Nothing But Trouble
by J.L. Hammer
Copyright © 2014 by J.L. Hammer. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Las Vegas, Nevada
November 2013
Frankie Delenski slid another glance toward the tinted entrance doors of Glitz Gentlemen’s Club. Dread bubbled in her stomach. Any minute now, Domino, the loan shark, would stride in and she’d be nothing more than a chalk outline. She tried to swallow, but her saliva lodged in her throat. The bouncer admitted two regulars—off duty cops. Liquored up cops were the worst since they had the law at their disposal. She’d seen them chatting with Domino on more than one occasion.
The first was short and tubby with a buzz cut. He never spoke to the girls, just liked to watch. But the other, the pale, tall one with dark hair and a widow’s peak, named Harris, had a habit of getting cozy with the dancers, promising them the world, and then knocking them around. Once, a dancer had reported him to the police after he’d gifted her with a black eye, but no big surprise, her accusations had been ignored. The girl had quit—even left Vegas.
Frankie had enough problems and did her best to steer clear of them. She inhaled a long calming breath and almost choked on the cigarette-infused coconut-scented air.
With a twist of her body, she adjusted the sequined bra that dug into her ribs. Floor to ceiling mirrors adorned the walls, black leather couches hugged the darkened edges, and seductive purple lighting showered over two dozen tables surrounding the stage. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard pumped through the speakers over a crowd of mostly businessmen, who were catching an eyeful of barely-clad girls. Frankie couldn’t count how many songs she’d dumped from her MP3 player because the tunes would forever conjure up slicked girl derrieres sliding across a stage. A dancer hung upside down on a brass pole and, with a kick of her legs, ended her show in splits.
A man patted Frankie’s bare thigh. “Why don’t you come sit on old Smokey’s lap and give me a little kiss?”
Frankie fought the urge to jerk away. She’d already been talked to by the manager about being friendlier with the guests. With unemployment at an all-time high, work was hard to come by and the last thing she wanted was to lose her job as a drink server. She remembered the advice from Ginger, the bartender. “Pretend these men are a piece of fudge cheesecake and you haven’t had a chocolate fix in a month.” She glanced at his mustard-stained “Smokey the Bear” T-shirt. Nope. Not even the power of chocolate could make her flirt with this guy. An image of what their baby would look like slammed into her mind—a crying bundle with her long platinum hair and his pendulous jowls.
Schooling her expression, Frankie replied, “It’s so tempting with you being the mascot of fire prevention and all, but I’ll have to pass.”
“Your loss, honey. I need another rum and cola and two Buds for my friends.”
She gave him a nod and shook off the moist imprint of his pudgy fingers, making a mental note to douse her leg in hand sanitizer on her next break. She pocketed a tip from a now-vacant table, shifting the car key still in the pocket of her Daisy Dukes. Her mind wandered back to Domino. Why couldn’t he be reasonable? Two more weeks. That’s all she had asked for to make her payment. Okay, it was already two weeks late, but times were tough. She didn’t care how much she owed him—she’d never give him what he’d asked for in lieu of money.
Just in case Domino came after her, she’d decided to be prepared. In her locker she’d left a backpack with a change of clothes, a little cash, cell phone, and some other necessities. She would have to hightail it out of Vegas and head for the hills until she came up with a way out of this mess.
The two off-duty cops, dressed casual in jeans and T-shirts, took a seat in her section at a high-top table near the stage. Inwardly she groaned. Why me? For a moment she was tempted to just ignore their table. Yeah, right. Get back to work before you get accused of slacking off. Frankie approached Harris and his partner. “Gentlemen, what can I get you?”
A dancer took the stage in a swath of black leather, bumping and grinding to Michael Jackson’s “Dirty Diana.” Fog rolled across the black specked stage, and the strobe lights flashed in sync with the drum beat. Officer Tubby licked his lips, his eyes never leaving the stage, but Harris’ steely gaze settled on Frankie, or more like the tops of her exposed breasts thrust out from the push-up bra.
His mouth lifted in a one-sided smirk. Harris might have been attractive once, but a hard life was etched on his forty-something face. “What’s your name, darling?” A guitar solo blared through the speakers.
“Not happening.” The words came out before she could stop them. Her stomach constricted.
He frowned, leaned closer, and said with a raised voice just above the music. “Did you say Abby?”
His gaze returned to her breasts so she didn’t bother to deny he had the wrong name.
“Can I get you anything from the bar?” She fought the temptation to use the drink tray to cover her chest.
He gave her a wink or maybe if she was lucky he just had something in his eye. “Abby, your lovely face is like a ray of sunshine after my shitty day.”
He needed to take a poetry class. Frankie just stared at him, fighting not to squirm.
Apparently he got the message she wasn’t into chit chat and glowered. “Single malt scotch on the rocks.” He gestured with his head. “My buddy will have the same…and a bit of advice, Abby, I tip real well when my waitress gives good service.”
His friend snickered but never peeled his eyes off the dancer provocatively posed on her knees before him.
