Summer Kisses (36 page)

“Wow, that’s the best you can do? All those years of law school… What a waste of money. Go ahead”—she shrugged—“arrest me. Since the mighty Bee Cave Police Department doesn’t have a jail, I suppose they could handcuff me to the bike rack out front of the station.” She made to push past him, but he didn’t budge. “Get out of my way.”

“Not until we talk.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing.” She rolled her eyes. “In case you missed it, you threatened me, I insulted you. If your mother were here trying to force-feed us potato salad and vodka martinis, it would be just like the last decade of Thanksgivings.” She took a gulp. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to finish this and nine more before I head out.”

To where was anyone’s guess. She needed to wait until dark before burglarizing her own house and stealing her own stuff so she could pay her cell phone bill and keep a roof over her head. It didn’t matter that the roof was the convertible top of a ’68 Camaro SS that was permanently rusted in the down position. Thank God Central Texas was in a drought, because rainy nights made living in her car problematic.

“All that Diet Coke isn’t good for you. The chemicals leech calcium from your bones.” His self-righteous heath-nut habits had always inspired her to find the nearest box of Froot Loops and knock back a couple of handfuls.

“You should encourage me to drink more. Because the sooner my bones turn to dust, the faster you’ll get my husband’s money. Make no mistake, the only way you will ever see a dime of it is over my dead body.” Lucky would hate Will until the day she died. He’d known about Ricky’s infidelity. For her entire fifteen-year marriage, Will had let her cry on his shoulder after she and Ricky had one of their infamous fights, all the while knowing that after Ricky had stormed out, he was on the way to
her
house.

Will had never told Lucky.

What was worse, the bastard who’d cheated on her or the best friend who hadn’t told her the truth?

Betrayal just about squeezed the life out of her.

“There is nothing you can say that will ever make things right between us. You can sue me, you can threaten me until you run out of hot air, but the fact of the matter is, in six months when Ricky’s probate is finished, you will be out of my life … permanently.” It couldn’t come soon enough.

Will folded his arms across his chest and stepped out of her way. “In all the years I’ve known you, I would have never taken you for a coward.”

“A coward? Meeee?” Her voice turned high and squeaky. Maybe he’d been drinking buckets of Diet Coke and it had leeched the brain cells right out of his head. “I’m the one who refuses to back down. A coward…” She shook her head. “Wanna see a coward, look in the mirror.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You have responsibilities. You need to face them.”

“I don’t need to face jack shit. Those three”—she threw up some air quotes—“responsibilities aren’t mine. I ain’t birthed no babies.” She pointed to her lower abdomen. “Hysterectomy, remember? Cervical cancer.”

“Do you really think I could forget?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “While you nurse that ball of hate, try to remember who drove you to chemo and held your head while you were sick and who carried you back to bed when you couldn’t walk. It wasn’t your precious Ricky. While he was on tour doing God knows what, I was there for you. You may hate me”—he leaned closer—“but you owe me. And you know it.”

Her bravado was melting faster than the ice in her cup. It was true she owed him big-time. “That’s the only reason I haven’t broken your pretty nose.”

His eyes softened, and they both knew he had her.

“You get five minutes. Follow me.” She headed back to her table and plopped down on the bench. “Welcome to my office.”

Will grabbed a couple handfuls of napkins from the dispenser on top of the trash can, wiped down the seat across from her, attempted to fit his stilt-sized legs under the table, and settled for sitting sideways. He turned his head toward her. “You need to meet the girls.”

“Time’s up.” No matter how caring he’d been while she was sick, being in the same room as the mistress and her children wasn’t going to happen. Lucky sucked up a healthy mouthful of Diet Coke and opened her laptop. She could ignore him for the remaining four minutes and change.

Beef patties sizzled on the cooktop, and fries popped and bubbled in hot oil. If heaven had a smell, this would be it.

Since she was running out of clothes to sell, it was time to move on to home furnishings. What were couches going for these days? Would anyone notice that one of the living room sofas was missing? How was postage figured on something that big? Clicking in the search window, she made it as far as “cou” before her laptop was whisked away.

With his absurdly long arms, Will held it above her head, just out of her reach. “I still have four minutes and thirteen seconds. Ignoring me won’t work.”

