Think Before You Speak

By D. A. Bale

Copyright by D. A. Bale, 2016

ISBN 9781311290649

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.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.

As always, a great big thanks goes to the
members of my critique group – thank you so much, Brainstormers,
for your insight on that first draft. I wrote this one way too fast
to not have a plethora of mistakes for you to wade through.

Deb and Sandra, my devoted beta readers for
this series, your constant encouragement on what you love about
Vicki kept me going on that final draft. This one required so much
rewrite, I wasn’t sure at times if I was going to keep story
continuity straight.

Geraldine, Glenn, and Dayna, thank you for
helping me muddle through some of the details about the history and
structure of the Alamo. My anality was on display with all of my
itty, bitty, detailed questions. You were all so blessedly
patient.

The world’s biggest Dallas Cowboys fan – Wes,
you helped me ‘see’ the new Cowboys Stadium and hear the crowd from
a real, live spectator’s perspective. Without your excitement and
appreciation of all things silver and blue, I doubt if I’d have
included the scene I wrote near the end of this novel. Instead, you
gave it the life it needed.

To my nephew, Wes

Because you’re the world’s greatest Dallas
Cowboys fanatic, even though I still root for the 49ers to whoop
their tush every year. I hope you share the same warm memories of
that Christmas I sang to you my personal rendition of
Cowboys
Roasting on an Open Fire
set to the tune of
Chestnuts
Roasting on an Open Fire
. It continues to make me feel all
toasty inside, even though the revised wording is long
out-of-date.

Temptation has a name – and his name is Zeke
Taylor.

And if circumstances didn’t change pronto,
I’d either succumb to temptation to tango between the sheets with
him or end up committing something short of murder to avoid that
thar Texas Ranger. No matter what I did to resolve the tension
between us, I’d still be screwed, which would then put me in a
position potentially rivaling the epic breakup we went through more
than two years ago.

Strawberry sweet tea swirled as I stared into
the glass, wishing for something stronger with lunch. Something
more in the range of the Long Island variety.

“Victoria? Victoria!”

Mom’s voice finally seeped into my gray
matter. “Huh?”

Pursed lips greeted me across the linen
covered table of my mom’s favorite Dallas restaurant. The server
interrupted, setting Wedgewood china bowls on the ruby-red chargers
then placing a small matching tureen on the table.

Old elm trees outside arched overhead and
swayed in the furnace of a stiff August wind, intermittently
pecking the soaring glassed-in atrium. The staccato rhythm of the
tapping tree limbs was out of sync with whichever movement of
Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
the string quartet played.

A classical music aficionado I’m not. My
taste of the classics runs more toward the rock variety. My best
friend Janine, however, could tell you not only the current
movement being plucked by the strings, but also which measure they
were at in the sheet music and whether the key was in A, B, C, or
D.

I may have left something out there.

The aroma of lobster bisque sent my mouth
watering like a wolf sniffing out prey. Lobster made me think of
Alaska, where the sweet and succulent critters originated. Alaska
made me think of cooler temperatures. Cooler temps brought to mind
the approaching football opener – all of which meant more
comfortable weather loomed on the horizon. I sighed, wishing it was
already here.

After the waiter ladled a miniscule portion
of lobster bisque in each bowl, Mom waved him away with a flick of
her wrist.

“Have you even heard a word I’ve said since
we arrived?” she asked.

“Sure,” I responded too cheerfully over the
stringy strains.

“Then what have I been talking about for the
last ten minutes?”

“Um…a sale at Macy’s? No wait, Neiman
Marcus.”

Mom just shook her head. You know the one –
full of impatience, disappointment, and irritation. It’s a reaction
I seem to get a lot these days, from more than just her.

“There’s been another delay with your
apartment.”

“Again?” I whined.

“And Reginald said it may be a few weeks more
before you can move back in,” she finished.

I plunked the spoon into the bowl and sank my
face into my hands with a groan. This was so
not
what I
needed to hear right now.

Five weeks ago my mom and her interior
designer corralled, confiscated and basically took over my
apartment after an uninvited co-worker decided to change the décor
from Mid-Eighties Motif to Early American Landfill. You know, trash
the place.

Oh hell, the guy pretty much released a
nuclear bomb in my apartment and left me with little but the
clothes on my back. Let me tell you, if Bud had done anything
during his rampage to hurt my sweet tabby cat, my former co-worker
would’ve ended up with more than a bullet through his brain.

But I digress.

This apartment rearrangement left Slinky and
me temporarily homeless. If not for the good graces of the
aforementioned Ranger Taylor, the cat and I might’ve spent those
weeks sleeping in my cramped and uncomfortable Corvette. It was a
sweet ride, but not made for sleeping. I was between boyfriends,
after all. Er, uh fellow nighttime excursion enthusiasts. Alright
fine – hook-ups, ‘cause I didn’t do the boyfriend and girlfriend
thing anymore.

However, the current sleeping arrangement of
me on the living room couch while Zeke slept with only the thin
wall of his bedroom to separate us was doing more than trying the
soul of this bartending babe. It also made it achingly more
difficult to honor my early summer pledge to lay off the getting
laid.

Which had me almost on my knees before my
mother in the very public and proper restaurant setting. Not a very
lady-like thing for a once proud twenty-six year-old debutante.
Besides, if I hadn’t restrained myself, I’d have risked scuffing up
my new tiffany-box-blue pumps on the travertine tile floor.

