Look Before You Jump

By D. A. Bale

Copyright by D. A. Bale, 2016

ISBN 9781310593703

Cover design by D. A. Bale

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of both the author and copyright owner listed.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.

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of this author.

There’s no better feeling for an author than
putting a book to bed – and there are no words great enough to
praise the selfless souls who helped bring a novel to that
state.

Thanks just doesn’t measure up, but here’s a
big thank you anyway to the GK Brainstormers who are always the
first to cut their teeth on the initial draft of all of my stories
(even the ones that never made it to publication). Brian, Gary,
Julie, Richard, and Tonya – Vicki would never have become as
interesting as she is without your insight into the realm of humor.
You’ve helped my stilted-at-birth funny bone to grow three sizes
during the writing of this novel.

A great big thank you and digital air hugs go
to my beta reading crew. Benette, Deb, and Sandra – you three will
never know how much your ability to relate to and/or simply love
Vicki and her antics helped resolve one of my critique group’s
biggest beefs with that character. As much fun as I had writing her
and living vicariously through some of the memories she evoked from
my college days, I worried about having gone too far. Y’all helped
me realize I hadn’t.

To Toni

Because even though you eventually stabbed me
in the back and stole twelve thousand dollars from me, it was the
memory of our college trip to Dallas Alley and the Historic West
End that became the germ that grew into this series. For this and
many other good memories from those days long gone, I thank
you.

They say life’s challenges either make you
bitter or better. In my case, there’s a third option – bat-crap
crazy.

But sometimes crazy can be good, the
necessary catalyst for change. I know it was for my life all those
weeks ago. Er, months? Okay fine, it’s been a few years now.

Back then I had both feet firmly planted over
the line. You know – ethics, morality, self-control, etcetera. My
ethics were at times questionable. More like in the interest of
self-preservation. My morals – can I plead the fifth? Self-control?
Yeah, you’ll see where that got me in a minute.

The desire to practice a little control of
self was what had me tilting at a certain windmill by the time that
particular night rolled around and forever changed things in my
self-absorbed existence. It’s what brought my life
and
my
Corvette to a screeching halt as I rounded the street corner to my
apartment instead of spending it at someone else’s. Just wish I’d
realized that little tidbit when I saw the blue and red lights near
my apartment building flashing like a strobe on steroids. Same
players – change direction.

But I digress.

Life prepared to teach me lessons. And for a
hard-headed, smart-mouthed woman with a Texas-sized attitude only a
mother could love, I had to learn them the hard way.

***

I knew I was in trouble even before opening
my eyes.

The hangover headache shattered into my
consciousness. Cotton mouth came next. Grit clouded my vision until
sunlight batted it away like a sandblaster.

The early afternoon worsened when the
unfamiliar surroundings came into focus. Floor to ceiling windows –
I hated them very much at that moment – shimmered like heat waves
off a parking lot in July. Industrial-style loft space opened
beyond the railing of the upper floor bedroom. So not my apartment.
Too chic. Jealousy festered. Under different circumstances, I’d
have enjoyed hanging out awhile in such surroundings.

The cold claws of panic gripped me until
snippets of last night’s rendezvous filtered into my sluggish
brain. A groan escaped from someone – I can only assume me – as I
sat up amid a cloud of white down comforter and tangled buff
sheets, revealing my passed-out companion. A chiseled face lay
buried in a pillow, squared jaw under tousled brown hair looked
like a luscious male model straight off the cover of a magazine.
Not fair for a guy to look this good first thing in the morning. If
only I could remember the color of his eyes. Strong broad shoulders
graduated down to an amazing six-pack, slender hips, and – oh
yum.

Awareness lurched before the headache
returned to reclaim it. Oops, I’d done it again. Does forgetting
the name of a sexual encounter make me a slut?

Don’t answer that.

It was time to swear off men. Become a nun –
well that was out of the equation. I’d long ago relinquished virgin
status. But if they could reconstitute orange juice, why couldn’t I
become a reconstituted virgin? Either way, last night’s obvious and
unnamed entanglement would have to last me for awhile if I planned
to practice celibacy anytime soon. At least I’d have the memories –
that is, if I could only recall the guy’s name.

As I slithered from the bed, the aches in my
body told me we must have had a good time. The fact my strappy,
four-inch heels were the only thing that had made it up to this
floor suggested we’d had a
very
good time. Bits and pieces
of last night’s wardrobe revealed themselves as I limped down the
stairs and shrugged into them on my way toward the front door.

The keys looked like they’d been launched
across the granite countertop of the bar, the stem on the cute
little martini glass keychain broken beyond repair. My head
thundered like a stampede as I tried to recall who had driven last
night. I was barely coherent enough to drive this morning – or
afternoon. Oh hell. All I could think about was whether or not my
Corvette had survived the trip in one piece. Perhaps I should take
a vow of abstinence from not only sex but alcohol too.

Yeah, right.

A groan from upstairs. Time to make my
stealth escape and vanish. I scurried – more like teetered and
tripped – to the front door, carrying my heels and keys and praying
to find my purse in the Vette. A stealth escape? Let’s just say if
bartending didn’t work out for me, the CIA or MI6 wouldn’t be
beating down my door anytime soon.