Frankie nodded and then strode away, pausing to let a dancer escort a client through the red velvet curtain into the lap dance room. What a snake. Harris can stuff his tip. She decided then and there she would start looking for another job, maybe a temp agency, dog walker, anything had to be better than this. She wove through the throng of males and flinched at the piercing sound of a whistle from an overzealous patron. Whatever the dancer was doing made the salivating men go wild.
Frankie sighed. Who was she fooling? Drunk, drooling men tipped well, and like it or not, walking cute fluffy dogs wouldn’t pay the bills. She placed her tray on the polished counter of the bar and waited for Ginger to finish pouring a draft. The lights inside Glitz laser beamed across the mirrored walls. For a moment, she clamped her eyes shut.
Ginger approached and even her heavy makeup couldn’t cover the dark rings under her eyes. “What can I get you?”
Frankie raised her voice over the loud music to give her drink order and then asked, “How’s Bobby?”
Ginger teared up as she set two Buds on the serving tray. “Same. Every day is a blessing and a curse.”
Pain pierced Frankie’s heart. Ginger’s son Bobby was only two and had leukemia.
Ginger brushed back her curly brown hair and flashed a wobbly smile. “But the doctor said he found this experimental medication. Cross your fingers. This is the best chance we have.”
Frankie gave her friend’s shoulder a squeeze. “Bobby is an amazing little boy. Think good thoughts. It will work.”
“Thanks, Frankie.”
The rum and cola had just made it to her tray when Frankie spotted someone entering the club. She squinted and counted three silhouetted forms. Her gaze dropped to the man in the middle—white hair, black brows, aged face, and strong Italian nose. Domino! He toyed with his cufflink as he scanned the faces in the bar. She dropped to the ground. The man next to her on the barstool beamed, probably thinking he was getting lucky. In a rush, she crawled the short distance to the restroom door only to stop short of a pair of jean-clad legs.
“Well, this is more like what I was talking about when I mentioned good service.”
Frankie scrambled to her feet. Her skin crawled as she met the hungry look in Officer Harris’s eyes. “Just lost a contact. I serve drinks, that’s all. Got it,” she snapped, knowing she would most likely regret her outburst, and rushed past him. Thankfully he didn’t follow, but right now Domino posed the bigger problem. Her heart rate kicked up, imagining what he would do to her if she didn’t escape. The trek down the hall in five-inch stilettos seemed to take forever.
Just as she neared the door to the employee locker room, she bounced off a soft, rounded body walking out of the office. “Sorry, excuse me.” She attempted to slip past him, but his hand circled her wrist.
“Frankie, nice to see you.”
Zeroing in on his face, she choked back a groan. “Hello, Dr. Chops.” A regular of the club, Dr. Chops loved to talk. He constantly offered the girls a half-off special on all their dental work. His full mouth spread into a smile, his gold tooth gleaming in the overhead light.
With his free hand, he patted down his thinning hair. “I’m glad to see you made an appointment for next month. You can’t neglect—”
“Sorry, Doc, can’t talk now.” She tugged her wrist from his grasp. Feeling an invisible bull’s eye searing into the back of her head, she tossed a frantic glance over her shoulder. Domino’s gaze latched onto hers, and his lips turned downward in a spot-on Robert De Niro. Her knees started to wobble, and her pulse revved up. With a wave of his hand, Domino motioned to one of his bodyguards. Frankie screeched, shoved Dr. Chops out of the way, and bolted out the emergency exit.
…
Eight hours and a few hundred bug splats later, Frankie strode back to her rusted ’65 Mustang parked at a gas pump. It was unnerving to know she had just maxed out the emergency Visa she kept in her glove compartment. She inhaled a deep breath. The whiff of gasoline almost made her gag. The heels of her black stilettos clicked against the asphalt as she passed a man with a weathered face pumping gas into his truck. His mouth dropped open, taking in the Daisy Dukes on her slender five-eight frame. His expression mirrored both the clerk and the grandma buying a day-old donut inside the minimart. What? Hadn’t the people in the sleepy town of Dolores, Colorado, ever seen a stripper on a Sunday morning before?
Okay, so she really wasn’t a stripper, but this bra had set her back eighty bucks. Not that she’d ever worn it in public before. Uneasiness made her hands shake. This outfit was drawing way too much attention to her. If only she’d had a chance to grab the backpack with her stuff. After filling her tank, she hit the road, but not before her Mustang gave a farewell backfire to the gas station gawkers.
The crisp mountain air blew through the open window and kept her awake enough to focus on the road. Goose bumps rose across her flesh and her long hair whipped around her face. The Mustang hugged the curves of the narrow highway. She was driving too fast. But with only fifty or so miles to go, all she could think about was reaching the safety of her uncle’s place in the picturesque town of Telluride. Tension knotted in her shoulders. Domino would be tearing Vegas—and probably her trailer—apart. Frankie sighed. She didn’t want to think about what he would do to her doublewide.
