The Devil Wears Tank Tops

by Destiny Ford

  “Drake,” Spence answered.

  Ella nodded. “He does have quite the reputation with the Ladies,” she paused, thinking, “but to tell ya the truth, I don’t know how much of it is true, and how much of it is people blowin’ smoke up other people’s bums.”

  I raised my brows at that. “Why do you say that?”

  She leaned against my desk. “I’ve never seen him on a date. He always seems to be workin’. Some of the Ladies have tried askin’ him out, but they say he keeps turnin’ them down. He hasn’t been on a date in months.”

  I managed to keep my mouth in place. Ella has just confirmed Drake’s story about not dating anyone since I came back to town. My stomach did a little flip, and my heart started to speed up. Despite the fact that I still didn’t know what had happened the night before with Drake—I was still gathering the courage to ask him about it—my own research about him, plus the opinions of two people I trusted was really starting to change my mind about Dylan Drake. And that was terrifying.

  “Speakin’ of the Ladies,” Ella said, “there was another Facebook status about you last night. Said Drake’s car was at your house for a while in the wee hours of the mornin’.”

  I turned my lips down in distaste. “Yeah, that’s what I hear.”

  She gave me a funny look, but kept going, “You should really be more careful about your affairs, Katie. Have him park in the garage for cripes’ sake!”

  “Why haven’t you added me to the Facebook group yet so I can refute some of the gossip?”

  “There’s a Facebook group?” Spence asked.

  I blew out a sigh. “Unfortunately. They’re using it to keep tabs on me.”

  “That’s—” Spence paused, searching for the word. “—dedicated.”

  “And crazy,” I offered. “It’s bat-crap crazy. Ella’s trying to get me in the group.”

  Ella shook her head, her face lined with disappointment. “Can’t do it. Even if we made you a fake account, you’d never be able to comment. And people can tell who added the member to the group. If it was ever tracked back to me, I’d be on the Ladies’ poo list. And I don’t want to be there. It’s not a good place to be.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’ve been there awhile.”

  “But I came up with a plan.” She rubbed her hands together and a twinkle gleamed in her eyes. “I can just keep you updated on the posts. Then you’ll know what’s goin’ on, but neither one of us will get in trouble.”

  It seemed like that was the only option—for now. “Thanks, Ella. I appreciate it.”

  Spence saw the notes about the sugar factory on my desk. “Have you heard anything else about the body at the sugar factory?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Bobby’s going to call me when they can release the identity. Until then, I’m stuck.”

  “That fire was pretty darn convenient for Kory Greer,” Ella said.

  Spence and I both turned to face her. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The factory’s been strugglin’ for years. Rumor was he might have to take out bankruptcy.”

  This was new information. And brought up a lot of other questions since Kory didn’t have to lay anyone off after the explosion, and seemed to be doing just fine running things out of their second facility. “So you think the fire was started on purpose for insurance money?”

  Ella shrugged. “All I know is that Kory Greer’s got more money now than he used to.”

  Interesting. I wrote myself a note to contact Kory Greer for a follow-up interview, and see if I could figure out if there was more to the story than a simple fire started by vandals or a machine.

  Spence got up to answer his office phone, and Ella left for the day. I worked on the community news for another hour or so, and was just about to leave to go home for the day when I saw a large group of people walking down the sidewalk in front of the Tribune office. My curiosity piqued, I stood and walked to the front of the building to look out the window. The group had to be over fifty people. They were chanting something and several of them had signs. Then I noticed another group come up on the other side of the street. They were just as large, and also seemed to be yelling out a message. I felt like I was watching West Side Story and people were about to break out into angry song. “Spence,” I yelled as I ran back to my desk and grabbed my camera. “Do you know what’s going on out here?”

  He looked confused and followed me out the door.

  The chanting from before had turned into full on yelling—from both sides of the road. Signs on one side of the street showed pictures of marijuana leaves with a big red X over them declaring the message Not in our state! Signs on the other side of the street showed pictures of children, with the message Compassion. What Would Jesus Do?

  We were currently on the pro-pot side of the street.

  “Did you know this was going on today?” I asked Spence while I lifted my camera to get photos.

  He shook his head, taking it in. “No idea.”

  “We didn’t get any warning about it?” Usually when there was going to be an event that the parties wanted media attention for, a news release was sent out—or at least a social media leak campaign was started to cause intrigue.

  “No. This is the first I’m hearing about a pot protest.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Utah had recently legalized hemp oil to treat epileptic seizures. The seizures were primarily affecting children, but there was a lot of discussion about the benefits of hemp oil in general, and other diseases marijuana could help treat. With so many states now legalizing pot, including Utah’s bordering state, Colorado, it seemed like the nation was headed that way as well. And that didn’t sit well with some people in Utah who felt like marijuana legalization was another loss on the nation’s moral compass. Those people were still fighting the law.

