I pull her up and, with a movement that’s too swift for me to react to, she dives her lips onto mine. It’s like she’s dusted them with popping candy. Sweet. Tingly.
She pulls back with an enormous smile and I lick my tongue all over my lips, drawing her honeyed taste into my mouth. Fuck, that tastes good.
“C’mon, take me home and don’t spare the horses!” She bends to grab her shoes and skips around the lake edge.
I stand. Frozen to the spot. The opportunity gone in a puff of shy inexperience.
And if I’d have known then that when I came back from Texas, Lemon Gillespie would be besotted with another guy, I would have suffered the wrath of my father and spent the night being eaten alive under the stars. Because I’m sure that hesitation on that first day of a ball-sucky summer cost me my girl.
All the way to Texas in my father’s car, I stare out the window, repeatedly touching my lips, and play that evening out differently—the way it should have gone. In a way that would have had her waiting eagerly for me to return from Texas.
I should have taken her chin in between my thumb and finger and leaned in to those beautiful blue eyes of hers, my breath skittering across her skin, and in a voice deeper than it currently is I would have said, “I’ll be back for you.” She would have cocked her head to one side and asked me, “Are you ever gonna kiss me then, Carson Perrins?” And I wouldn’t have hesitated. Something I was not in control of would have pushed me forward and I would have kissed her with the fierce passion I felt for her. Left her wanting more. To dream every night of me and only me.
But that was not how it went down.
When I return from Texas, I find she’d spent the summer with her girlfriends, experimenting with makeup, clothes, and other boys. And she’d a developed a crush. A hard, first love kind of crush of magnanimous proportions on one of my best buddies. Blue Corrigan. And it kills me to uphold our buddy code and not do anything to change her mind. In doing so I lose her, and not in that never-to-be-seen-again kind of way. No, I’m punished on a daily basis with her in my full sight. So, slowly, I retreat and deal with the anger I feel at losing her by throwing myself into my career. Jumping at the first opportunity to go to a college that had a good route into the Visalia Police Academy.
Hiding my disappointment as Lemon reaches each milestone with Blue.
And watching from afar as Lemon’s love life plays out like a bad movie.
That day, that summer, at Earl Guthrie’s lake, heralded a period in my life, broken in love.
Two
Lemon
2020 - The year that sucked big fat hairy balls.
The crack of a gun flicks a switch deep in my head. A perpetual energy-sapping headache vanishes, along with thoughts that tumble around my mind in a continuous loop. It leaves behind a serenity as clear as the creek that runs from the Sierra Nevadas on to the Corrigan lands.
I’m not dead though, my rasping breaths confirm that, but aside from the air whistling from my lungs, I can actually hear external sounds with surprising clarity. The twang of country music, the hum and crackle from burnt out club signage, the clang of a door.
And what a time for this to happen to me.
The day of Blue Corrigan’s wedding.
I blurt out a laugh and warm liquid coughs onto my lips. Gingerly, I reach to touch it. Blood. I don’t suppose that’s good. I slide it between my finger and thumb. It’s sticky and thick and clings to my fingertips.
Music thumps heavily as the door to the club opens again. Alanis Morrissette’s “Ironic” blasts through the air before the door shuts. I love to dance to that song and sing the words as if I’m alone, with no-one shoving twenty-dollar bills into my underwear. But I couldn’t dance even if I wanted to right now. My body is weightless and I’m floating on an air mattress in the middle of a sun kissed pool.
“Don’t move her,” a panicked voice shrieks.
“Who is it?” My best friend, Penny, hisses near my ear.
“It’s Lemon Gillespie,” the panicked voice shunts out with short breaths.
My eyes flutter shut. Yeah that’s right, babe. That’s who I am now. My days of being Mrs. Corrigan are well gone.
“What happened?”
“Not sure. I thought I heard gunshot so poked my head out to see what was going on.”
“Jeez. Is she shot?”
“Don’t think so.” Her voice sounds from directly above me.
“We need medics here.” Penny shouts.