She flipped on the radio and turned the dial until the static ceased. The end of a country song gave a final twang before the DJ chimed in with the news. “Stormy weather in the forecast. No surprise there.” The newscaster continued, “The Las Vegas police are still searching for leads in the murders of two exotic dancers last month. The two girls, in their twenties, were found in Dumpsters with their throats slashed. There was no evidence of sexual assault. Anyone with information is urged to contact the Vegas Police Department—”
She clicked off the switch. A shiver ran through her. The first victim had been a dancer just across the street at a rival club. The detectives had interviewed Frankie and all the other girls at Glitz, but no one had seen a thing, or at least nothing they’d ever admit to the cops. Then, a second dancer from a club five blocks away was found murdered only a few days later. Worrying about being killed by some crazy person was just another reason Frankie’s nerves were frayed. Thankfully, the owner of Glitz started having all the girls escorted to their vehicles after work.
Frankie exhaled a tense breath and tried to relax. Heading along the highway, she was struck by the beauty of the Dolores River as it snaked through the jagged tree-topped mountains. She only passed another car or tucked away cabin every few miles. The isolation of the area made her antsy. A body could be tossed into the tall prairie grass and no one would discover it for years. She shoved that thought out of her mind and focused on the storm clouds gathering in the sky. Lightning flashed and a roll of thunder rumbled. She jumped.
Fat drops of rain hit the windshield with a scattering of plops. Quickly, she rolled up the window. Then, water burst from the sky onto the land below. Frankie eased off the accelerator. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, but the worn rubber did little to clear the blurry road ahead. She squinted and leaned forward, praying she wasn’t about to drive off a cliff. All of a sudden, a black blob filled the road. She screamed and slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched, but the Mustang shot forward like a lubed pole dancer. With a jolt, the car fishtailed. Then, her stomach lodged in her throat as the world spun. Her head jerked sideways, striking the window. Bolts of pain shot through her skull.
The rust bucket crashed into something solid, started to tip, and then decided against it, and with a final crunch, stopped. Her heartbeat pounded erratically in her temples. Frankie blinked, trying to clear her double vision. Touching the goose egg on her forehead, she cringed. Her beloved Mustang had crashed into a patch of junipers on the side of the mountain—the rear end tilted at an odd angle. She inhaled a shaky breath. After taking a moment to calm herself, she shifted the engine into reverse. She pressed on the gas only to hear the engine rev—but the Mustang didn’t move. Then, to her dismay, the engine sputtered, belched, and died. She groaned and covered her face.
A crash of thunder shook the car. She squealed. Without a doubt she’d go down in history as the first person struck by lightning wearing a sequined bra and a spray tan. If only she hadn’t left her cell phone in the locker at work, she could call for help. She remembered seeing the roof of a cabin and a fenced pasture nestled in the trees about a quarter mile back. She flung open the car door and stood in the mushy grass. The rain poured down in sheets, and within seconds, she was soaked. She pushed her soggy hair out of her face, noting the rear of the Mustang had landed in a ditch.
“Mooo.”
Frankie whipped her head around. She narrowed her eyes at the black cow standing in the road. “Do you see what you did, you stupid discount hamburger patty? I need a tow truck. I should have just run you over. At least I could have sold you for dog food, and then I could pay for the tow and buy a God—gosh darn shirt!” She’d almost slipped and broken her vow not to cuss, which just made her madder. Grumbling to herself, she locked up the car. After what seemed like an eternity walking along the road with rain pelting her in the face, the cabin came into view.
“Finally!” She fought the shiver that cut through her and trudged across the mud and knee-high prairie grass. She stumbled and fell. After pushing herself to her feet, she wiped her muddy hands on her bare thighs and kept going. The storm fought her every step. Lightning splintered across the sky.
“Judas Q. Priest!” That was too close. She could have sworn the electric current had actually lifted the fine hairs on her arms. She ripped off her heels and fled, hopping over a downed wooden-railed fence. Her heart thudded in her chest as she approached the off-white cabin with a green railing. A faint light glowed behind the curtains. Smoke swirled from the chimney and disappeared into the darkening sky. She didn’t slow her stride until she reached the wooden stoop. She banged on the frame of the screen door and took shelter from the cold rain under the covered porch. Someone had to be inside. With a balled fist, she banged harder.
“Hello? Please open the door,” she hollered, turning the knob. “Locked. Dang!” With my luck, whoever lives here is dead and I’ll never get out of this storm.
Stepping back into the rain, she peered around the side. A barn painted brick red, much larger and newer than the cabin, stood tall surrounded by bushy pine trees that swayed with the increasing wind. The barn doors, nine feet or so in height, were latched shut. Below the steeply pitched roof of the cabin, she noticed a staircase leading up to a door on the second story. The cabin wasn’t very big, so she guessed it must be storage or an office. After sparing a glance around, she raced up the stairs. At the top she started to open the screen door, but a gust of wind slammed it shut. She gritted her teeth and pried it open.
