She just needed a few days to get her bearings and a retirement home in a rural Alabama town might well be the only place she could find that space.
And the risk of being recognized or tracked? She would have to move fast. Empty her account. Buy a cheap used car with cash from a private seller. Make some simple adjustments to her appearance. The cable show was popular, but the reach wasn’t that huge. They hadn’t been syndicated, despite her stepfather’s best efforts.
Mind made up, she tugged foils out of her hair, throwing them in the trash as she cranked on the water. Sticking her head under the faucet, she washed out the chemicals, using some of the liquid hand soap for a quick lather. She squeezed out the excess water then flipped back her shoulder length hair, shaking it loose.
Almost done. She eyed the window, then looked back at the door practically vibrating from all the people knocking on it. She tugged her shirt from the hanger and stuffed it in her purse. There wasn’t time to change out of the cape now.
She closed the toilet seat lid and climbed on top to reach the window and crank it open. She hefted up, water slipping under the neck of the cape and down her spine. Muscles screaming, she shimmied through, wobbling for a moment before the grabbed a tree and tugged herself out of the building.
For a surreal moment, she hung by her arms, legs swinging, the narrow alley below her deserted for now. Other than a scruffy little mutt staring back up at her, wide eyes in a scrawny body. Her feet hit the gravel hard and the dog yipped.
“Shhhh!” Annamae pleaded. “They’ll hear you. Scoot. Okay, fella? Or girl. Or whatever. Go home.”
Although it didn’t look like it had a home. The dog lifted a leg and peed on an overturned trashcan. Definitely a boy. He cast a forlorn look at all the newspapers in the trash. A million words of caution shouted through her head about not picking up strays and what if the dog didn’t have vaccinations—not that he appeared particularly rabid. Just hungry.
She looked left and right. Her car was a quick sprint away where she always hid it to bypass the mob and enter privately. But the dog. She opened her purse and pulled out the remaining half of her bagel she hadn’t been able to choke down and passed it to the dog.
“I really gotta go, little guy.” She glanced over her shoulder at the window that would soon be filled with camera lenses. The scraggly mutt cocked his head to the side, bagel in his mouth and it broke her heart to leave him, but she couldn’t spare another second.
Black cape flapping as she ran, she clutched her purse to her stomach. The dog ran after her. And caught up. Tiny paws triple timed to keep pace alongside her, the onion bagel still in his mouth. Maybe she didn’t have to leave him behind after all. She sure as hell could use a friend to keep her company on the trip ahead.
Because as soon as she got some cash and a different set of wheels, she would leave this disaster of a life in the dust. She was Alabama bound.
*
God, he couldn’t wait to leave Alabama behind.
Drying his face with a kitchen towel, Wynn Rafferty – known around these parts as Heath Lambert – crossed off another day on the John Deere calendar tacked above the breadbox.
Another day closer to the trial. Another day still breathing. And if he wanted it to stay that way, he had to keep a very low profile here until that drug lord’s trial in Miami set Wynn’s life back on track again.
He tossed aside the pen and the towel, a yellow tiger-striped cat streaking past him on the countertop before he chased her off. Or was that one a him? Damned if he remembered. He’d started feeding one feral cat and suddenly he had six. He’d have to make another call to the vet to schedule a checkup for the new arrival. Although the clipped ear indicated someone had already spayed or neutered … Tiger. He would call him/her Tiger.
He pulled open the fridge for milk to offer the questionably gendered cat and grabbed himself a beer. It was early in the day for a long neck—just past noon—but he’d done the work of five men since rising at dawn to beat the heat of another Alabama scorcher. He’d never cut it as a fruit grower long-term, but the last year since he’d purchased the small orchard had taught him he needed to be disciplined if he wanted anything to show for his efforts. The work Wynn did in his former life had demanded intense focus and commitment, but even undercover work hadn’t been as physically grueling as his stint in the orchard peppered with a few pecan trees.