Let’s hope they don’t rush here, and everyone else floats away. I prefer this calm feeling and I could stay this way forever.
“Whoever’s responsible ain’t still around, are they?” Penny asks with a tremor in her voice.
“Don’t think so, but there’s been so much going on in the lot, it’s impossible to tell.”
“What about the cops? Did you call them?” Penny asks, her voice laden with concern.
“Uh, no…”
“I’ll call 911.”
That’s the last thing I need—police snooping around in my business. Asking a million questions about what went down and who did it and why.
I. Don’t. Care. It’s happened to me and I couldn’t give a damn, so why should the police be concerned?
The panicked voice squats at my side; lights from a passing car silhouette her from behind. I don’t recognize her. It’s maybe the new girl, I’m sure she was coming out for a cigarette too. Her face drifts out of focus.
“Yes, she’s fine. No, she’s not been shot,” she calls out to someone out of my range of vision.
“Stay with me.” She squeezes my wrist and leans toward my face until her image clarifies. It is the new girl. She’s a vision of innocence and barely of legal age. I hope this incident will put her off this line of work before it lures her too far in and changes her for good. She should pursue some other career because while the money ain’t bad, that’s where the positives end. “Help will be here soon.”
I try to thank her, but the words strangle in my throat.
Penny kneels at the other side and pushes something soft under my head. “There you go, babe.” She brushes hair from my forehead. I left my hair loose tonight which is not like me. It’s normally pulled in a high ponytail that I swish like a filly’s tail when I lean back on the podium or twirl like a lasso when I spin on the pole. I must’ve known tonight wasn’t going to turn out like any other shift.
I lift my hand in front of my face. I couldn’t feel my wedding ring on my finger when I smudged away the blood from my mouth. I wonder if he took it in a final act of vengeance?
Wouldn’t that be ironic?
Life was great when I cinched Blue Corrigan and he pushed that golden ring on my finger. That day was the happiest of my life. But seemingly not his. Blue has the perfect relationship now with Josie Lawless and even with my broken heart, I wish them well.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Penny grabs hold of my hand before I can check if the ring is there. I don’t suppose it matters now. Nothing matters now. The shock of what’s just happened and the likely consequences have made me numb. Comfortably numb.
“I’m okay,” I croak out.
Her expression tells me she doesn’t accept that. “Do you need a drink?”
Yeah. Bourbon. Straight up. I’ve got a nice bottle of Jim Beam with my name on it back home. If y’all can stop fussing, I’ll just slope off and snap it open. Toast to Blue and his new wife and wish them a long, successful marriage and… darn it, why not… lots of healthy babies.
I’m sure at that point I drift off to sleep.
“Oh.” Penny spins on her knees, pulling my hand with her, and bringing me back to the present. “They’re here, Lemon. Hang on in there.”
Jeez. Why is she being so dramatic? I can’t be that injured; I can’t feel a darn thing. But if I am hurt, then this could be what I’ve been searching for. Someone to put me out of my goddamn misery. I lower my eyelids, hoping I slip away before they try to save me.
If everyone would just disappear, I could lay here and let the rain wash everything away.
My name. My wedding band. My dignity.
Penny’s hand tightens around mine and she rubs the bare flesh of my thigh. “Stay with me, babe.”
I try to reassure her with a smile but my dry lips crack. I roll my tongue over them but it’s as dry as they are.
“Quick, Lola, get Vincent,” Penny shouts out.
Lola. That’s the new girl’s name. Sounds like a stage name and I wonder if it is.
Ugh. Where’s that clear mind gone? I’m rambling again.
“Vincent knows what’s happened. He’s dealing with some stuff inside the bar first,” says Lola.
Typical Vincent Crabstein. He won’t be caught in the crossfire.
“I’m sorry…” Lola mumbles as she pushes off her knees and I miss the end of her sentence.
I pry open my lips to ask her to repeat herself, or better still ask for a cigarette, but they’re glued together from the trauma. I didn’t even get a chance to have that damn cigarette when I took a break earlier. He was already there, waiting for me, and now I’m dying for one. I sniff in imaginary nicotine and tar, and feel faint from the buzz of the first drag.