  There had been a vociferous debate about hemp oil in the Utah state legislature, and whether it would lead to an increase in the use of other drugs, as well as the addiction possibilities. Hemp oil as a way to treat seizures was new, and hadn’t been vigorously tested yet, but the kids who had been able to use it as a treatment had shown incredible improvements in the number of seizures they had, and in their quality of life.

  One of the main people campaigning for the legalization of hemp oil was a Branson resident, John Wilson. His sweet, three-year old daughter Brook had epilepsy, and was currently suffering from more than a hundred seizures a day. He just wanted to be able to give his daughter her medicine, without having to move out of state to do it.

  Thanks to differing laws between federal regulations—where marijuana was still an illegal substance—and state regulations, like in Utah where the oil had been legalized, some of the patients who desperately needed the oil, still couldn’t get it. There were problems with how it was being prescribed and controlled, as well as how to transport the oil since it was illegal for it to cross state lines from Colorado. Having a child with a disability like that and feeling helpless would be horrible. Feeling helpless and knowing the cure was only a state away and currently tied up in red tape must be absolutely aggravating.

  Branson’s proximity to the state border between Utah and Colorado made it a target for the illicit marijuana trade. Marijuana, and the legalization of hemp oil, and had been the subject of several city council meetings in the last few months. People on both sides had expressed their opinions—those against it were worried about the moral implications and that hemp oil legalization would lead to legalization of all drugs. People like John Wilson were for it because it would save his daughter’s life.

  John was a well-respected, church-going Republican, so his support of something like this had thrown a lot of people into a state of confusion over their own beliefs. Personally, I thought it was a good thing. I was all for people stepping out of their comfort zones and being forced to look at something in a new way. Judging by the supporters on the pro-pot side of the street, it had changed some opinions. But the angry “no pot”
people on the other side of the street were still firmly rooted in their stance.

  “How is this supposed to help?” I asked Spence, gesturing between the two sides of the street. I didn’t really understand protests. All it did was let the world know people were displeased. It didn’t enforce the change either side was looking for.

  A small, perky woman with bright red hair and green eyes answered me instead of Spence. “Protests are taking place all over the state today at the same time.”

  “They are?” I asked. “No one sent information to the media about it. Why are they fighting a law that already passed?”

  She shifted the sign in her hands. “Some people want the law repealed, and they’re trying to make it as difficult as possible for the people who need hemp oil to actually get it. The protest was all organized online. Every city participating needed a pot protest leader.” She pointed across the street. “Lydia Ackerman volunteered for Branson. She’s been fighting against hemp oil legalization for months.”

  Of course Lydia had volunteered to lead the protest. I didn’t know her well, but I knew enough to put her in the same column as the Ladies when it came to self-righteousness.

  The redhead went on. “When John heard about it, he decided to organize a counter protest to let Lydia—and everyone else—know that he wasn’t going to let this happen without people seeing both sides of the debate.”

  “Good for him,” I said, sincerely. As a reporter, I had to remain objective, but personally, I thought it was ridiculous marijuana hadn’t been legalized decades ago. Alcohol was more addictive than pot, and fit the definition of controlled substances far more than marijuana. I thought the war on drugs was a complete waste of tax-payer money, and fueled the problem. There were drug kingpins worth more than entire countries because we were fighting so hard not to let people get it. When someone says something is unattainable, people want it even more.

  I went over to speak to John. “Hi, John. I’m Kate Saxee with The Branson Tribune.” I was pretty sure he already knew that, but felt the need to let him know I was there as a reporter.

  “Hi, Kate. Thanks for covering this.”

  He was wearing a shirt with a photo of his daughter on it. Above the photo it said, “Hemp oil could save her life. Please…don’t kill my daughter.” My heart constricted in my chest at the thought of his little girl suffering needlessly. As far as opinion changing campaigns went, I thought his shirt was a pretty effective one. And anyone fighting against them must have a heart of coal.

  “To tell you the truth, we didn’t even know about it until I saw people marching past our front door. I know Lydia spearheaded the protest here, but who’s in charge of it statewide? And what other cities are involved?”

  Lines formed at the corners of his eyes in frustration. “It was all organized online. Lydia has been one of the most vocal anti-hemp oil protesters in the state. She’s just the leader of the Branson protest, though. There are at least fifteen other protests taking place around the state right now. They were organized by a marketing company in Salt Lake City.”

  “Do you know who hired the marketing company?”

  He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “No. It could be any number of people. There were no shortages of citizens who disagreed with the hemp oil bill. We were lucky that we had some strong supporters like Dylan Drake in the legislature to help us get it through. His connections with people in Salt Lake—and especially at the children’s hospital—really helped us. I don’t think it would have passed without him.”

  I didn’t know Drake had helped with that. The bill had passed before I moved back to Utah. I had just been around to see the angry fallout since. Drake’s help made sense though. He didn’t like to brag about his work with charities, but I already knew he was on the board of trustees for the children’s hospital, and philanthropy work was important to him. He wouldn’t have let John’s daughter suffer if there was anything at all he could do to help. I really admired that about him.

