Page 8

Small Town Girl

D id anyone get the plate on that fucking semi?

My eyes fight me as I pry them open through sheer force of will. The light pouring into the guest room is so bright that it makes me want to hurl, and I know I didn’t drink more than a glass of bourbon with…

Holy goddamned frog balls—Edgar.

I. Fucked. Edgar. Olivier. Boone. III. Last. Night.

If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t believe me, either. Speaking of which, I look around to find that I’m nestled on the couch—not in the bedroom—and there’s a suspicious absence of dude I banged anywhere to be seen. Of bloody course he took off like his ass was on fire. I’ve known the douche my entire life; I should have seen this coming—typical dude bro, skating the second he hits it.

Closing my eyes, I think back to what I can sort out in my hazy brain, and frown. I mean… it was pretty spectacular. I’m not gonna tell him—obviously—but that was easily top five material for my mental spank bank. It’s odd that he fucked off without even leaving a note.

“ Mow !” Jekyll yells from the kitchen.

That’s true. I haven’t left the living room to see if there are any notes. Or any lurking porn star, ex-school bullies in workout clothes, either.

I slide my legs off the couch and move to sit up. Oh, Jaysus, Mary and the Holy Orgasm—as Saoirse would say—I think my entire body is broken. Getting to my feet and wobbling without collapsing, I slowly make my way to the kitchen, grumbling about the light, the aches, and stupid hot guys I’ll have to face at work.

Why, oh why, did I break one of my cardinal rules?

I grope until I find a sugary, flavored coffee pod, a mug, and a scrap of dignity. Once it brews, I shuffle to the fridge and pull out a baggie full of chopped meats for the cats, arranging them on a plate. They hop onto the high counter, and I can’t find it in me to care. I don’t want to attempt bending over yet.

“Just where the hell were you two when I was making bad fucking decisions?” I ask.

Hyde lifts his head from the plate, blinks once, and ducks down like he’s ashamed. Jekyll simply yells with his mouth full, and I grunt.

Great—cat spittle. That seals the deal on this disaster or a morning.

* * *

Making my way down the stairs carefully, I glare at the front door as if it’s offended me. Perhaps it has, given that it’s what Edgar stood in front of last night. My companions follow on either side, observing me. They didn’t flinch when I threw my mug at the wall after discovering the broken bed in the guest room, and they just watched while I got dressed, cursing every single bruise and mark on my pale skin.

This is definitely worse than Thailand.

It took almost an hour to clean up the bedroom mess, find clothes, shower, and make myself look presentable. I have to go into town to get another set of paperwork from the school—like hell I’m turning in Edgar’s rumpled bullshit—and although I want to avoid downtown like the plague, I now need to browse the shops for furniture.

And possibly a bag for my stupid head so I can hide my embarrassment when my poor judgement inevitably gets around.

As much as I hate to admit it, the only proper furniture and belongings I kept in my apartment in Richmond either involved my media room, my desk, and my studio equipment. I never intended to settle in there, and my singular focus on getting ready for my F.B.I. career kept me from doing normal human stuff like that. My mattress and box springs were on the floor. I kept my clothes in plastic totes and in the closet, and I spent zero time on making it look like a home.

Even when I finish unloading the small truck and send away the stuff that belonged to my parents, I won’t have much in the way of décor. That might not matter in other places, but in Whistler’s Hollow, it will start gums flapping. I don’t need people whispering about my lack of genteel graces; I need them to trust me so I can figure out how to fix whatever this godforsaken place did to my background check.

The sooner I do that, the sooner I can get on with my actual life.

I’m not na?ve enough to believe that I’ll understand it overnight. Hell, it might even take years. I have to settle in, worm my way past their aristocratic defenses, and ferret out what I need. It’s like a long-term undercover mission, and the deeper under I go, the more likely I’ll be to gather the intel.

For today, that means furniture and clothing shopping. IKEA and Amazon won’t cut it in the Hollow.

With that gem of knowledge, I walk into the kitchen and grab my bag. Jekyll and Hyde look up at me curiously, and I sigh. “We’re going shopping, guys. Behave so I don’t have to explain to Mayor Cornelia why you mauled some idiotic rich dude, please? I don’t have the spoons to deal with any more drama.”

