Dancing Naked in Dixie

Praise for Lauren Clark & Stay Tuned

“ Riveting and much recommended…”

- Midwest Book Review

“A great read!”

- Rebecca Berto, Novel Girl

“Realistic and refreshing!”

- Michelle, Book Briefs

“Clark’s first attempt at story-telling - fiction story-telling - is a prize for any reader to have on his or her shelf.”

- Becca and Buddy

“
Stay Tuned
is a great read with vivid characters and an entertaining plot. ”

- Jennie Coughlin  

“Kudos to Ms. Clark on a wonderful debut…I look forward to reading more of her books.”

- Kathleen Anderson

"
Stay Tuned
is as faced-paced as a real-life newsroom.”

- Devon Walsh, WKRG-TV Anchor

"
Stay Tuned
is a great read! Lauren Clark writes so well you can feel what the characters feel.”

- Lauren Davis, WVLT-TV Anchor

"
Stay Tuned
is fast-paced, fun, and a downright treat.”

- Kira McFadden

“The characters in
Stay Tuned
grab hold and demand you live the story right along side them.”

- Emlyn Chand, Author, Farsighted

"Loved it and you will too. The book will draw you in and leave you wanting more."

- Anne Richter, WWNY-TV Anchor

“
Stay Tuned
for Ms. Clark’s next page-turner…I am.”

- Kevin Carey Infante

Published by Monterey Press LLC
57 North Monterey Street
Mobile, AL 36604
Library of Congress Control No: 2012937009
Copyright © Lauren Clark, 2012
e-book formatting by
Guido Henkel
Dancing Naked in Dixie
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Also by Lauren Clark

Stay Tuned

For Mark

Chapter 1

“The new editor needs you, Julia.” A stern summons from Dolores Stanley leaps over the cubicles and follows me like a panther stalking its prey.

“Just give me a minute,” I beg with a wide smile, sailing by the front office and a row of hunch-shouldered executive assistants. Steaming Starbucks in hand, my new powder-white jacket stuffed in the crook of my arm, I give a quick wave over my shoulder.

I am, after all, late, a bit jet-lagged, and on deadline. A very tight deadline.

A glance at my watch confirms two hours and counting to finish the article. I walk faster. My heart twists a teensy bit.

I don’t mean to get behind. Really, it just sort of happens.

However, that’s all going to change, starting today. I’m going to organize my life, work, home, all of it. I’ll be able to check email on the road, never miss an appointment, and keep up with all of my deadlines.

Just as soon as I can find the instruction manual to my new iPhone. And my earpiece.

Anyway, it’s going to be great!

So great, that I’m not the least bit panicked when I round the corner and see my desk; which, by the way, is wallpapered in post-it notes, flanked by teetering stacks of mail, and littered with random packages. Even my voicemail light is flashing furiously.

Before I can take another step, the phone starts ringing.

In my rush to pick it up, I trip and nearly fall over a pile of books and magazines someone carelessly left behind. A thick travel guide lands on my foot and excruciating pain shoots through my toes. My coffee flies out of my hand and splats on the carpeting. I watch in horror as my latte seeps into the rug fibers.

“Darn it all!” I exclaim, snatching up the leaking cup and setting it on my desk. Other choice expressions shuttle through my brain as I catch the edge of the chair with one hand to steady myself. I frown at the offending mess on the floor.
Who in the world?

Until it dawns on me. Oh, right. I left it all there in my rush to make the red-eye to Rome. My fault. I close my eyes, sigh deeply, and the strap of my bag tumbles off my shoulder. Everything—keys, mascara, lip gloss, spare change—falls onto the desk with a huge clatter. Letters and paper flutter to the floor like confetti in the Macy’s Day Parade. Just as Dolores sounds off again, her voice raspy and caffeine-deprived.

“
Now
, Julia.”

My spine stiffens.

“Be right there,” I call out in my most dutiful employee voice. Right after I find my notes and calm down.

As I start to search through my briefcase, a head full of thick silver curls and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses appear over the nubby blue paneling.

“Hey, before you rush off,” Marietta whispers, “how was Italy? Was it gorgeous, wonderful?”

“Marvelous,” I smile broadly at my closest friend and conjure up a picture postcard of Rome, Florence, and sun-drenched Tuscany. Five cities, seven days. The pure bliss of nothing but forward motion. “From the sound of it, I should have stayed another day.”

Marietta studies my face.

