Think Before You Speak (14 page)

“You trusted me enough to get you home safe
last night.”

I leaned against the armrest and closed heavy
eyelids. “I was drunk. I would’ve trusted a gang member to get me
home safe last night.”

Grady sobered. “Which leads to the other
elephant in the room.”

“Meaning?” I asked, testing my tummy with
another nibble of toast.

“Zeke told me about your little run-in the
other night in gang territory.”

I sat up too fast to a spinning world, the
toast clattering to my plate as I fought the urge to hurl – from
more than a hangover. “I already got the third degree from the
Ranger. I’m not in the mood to hear it from you too, Boss.”

“Not even gonna try,” Grady said raising his
hands in surrender.

“Then why’re you bringing it up?”

“Cause. You were followed home last
night.”

If Grady had hoped to scare me with his
little revelation this morning – well, he’d succeeded. The presence
of a late night follower helped clarify better than any words
spoken about why Grady had stuck around my place thru the morning.
That was an elephant in the room I didn’t need explained. Or even
discussed – especially if the follower tied to Reggie’s blackmail.
I needed to get a handle on how to dig my friend out of this hole
instead of merely spinning my wheels.

After swigging down the rest of my Irish
coffee, I switched to the regular stuff and took two aspirin for
good measure. By the time I dropped Grady off at his truck, the
roaring headache had reduced to a low growl.

Saturday afternoons were typically better
spent recuperating from Friday night bar antics. Instead I drove
into the countryside and turned up a long drive to enter the
De’Laruse estate. The type of paper the blackmail notes were
written on and the use of calligraphy spoke of quality. Money. Who
better to poke around those circles than someone who had more than
a little cash?

Just so we’re clear, the country and I are
not friends. To put it mildly, I’d rather go to a piñata party and
be the piñata. With the myriad bees, mosquitoes, spiders and other
assorted insects that buzz and crawl in the heat, those Texas-sized
critters usually kept me busy smacking arms and legs until my skin
looked like someone else had taken a baseball bat to it.

Hence the piñata sentiment.

The familiar face at the guard station waved
me through the twenty-foot high, wrought iron gates before I even
had a chance to roll to a complete stop. Since Janine’s mom had
grown up on a former Louisiana plantation, she insisted her
children have that expansive acreage experience.

Their antebellum manor was built in true
southern tradition, with first and second floor covered porches
wrapped around three sides. This allowed ample opportunity for
Janine and her younger brother George to spend time outside,
learning to tolerate the heat and assorted pests like properly bred
ladies and gentlemen.

Give me the city and air-conditioning
twenty-four-seven or trust me, you wouldn’t want to be within fifty
yards after five minutes of
glistening
, as my mom would say.
But let’s call it like it is. I’d be a hot, sweaty mess, which is
why ponytails in summer suited me just fine.

Around the bend, the trees opened to reveal
the white columned mansion. The home was a gift from the elder
De’Laruses when the business management end of the family’s oil and
gas enterprise moved to Dallas. It was a smaller yet modernized
version of the antebellum homestead in Louisiana – Charlotte’s side
of the family, that is.

When Janine’s mom eloped with her dad, the
one caveat for Charlotte’s return to family grace was that her
husband of questionable Creole background rescind his last name in
favor of hers. Years of elocution lessons and a master’s in
business with a law degree on the side, Thomas was finally deemed
ready to publicly accept the mantle of an empire. The fact they
were now the wealthiest family in all of Texas – and that’s saying
something in the oil capital of these United States – spoke volumes
about Thomas’ commitment to the name of
De’Laruse
.

Of course, keeping Charlotte in the manner in
which she was raised endeared him even more to those Louisiana
elders. After all, they had a reputation to uphold – kinda scary to
think about looking at the next generation sitting with his mother
at one end of the porch.

Janine’s younger brother typically spent his
summers learning the ropes of the empire he’d take over someday.
All day. Every day. Well, except for Sunday mornings. Had to put in
the requisite appearance in the family pew and then lunch before
heading into the office with his dad. But knowing George’s penchant
for morning breaks, coffee breaks, lunch breaks, tea, afternoon
breaks, and dinner meetings, he’d likely found new ways every day
to disappear and do just enough to get by – or find someone else to
do the work for him before taking all the credit. He was your
quintessential next generation rich kid.