“Please, Mom,” I begged. “I’ve gotta get out
of Zeke’s apartment before
I’m
the one who ends up in jail
for murder.”

Mom dabbed the linen napkin on her
rose-tinted lips before replacing it in her lap and straightening
her shoulders like a good former Miss Texas. “That’s not funny,
Victoria.”

“Who said anything about being funny?”

That got me the stare. You know the one. It’s
something mothers perfected before squeezing their young from the
womb.

I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain
those moments an expectant mom spends standing in front of the
mirror aren’t merely for judging her expanding girth. She’s being
proactive. Practicing. Those hormones are doing more than merely
changing her physical appearance – they’re changing her brain
chemistry. Giving her that sixth sense. Eyes in the back of her
head.

That’s gotta be it ‘cause this kid never
stood a chance getting away with crap from the moment I was born,
though that might’ve had more to do with the fact that I had not
only a mom and dad watching me but a full-time nanny too.

Which is another reason why I missed living
on my own.

“You just helped clear Bobby Vernet’s name of
the murder of his wife, at great bodily trauma to yourself I might
add, not to mention the emotional trauma to your mother,” she
sniffed, then fanned her face with the napkin in true southern
style. “Don’t joke about such things.”

“Who’s joking?” I quipped, remembering every
last bump, bruise, and bashing I’d endured at Bud’s hands to avoid
being tossed off my apartment building rooftop like a ragdoll.

“Is Zeke no longer being hospitable? I’d be
glad to call his mother.”

“I don’t need you to call Mrs. Taylor, Mom. I
just need to return to my own space. Rediscover my Zen. Plus his
couch is killing my back.”

Mom’s brilliant green eyes widened. “Are you
telling me that man has left you sleeping on his
couch
all
this time?”

“Would you rather I slept with him in his bed
again?”

That narrowed her eyes real quick and earned
us furtive glances from nearby tables. “I meant, why has he not
given you the bedroom and taken the couch for himself? That would
be the safest and most gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Zeke’s a Texas Ranger,” I emphasized. “They
haze the gentleman out of them during initiation week.”

“Well, you could stay with your father and
me, you know. There’s plenty of room at the mansion.”

“Yeah, that would work real well, Mom,” I
returned, sarcasm dripping from my words. Or maybe that was
sweat.

“Though I must say, I’m glad to know you’ve
learned to restrain your…” Mom paused to fan herself again with the
napkin. “…urges.”

That almost sent lobster bisque down the
wrong pipe as I struggled to restrain laughter. My mom tries so
hard to modify her language to avoid anything that sounds overtly
sexual. In Mrs. Audra Bohanan’s vocabulary – and pretty much
everyone else from Mom’s church social circle – a woman isn’t
pregnant, she’s
with child.
A married couple doesn’t have
sex, they have
relations.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I
existed, I’d have sworn Mom was still as pure as the Virgin
Mary.

Me? It’s a well-known fact I’m more the Mary
Magdalene type. So well-known, there’s a police report from the
summer of my fifteenth year to back up my claim to non-virginal
fame. That was when the aforementioned Bobby Vernet and I got
caught with our pants down – or more like tossed into the nearby
pasture – while doing the deed in the bed of his brand-spanking new
Ford F-150.

Did I also mention he’s the only son of Mom
and Dad’s pastor?

With that wedge of understanding between us,
it’s sometimes difficult to bridge the ever-expanding gap between
my mom and me. Our Tuesday lunches and shopping excursions are one
way we’ve tried to stay connected since I moved out on my own
nearly three years ago. My escape to freedom was a matter of
self-preservation – and my only saving grace where my dad was
concerned.

The truck bed debacle cost the sperm donor
upward of ten million dollars toward the building of the new
Celebration Victory Church, a building dedicated to the spreading
of Dennis and Mary Jo Vernet’s version of the gospel – the kind
that involves more fleecing of the flock than shepherding. The
donation
to the building fund was my dad’s way of offering
penance for bringing me into the world.

Like father like daughter, I guess. At least
in one way. I’d discovered the photographic evidence long ago to
prove it. It’d take a whole hell of a lot more than ten million to
absolve dear ol’ dad of those sinful multitudes.

I took a long drink to stem the blazing heat
signature inching closer from the glassed-in reflection. Or maybe
it was to delay the uncomfortable conversational turn. Funny how
the idea of having a conversation with my mother about
urges
devolved into a struggle for me this time. Guess I’d learned
avoidance from the best.

“I’ve turned over a new fig leaf,” I finally
responded. “Figured it was a good time to practice the art of
self-control when it comes to my
urges
.”

Mom delicately cleared her throat. “I’m glad
to hear it.”

I didn’t mention the fact that it had become
more necessity at this stage. Since the uncomfortable closeness
experienced at the governor’s dinner a few weeks ago, I’d not only
slammed the brakes on potential budding intimacy but had shoved the
transmission into reverse at a hundred miles per hour and left skid
marks only a street racer would love. Now Zeke and I were doing
everything we could to avoid one another – not hard at present,
with Zeke on some big case and keeping odd hours. I’m a day sleeper
since I work nights as a bartender. The job with the Texas Rangers
made Zeke an early riser. Hmm.