They yowl, and I take that as agreement. The keys jingle in my hand as we walk to the garage, gun the engine on the Impala, and head for viper’s nest.

* * *

Pulling into a spot on the lot near Town Hall, I look across the dash to see Jekyll and Hyde slinking back into the car. They rode shotgun with their heads out the window like two hyenas belonging to a harlequin, and it made me smile for the first time all day.

“Well, my dudes, are we ready to wreck some havoc?”

“ Mrrrrrow !”

I chuckle at their enthusiasm, climbing out of the low-slung car carefully. I ache from head to toe, and despite the concessions I made when choosing an outfit, I wince when I rise to my full height. Standing still, I pretend to adjust my custom aviators while the screaming pull of my muscles relaxes. I’m sure anyone who’s seen me more than once in this town has wondered why I always stop after I exit my car—it probably looks like a redheaded cop in a police procedural. There’s a reason every time, and most of the fiddling with my glasses has to do with my incredibly light sensitive eyes. They’ve always been an issue, and no one could ever explain why.

Thus, special spy glasses as payment for a discreet favor from the friend from 6.

Jekyll and Hyde leap across the seat, landing next to me gracefully, and I shut the door. My bag bumps against my finger-marked hip as I slowly stride towards the middle of Main Street. Gritting my teeth against the sting, I cross the street, making a beeline for Grant Home Furnishings first. The furniture part of this excursion will take the least time and cause me the least amount of pain.

My phone rings, the sound of Holst’s Jupiter echoing out of my bag. I move to lean against the wall of the shoe store while I dig it out. Jekyll and Hyde move in front of me, their large eyes squinting into the light as they watch the passersby while I bobble my phone around. Note to self: Amazon cat eye some things because they look pained.

“This is Whitley,” I answer.

“Well, I’ll be wired to the moon! It’s about bloody time I heard from you.”

Letting out a breath of relief, I smile despite the shittiness of my morning. A nice long chat with Saoirse is exactly what I the doctor ordered. I frown as my closest friend describes every little thing that’s happened since we spoke two weeks ago. We don’t get to talk as often as I’d like—my quest for F.B.I. acceptance and her high-profile career as personal seamstress to the wealthy often keep us from doing more than texting or swapping memes on social media.

“I’ve missed you, Seer. Where have you been?” Her tinkling laughter makes me smile, and I listen to her describe her antics at a party for a well-known movie star at Cannes. I met Saoirse when I was on assignment with a CEO’s daughter in Dublin, and we hit it off immediately. Hearing her voice makes me feel a little less like an outsider looking in, and I decide to forego the furniture for a little while longer while we chat. “Well, what did the Sultan’s son do when you dumped a bowl of fondue in his lap?”

“He said, ‘you’ll pay for that, peasant’ and I said, will I yea? Then the little shit threw a bloody fit and the entire party went minus craic in a flash. If you’d been there, you would have been up to 90, and we would have both ended up in jail again, Peanut.”

My nose wrinkles. Seer will never let me forget Thailand and when she hears what a monumental fuck up my move here has been, she’ll laugh until she busts a seam in whatever monstrosity she’s sewn herself into today. “Seer, you know I hate when you call me Peanut. Plus, you forgot the cardinal rule—if his net worth could buy my hometown’s GDP, we stay away .”

“Y’can’t invoke the ‘if the family has sheikhs, the thighs don’t quake’ rule. I was off my head on ouzo, and my supposed date disappeared with some underwear model—and I don’t mean a lass.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, snickering. Saoirse has the rottenest taste in men I’ve ever seen. “Seer, you can’t toss all the rules in the bin just because I’m here and you got hammered. The rules are final—you know that.”

“ Mow !” Hyde proclaims loudly.

“What the feck is that ?”

I sigh, looking around to see why he yelled. Squinting, I catch sight of the reason for his distress. When I see the man strolling towards the diner, I nearly drop my phone. Oh, I do not want to face Edgar the escape artist before I even have my coffee. “Seer, I gotta go. There’s… uh, an issue. Talk soon!”