***

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

My head threatened to crack like a champagne
flute serenaded by a soprano, though I’d much rather just drink the
champagne. Said soprano and best friend, Janine, could strip the
peel off a potato with her squeal. ‘Cept this time it felt as if it
stripped the scalp from my skull.

I moaned. “Bring it down about twelve
octaves, would you?”

“Most pianos only sport six octaves.”

“Hanging up now.”

“Spill, Victoria,” Janine huffed. “I want
details not excuses. A name. Number of climaxes. Types of
positions. That sort of information. And don’t you dare skimp out
on me just because you’ve got a hangover the size of Texas.”

“Ugh, you sound like my mother.”

That silenced her for a split second. “When
did you start talking to your
mother
about these exploits of
yours?”

My mother. The thought got a chuckle out of
me that sounded more like gravel in a blender. Talk to my mother
about Mr. Yummy? If I even mentioned the word sex in conversation,
my mother’s head would explode. If it hadn’t been for having little
ol’ me, I’d have suspected my mother of still being a virgin. Hmm.
Maybe I was adopted.

“You know, calling me Victoria instead of
Vicki,” I mumbled, reaching into my fridge and pressing an ice cube
against my temple. “It’s irritating enough when my mom does it. I
don’t need it from my best friend too, especially after last
night.”

“You’re really pissy when you’ve got a
hangover.” I could almost hear Janine’s smirk.

“Some friend,” I mumbled around a nibble of
Oreo.

There’s just something about a chocolatey
cookie that settles the stomach – at least for me. I guess that’s
why my pantry is full of them.

“So speaking of last night,” Janine prodded,
“give it up.”

“I think I did enough of that last
night.”

The snicker echoed too loud through the cell
connection. “You gave
it
up a long time ago.”

“Don’t remind me.”

The thought jolted my sluggish and slutty
mind back to that night more than ten years ago. The sex wasn’t
that great compared to what I now knew. But at fifteen, losing your
virginity to the pastor’s son wasn’t such a bad way to go. Breaking
in the bed of his brand spanking new Ford F-150 dear dad had bought
him for graduation, let’s just say getting caught by the police
with your pants down – or hanging from the tailgate, or tossed into
the grass several feet from the truck – made the experience that
much more memorable.

Eleven years later, I was still making
experiences – minus the memorable part.

“I tell ya,” Janine said, interrupting my
trip down memory lane. “The way you two were bumping and grinding
on the bar top last night, I didn’t think you’d finish dancing out
the set before he took you right there.”

“I have a vague recollection of dancing on
the bar,” I acknowledged.

Janine sighed. “What’s the point of getting
taken advantage of by gorgeous hunks of steamy man-flesh if you
can’t remember the experiences?”

“Let me get back with you on that when I have
the brain capacity to figure out an acceptable answer.”

A little bit of this and too much of that, I
finally succeeded in putting an end to Janine’s interrogation. I
really couldn’t blame her. The closest Janine has come to losing
her virginity was when she hit an enormous pothole while riding our
bikes when we were twelve. If her mother had her way, Janine would
still be a virgin even
after
her wedding night.

The ice cube had melted into a puddle that
threatened to warp the fake wood kitchen floor. In my somewhat
precarious condition, bending down to wipe it up almost sent me
sprawling on my backside. Laminate in the kitchen – whose bright
idea was it to put wood by-products in a room dominated by
water?

Gee, I was beginning to sound like a snooty
impression of my parents.

For the millionth time that year – and it was
barely June – I glanced around my little one-bedroom apartment with
the laminate flooring, tattered and stained Berber carpet, and a
cracked kitchenette countertop straight out of the eighties. When
you’ve grown up with anything and everything money, power, and
status can buy, it’s a bit difficult to go without those perks. At
first. After more than two years of freedom, it’s hard to imagine
giving up my independence to return to what I considered slavery.
On occasion, Dad’s voice still crept into my head –
why do you
choose to live like a pauper?

“Because I no longer have to bow and scrape
to your sorry ass anymore, ol’ Daddy dear,” I said to the apartment
walls a little too loud.

Slinky, my sweet tabby cat, didn’t even
flinch from his perch in the window well. The only species of the
male persuasion who understood me, he stayed far away instead of
tangling in my legs while I suffered through the effects of a
hangover. If only the other men in my life would take a lesson from
Slinky, my life would be a hell of a lot easier.

My dad’s a ridiculously wealthy and powerful
son-of-a-bitch – oops, sorry Grandma. Like the Texas oilmen of
yesteryear, Mr. Frank Bohanan cut his own trail in the industry
with a lot of bribery, power plays, and just damn luck on his part.
As a selfless philanthropist – emphasis on the self – he built the
new building for the church we all had attended while I was growing
up. One of those mega churches. Seats ten thousand with video
screens two stories high so you can get a really good look at what
Pastor Dennis had for breakfast. Maybe Dad considered it some sort
of penance to the congregation to make up for bringing me into
their midst. Nah. Probably more because it made for a great tax
deduction several years running.