Chapter

26

Fuming, I paid for our meals and left Cindy Mae a nice tip before leaving the diner. I paced in front of my car, muttering like a madwoman, until the haze of anger left my vision. I’d had about enough of men talking down to me today. Let alone admitting to breaking my windshield like the petulant brat. I’d take the money for my replacement windshield out of his paycheck.

Let’s see how he liked that.

Sadly, my bad luck with men wasn’t over yet.

After leaving the diner, I stopped at the local convenience store; a place you could buy milk at ten at night. No later though. After ten p.m., all the business on Main Street closed. As I set my purchases of Red Vines and Diet Coke on the counter, Boone Daniels slithered up to my side. His breath smelled of a familiar cheap whiskey. An affront to my Lucky senses, but I couldn’t place where I’d smelled it before. He moved closer, until my shoulder touched his chest. My stomach rolled as goosebumps rose on my skin. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

“Hey, there,” he slurred. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I ignored him.

“That will be five twenty-five,” the cashier, Margaret Johnson, said, distaste clear on her face.

I didn’t know which of us she found so offensive. Regrettably, I put the odds on me. In Gett, one could be a drug-dealing dirtbag, but don’t you dare paint the town’s water tower and run off thinkin’ you’re better than everyone else or there would be hell to pay.

Boone gave a lurid chuckle. “No man around to save you this time.” He moved even closer. I squeezed my arms next to my body to avoid touching him. “I want what I’m owed. But I’m willing to take it out in trade,” he whispered, his breath hot on my neck. The whiskey scent coming off of him in waves lingered in my nostrils.

Was it the same brand used as an accelerate at the rackhouse?

I frowned, trying to remember the strong, acidic scent.

Could be.

Which made me angry enough to lose my good sense and enrage a man I knew capable of evil by giving a short laugh. “I don’t need anyone to save me, as you so eloquently put it.” I stopped, turning to face him. My eyes ran up and down his scrawny frame much like his gaze had done over my body seconds before. “Especially from the likes of you.”

His eyes grew small and mean, meaner than normal, as he hitched up his jeans. “I’m gonna show you just what the likes of me can do to sluts like you.”

I ignored his comment and handed Margaret a five-dollar bill and a quarter. I scooped up my items and headed for the door. He reached out to grab my arm, but I maneuvered away in time. He laughed. Hollow and cruel. The same laugh I remembered from that night in his truck, his hands pulling on my clothes. I’d begged for him to let me go. He’d merely laughed harder.

I’d never felt so helpless. So vulnerable.

And then Brodie had appeared.

A good reminder that I at least owed Brodie the benefit of the doubt about Roger’s murder.

I hurried to my car, hoping Boone wouldn’t follow. He didn’t. Though he had parked his truck right next to my Prius. It stood at least two feet higher, with chrome rims and small headlights. The truck was so close I could barely squeeze in without smacking my head into his side mirror. He’d done it on purpose, I’d bet on it. I considered breaking off the mirror, but I denied the childish urge. I was an adult. A responsible one.

How was it I still felt like an awkward teen trapped in a town that never understood me?

Once I was inside, I popped the automatic locks on my doors and started the engine. A blast of hot air, much like Boone’s breath sans the rotgut whiskey, spilled from the vents. I twisted the knob to cool and shoved into gear.

The sky started to darken, leaving the street a golden color. This was my favorite time of the day, when the sky joined the rest of us in a nice whiskey-colored hue. All I craved was to go home, slip into a pair of sweatpants and a grungy t-shirt, and sip some of Jack’s premium stash.

I had a lot to do tomorrow, starting with the county inspector. I had to find a way to get him to survey Lucky as soon as possible. Had to.

In two weeks, Lucky Whiskey would be in bankruptcy rather than on the verge of it.

Lucky us.

Tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them away with an angry swipe. My cell phone rang, ruining my pity party before it could go full-fledged. I looked at the caller ID. The number was blocked but had a local area code. I debated answering it, but it might be Jack or his lawyer, so I did with a tentative, “Hello?”

“Ms. Lucky?” Emmitt of the Fill ’Er Up station asked, again his voice cracking like the teenager he was. I imagined him, acne-riddled face and all, his sweaty palms holding the phone. I remembered my own slick palms the first time Joey Duggan’s lips touched mine in the rackhouse.

“Hi Emmitt,” I said, shaking off the vivid memory. A memory I’d long associated with the first sip of a single malt. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to be calling so late, ma’am.”

“No problem,” I said automatically. Seven was late to most folks around here. Particularly the ones who fished the Glades. Days started much like mine had, before the sun broke the sky. “Did you remember something new?”

“No, ma’am.” He hesitated. I could virtually see his aw shucks face through the phone. “My pa … he wants our tape back.” A nervous giggle crackled over the phone. “Says it’s our only one left, and we can’t find no more to buy.”

Guilt filled me. “Oh, Emmitt. I’m so sorry. Sheriff Gett took it as evidence.” I bit my lip. This was my fault. Maybe I could buy a tape from Amazon.

Wait a minute …

“Emmitt, I think we have some back at the house.” I smiled as the recollection hit me. Jack, in the spur of the moment when I was around thirteen, had bought a monstrous video camera. The kind that used VCR tapes.

A week later, he’d shoved the camera and the tapes in a box at the back of his closet. Like most things that weren’t whiskey-related. I’d bet my life the tapes were still there, packed away in their cellophane, untouched.

“Oh, ma’am, that’s wonderful. My pa … well, I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I rubbed my chin, the fantasy of an evening in sweatpants and grubby t-shirt vanishing with my words. “Give me an hour or so to find the tapes and I’ll drive them over.” I hung up with a smile. Good deed of the day virtually accomplished.