He poured milk for the ragtag bunch of cats who were his main source of company these days. Popping the top on his beer, Wynn stood in front of the calendar emblazoned with a John Deere 1943 Serial H tractor and stared at the days leading up to the trial that would demand his return to Miami under armed escort. Until then, he was stuck in this low-key witness protection program under an assumed name. He was tired as hell of being “Heath Lambert.”
Part of him couldn’t wait to put the whole ordeal behind him so he could move on, but another voice in his head dreaded going back and facing the memories of the undercover operation that had gone sour, allowing the Dimitri crime family to destroy key evidence while an innocent teen had been caught in the crossfire.
Old resentments burned his throat in ways the dark lager couldn’t begin to quench. He scratched the head of the nearest cat, an animal who looked as though it had been through the same kind of year as him—one ear chewed and a patch of missing fur the vet said was from an old fight. But Patchy looked ready for battle just the same. Wynn hoped he’d bounce back just as tough.
The intercom system on his security module beeped and he shook off the memories. His setup wasn’t super high tech because of the low threat level in a town like Beulah, Alabama, but he did have two hidden cameras on the only entrance into the property.
The feed on a fourteen-inch screen near the security controls showed a vintage Volkswagen Beetle convertible, cherry red, top down with a woman and a scruffy dog inside. The dog rode shot gun, paws shooting up to rest on the top of the door now that the car had stopped. As for the woman, she wore a dotted scarf that covered most of her hair. A few white blonde locks slipped free. Big sunglasses hid most of her face, but her full, pouty lips pursed for a moment before she spoke into the intercom.
“My name is Annamae and this is my new friend, Bagel.” She pointed to the dog. “We’re interested in renting the carriage house.” She tipped her head to the side. Her car might be a rattletrap and her clothes thrift store quality, but she had an air about her, something that was too expensive for Beulah. But she didn’t look like the type to associate with deadly Miami street gangs either. Definitely more wholesome and a little uptight, born to wealth and privilege in spite of her old school VW in need of a serious tune-up.
“What do you know about the carriage house?” He released the talk button.
He hadn’t advertised the property the former owner rented out because anonymity equaled security. Something he wouldn’t have if he allowed a tenant access to his grounds.
“That’s a peculiar question.” She tapped her chin, her eyebrows slanting down in an expression that brought a little storm cloud over Snow White’s perfect face. “If I knew much about it, I wouldn’t want to see it.”
He noticed how carefully she rearranged the pooch on her front seat, steering it away from the door and patting its head. Two seconds later, the mutt jumped to put both front paws on the door again, furball yapping at the intercom, tail wagging like crazy.
His thumb circled around the talk button while he considered whether or not to let her in. He had to admit he wouldn’t mind the extra income during his forced time away from his job on the police force. Especially if his apple crop turned out as crappy as he feared. He’d thought farming would keep his mind off his past. He hadn’t considered he might have a serious black thumb.
All financial concerns aside though, if she was a gangster intent on getting inside to kill him, she’d probably make more of an effort to sweet talk him, wouldn’t she? And even if she was a badass hitwoman in the world’s worst getaway car, he
needed to know that as well.
Bottom line, making too big a deal out of being a hermit would call more attention to himself. So he pressed the button to open the gate for Ms. Uptight with the happy mutt… What was its name? Baggy? Badger? Bagel?
Still, he rechecked his weapon at his side before “Heath Lambert” went out to greet her, knowing only dead men took chances on innocent-looking faces.
Chapter Two
‡
“Don’t worry, Bagel. It’s going to be fine.” Annamae talked to her new pet under her breath as she steered her recently purchased VW Beetle into the Fort Knox of Beulah, Alabama, population twenty-two rednecks and thirty-seven dogs.
Or so it seemed.
