by Diane Kelly
It was only a game, I told myself over and over again. Only a game. Only a game.
Eventually, my heartbeat slowed and my respiration returned to normal. I sat back up, my cheeks warm with an embarrassed flush. I wiped a spot of popcorn grease from my jaw and handed the tub to Lucas. Thankfully, pre-teen boys have short attention spans and, once I’d stopped gasping and squealing like a stuck pig, they turned their attention back to their video games.
Trey bent down on one knee in front of me, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, looking into his gray eyes, wanting to escape into them. I gathered enough breath to whisper, “It was only an asthma attack.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SO CLOSE BUT YET SO FAR
What a lie. I didn’t suffer from asthma. I suffered from PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least that’s what the headshrinker at Dallas PD had told me.
I glanced up at Lucas. The expression on his face told me he knew I was lying, but the threat in my eyes told him to keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him. Nothing like a guy thinking you’re emotionally damaged to send him running in the opposite direction. I’d enjoyed Trey’s company tonight and I didn’t want to scare him off.
Trey put a warm hand on my knee, sending a tingle up my leg. “Should we get you to a doctor or something?”
Clearly he knew squat about asthma or he’d realize that breathing into a popcorn bucket is the last thing someone in need of more oxygen would do. But I was glad he’d bought my story. I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.” Just as soon as some pharmaceutical company invents a drug that erases memory.
Lucas and I finished off our pitcher of soda. Trey retrieved his bowling bag and followed us out to the parking lot.
The outside air was cool and moist, the moon hidden behind dark clouds. Looked like a storm was in the works. I glanced at my watch. It was past eleven, late for a work night. I’d be dog tired tomorrow, but it had been worth it. Despite the flashback, I’d had a hell of a time.
We stopped beside my bike and I unclipped the helmets. Trey’s focus shifted from me to my motorcycle. “That’s one sweet ride.”
“You know it.” I slipped into the pink helmet and climbed onto the bike, easing it back out of the parking space.
Trey ran his gaze over the bike. “No bell?”
“You know about the bells?”
He shrugged. “Heard the legends.”
The bells bikers attach to their motorcycles allegedly wield much stronger protective power if given to bikers by someone who loves them. Although my personal bike bore both the bell my father had given to my mother decades ago and the bell Dad had given me along with the title, my cop bike had no bell. I had only my wits and luck to protect me while out on patrol. So far, they’d been all I’d needed.
After donning his helmet, Lucas climbed on behind me and put his hands around my waist, addressing Trey over my shoulder. “Anytime you’re up for a rematch at pool, let me know. I got a truck to pay off.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Trey waved him off good-naturedly.
I started the engine and turned on the headlight. Trey stood in the lot, watching us pull away. He hadn’t asked me out, hadn’t even asked for my phone number. But something told me I hadn’t seen the last of Trey Jones.
When Lucas and I reached the main exit of the parking lot, the roadway was completely blocked by two carloads of teenagers, one on the way out, the other on the way in, both at a complete stop. The kids in the two cars were carrying on a conversation, oblivious to anything but themselves. Oh, well. Been a teenager once myself. I circled around the back of the building to go out the side exit.
And there it was. The yellow and black Ninja, sitting next to the building.
I slammed on my brakes, the tires on my bike emitting a short, sharp screech.
Glick’s chest smashed against my back and our helmets met with a thunk as momentum carried him forward. “You ain’t giving me another screen test, are ya?”
“No.” He’s here. I mentally ran through the faces of the men in the bowling alley. The only ones I’d paid much attention to belonged to Glick, Trey, and the bored boy at the shoe return, wielding an extra-large can of antifungal spray. The place had been packed, was still packed. Short of sitting here until the guy came out to his bike, there would be no way of telling which one of the hundred or so men in the bowling alley was him.
I checked the plates. The bike still bore the temporary cardboard plates from a dealership in Dallas, confirming my earlier suspicion that the registration paperwork was still in process at the DMV. There was nothing I could do but wait for the records to be updated. Damn!
***
I motored back to Jacksburg, my mind in overdrive. Luckily for me, it’s virtually impossible to make conversation on a moving motorcycle, so I had plenty of uninterrupted time to think.
Who is my mystery man? What does he look like? What does he do for a living? At least I knew he liked to bowl. Besides motorcycles, that was one thing we had in common. Maybe he was ready to settle down, too, and had just been waiting for the right woman—me, of course—to come along. I knew it was unlikely, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Even if she’s not a girl anymore?
God help me if he turned out to be some spoiled sixteen-year old from Hockerville High or a married guy with seven kids who was going through a mid-life crisis. Then again, if the Ninja guy turned out to be a bust, Trey might make an acceptable substitute. The lingering looks he’d given me and his quirky sense of humor had made me feel twenty pounds lighter, both in body and in soul. For the first time in forever, I had real romantic possibilities.