Clicking the phone off before she can answer, I jerk my head at the cats and scurry as quickly as I can towards my original destination. I push the door open, cringing at the loud jingling bell as our motley trio enters. Ducking around a corner, I peek out the window, watching the broad shoulders of the jackass who left me to deal with our mess alone stride down the opposite side of the street.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I saw him frown as he passes the Grant’s even though I know he can’t see me.

“Excuse me. I’m Zelda Amelie Grant, and I’d love to assist you if you need it.”

The voice catches me off guard, and I suck in a breath. “Oh, shit. Um…it’s okay, Mrs. Grant. I can… I can look around first.”

Her sharp gaze looks at me as if she’s going to flay my soul from my body. “Jolene Whitley,” she spits. Her tone is now disapproving, and the lines around her mouth are deeper. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing in my store?”

I blink in confusion. Her son, Dylan Marlowe Grant, married one of my high school tormentors, but he was a couple of years older than us. I have no idea why she’d react like this. Sherilynn never saw me as more than a speck of dirt on her Pradas, so I can’t imagine she’s relayed anything that would cause a random town maven to act like I just pissed on her carpet. “Uh… I’m looking for…furniture?”

Sniffing, Zelda looks me up and down, judging my platform Chucks, leggings, and zip up yoga sweater. “I’m certain that you won’t find anything here to suit your tastes.”

Did this bitch just tell me I’m too skanky to shop in her store?

Jekyll and Hyde rear back, their tails puffing as they snarl at her. Zelda lets out a squeak of fear, and I tilt my head at her. My instincts say that I can’t attack this old lady, but something inside of me wants to teach her a lesson. I’ve never felt the need to make someone submit so keenly as I do right this second.

A piercing whistle echoes off the walls, and my hands unclench from fists to cover my ears. Jekyll and Hyde immediately drop to the floor, their heads going into their paws. I’m sure with their animal hearings and large ears, they’re suffering even more than I am. The sound stops, and I turn to look at the source of the sound.

Standing in the doorway to the back of the store is yet another ass-clenchingly hot dude. He pulls his fingers from his plump lips, grinning as he stands there—shirtless, I might add—and looks at the commotion. “What in the seventh circle of Hades is going on? Zelda, you asked me to help evict the family of redbirds from your rafters, not calm wild kitties.”

The harpy in front of me blushes beet red, her bony hand fluttering at her collarbone. “Presley Hamilton! You are not dressed for receiving company—even if it is unwelcome visitors.”

My glare narrows and I look at the bitch who just insulted me a second time in two minutes while I’m trying to buy shit from her damned store. Hyde growls this time, and I touch his head, hoping he knows that means to chill. “I don’t know, Z. Looks like he’s dressed to be receiving something, but I doubt it’s what you’d like him to.”

His rich laugh skates over my skin as the Botoxed bat huffs loudly. She’s only two decades older than me, but I can promise you she was on the prowl like some fucked version of a cougar from TV. Kim Cattrall she ain’t, but that’s never stopped a washed-up Southern belle in the past.

“I’m Jolene Whitley. I moved back here a day or so ago. I needed some furniture to replace the stuff at my folks’, but…” I glance around, purposefully curling my lips in dissatisfaction. “… I can see that this is a little old school for my taste. I’ll let you get back to your bird removal, Mr. Hamilton.”

Sexy bird man arches a brow, his lips twitching at my word choice. “I apologize for my appearance, Jolene. Miss Zelda’s crawl space is a bit musty.”

“I’ll bet it is,” I mutter under my breath. Making a clicking sound, I look at Jekyll. “Are you ready to go, boys? I think we’ll need to look at more contemporary designs online. I don’t want to live in a museum.”

Zelda makes an affronted sound and I smile internally. That’ll teach her to Pretty Woman me. I shoot the hot dude a wink, pretending to stroll out so he doesn’t notice my shuffling walk of shame. I’m out the door when I hear him call after me.

“Oh, and Jolene? It’s Dr. Hamilton.”

I keep walking until I’m out the door, carrying my yet again shredded dignity in hand as I curse under my breath.