She’d acquired her dog much sooner in her journey. Her escape out of Atlanta had been nerve-wracking and she’d been grateful she had Bagel to keep her company – well, as much as he could keep her company in between downing hamburgers. She’d been afraid he would make himself car sick, but so far he’d just belched and tucked his nose into the wind. She’d taken a risk and put on large glasses to stop at the Walgreens mobile vet to get him a rabies vaccination, then hit the road again, feeling quite proud of herself for being so detail oriented. Poor pup.
As if to say he wasn’t worried in the least, Bagel barked and wagged his tail. His fur had a wiry, terrier quality to it, the chocolate chip cookie coloring a blend of cream with darker patches. He seemed like a very upbeat dog, not that she knew much of anything about animal temperament. Her stepdad had been allergic to everything with fur, except her mother’s mink coat. Yet so far, the dog hadn’t bothered her asthma a bit.
She steered around a pothole that Bagel would have gotten lost in. “No matter what the so-called carriage house looks like, it’s got to be better than what we’ve seen.”
Her day of house hunting hadn’t uncovered anything remotely suitable, even for an Atlanta girl trying hard not to turn up her nose at real estate with no skyline views. She’d chosen Beulah for its remote location, after all, so she couldn’t very well complain. Beulah also happened to be the town where her biological father had grown up and the present home of Annamae’s still-living grandmother, a fact that had blown her away when her mother let it slip that her grandmother was still alive.
Delilah Jessup, queen of parties and limelight, had hidden her ex-lover’s roots for as long as Annamae could remember, writing off Annamae’s grandmother as a strictly religious person who’d disowned her son for impregnating Delilah. Then, she’d rejected the baby. For years, Annamae had accepted her mother’s word on that, even believed that the old woman had passed away. But now that she knew her grandmother was alive this seemed the perfect time to dig around for more about her roots. To find out who she really was, who her father was, so she could finally have a relationship she didn’t self-destruct.
Maybe that would be the one blessing that came out of the latest mess Acting Up had made of her life. And of Boone’s. God, she felt the worst for him.
She’d called her fiancé – ex-fiancé – to have him meet her at a coffee shop so she could break up with him face to face, but he hadn’t answered. He’d texted her that her radio chat had already gone viral. There was nothing more to be said and that if she were wise she would stay away from him and out of the shit storm she’d stirred up in Atlanta.
Then nothing else. Just like that. The man who’d said he loved her more than life itself wouldn’t answer her calls. Wouldn’t talk. They’d resorted to text messages. He’d accused her of using the wedding—and the break-up—as a way to drive up ratings.
That hurt, but she couldn’t blame him for thinking as much. She deserved that and worse for what she’d done.
She’d chickened out at that point and opted to send texts to her mother and father asking them to respect her privacy and give her some time, then turned off her phone altogether before they could track her. Which they would.
Right now, driving through a half mile of stumpy trees over a pitted gravel road, she just wanted time to process the fact that tomorrow she was not going to become Mrs. Boone Sullivan. They were no longer in love. She’d come so close to making the worst mistake of her life. The Atlanta media were already having a field day eating her alive over dumping their Golden Boy on a radio show, no less. They were calling her the Hit and Run Bride.
Who would have thought her voice would be so easily identifiable as Anna on the radio? She’d tried to talk softly and disguise herself. Unlike her half-sisters, she was the quiet good girl. They were the ones that grabbed the headlines with scandal.
Once she found peace with her past, then she’d start a future of her own. Whatever that life might entail – something else she had to figure out.
She pulled her head out of old problems while taking the potholes slowly on her way up the sloping drive. She had plenty of new complications to focus on, like how to introduce herself to a grandmother who didn’t want anything to do with her. Or where to lay her head tonight since the town’s one “motor inn” was not an option. They didn’t allow dogs for one thing. She would sleep in her new-used car before she returned to the Sleep Tight Motor Lodge and the scent of Lysol so strong, her eyes were still watering after a brief trip inside.
In the lobby, she’d overheard locals talking about the reclusive new farmer in town and his carriage house for rent. Reclusive landlord sounded perfect to her. She’d gotten directions from the local gas station, and here she was.