Take that, Fate.
When we arrived back in Jacksburg, I pulled into the lot at the Watering Hole, coming to a stop beside Glick’s tank truck, physically and mentally shifting gears. Lucas was on a definite downward spiral and if he didn’t get his drinking under control he’d end up injuring himself or someone else. Maybe even worse. I knew what it was like to live with the guilt of ending a person’s life. I didn’t want Lucas to go through that, too.
He climbed off my bike, removed the white helmet, and held it out to me. I took it with one hand, putting the other on his forearm to keep him from walking away. “You ever think maybe you got a drinking problem, Lucas?”
Scowling, he yanked his arm free from my grasp. And they say women are the ones with mood swings. “The only drinking problem I got is that the price of liquor keeps going up. Damn sin taxes. Every time the government needs some money, they raise the taxes on alcohol and tobacco.”
I ignored his bullshit. “What about AA? There’s a group that meets at the Methodist church. I’ll go with you if you want me to.”
He smirked. “You gonna give me a piggy back ride? Like your mother?”
I clipped the helmet on the bike and looked up at him. “Lucas, I’m serious.”
He looked away, his eyes narrowed and jaw clamped tight, but after a few moments the tight set of his jaw slowly eased. He turned back to me with eyes full of pain. “Drinking’s not my problem, Marnie. My problems are my problem.” He exhaled sharply. “In case you ain’t noticed, my life’s a fucking Jeff Foxworthy joke. I live in a piece-of-shit trailer that’s falling apart at the seams. I got no friends, no woman, and I suck other people’s shit out of holes for a living. It don’t get much worse than that.”
He had a point. But, hell, I wasn’t doing much better. Divorced, living with my dad, watching my ass grow bigger by the second. Haunted by an event I was powerless to change and couldn’t seem to put behind me no matter how hard I tried.
Lucas’s voice softened. “I saw what happened back there, at the bowling alley. You think maybe you’ve got a problem?”
I looked down at the wide shiny bracelet on my right wrist, the one covering the jagged pink scar. “I don’t think I’ve got a problem, Lucas. I know I’ve got a problem.”
Unfortunately, my problem seemed to have no solution. Mon
ths of counseling hadn’t helped. Neither had antidepressants or a two-week vacation in Cozumel, though I had come back with a nice tan, a set of hand-painted maracas, and a ridiculously cheap bottle of tequila which, despite the warning labels on the prescription bottle, I’d used to wash down the anti-depressants. Fortunately, the pills had come right back up. Unfortunately, they’d come back up on the Persian rug Chet had just paid two grand for at Horchow’s.
Lucas seemed to sense I’d said all I wanted to say on the subject. He climbed into his truck and cranked the window down, crooking his elbow on the sill. “See ya around, Marnie.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
“If I stay out of trouble,” he said, shooting me a wink, “you’d go out of business.”
He had a point there.
***
A loud clap of thunder woke me the following morning. I glanced at the clock. 6:23 AM. Dang. The alarm wasn’t set to go off until 7:00. Lighting flashed outside, followed by a second thunderbolt.
I lay in my cozy canopy bed, pinned under the lavender polka-dot comforter by a hundred pounds of fluffy white dog draped over my legs. I closed my eyes to try to go back to sleep, but another loud thunderclap jarred my nerves seconds later.
Might as well get my butt out of bed. I won’t be able to sleep in this storm without a set of earplugs.
Bluebonnet opened one eye as I wrangled my legs out from under her, but she made no move to get up. I wouldn’t either if I were her. I ruffled the fur on her neck. “Lazy girl.”
I padded to the kitchen in my bare feet, turned on the coffee pot, and stuck my head in the fridge. Hazelnut? French Vanilla? Nah. Today is an Irish Cream kind of day. When the coffee was ready, I poured a good dose into a large mug and topped it off with a healthy shot of flavored creamer.
Rain beat down on the roof as I ate breakfast, the pitter patter above me competing with the snap, crackle, and pop from my cereal bowl. No sense rousing Dad. Can’t trim trees in the rain.
I slipped into my uniform, today wearing standard black loafers rather than my motorcycle boots since there’d be no patrolling on the bike in this monsoon. Grabbing an umbrella on my way out the door, I headed outside to Dad’s Cherokee, careful to avoid the mud puddles forming on the drive. A few drops of rain tagged me as I closed the umbrella and opened the SUV’s door, which was stenciled in day-glow orange paint with the words I GRIND STUMPS followed by Dad’s phone number.