She turned the knob and then spilled into the darkened room. In a rush, her face met the floor. She blinked. Dust tickled her nose. Crawling to her feet, she jerked in surprise when the door bashed against the wall. A heavy stream of rain and the chill from the wind blew into the room. She shoved the door closed and searched the wall for a light switch. Nothing.
“Hello, is anyone here? I just need to use your phone.” She’d have to call her uncle for a tow or at least for money, although he might not even be home. He’d be surprised to hear from her since she hadn’t seen him in ten years. That was when he’d stopped speaking to her mother. A flash of lightning illuminated the empty room with its low, steeply-pitched ceiling.
She slapped a palm against her forehead, tempted to rip out her hair. “Great, not a lick of furniture. I am cursed. No one can have this much bad luck.”
After taking a few steps farther into the room, the floor shifted and bowed under her weight. Crack. The pit of her stomach dropped as she started freefalling. A scream ripped out of her lungs. Grabbing wildly, her fingers latched onto the wood rafters. Like a flag flapping in the wind, she dangled into the lower section of the cabin. Dust from drywall floated around her head. She peered down through the white cloud and gasped.
A man with a fat cigar in his mouth was sprawled in a soap-filled bathtub. His handsome face was all hard angles, and the shadow of a beard covered a strong jaw. His deep-set eyes stared up at her in obvious disbelief.
His mouth went lax. The cigar he’d been puffing plopped into the water near the dark hairs on his muscular chest. He pulled earbuds from his ears and then his eyes darted to the cigar. He let out a holler, and his hands flew to his chest. In one fluid motion he bolted to his feet. Her breath caught. There was enough lean muscle on his at least six-foot frame to start her dangling body sizzlin’. The overhead light illuminated the tattoo of an eagle stamped on his left pec.
Then, his mouth pressed into a straight line. “What the hell are you doing in my cabin?”
“Um. Hi… I’m Frankie. And—” Her fingers started to slip. Although the splinters of wood dug into her flesh, she tightened her grip.
He stepped out of the tub, never taking his gaze off of her or getting a towel, for that matter. A tidal wave of water sloshed across the floor. Her hold tightened as her mind locked onto the fact that she’d never seen such a delicious male specimen in her life.
“I can’t believe this! I leave the city only for the crime to follow me,” he said in a clipped tone.
“No, you don’t understand…” She peered down at the glistening brown hair that fell across his forehead and rested against his broad shoulders. Her arm muscles began to burn. “I just need to use your ph—”
Her fingers slipped and she screeched. He caught her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her feet still dangled off the floor. With their faces only inches apart, she couldn’t help but soak up his features. His long, straight nose with a high bridge fit his face perfectly. She noted the color of his eyes matched the grayness of the storm raging outside. Swallowing hard, she felt every wet inch of him. Heat gravitated to her cheeks and other places she didn’t want to think about.
“I heard noise over my music, but I just figured it was the storm.” His brows furrowed as he questioned, “Did you pick the lock?”
She gasped and attempted to tamp down her anger. “No, of course not! The door was unlocked.”
“Umhmm. I don’t think so.” He cleared his throat. “Aren’t you girls supposed to jump out of a cake or something, not crash through a man’s ceiling?”
Stiffening, she declared, “I am not a stripper!”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Obviously, you aren’t too bright.”
He glanced at her bra. “Well, your girlfriends are.”
She pushed at his wet chest. This man might be sinfully handsome, but his personality was in league with a barbarian. “Let me go!”
He released her so quickly she hit the floor with a teeth-jarring thud. He yanked a beige towel off the hook and walked out of the bathroom, giving her a long glimpse of his firm buns. She scrambled to her feet. A few seconds later he returned with the towel wrapped around his waist. In a swift motion, cool metal met her wrists before a final click.
Her mouth dropped open at the sight of the handcuffs. “What?”
“Count yourself lucky that the cuffs are in front. Give me any trouble and that can quickly change.” Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he stared her down. “B and E of a residence with intent to commit a crime is a third-degree felony.”
“No, I—”
“I’m Deputy Wes Malone…”
Disbelief swirled in her head. The world couldn’t be so cruel as to make this delicious man a cop. “Are you insane? I wasn’t breaking into your cabin.”
“You have the right to remain silent.”
Frankie couldn’t believe she was being arrested by a cop wearing a towel. Wasn’t that against some rule? She tried to squeeze her wrist out of the handcuffs.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
She scowled up at him. “Will you shut up and listen?”
He frowned. “You have exactly two minutes to explain and then I’m hauling you, mud and all, to the sheriff’s department in Dolores.”
Her stomach did a somersault. What could she say? That she was on the run from a loan shark and if she didn’t find a place to hide, her name would be next on the list at the headstone factory? No, she couldn’t tell him. She was smart enough not to trust cops. With the law at their disposal, they were more dangerous than criminals. Most likely Malone would just send her back to the Vegas police, and Domino knew all the dirty cops like Harris. She’d be toast for sure. Her mind scurried for a solution and finally locked onto a plan. She had to distract Deputy Malone. It wasn’t the best plan, perhaps, but hers never were.