Of fucking course it is.

* * *

After that clusterfuck, I decide that I’m not going to attempt clothes shopping until I acquire another cup of coffee. It’s a risk—the diner is a favorite spot of those from Town Hall and the courthouse, so I could conceivably run into Mr. Dine and Dash—but my caffeine addiction wins against my irritation.

Walking down the street, I look at the shops with a keen eye, muddling out the provenance since they will essentially be my neighbors. Grant Home Furnishings is at the far end of Main Street, closer to the schools and Atwater’s. Next, the professional offices like Hamilton Clinic, Fletcher Veterinary, and the Hollow Hollar fill wide spaces.

I peek into the window of the paper, unsure who might run it now. My eyes fall on the unmistakable face of Amy Matilda Behle at a desk in the back and I hot foot it away quickly. That’s not a bridge I want to cross this soon, either. Looking across the street, I see Derby Pies (the pizza joint), Tame Your Mane (the salon), and Bound Together (the bookstore).

I’m not sure why all the people here feel like their niche stores need corny names, but I can promise you, I’m sticking with Whitley Gallery. I don’t need to brand myself a small-town rube, thank you very much.

Passing the Happy Happy Toy Toy, the Star-Spangled Bank, Close Encounters of the Baked Kind, Bottles ‘N Cans—which I shit you not—has an image of clapping hands in the logo. I wonder if they made weed legal in this state. I didn’t pay attention while I was busy staying as far away from the Hollow as I could, but it would sure as hell explain the naming scheme here.

I stop blinking as I hit the florist.

There’s no bloody way.

I have to have breathed in varnish at that stupid old crone’s store.

The fucking florist’s shop is named Wild Astor Plants—with the first letters twice the size of the rest of the words. There is no way that’s a design error.

A chuckle sounds behind me, and I’m too stunned to even react.

“Yeah, I told Doyle that updating all these store names to trendy stuff isn’t going to make us go viral or anything, but he never listens.”

Arching a brow, I turn, and my jaw drops.

Is the Universe actively trying to make me lose my shit?

The dude standing behind me is another fucking supermodel. He’s the picture of a Latin lover with his dark hair and olive skin, and as if that wasn’t enough, he has the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re deep black, ringed with brilliant white and I wonder if that’s some genetic thing or if he’s just wearing SFX contacts. The effect is shiver worthy, and I blink at him like an idiot as I stare into them.

“Um, well. I… mean…”

New hot guy laughs and tilts his head. “It’s a genetic thing. The eyes, I mean. I know it’s shocking at first…”

My face heats and I know I must be beet red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…”

“No worries. I’m used to it.”

I try to regain some composure as I turn back to the storefront. “Do the owners have any idea what he’s gotten them into?”

“No,” he rumbles. “They haven’t a clue. This town is very sheltered from the outside world, and well, Doyle has a mischievous streak a mile wide. I think it amuses him that they don’t get the jokes.”

Frowning, I waffle over whether that’s funny—because a lot of these people have enormous sticks up their asses—or mean.

“It’s funny, trust me. At least, it is until they figure it out, and then it’ll be a headache for Nelia.”

“How did you—never mind.” I shake my head, unwilling to ask if I got caught thinking out loud again. I already look like an idiot. “Well, good luck to him when it lands on her desk. She’s not one to take excuses. At least, she never was when I was growing up.”

Gorgeous eye guy tilts his head and gives me a small smile. “You’re the girl who just moved back, right? The one teaching art and opening a gallery?”

I nod, gesturing in the direction of the space that will hold the gallery. “That’s me. I’m Jolene Whitley. And you are….?”

“Hugo. I teach history,” he says, suddenly looking off into space as if he heard something.

Shit. Am I that boring? Did pretty eyes just space out before I could even finish introducing myself? That’s it. I’m zero for five in the smoking hot dude department. Even the Bengals wouldn’t draft me and that’s saying something.

“Jolene, I apologize for my rudeness, but I must hurry. Please come see me once you get settled and I’ll fill you in on the staff.” He gives me a smile, acting like he didn’t just pluck one of my biggest worries out of thin air, and hurries down the street towards Atwater’s.