The last whirr of the siren screeches across the lot as a police car skids to a halt a few feet away. The headlights blind me, so I look straight up to see blue and red lights flicker across the night sky like the Northern Lights.
“Move back everyone,” Carson Perrins calls out. “Give her some room.”
He’s so authoritative now. His footsteps thud closer and a whiff of ginger and lemongrass catches on a slight breeze. He towers over me wearing civvies. A rare sight. White shirt, snug fitting black denims, and shiny boots. All dressed up and looking down on such a sorry sight.
Me. His childhood friend.
And that’s what makes this even worse. I don’t want anyone who knew me as I once was to see me this way. Especially Carson Perrins.
And now I have no choice.
With the last ounce of effort in my broken body, I pull up the corner of my mouth into a mask of a smile.
And so it seems this is what rock bottom feels like.
Me pretending everything is okay, when clearly, it’s not.
I thought I’d reached this point many times in the last five years. Little did I know how deep I would fall.
Three
Carson
With admirable efficiency, the medics stretcher Lemon away to an ambulance and I’m left with Ledowski at the scene. There’s too much activity going on for my liking. Tires screech on the oily surface of the car lot. Vehicles and people come and go in all directions.
“Tape this place off and wait for forensics to show.” I need to sound professional, even though inside I’m on fire. Ablaze with emotion at how Lemon was attacked and the chest stabbing sight of her laid injured on the dirty asphalt outside this shithole.
“Sure thing.”
Ledowski runs to the car to grab some tape and I scan the parking lot as the wind whips up, rustling trash around my feet. It’s quiet now. A good hour since the attack and only a few vehicles are left. Some pickups and…holy shit… is that Mrs. Mulligan’s car? What the hell is the most God-fearing, law-abiding, school ma’am’s car doing here? I shake my head. I’m sure it will come out eventually.
Earlier, my heart jumped into my throat when Colt Corrigan gave me the message at Blue and Josie’s party. It was the last thing I expected to hear on a rare night off for the wedding of the year. I was ready to kick back and enjoy watching Blue move on with his new wife. Shit, I’ve waited in the shadows for years for that to happen so Lemon could heal from the toxic relationship she clung to. Now look at her.
I shake my head at the travesty of this turn in her life.
The club owner paces to his pickup.
“Not so fast, Crabstein.”
He hovers his hand above the door handle on his truck, waiting for me to approach.
“What went on here, tonight?”
He shrugs. “No clue. Guess it was a punter who got a little frisky.”
I lift my hands to my hips and jerk my chin at him, inviting him to tell me more.
He narrows his gaze. “Don’t know Carson, it was quiet all night, so I hung out in the office doing paperwork. A lot of the regulars probably at the Corrigan ranch.” His eyes drag down me, taking in my attire. “Can’t say I saw any one in particular. Anyway, are you supposed to be here, doing this?”
My nostrils flare. “I’m a police officer. My duty to the citizens of this town comes before anything else.”
He huffs, and I rein in my desire to punch him squarely on his already crooked nose.
“You got footage?” I nod toward the cameras up on the corner of the building.
He throws a thumb at one that points at the rear exit where Lemon was found. “That’s been out a while. But another’s over there.”
“Let me see.”
“What, now?”
My mood hardens. “Now,” I rumble.
Vincent benefits from a decent number of passes from my office and I’m pulling them all in tonight.
With a sigh, he unclips a bunch of keys from his belt and plods to the main entrance to the club.
The Green Parrot has been here a long time and I can’t say I’ve thought much of its history. It’s on the edge of town, far enough away for the townsfolk to forget it. Most days anyway. It has a drab exterior with the usual neon signage that brings in an appropriate clientele. Mainly men. Mostly single. Usually lonely.
The plain double doors rarely let in fresh air and the stench of stale beer coats my nostrils. I stand for a minute taking in the dimly lit scene. Bottles litter every surface, and balls tossed on a pool table hint at how quickly the patrons left.