She’d worked at Glitz for three months. Other than stripping, it had been the only job available after the non-profit organization, Feed Our Seniors, had lost its funding and she’d become unemployed. She took a moment to study the virile man before her. The strippers worked their clients into a mouth-drooling frenzy by a few shakes of their hips and a little lip-gnawing. If Frankie could work her charms on Deputy Malone, he would be at her beck and call. A strange thrill zinged through her.
With a sexy strut, she approached, giving him her best heated look. She brushed the tips of her polished nails across his chest. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed the mud smeared across her hands or her missing pinky nail. His dark brows lifted and his expression was…amused. Determination squared Frankie’s shoulders. With a thrust, she pushed out her well-padded female attributes.
“Can’t we just forget about all this? Couldn’t you just help me get my car out of the ditch and then let me go on my way?” She tried to purr, but it sounded more like she needed a throat lozenge.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She frowned and then remembered she was being seductive and smiled shyly. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. The way you keep chewing on your lower lip I figured you must be starving.”
She stopped the brushing movement of her upper body against his arm and lowered her cuffed hands.
Scowling, he rubbed his bicep. “I was wondering when you were going to stop chafing the skin off my arm with that spiked bra. I bet that thing could stop a bullet.”
She seethed with indignation. This seduction thing was harder than it appeared. “Well, excuse me. If you—”
He reached out and touched her forehead. “You have a bump.”
“I know. I crashed my car and just wanted to use your phone.”
“Ever heard of knocking? I started installing the attic floor to make it into an office. Now on top of that, I have to go into town for drywall to patch the damn ceiling.”
If she hadn’t been cuffed, she would have strangled him.
Chapter Two
“My uncle’s message on the answering machine said he’s in Europe,” the glittery, mud-coated stripper announced as she hung up the phone. Her long wet hair stuck to a heart-shaped face, with a delicate nose, and sensual full lips just made for kissing.
Wes pushed off the kitchen wall, annoyed with his line of thinking. The jeans and T-shirt he’d hastily tossed on were damp against his skin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t I wish,” she said as she closed the phone book, making the chain of the cuffs around her wrists clank together.
“Your uncle’s in Europe and he leaves this information on his phone message?” The entire family must have been shortchanged when common sense had been handed out. The guy was just asking to be robbed.
“Yeah. He’s going to be gone the rest of November and part of December,” she explained. “He said whatever it is will have to wait until he gets back.”
Like hell! Wes wasn’t getting saddled with her. This sexy lady might be every guy’s fantasy, but the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a manipulative woman. “And you didn’t know this? Do you live in Dolores?”
She pursed her lips and took her sweet time answering a simple question. “No.”
“Down in Cortez?”
“No. I live out of state.”
“Didn’t you call him before you drove in from another state for a visit?”
She examined her blood-red fingernails. It probably wasn’t nail polish, just the remaining evidence of the last sucker she’d sunk her hooks into.
He stared at her in disbelief. Just like his ex-wife—no brains, all fluff. In exasperation, he threw his hands into the air. “You didn’t call? Holy shit! Are you serious?”
She shot to her feet, making her twin shimmering globes bounce above the bare skin of her narrow waist. Reeling in his lust, he forced his gaze to return to her face.
“Don’t yell at me and stop cussing.” Liquid filled her eyes. If she started to cry, all that smudged black eye makeup would look like bubbling tar pits.
A long exhale escaped his lungs. With a slow shake of his head, he braced his arms on one of the mismatched dining room chairs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” And he was. His mother had taught him to treat a lady better. He covered his ear as if his mom stood nearby, ready to give it a yank.
Thunder crashed, rattling the windows, and overhead the tarnished chandelier flickered. Her scream bounced around the outdated room. He cringed and commanded, “For the love of God, lady, stop that racket!” He didn’t care if World War III was erupting outside, she was leaving. Ready to escort her to his truck, Wes took a frustrated step forward.
She sniffed, her lower lip in full pout mode. “My name isn’t lady. It’s Frankie. And I don’t like storms.”
Cramming his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, he muttered, “No kidding.” What crime had he committed in a past life? Thanks to his ex-wife, he’d already lost everything but his sanity. Maybe that was the next thing to go. No doubt he’d get stuck with the bill for that, too.
She shoved her hands toward him. “If you’d just uncuff me, since we clearly aren’t gonna do anything fun, I’ll be on my way.”
Sounded good to him. He pulled the key from his back pocket, removed the cuffs, and dropped them on the cluttered kitchen table.
She marched toward the door.
Lightning flashed outside and the sound of hard rain hit the window. Wes ground his back teeth. He couldn’t let her walk out into this mess. She’d get lost, probably get eaten by a wild animal, and then he’d feel bad. “Wait.” He trotted to the door before she could open it. “Isn’t your car stuck in a ditch?”
She spun to face him, her hair whipping him across his chest. Tears floated in her deep blue eyes. “It is, but I’ll get it out myself. I’d rather face this storm than take your abuse a moment longer.”