Minutes later, I pulled up to the station. Dante had a dentist appointment in Hockerville that morning, a long overdue root canal, so his patrol car was up for grabs. Driving a cruiser wasn’t nearly as fun as patrolling on the bike, but at least I wouldn’t be stuck in the office all day and the cruiser had a cup holder, a definite plus on a blustery day like today. After checking in with Selena and topping off my travel mug with fresh coffee, I hopped into the cruiser and set out on patrol.
No need for my phone today since the cruiser had a kick-ass stereo. Dante had installed it himself. As I pulled out of the lot onto Main, I punched the stereo on, my eardrums immediately treated to raunchy rap lyrics, my ass treated to the vibrations of a booming bass line. I cranked the volume down and jabbed the scan button with my knuckle, stopping the radio on a classic rock station playing the Byrds’ “Jesus is Just Alright with Me.” The Billy Graham bobble-head nodded as if agreeing with my choice of song.
I drove out to Jacksburg’s welcome sign and parked the cruiser behind it. Given the blustery conditions, the Ninja wasn’t likely to be out today. Riding a motorcycle in the rain was a bitch, the raindrops pelting your body like shotgun spray, the windy conditions requiring constant correction. Whoever rode the Ninja might come by in another vehicle, but there’d be no way of knowing. Oh, well. Guess I can daydream about Trey instead. Something about that high-tech hottie put a buzz in my circuits.
The wind howled as gusts rocked the squad car and heavy rain pelted the windows, like Mother Nature’s automated car wash. I’d been sitting in the cruiser for a few minutes, drinking my coffee, reading the newspaper comics, and performing isometric exercises with my glutes—left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, right—when a white Econoline van passed by. The van wasn’t speeding, but one of its taillights was out, a potential hazard, especially in dark, wet conditions like today’s. Might as well make myself useful and warn the driver before somebody rear-ends him.
I started my engine, pulled onto the highway behind the van, and turned on my flashing lights. The van eased over onto the shoulder by an undeveloped stretch of land covered with scrubby mesquite and cedar trees. I pulled the cruiser to a stop behind it. I picked up the microphone and squeezed the talk button. “Selena, run a plate for me.”
“What’s the number?’
I rattled off the plate.
A few seconds of silence followed before Selena came back on the radio. “It’s registered to an Ignacio Barrientes. Want me to run his driver’s license?”
“Sure.”
There was a five-second pause and Selena’s voice came back. “Limpia. He’s clean.”
“Thanks.” I slid the mic back into its holder and opened my door. Sticking my umbrella out the door, I forced it opened before stepping out of the cruiser. The wind was gusty and virtually blowing the rain sideways. I sloshed through the wet gravel and dirt on the shoulder of the road, ducking my head against the driving wind and rain until I reached the driver’s window.
I’d expected to find a Latino man in the front seat. Instead, I looked in the window to discover the passenger door gaping wide open and rainwater pooling on the floorboard. Through the door, I could see a man running full-speed into the field that flanked the highway. A glance into the cargo bay told me why he was running. A dozen potted marijuana plants filled the space.
Ay carramba.
A burst of wind caught my umbrella, ripped it from my hands, and carried it into the branches of a nearby mesquite tree. Gah. I stepped to the hood, cupped a hand around my mouth, and shouted “Stop!”
The man ignored me and kept right on running, putting distance between us at an impressive speed. He’d give Olympian Usain Bolt a run for his money. No way would I ever catch the guy. In mere seconds, he’d disappeared into the rain as if he’d never even existed. The only evidence he’d ever been on the highway was the van, which remained behind, rapidly filling with rain, and me, drenched to the bone.
I slammed the van’s passenger door closed, wrestled my umbrella from the tree, and dashed back to the cruiser. My hair and uniform were soaked and dripping. I radioed Selena again. “Get a tow truck out here.”
I might not have caught the guy, but if he showed up to claim the van, he’d face drug charges. If he didn’t claim the van within the allotted time period, the city could sell it at auction. Either way, I’d call it a success.
Once the tow truck had hauled off the van, I decided to forego traffic detail and head into town, see if anything interesting was happening there. Not likely. If I were back in Dallas, I’d be facing an armed robbery, a high-speed chase, maybe even a hostage situation. In Jacksburg, I’d be lucky to catch a jaywalker.
CHAPTER NINE
HELL ON HEELS
I drove back to town with the heater cranked up full blast to dry out my uniform. In seconds, the car felt like a sauna, hot and humid as the rainwater evaporated from my clothing. The windshield fogged up and I had to switch on the defroster. When I rolled slowly past the elementary school, a red convertible Spyder in the parking lot caught my eye, partly because it was one sweet ride, partly because it was parked crosswise across the only two handicapped spaces directly in front of the school.
The car looked suspiciously like the vehicle that had zipped past me the day before. The car had no handicapped plates, no handicapped placard on the dash, no handicapped tag hanging from the rearview mirror.