It’s the understatement of the year. I hate to admit it, but the prospect of inhabiting an office cubicle for a week intimidates me more than missing the last connection from Gatwick and sleeping on the airport floor. Claustrophobia takes over. I actually get hives from sitting still too long. Most days, I live out of suitcases. And couldn’t be happier!

I’m a travel writer at
Getaways
magazine. Paid for the glorious task of gathering fascinating snippets of culture and piecing them into quirky little stories. Jet-setting to the Riviera, exploring the Great Barrier Reef, basking on Bermuda beaches. It’s as glamorous and exhilarating as I imagined.

Okay, it is a tad lonely, from time to time, and quite exhausting.

Which is precisely why I have to get organized. Today.

I sink into my chair and try to concentrate. What to tackle first? Think, think.

“Julia Sullivan!”

Third reminder from Dolores. Uh-oh.

Marietta rolls her eyes. “Guess you better walk the plank,” she teases. “New guy’s waiting. Haven’t met him yet, but I’ve heard he’s the ‘take no prisoners’ sort. Hope you come back alive.”

All of a sudden, my head feels light and hollow.

I’ve been dying to find out about the magazine’s new editor.

Every last gory detail.

Until now.

“I’m still in another time zone,” I offer up to Marietta with a weak smile. My insides churn as I ease out of my chair.

Marietta tosses me a wry look. “Nice try. Get going already, sport.”

I tilt my head toward the hallway and pretend to pout. When I glance back, Marietta’s already disappeared. Smart girl.

“Fine, fine.” I tug a piece of rebellious auburn hair into place, smooth my suit, and begin to march. My neck prickles.

I’m not going to worry. Not much anyway.

My pulse thuds.

Not going to worry about change. Or a re-organization. Or pink slips.

Focus, Julia.

The last three editors adored me.

At least half of the North American Travel Journalist Association awards hanging in the lobby are mine.

The best projects land in my lap. Almost always.

Well, there was the one time I was passed over for St. Barts, but I’m sure what’s-her-name just had PMS that day. And I did get Morocco in February.

This last trip to Italy? Hands-down, one of the choice assignments.

I round the corner and come within an inch of Dolores Stanley’s bulbous nose. As I step back, her thin red lips fold into a minus sign. Chanel No. 5 wraps around me like a toxic veil.

Dolores is the magazine’s oldest and crankiest employee. Everyone’s afraid of her. To be perfectly honest, Dolores doesn’t like
anyone
, except Marietta—and the guy in accounting who signs her paycheck. And that’s only twice a month.

Most of the office avoids her as if she’s been quarantined with a deadly virus. “Good morning, Dolores,” I say with forced cheer.

As expected, she ignores me completely. Instead, Dolores heaves her purple polyester-clad bottom up off the chair, and lumbers toward the editor’s office. Breathing hard, she pushes open the huge mahogany door, frowns, and tosses in my name like a careless football punt.

I follow the momentum, shoulders back, hoping Dolores doesn’t notice my shaking hands.

Stop it, Julia.
No worries, right?

Dolores pauses and murmurs something that sounds like ’good luck.’
Wait. Dolores wished me luck?
That freaks me out completely. I want to run. Or fall to the floor, hand pressed to my forehead, prompting someone to call the paramedics.

Too late. The door clicks shut behind me. The office already smells different. Masculine, earthy, like leather and sand. I crane my neck to see the new person’s face, but the high-back chair blocks my view; an occasional tap-tap on a keyboard the only sound in the room.

I fill my lungs, exhale, and wait.

Light streams onto the desk, now piled high with newspapers, memos, and several back issues of
Getaways
. A navy Brooks Brothers jacket hangs in the corner.

I gaze out the window at the majestic skyscrapers lining Broadway, a blur of activity hidden behind a silver skin of glass and metal. A taxi ride away, three international airports bustle with life. Jets ready to whisk me away at a moment’s notice. My pulse starts to race just thinking about it.

“Not in a big hurry to meet the boss?”

The gruff voice startles me. My knees lock up.

“Sir?” I play innocent and hope he’ll blame Dolores.

The chair spins around. Two large feet plop on the desk and cross at the ankles. My eyes travel up well-dressed legs, a starched shirt, and a red silk tie. They settle on a pair of dark eyes that almost match mine.

For a moment, nothing works. My brain, my mouth, I can’t breathe. It absolutely, positively may be the worst shock-of-my-life come true.

“David?” I stutter like a fool and gather my composure from where it has fallen around my feet.