“Through here.” Vincent turns on more lights and unlocks a narrow door at the side of the bar that opens into the infamous private room. Ledowski has checked it out previously and assures me it’s nothing to worry about—simply a place for single men to hook up with single women—but I shudder all the same. No cash passes between them but Crabstein charges them a subscription for their trouble and anonymity. Beyond a small walkway a velvet curtain is hooked to one side to reveal a 1970s styled room. A blanket of red. Red curtains. Red upholstery. Red wallpaper. Red lampshades. It’s never been my kind of thing, but judging by the large number of glasses scattered around, it’s popular with some.
“Was Lemon back here tonight?”
Vincent snorts. “No way. Not her style. She gets asked all the time but never accepts, no matter how many dollar bills are wafted under her nose.”
That makes me want to smile, but I don’t show it and I make a note to ask Ledowski more about how this works; it seems some punters are prepared to pay the dancers for additional services, which I’m not turning a blind eye to on my patch.
“The office is through here.”
He unlocks another door and we enter a standard office space. Desk. Chairs. Cabinets. Safe. A one-way window overlooks the private room and on the other wall is a large desk with a PC monitor, split into four images from the cameras dotted around the club. Only one shows a constant picture; it’s of the car lot and is fuzzy at best. Another flashes intermittently from within the bar area.
Vincent scratches at his head, as if he’s not too familiar with the video surveillance equipment.
I undo the top button of my shirt and stretch out my neck, reining in my frustration at his uncertainty. It’s a flaw of mine. I can’t deal with incompetence and tardiness. And looking around at the disorganization makes me twitch.
“Do you keep records of the guys that use this room?”
“No.” He snaps his head at me. “Why? Should I?”
I use a pen to flick open a grimy-looking
hard back cover of a two-year-old diary discarded on a stack of papers on the desk. Yep, he’s moved nothing from that pile in that long.
After a while of me not answering, Vincent tuts and shakes his head, finally getting to grips with the controls on the PC that record and store the surveillance images.
“Who was working here tonight?”
“Um.” He looks blankly at me for a few seconds. He can’t talk and figure out how this equipment works at the same. “Lemon, Penny, Maria, and Lola out front. Chase in the back room and Lena behind the bar.” He turns back to the screen. “I sent them home.”
I take in a deep frustrated breath. “Write down their names and contact details.” I rip a page from the diary and skim it across the desk to him.
“Do you want me to do that or check on this?” He flicks his eyes between the computer and the paper.
“Both.”
Annoyingly, he shakes his head before doing as I ask him.
“And while you’re at it, I want the name of every patron you saw in here tonight.”
He gasps at me and I lift my eyebrows back.
He scribbles a list of names and takes out his phone from his back pocket for the contact details before concentrating back on the screen.
I roll up my shirt sleeves and check my watch. It’s hot and stuffy in here and my patience is wearing thin. There’s a shit ton of stuff to get through before the trail goes cold and I want to check on Lemon before the night is through.
“Here.” Vincent switches to the recorded footage from the outside camera and locates the rewind feature just before I lose my shit with him.
I scrape aside crap from the desk and perch on the edge, immediately regretting it when the fabric of my pants sticks. I hover and lean into the picture. It’s grainy, at best.
“That’s Lemon.” He points at a blurred figure emerging from the rear exit.
She pushes the door open with a force—like she’s pissed with something—wraps a jean jacket around her shoulders and hooks her purse under her arm. With her foot up on the wall behind her she lights a cigarette, pauses for a while as she looks to the distance, then takes a phone from her purse. She’s engrossed in whatever is on the illuminated phone screen when headlights zoom in and shine on her, marring an already poor-quality image. I squint. She glances up from her phone, takes a last drag of her cigarette, then grinds the stub into the ground. Then she waits. What is she waiting for? Does she know the occupant of the vehicle that has just turned up?
Broken in Love (Studs in Stetsons Book 2) Page 2