  John pulled me out of my Drake thoughts. “Even now that the bill has passed, these special interest groups are still trying to get the law reversed. And they’ve made it extraordinarily difficult to get the medicine.” His statement echoed what the red haired woman had said too.

  I shook my head in frustration. “I’m sorry, John. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. Is there anything you can do to get the oil?”

  “We’ve registered for hemp oil cards, but since the oil still isn’t being produced in Utah, we have to wait for out-of-state vendors. It takes a long time to grow the strain and make the oil. There’s a long waiting list of parents with kids who desperately need it. And then there’s the additional risk of transporting the oil across state lines.”

  “You can’t be prosecuted under state law though, right?”

  “No, but it’s still illegal federally. Meanwhile, my daughter sits at home, having seizures every couple of minutes. This isn’t a game. It’s not politics. It’s a little girl who needs medicine to save her life, and people on a high horse who think they know better than everyone else trying to make decisions for the world. They don’t know what I go through. I’d dare any one of the protesters or special interest groups to watch their kids go through that kind of hell and still stand back and fight against the only thing that would help them. They wouldn’t be able to do it unless they had no soul.”

  I doubted many of them did have a soul, but I agreed with John. No one should have to go through that, and the people fighting against the use of hemp oil should have to stand in a room and watch what they were making his daughter—and all kids like her—go through. “I don’t understand why people are protesting it. It’s not even marijuana. It’s an extract of the oil. It can’t get people high.”

  John shook his head. “Most of the public is severely uneducated about what hemp oil is and how it works. That’s the problem. The protesters across the street think it’s going to make everyone who tries it a drug addict. It won’t.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can to help. I’ll explain the differences between hemp oil and marijuana in my article.”

  Some of the lines on his face smoothed. “Thanks, Kate.”

  I walked across the street to talk to Lydia so I could make sure I presented both sides of the story. She was wearing a checkered black and white dress with a white cardigan over the top, and black belt secured around the cardigan. Her butterscotch blonde hair was twisted at the back of her head in a tight bun, and her face had fine lines around her eyes. I guessed she was in her forties. I introduced myself again, even though she already knew me, and asked some questions. “How did you get involved with this protest, Lydia?”

  “I’ve been working with several anti-marijuana legalization groups for years. When I heard about this one, I volunteered.”

  “Who organized the protests?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. The call went out from a marketing firm, Saffron Star PR. The protest information was posted in several of the online groups I’m part of. I contacted them and said I’d like to lead the Branson Falls protest.”

  Who led, or went to, protests organized by groups they knew nothing about? “Why are you against the legalization of hemp oil?”

  She gave me a look like she thought I was the dumbest person in the world. “It’s not just hemp oil. It’s all drugs. But especially pot. If we allow one thing to be legalized, all of the rest of the drugs in the world will follow.”

  “Any drug can be abused, even prescription drugs. How is this any different?”

  “Because it’s illegal.”

  “Studies have been done showing that alcohol fits the controlled substance definition better than marijuana.”

  “If I had my way, we’d outlaw the devil’s drink, too.”

  All righty then. I knew where she stood. She was like a dog with a bone, only hers was a cause she believed in, and no amount of rational thought was going to change her mind. That’s the way it was with opinions�
�unfortunately.

  I went back across the street and jotted some notes down for the story. I’d work on it later tonight. I said goodbye to Spence, then stopped to pick up dinner on my way home.

  The grilled cheese, French fries, and fry sauce were delicious, but my favorite part was the Oreo shake. Every time I had one, I thought of Hawke. The shake was yummy all by itself, but it was even better with the memory of Hawke eating it, and practically having sex with the spoon. I smiled, thinking about it, and almost jumped when my phone starting ringing to the tune, “Play Me.” My thoughts must have conjured him up.

  “Hey,” I said, answering.

  “Hi, Kitty Kate.”

  “Are you back in town?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, taking another bite of my ice cream, “I have an Oreo shake, and I’m willing to share.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Hmmm what?”

  “I’m having a serious debate about whether this contract is worth it, or if I should get on a plane and fly home to you right now.”

  My stomach fluttered. “I’d vote for home.”

  I heard him sigh. “I might.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  I smiled, thinking that was sweet—and unexpected. “I’m glad you called.”

  I heard a loud noise in the background that sounded a lot like the blades of a helicopter. “I have to go, Kitty Kate, but I’ll see you soon. And we’ll finish what we started in the corn field.”

  “Be careful,” I said, as he clicked off.

  I put my phone back on the table, and licked the Oreo shake off the spoon slowly. I ate the rest of my treat thinking about Hawke, and what he’d do with the ice cream if he were here.

  I changed into a comfortable, thin cotton cami and matching shorts then started researching the marketing company that had set up the protests, Saffron Star PR, before I fell asleep on the couch. It was early, but it had been a long day and I still couldn’t remember the night before.