Leave it to him to know exactly how much time he had left. Details… He’d always been the details man. She grabbed for Lana the Laptop, but he snatched it away. Lucky sighed long and hard. “Real mature.”

“Know you are, but what am I?” His bland expression was quite a contrast considering the fifth-grade taunt he’d just thrown at her.

If she hadn’t been so worried that he’d drop Lana, something she couldn’t afford to replace, she’d have clapped her hands over her ears and refused to listen.

“I’m holding the laptop hostage until you hear me out.” He closed the lid and held it to his chest. “A new reality show—”

“No—”

“I’m not finished. A new reality show with you and the girls.” Lightning fast, he held Lana by the corner with only his index finger and thumb. “Punching me will only result in damaging the computer.”

“Threatening my electronics, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Lucky sat on the edge of the bench, grabbed her cup, and slammed the rest of the Diet Coke. Beverage rebellion wasn’t going to win the war, but it was better than no rebellion at all. Apart from a powerful need to burp, she felt a tiny bit better. Just to be safe, she poised to catch poor Lana should he lose his grip.

“The network is drooling over the possibility of a new show. Just think, you could dictate the terms. Money, fame, anything you want.” Gently, he placed the laptop back on the table. “
Rock-My World’s
season finale was the highest-rated reality show ever. It’s gone viral on YouTube—”

“Glad to know my humiliation is so entertaining. Too bad YouTube wasn’t around for Joan of Arc. The world could have toasted virtual marshmallows while she burned at the stake.” Not that Lucky saw herself as Joan of Arc, but if matrimony had a martyr, she might just beat out Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis for the privilege.

Infidelity was bad enough, but infidelity in the time of smartphones was public. A moment’s indiscretion now spent a lifetime on Facebook. To make matters worse, a zealous “Rockie,” as the
Rock-My World
fans called themselves, had set up a Facebook page inviting anyone who’d slept with Ricky to post pictures of their time with him.

“So what’re you thinking—me,
her
, and the kids in some
Gene Simmons Family Jewels
meets
Sister Wives
kinda thing? Why don’t we open it up to all of Ricky’s one-night stands? We could have a
Rock-My World
commune full of free love, drunk teenagers, and Ricky Strickland memorial tee shirts. Just think of the merchandizing … all the smartphone apps. We could have one where people insert their photo next to Ricky in our bed … call it,
Have you banged my husband
? Or … we could have one of you stabbing me in the back.” She pantomimed a Momma Bates. “Wait … we could create a game where Ricky tries to sneak girls into my house—it would be like Angry Birds but with bimbos. He has to hurl them through the windows before I go all Shotgun Santa.”

“Are you finished?” Will waited, nonplused.

She took a few seconds. “Yes.”

“You loved Ricky, I get that, but love wasn’t why you stayed married to him. You knew he wasn’t faithful. We discussed it many times.” Will’s tone was matter-of-fact. It really sucked that the only person she’d confided in was now using her past against her.

It was the children that hurt. She’d wanted to give them to Ricky, but her body hadn’t cooperated, so he’d found someone else who would ensure he didn’t end up as a stump on his family tree.

“You could ask for tens of millions … maybe even a hundred. Just one season—twenty-one episodes. And the show on your terms. You have all the bargaining power. It’s all up to you.” One side of his mouth turned up in a sardonic grin. “You have total control.”

“I can’t decide if you’re amazing or delusional. You’d sell ice to Eskimos and then make them believe they needed a commercial icemaker too. I know that bullshit was your livelihood as Ricky’s manager, but I didn’t know you’d elevated it to an art form.”

“So?” He crossed one foot over the opposite knee but kept both of his hands on her computer. “What do you think?”

She shook her head. “If I didn’t know for a fact that you have less of a sense of humor than George Stephanopoulos, I’d say you were punking me.” Slowly she placed her cup in the exact center of the table. “Did you really think I’d say yes?”

Will unfolded himself from the chair and stood. “No. I’m surprised you’ve listened to me this long.” He pulled a black Sharpie out of his back pocket and wrote a series of numbers across Lana’s cover.

