confirmed my earlier assessment that this was one handsome man. Where was his wife? At work? Out of town?
Before the man caught me, I looked away. Good Girls Rule #2: Never stare because it makes you look freaky.
“This might sting.” He unscrewed the cap and began pouring solution down my arm. Pain burnt from my hand to my elbow. I squeezed his arm. His very muscular arm. I scolded myself for noticing—and for squeezing.
“So who’s older—you or Lana? You guys could almost pass for twins.”
Except that Lana liked her clothes short and tight, had a mouth like a sailor, and was rarely seen without alcohol in her hand. “We’re eleven months apart. I’m older.”
He smiled, the action nice and calming, as he continued to examine my wound. “So how’d you get this cut?”
“The windows. They needed shades. You know. I tried sheets instead.” I wasn’t sure what was wrong, but I’d lost my ability to speak in complete sentences. Maybe it had something to do with the pain screaming at me from my scraped appendage.
The Good Girl Page 5