Okay, he was a jerk. He blew out a long breath. “Listen, it’s not safe out there for you to be roaming around. I’ll drive you.”
The phone released a pathetic ring, almost as though it wasn’t sure it was worth the trouble. Other than his older brother, no one from Santa Fe knew Wes had headed to Dolores. They owned the cabin together and his brother was probably calling to pester him about fixing the broken fence. Wes shook his head, feeling much older than his twenty-eight years.
He snatched up the phone. “Yeah?” Static crackled on the line. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jim.”
His neighbor rarely called. “What’s up?”
“I’m worried about Wayne. He went out hunting at dawn, before the storm hit, but never came home.”
Wes strolled over to the metal sink and cracked open the orange-checkered curtain. The darkness outside made it seem like it was night rather than almost one in the afternoon. Jim’s twenty-year-old grandson was a little punk. Since the death of his only son, Jim had been a hovering hen over his only remaining kin. But the older man wasn’t physically capable of hiking the rough mountain terrain.
“He take the quad?” Wes asked, dropping the curtain.
“Yep.” Jim paused a moment before continuing, “But the temp is dropping fast. It’s gonna snow soon.”
Wes bit back a curse, knowing that thanks to Wayne, he’d also be freezing his ass off soon. But he owed Jim. The old man helped him out by watching over the cabin for the half of the year it was empty. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
He hung up and did a mental inventory of everything he needed to bring. The first aid kit, a blanket, and water were already in his truck. Before he’d taken leave from the Santa Fe Police Department, he’d assisted Search and Rescue. If Wayne was holed up at some country cutie’s place, attempting to prove he was a man because he’d grown a few chin hairs, Wes would wring his scrawny neck.
“What’s wrong?” The soft words cut into his thoughts.
His gaze slid over her, traveling down the generous length of her tan legs. His blood heated up. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to help my neighbor. Come on. Let’s get some clothes on you. I can’t be parading a stripper across Colorado. You’ll give the old-timers a heart attack and start the young bucks salivating.”
He headed to his room.
She hollered at his back, “I am not a stripper, you—”
With a smirk on his face, he shut the door and rummaged through the closet.
…
Frankie rubbed her hands up and down her bare thighs as the crew-cab Chevy truck bumped down the highway. The goose bumps dissolved under the motion of her palms, only to shoot up again. “Oh my gosh, I think I drove to the North Pole.”
Wes cranked up the heater and the chilled air from the vent finally grew blessedly warm. “You should have accepted my spare sweatpants and this ain’t cold, sweetheart. It can get less than twenty degrees here—where you from anyway?”
“The jacket and all this stuff are fine, thanks… Um. I live in Vegas.”
“And what do you do in Vegas?”
Of course, he had to ask that question. She cleared her throat. “I serve drinks at a gentlemen’s club.”
“Why aren’t I surprised?”
Was she supposed to know the answer to that? “I don’t know. Why aren’t you?”
He laughed in response.
The truck’s defroster battled the fog creeping up the window. With the sleeve of his jacket, Wes swiped at the moisture. “Would you stop breathing so much? I can’t see a thing.”
Frankie had never met a ruder man in her life. “You could take me to my car first and then play rescue. I don’t know why I have to tag along.” The truck hit a pothole. Her derriere caught air before the seat belt locked and she landed back on the leather seat.
“Hold on,” he said.
She braced her hands on the dashboard.
“I already explained this. Your car is in the other direction and isn’t going anywhere. With the temperature dropping, minutes out here could mean life or death. Finding Jim’s grandson takes priority.”
Marble-sized hail started pounding the truck. She peered up at the dark gray sky—she’d seen this horror movie. Next they would be attacked by locusts and dead birds would rain from the heavens. Her breaths came short and fast. “I think I would rather wait at your house. I don’t like this.”
He shot a glance her way before focusing on the wet road once more. “It’s going to be okay. Once we get to Jim’s, you can stay inside until I get back. We need to wait out the storm before we get your car anyway. If we don’t, you’ll just drive into another ditch.”
She scowled at him and then realized for the first time in days, she’d forgotten about Domino and the trouble she was in. Maybe being with Deputy Wes Malone, even with his attitude, wasn’t such a bad move. He might be a cop, and who knew if he was shady, but he wasn’t from Vegas and Domino would be smart enough to steer clear of him. She studied Wes’s chiseled profile and the stubble across his strong jaw. A girl would have to be blind not to be drawn in by his good looks. She started to grow warm and it had nothing to do with the heater. Mentally she shook herself out of her trance. “I think you’re right,” she said. “I should stay put. It’s not safe to get back on the road.”
He looked at her, his expression swimming with suspicion. “Don’t get too comfortable. Once the roads are safe, you and all your accessories are out of here.”
Clearly they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe some sweet talkin’ was in order. “Hey, I’d be happy to stick around and help fix the ceiling. I’ve been told I’m a fast learner.”
After a short round of laughter, he retorted, “I bet. But I don’t like fast women and I certainly don’t want them touching my cabin.”