Lucky’s mouth fell open, and her heart dropped to her stomach. Poor Lana, she’d cost Lucky a pair of Loubies, a vintage Chanel clutch, and some ruby earrings. “What are you doing?”

She grabbed for Lana as he turned the laptop to face her. “Here’s my new number. Call when you change your mind.”

“Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics before that happens.” She ran a hand over Lana’s shiny silver top. Part of a zero looped onto her white Apple symbol. With so few possessions, every single one was special.

Will bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Lucky, I’ll see you again soon.”

He turned on his Armani-clad feet and walked out the door.

Lucky grabbed up the napkins Will had used to clean his chair and started scrubbing her laptop case. Nothing. The marker had chemically bonded to Lana.

A loud clunk rocketed from the parking lot. Lucky rose and went to the window across from her. Stevie Nicks—her ’68 Camaro SS—was hitched to a tow truck and being led out of the parking lot like a dog on a leash.

The driver’s-side window of Will’s Maserati sedan glided down. He blew her a jaunty kiss and drove away.

Defacing Lana was one thing, but stealing Stevie Nicks along with all of Lucky’s possessions was another. She glanced back at her table. No purse. She’d grabbed the last of her cash out of it but had left it and her cell phone in the car.

She banged her forehead against the window glass a couple of times.

She was broke, homeless, and stuck at the Bee Cave McDonald’s. It was a sad state of affairs that this wasn’t the worst day of her life. In fact, it wouldn’t make the top fifty.

Will Brodie watched as the swarthy tow truck driver gently lowered the Camaro to the ground. He paid the man, got a receipt, and waved as the man drove down the mile-long driveway.

Will glanced at the cherry-red car. What had Lucky named this one? With her bad childhood, possessions had been few and far between, so she named the things she loved. Once she’d said that vintage American muscle cars, fancy clothes, and computers were the only things that made life worth living.

That reminded him. He pulled out his iPhone, touched the eBay app, and clicked pay now for the Manolo Blanik boots he’d finally won. It had been close—somebody in Wichita, Kansas, had kept outbidding him. Buying Lucky’s things had put a serious drain on his already meager finances, but it was the only way to take care of her. But no more. It was a crutch. He needed her at rock bottom so he could pick her up, brush her off, and help her make the life she should have had.

It was all he could do to keep from browsing her other auction items. The crutch went both ways—he wanted her to have her nice things, and one day, he’d give them all back to her.

“Uncle Will, did you get a new car?” Crushed granite crunched under the Mizuno running shoes of his eleven-year-old niece, Viviane. Right on the edge of womanhood, she was all long limbs and knobby knees. “Cool.”

“Want me to pop the hood?” He smiled.

Her brown eyes turned huge. “Really? Is she yours?”

Vivi accepted things at face value, loved basketball, and never backed down from a fight—in his book, that made her the perfect female. So many things about her reminded him of Lucky.

“No, she belongs to a friend of mine … well, Lucky.” He’d never sheltered his nieces, and he wasn’t going to start now. They knew their mother hadn’t been married to their father because he’d been married to someone else.

“Oh.” She took a step back and looked around like Lucky might materialize out of nowhere and snatch her up by the hair. “Is she here?”

“No. Want to see the engine?” Lucky had gotten Ricky into muscle cars, and he and his middle daughter had worked on them together.

“Is that a trick question?” She grinned.

He reached through the open driver’s window and pulled the hood release. “Just a heads up, Lucky will be here … soon.” He hoped. She was resourceful and sneaky and unpredictable, but she would be here, if only to murder him for touching her precious car. He smiled. Lucky was a survivor, and he admired the hell out of her.

“Oh my God. This is a 325-horsepower Turbo-Jet 396 V8.” Vivi was in love. “The porcupine cylinder heads improve engine breathing and combustion.”

She might as well have been speaking in tongues.

“What a beauty.” She leaned so far into the engine block that it looked like she might fall in. “Are we going to fix her up?”

“By ‘we’ I’m assuming you mean you and me.” The only reason he knew the difference between the steering wheel and the front wheel was that one was mounted inside the car and the other wasn’t. “No.”

“Turn her over.” She peeked out from the side of the hood. “I want to hear her purr.”