Okay, yes I was from a wealthy family too,
but at least I actually paid my own bills. Most of the time. Except
for the contents of my closet. Well, and the recent renovation –
but that wasn’t my fault. We’ll just call that one a gift from the
heart of an overprotective and concerned mother.

But where Janine worked herself into a frenzy
toward a doctorate in music, her brother was a slacker, sleazebag,
and overall slimebucket by comparison – evidenced by his multiple
and never-ending attempts over the years to cop a feel. We’re
talking all the way from the time he was five, folks.

I can’t tell you all the times growing up in
church when he’d
accidentally
trip just to see up a woman’s
dress or brush his hand against a certain part of a girl’s budding
anatomy. It got so bad, Mrs. De’Laruse even took him to an ear,
nose, and throat specialist because she was convinced he had an
inner ear problem affecting his equilibrium.

Janine and I never could bring ourselves to
explain the only problem George had was his overstimulated sexual
curiosity – I tended to prefer the word
pervert
but
refrained from saying it aloud out of respect for my friend’s
family. The guy had probably been looking at porn from the cradle.
Most times George reminded me more of
my
dad than his.

Hmm. With my dad’s wanderlust – emphasis on
the lust – it was always a distinct possibility. But I couldn’t
picture Mrs. De’Laruse stepping out on her husband or betraying my
mother’s friendship. With her penchant for sniffing out scandal, I
also had trouble seeing Mrs. De’Laruse as someone who could hold
her tongue and keep a secret of such magnitude for more than ten
seconds.

However, Thomas
was
a certified
workaholic, and it was a miracle they’d found the time to have one
child, much less two. George must’ve been dredged from the bottom
of their combined gene pool.

“Victoria dawlin’,” Mrs. De’Laruse drawled,
calling me over to the wicker table and chairs where sweet tea and
cookies signified the dessert portion of lunch.

I bent over her seated form to accept the
air-peck to both cheeks. “Hello, Mrs. De’Laruse.”

“How are you doin’, dear?”

“Can’t complain about anything but the
heat.”

“And how’s your mother?”

“She’s doing fine, but I imagine you’ve
talked to her since I last saw her.”

“You really should call her more often,
Victoria,” Mrs. De’Laruse admonished.

And with that guilt train, it was time for me
to escape. “Sorry to interrupt lunch, but is Janine home?”

A scowl pursed her lips. “That girl wolfed
down her luncheon and hoofed it back to her room like an inbred
ruffian. So disappointing. So unladylike. It makes a mother wonder
where she went wrong.”

Wide eyes gave me the once over. It was
obvious where Mrs. De’Laruse thought she’d gone wrong, though the
inbred comment might explain a lot where their son was concerned.
Like most old southern family lines, there were likely several
generations of close-relational marriages buried within the
De’Laruse DNA. I just smiled and did my best to bite my tongue.

“Say hello, Georgie,” Mrs. De’Laruse
commanded her twenty-three-year-old son before I could slink
away.

“Hello, Victoria,” George said as he stood,
placed the linen napkin by his plate and ran his hands through
unruly dark curls before coming around the table. “It’s been a long
time since you stopped by to visit.”

“Well, you’re usually not here when I do,” I
said.

The fake charm oozed to the forefront while
the thinly veiled hunger gleamed in his blue eyes – and we’re not
talking from lack of lunch, folks. The youngest of the De’Laruse
brood was built more like his mother with a little more paunch than
panache. Or a lot. It didn’t stop George from squeezing my chest to
his though – and placing his outside hand a little too low on my
right haunch where his mother couldn’t see.

What’d I tell you? Georgie was very adept at
getting some T&A – and in front of his mom to boot. It didn’t
deter me from giving him my own little reminder, as I found that
sensitive skin just inside the arm and gave him a little pinch in
return. I felt rather than saw the wince as he pulled away a bit
too quickly.