“Why does everything have to be sexual with you?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He jerked a hand toward her bare legs. “You’re a walking sex ad.”
She peered down at herself. He claimed the clothing she now wore was his sister-in-law’s. The worn plaid jacket he’d shoved her into earlier engulfed her. Her feet swam in red rubber boots. And add the green-and-red knit hat, with a white puffball on top, and she looked like some kind of Goodwill elf. If he was getting all worked up by this, he needed to get out more.
The truck veered down a narrow driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. Evergreen trees swayed from the gusts of wind. An empty pasture gave way to a barn and then a dinky cabin. Wes shifted the truck into park. “Stay here. Let me talk to Jim for a sec.”
He left and jogged to the porch. The rain had reduced to a sprinkle. Through a window, Frankie could make out a bearded man sitting in a rocker. She glanced around the yard at the rusted cars. Thunder rolled, more distant than the last burst.
As a child, she and her dog Elvis had hidden under the bed when thunderstorms shook their trailer. They hid in the same place when Mama would come home in a whiskey drunken rage. Mama felt she’d drawn a bad hand in life—she not only didn’t make it as an actress, but her husband had become wheelchair-bound after his big rig accident. She had wanted to live the rich life but had ended up in a trailer in the desert. Her father’s pleas for Mama to calm herself always fell on deaf ears and the night would end with a visit from the boys in blue. One time Frankie had trusted a friendly-looking cop and told him she was afraid. She’d spent two weeks in foster care before her father had gotten her back. Frankie had never made the mistake of confiding in the cops again.
Mama had continued to spit fury at everyone in her path until they’d found her floating in the Lucky Highway Hotel’s swimming pool. Frankie’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to think about her childhood. If she had the money, she’d go to therapy. But she found the drunks at the club served the same purpose. They always had a tale of woe that made her life look like a trip to Disneyland.
The door swung open next to her and she jerked in response. Wes stood there, water dripping down his face, his hand outstretched. “Come on. You can wait inside with Jim.”
She captured his hand and ran with him to the porch. The hinges of the screen door creaked as he opened it. She entered the dimly lit cabin first, her rubber boots flopping with every step. The glow from the crackling fire shifted across the worn furniture. On the walls beasts with fierce teeth and frozen expressions glared down at her. The dancing shadows made the creatures appear ready to attack. She pushed her wet bangs out of her eyes. Maybe she should suggest Jim get a velvet picture, make the room more inviting.
“You didn’t let the girl get her pants on?” The owner of the craggy voice hopped into view. The old guy’s cheeks were sunken in, and his clothes hung on his bone-thin frame. She stepped back only to bump into Wes’s chest. He rested his hand on her shoulder. The feel of his body made her pulse quicken.
“Jim, this is Frankie. Typical city girl…only brought shorts.”
The old guy grunted and hopped again. The lower part of his body came into view. His left pant leg was pinned above the knee, revealing the fact he’d lost a leg. Her gaze shot up and met his. Oh, no, he saw me staring. Shifting from foot to foot, she opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t have a thing to say.
“Say hi and play nice. I’ll be gone for a bit,” Wes whispered into her ear and gave her a nudge into the room.
“Hi,” she said with a wave.
After Jim acknowledged her, Jim and Wes started talking about the area the grandson had gone hunting. Wes said he’d take his truck farther down the property and then scout the area on foot. Listening to them with only half an ear, Frankie surveyed the living room and stopped in front of a display case of weapons with a crossbow, an array of knives, several handguns, and rifles. When the zombie apocalypse struck, she knew where she was heading. She kicked off the rubber boots, climbed into an overstuffed chair, and curled her feet underneath herself. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. If she could just have a few minutes, she’d take a nap. Her nose twitched. She sniffed. The place smelled like mothballs and burned chicken.
Wes crouched and gave her a light shake. “I’m going. I need you to get everything ready just in case Wayne’s hurt or hypothermic.”
She nodded. “Okay, what do I do?”
“Help Jim. Get as many blankets as you can find. An electric would be best. Heat them by the fire so they’re warm.” Wes glanced over his shoulder and asked, “Jim, you have any broth or soup?”
“Yep.”
“Heat that up.” Wes pushed to his feet.
“All right.”
He zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into a pair of gloves. “Frankie, get a move on. I’ll see you in a few.” With that, he strode toward the door.
She took a moment to admire the sureness of his step and strength of his solid frame. It was a turn-on to see a man take charge—as long as it wasn’t of her. He shut the door behind him but not before the coolness from the outside air made her shiver.
“You checking out his butt?”
She looked at the old man, who now used a crutch to prop himself in the kitchen doorway. She couldn’t miss the twinkle in his eye.
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“When I was his age, I had a nice pair of buns, too. Always caught the ladies checking me out.”
A wide grin spread across her face.
“Come on, girl, we need to be ready if Wayne got too cocky and Mother Nature showed him who was boss. You can check out my buns while we’re getting the blankets.”
With a skip in her step, she followed him down the hall. “You’re on. But just so you know, I’m a pincher.”