She spotted the ramshackle farmhouse and its alleged owner at the same time she cleared a gatehouse, a few barns and what looked to be a tractor graveyard full of rusty metal beasts. The massive farmhouse was probably charming at one time, its clapboard siding still bright white despite a few spots of peeling paint. Pecan trees sprawled in the front yard with heavy limbs in need of tending. Empty window boxes would have cheered the place considerably if anyone had taken time to plant trailing roses or even a few geraniums.
An iron pump in the side yard near a well was bracketed by some kind of fruit trees that looked as badly in need of tending as everything else. Three more years and the place would be a dump. But right now, it still looked salvageable to a woman who’d just contemplated spending a night in a bed that included a coin-operated massage feature.
The man sauntering toward her while she parked her car, on the other hand, didn’t look as if he’d ever been charming. A guy with a build like that would have been a shoo-in for security on the show… exactly the type of broad shoulders she liked to hide behind in big crowds. Looking at him, Annamae realized in a skipped heartbeat why there weren’t flowers. Any man whose shirt was sweaty by noon and who scowled forbiddingly at potential tenants—even a potential tenant with a great deal of practice at making men smile from her years when she was still her father’s trained performer—didn’t understand anything about the value of appearances.
Although, she had to admit that his appearance, while daunting, had a definite appeal. His wide shoulders and tightly cropped hair gave him an action hero, Jason Statham vibe. He had that tough-dude thing going even though he was shadowed at ten paces by a huge yellow cat with half an ear missing. Something about the tough man with a tough cat made her smile.
Bagel also appeared keen to make acquaintances, barking merrily at the pair until the cat raced toward the car like it might tear him limb from limb. Annamae thought she’d better leave the dog just in case.
“You look familiar.” The man stalking closer didn’t seem to note the animal mini-drama. He stopped three feet away from the bright red Beetle and stared, making no attempt to open her car door.
Every southern man she’d met in this slow-as-molasses state had played the gentleman for her since her arrival. Even the tobacco-spitting old guy who ran the Sleep Tight Motor Lodge had scurried to hold doors for her, and he obviously hadn’t stirred himself to clean his hotel’s rooms since the nineteen seventies. “Everybody says I look like that girl on the Vampire series. Guess we all have doppelgangers. About y
our cabin…?”
“Try the Sleep Tight Motor Lodge.”
Not even a sorry, ma’am? Or an offer of directions?
She was a Southerner from birth, but big city Atlanta southern, which was a far reach from Beulah, Alabama. She tried to place his accent. More of a non-accent with only a hint of southernese.
Some folks thought all southern accents sounded the same. She fought that stereotype on TV all the time with guests they brought onto the reality show. The fake, generic southern accent was like fingernails on a chalkboard to her. And this guy’s accent wasn’t Alabama southern. He couldn’t fool her with that Roll Tide t-shirt.
He wasn’t Georgia southern either. She needed a little more conversation to nail down his roots.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” She reached outside to grab the handle since the door wouldn’t open from the inside. But she had to watch her money and this car had been a bargain. It didn’t run like her Beemer, but her strawberry-mobile had a charm of its own. She swung her legs around to the dirt driveway, reminding Bagel to stay put so he wouldn’t be eaten by any psycho cats.
Her host’s eyes drifted downward, taking in her wrinkled yellow sundress, the hem inching up over her knee as she rose. He might not be southern, but he was still very much a man.
“I moved to Beulah because I like it quiet. Very quiet,” the man returned, offering her his hand. “Heath Lambert.”
“Anna Smith.” She gave over her fingers to his grip, encouraged he hadn’t displayed any concrete recognition at her semi-famous face so far. A good thing. The sunglasses and clothes were new from Walmart. Her hair was worse than a Medusa horror because the highlights hadn’t been finished right, unevenly placed and some nearly white. But she was scared to put coloring on it right away for fear her hair would fall out. For now she opted for a scarf to keep from drawing too much attention to herself.
The Wedding Audition Page 2