I watch him go, speechless for the ten millionth time since I arrived in my hometown.

“Mow!”

Looking down, I frown at the cats at my feet. “Where the hell did you guys go? I made an idiot of myself again, and you Houdini’d out, so you couldn’t save me,” I gripe. They just give me big eyes for a moment, then turn tail towards the diner. Grumbling under my breath, I give in, following them down the street with a deep-seated plea to the universe that I don’t encounter anyone else that wants to socialize.

I’m peopled out for the day and it’s only 10 am.

* * *

When I enter the diner, I’m thrilled to find it mostly empty. The Town Hall crowd hasn’t started filtering in for lunch, and the breakfast people are gone. There are a few old timers in booths towards the back, but the noise level is low, and my chances of being accosted seem much the same.

“Miss Jolene!” Hazel calls, hoofing it from the other end of the counter to meet me. “You’re back. And you’ve found friends, I see.”

I look at Jekyll and Hyde, who promptly leap onto counter stools as if presenting themselves at a cat show. “I did. Have you seen them before? They sort of showed up two nights ago and refuse to leave.”

Hazel’s smile widens and she shakes her head. “No, I haven’t. You seem to have been chosen.” Bustling away for a moment, she returns with two small plates with pieces of lunchmeat on them, sitting one in front of each cat. “Such lovely gentlemen deserve a treat, I think. What can I get for you, Jolene?”

“Just a to-go cup with the largest amount of cream, sugar, and vanilla syrup you can fit in it. I’ve had an interesting morning, and I have a few more things to pick up before I head home to tackle the upstairs of the house.”

“Mmmm,” she says, arching a brow. “People giving you trouble? Send them to Hazel and I’ll set them straight.”

Chuckling softly, I shake my head. “No need, Hazel. Over the years, I’ve gotten quite skilled at taking care of myself. I’m not the little girl who lived here years ago. But I appreciate the offer.”

She harumphs, walking over to the cappuccino machine when it beeps. I watch her carefully pour the coffee, add a few things in unmarked bottles, mix, and then dollop foam on the top. “If you say so. Just remember that I’m here if you change your mind. Where are you headed next?”

I take a sip of the drink she hands me, and my eyes almost roll back into my head. Whatever this is, it’s heaven on Earth. I know better than to ask baristas, bartenders, and cooks for their secrets, so I smile. “I have to go down to Dress Me Up Buttercup to buy some clothes that are a little more…here…for when I teach.”

A booming laugh echoes off the walls, and Hazel looks over at my companions. “You two keep her calm in there. Fidelia Violet Cantwell isn’t the worst of the ladies in this town, but she isn’t the best, either. And if her brother is around, avoid him like the plague. That little twit is FAR too big for his britches.”

“Hazel!” I admonish, looking around to make sure prying eyes or nosy ears aren’t going to spread rumors that I trashed founding families in public. “I’m sure everyone has grown up since I left.”

“You’d be one hundred percent wrong, Jolene. None of them have, and it worries me for a lot of reasons. Since the Hostile Takeover, things should be moving in the right direction, and they don’t seem to be.”

My brow arches. ‘The Hostile Takeover’? What in the hell is that?

“Well, even so, I want you to be careful. I’m not someone the Council will take notice of, even if I am disrespecting our elite townsfolk. You, however, need to toe the line when dealing with them. The big families are protected, and I don’t want to see you end up like…”

Her words trail off, and I lean in, hoping she lets a few more clues slip. My gut instinct is that Hazel knows something that could start me on the path to solving my mystery, but if I push too hard, she’ll shut down. “Like whom, Hazel?”

“No,” she murmurs. “It’s not time yet.” Frowning, she walks over and picks up the empty plates in front of my boys, lumbering to the back with them.

Damnit. I almost got real intel. It was so close I could taste it. If only Hazel hadn’t trailed off, I would have gotten a name to start researching. I wait for a few moments, and when it’s clear that Hazel isn’t coming back out, I gather my bag and coffee, disappointment etched across my features.

My fickle luck strikes again.