…
Frankie peeked out the window for the fifth time in the last hour. With the drop in temperature, a light snow had started to fall. That might be a good thing. Maybe her car would be covered and it would go unnoticed. No, she couldn’t risk it. She had to get it off the road until she figured out her next step. Domino had connections everywhere. There was a good chance he’d already flagged her and her Mustang. And now every lowlife would be on the lookout. Wave a few hundred bucks under peoples’ noses and they’d turn in their own grandmas.
A thumping sound came from behind her. She peered over her shoulder.
Jim wobbled in, his crutch bumping against the wall. “You hungry?”
“No. I’m fine, thanks.” She bit back the nervousness. The possibility that Wes or this Wayne would need first aid was frightening. Her skills were limited to peeling and sticking on Band-Aids. Add a few hangnail removals and that was it. “H-has your grandson ever done this before? I mean, not returned.”
He shook his head. The glow of the fireplace slanted over half his face. “No. But he’s taken some blows these last few years. With his pa dying of cancer and then him getting hurt last year in finals, being only twenty he took the forced retirement hard.”
Retirement? “Finals?” she asked as she sat down in the overstuffed chair.
He ran a hand across his beard, which was as white as his hair. “Yep. Wayne was an up and coming in PBR—bull riding.”
“Oh. That’s dangerous.”
“Yep. The last ride almost killed him—ICU for two weeks.” He sighed and sank into the rocker, propping his crutch against the wall.
Frankie had seen bull riding a few times on TV. Those guys were tough as nails—and loco. “I remember Vegas had finals last month. Some of the customers from the club were talking about it.” The event would be forever stamped into her memory. The next day she’d been questioned about the murdered girl from the club across the street. A shiver tingled down her spine.
“Yep. He was there…has buddies still riding. But he came home more depressed than usual.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. The defeat in his expression tugged at her heart. This dear man had had a rough time. But Jim was a survivor. It showed on his weathered face.
He grunted, leaned down, and bounced a few times before he picked up a thick book next to his rocker. He flipped it open and focused on the pages. Only a few minutes passed before he said, “I need to pray for Wayne.”
Although he wasn’t asking for permission, she nodded anyway. His words were soft, but clear. He said a few lines, and then one of his eyes crept halfway open. “You have anything to add?”
She was at a loss. She had only attended church a few times. “Um. I’m fine, thanks.”
Jim cleared his throat. “God, please help Frankie get where she needs to go safe and sound.” After an amen, he set the Bible back on the floor.
“That was a short prayer. The ones I remember went on forever and had lots of ‘yes, Jesuses.’”
Jim cracked a smile, making his wrinkles gather. “I think God likes it simple. Just like talkin’ to a friend. ‘The Show’ doesn’t impress him much.”
Well, she reasoned “The Show” hadn’t impressed her much, either.
“How old are you, girl?”
She flicked a glance at the severed boar’s head mounted on the wall. Its wild eyes reflected the warm orange glow from the firelight. “Twenty-three.”
“And you’re traveling around all by your lonesome—without any britches? If you ask me, you’re just askin’ for trouble.”
Absently, she brushed her fingers across the faded blue-and-yellow fabric of the chair. What would he say if she told him she was on the run from a loan shark who’d decided she could work the money off on her back?
“Your pa have anything to say about this trip you’re taking?”
She dragged in a shaky breath. “No. Lost him two months ago.”
He nodded and the conversation once again ceased. He shook the remote control at the TV and it flipped on.
“Where do you get your news from way out here?” she asked.
“Strongest signals are from Vegas and Albuquerque. Get the weather for Southern Colorado from the Albuquerque station.”
Her attention settled back on the TV.
The volume rose while the newscaster said, “In other news, the police are asking for the public’s help in locating a person of interest in connection with the grand theft of fifteen thousand dollars from Glitz Gentlemen’s Club.”
Her eyes widened as her pulse kicked up in double time.
“The police are searching for Francesca Delenski. An employee of the club who—”
She flew to her feet, blocking part of Jim’s view of the TV. “Oh my gosh, I think I hear something,” she said, gesturing wildly and speaking loud enough to drown out the television. “I think Wes is back, do you hear it? Because I think it’s an engine or maybe it’s a quad. I’m not sure—”
Jim narrowed his eyes at her. “Can’t hear nothin’ but your chatter.” He flipped off the TV. “Don’t just stand there, girl, go look out the window.”
Knees wobbling, she lifted the curtain. She couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Fifteen thousand dollars? How? Who? She tried to slow her crazed thoughts.
“Well, do you see them? I don’t hear anything.”
She clasped her shaking hands together and turned toward him. “Sorry. I was mistaken.”
Jim frowned at her, his fingers tapping against the arm of the chair.
Her stomach did a flip, and she feared she was going to throw up. Oh Lord, why did they think she stole all that money? She was now branded a criminal. Her daddy would be turning in his grave. Next week her high school photo with that bad perm would be plastered on America’s Most Wanted.
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