In the south, it isn’t good manners to run
off without spending at least a modicum of time in conversation.
But we all know by now that
proper
isn’t a word I’ve given
much credence to these last few years. At least I accepted a
chocolate chip cookie before dashing into the sprawling foyer and
up the grand staircase to Janine’s room. The door was cracked open
a smidge, which in my book is an invitation to let yourself in.

Janine sat at the desk near the
floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of her full-sized and
very pink canopy bed. Books lay open on her desk, across her bed,
and scattered at her feet like a flock of birds come home to roost.
She scrawled on a yellow notepad like her life depended on it
before turning to the line and staff pages set on an old-fashioned
wooden stand, carefully writing out music with a calligraphy pen
like a woman straight out of the 1800s. Ah, the life of a doctoral
candidate – or a bookworm. Too bad Janine was both.

Since my bestie had the misfortune of being
born female, and therefore discouraged from pursuit of the family
business, Janine had become a perpetual student. But at least the
De’Laruses weren’t so antiquated in their beliefs as to a woman’s
education. At present, Janine held not only a master’s in
accounting she’d never been allowed to use, but she was also
nearing completion of a doctorate in music. Other than teaching, I
didn’t know what she’d do with that piece of paper either. Maybe
she’d finish that minor in business next. All Mrs. De’Laruse wanted
was for Janine to find a successful man to marry and produce
grandchildren.

I was so-o-o glad I didn’t have to deal with
such family pressures anymore.

“Hey, Janine,” I said.

At my apparently startling greeting, tomes
flew off the desk while the pen launched from her hand to leave a
black blotch on the pale pink window sheers.

“Vicki!” Janine squeaked in her soprano
pitch, eyes wide and brows heading toward the stratosphere. “You
startled me.”

“I’d have never guessed,” I quipped. “Whatcha
working on?”

“What I’m always working on these days.”
Janine sighed with a hand to her chest. “I’ve gotten so far behind
on my thesis this summer. Then I’m supposed to teach one of Dr.
Husingkamp’s freshmen classes, so he wants to see lesson plans on
Monday before the start of the semester. I haven’t even finished
scoring a single composition since June,” she wailed.

“Really?” I scanned some of the books lying
on the floor and picked one up. “Did you change topics recently
from music to…
Setting up Your 501(c)3
?” I read aloud.

“Give me that.” Janine swiped too slowly at
the book I held just out of reach.

“What kind of a non-profit does a person with
a doctorate in music set up?”

“A none-of-your-business kind.” Lips pursed
just like her mother’s as she held an open palm toward me.

In her present state, of course I wouldn’t
say she reminded me of her mother when she did that. Not out loud
anyway. You just don’t say something like that to your best friend
when she’s already quite obviously in an overwrought state of panic
and distress.

I’d tell her later.

“This has something to do with Bobby, doesn’t
it?” I challenged as I placed the book in her outstretched
hand.

The irritation in her bloodshot eyes
dissolved into fear. “I…uh…it’s…”

When Janine devolves into hesitated
stuttering, you know she’s trying really hard to come up with
something to say that isn’t an outright lie. It’s how I knew before
she admitted she had a crush on Steve Connors in the third grade.
Before she told me about Georgie’s oral yeast infection being the
real
excuse for his week-long absence in ninth grade. It was
also why we got in trouble when her mom suspected us of sneaking
out during a sleepover. My brilliant explanation had our sorry
carcasses out of the noose before Janine put them right back in
with one steely-eyed scowl from her mom.

But none of that would ever stop me from
loving my Honest Abe of a best friend. It was rare to find a friend
you could trust implicitly – at least as long as you kept her out
of trouble. Sometimes it amazed me that Janine had stayed friends
with
me
for so long.

“Well,” I started, “I think Bobby can use all
the help he can get. The Internal Revenue Service loves nothing
more than to do everything they can to screw with non-profits.”

Janine’s shoulders relaxed. “My dad says the
same thing. After all, they audit his philanthropic entities
practically every year, not to mention the businesses on a rapidly
rotating basis.”