Fifteen years later
I was dying. At least that’s what it felt like when I turned over, nearly braining myself on the sharp edge of the flimsy excuse for a nightstand. The bottle of water I’d set there the night before tipped over the far end, falling to the floor and rolling away. I would have cursed the loss if my mouth wasn’t as dry as the proverbial desert.
There was no such thing as free tequila.
You always paid, one way or another.
Next to me, the man whose tequila I’d spent the night drinking grunted and tugged the sheets around him. His tequila had been better than his tacos and his tacos were infinitely better than his sheets. The sex, what I remembered of it, had fallen somewhere between the tacos and the sheets, which wasn’t necessarily his fault.
My standards for sex weren’t very high. My standards for tacos, on the other hand, were.
I sat up, slowly, squinting when the motion set off bells and whistles in my head. As far as hangovers went, it wasn’t the worst I’d ever had but neither was it a walk in the park. So far, it seemed to be confined to only my head but there was a good chance that would change once I started moving. There was only one cure for a hangover and I already knew I wouldn’t find it in....
Were the hell was I again?
Careful to not wake the man next to me, I slipped out of bed, tiptoeing my way to the bathroom. Easing the door shut behind me, I turned the sink on full blast, letting it run while I took care of the other necessities. Cupping my hands under the faucet, I let my palms overflow before splashing my face with ice cold water. There wasn’t a spare toothbrush—shocking—but there was no way I could live with the taste of tequila, tobacco, and mediocre sex any longer so I squeezed toothpaste on my finger and used it as a makeshift toothbrush.
Spitting and rinsing one final time, I turned the water off and straightened, brushing my nearly white blonde hair back and examining my reflection in the mirror. My makeup was still mostly in place—another sign of the okay but not wonderful sex—and would do until I could find a rest stop. There might have been a hint of red rimming my pale blue eyes but it was nothing my sunglasses wouldn’t hide. Huffing out a breath, I scraped my hair back in a loose bun, wincing every time I hit a tangle.
I wouldn’t win any beauty contests but at least I wouldn’t make little children cry on the street, either.
When I walked back in to the bedroom, he was still passed out, the sheet wrapped so tight around him he resembled... well, a burrito. I studied him, trying to remember his name, only to give up after a moment. The only reason I needed it was for the restaurant write-up and I knew it was somewhere in the paperwork my near saintly assistant had sent me a few days earlier.
The only thing left to do was find my clothes and my purse and get the hell out of... wherever I was.
He slept through my search for my clothing. I found my bra tossed over the back of a ratty armchair in the corner of the room. My shirt and jeans were in the living room. I couldn’t remember if I’d been wearing underwear when I started drinking so if I had, they were gone. My socks and shoes were next to the door and I considered simply tucking them under one arm and walking out in my bare feet.
Then I opened the door and saw the faux cobblestone path and decided against it.
A quick search of the kitchen turned up my purse and—thank God—a bottle of cold water. I double checked the bag to make sure I wasn’t missing anything, relieved and more than a little surprised to find I’d had the presence of mind to keep my wallet, phone, and keys inside. Normally I lost at least one of them during the course of an... interview.
Satisfied the only thing I was leaving behind was a vague memory of a good time, I walked outside, closing the door gently behind me. I glanced at my watch and smiled. I wasn’t even going to miss checkout.
Even with the hangover, today was looking to be a good day.
––––––––
“YEAH, NO, BILL.” I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my cheek, squinting at the in-dash map. “The tacos were okay but they weren’t wonderful. I’d give them no more than three out of five and that’s probably influenced by the tequila.”
“Sorry, boss.” His voice, already as rough and gritty as ground glass, sounded especially rough today. “Yelp reviews gave the impression they were the best tacos this side of the Rio Grande.”
“You made two mistakes, Bill.” If the navigation was right, there was a truck stop at the next exit. I certainly hoped so, since my stomach and the car’s gas tank were running on empty and my bladder was more than a little full. “First, you trusted Yelp. Second, you trusted Yelp about a Mexican place in Alabama.”
“People in Alabama like tacos, too.” He groaned but there was something to the sound which made me think he was nursing a hangover far worse than my own. “People everywhere like tacos.”
“Yes, which is why it’s important we tell them where to find the best ones.” I sighed in relief when I passed a billboard for the promised truck stop, doing a butt wiggle in my seat at the signage promising a Denny’s. The headache had died down to a dull throb and a greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich would take care of even that.
Just because I made my living discovering and spotlighting independent and unique restaurants didn’t mean I was above eating in chain restaurants.
“I’ll write the piece up on wherever I was last night when I get to the hotel later today.” Yet more information which was buried in my inbox somewhere. Even with my assistant running point and taking care of the busywork, I still had two hundred plus emails cross my metaphorical desk every day. I needed a second assistant, one who would handle nothing but my email and paperwork, but I didn’t have the time to head back to Savannah and conduct interviews.
And nobody worked for me unless I hired them personally.
“Rough night?” Bill’s question brought me back to the conversation and I cursed under my breath as I tapped the brakes. A few more seconds and I would have missed the exit. “Tequila?”
“Where there’s tacos, there’s tequila—which actually was worth the trip but barely.” I took my eyes off the road long enough to switch the call to the car’s system, dropping my phone in the center console in a bed of receipts. “I know I have the information somewhere but text me the address for where I’m headed next.”
“You have the conference in Atlanta. It starts in two days and runs through Sunday but you’re booked at the Westin today through Monday.” There was the faint shuffling of papers and when he spoke again there was no mistaking the sly note which had crept in his voice. “Rumor has it Riley is supposed to be there.”
“Considering the fact it’s an industry conference, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t there.”
“So you’re okay with spending the next five days in the same hotel with your ex-boyfriend?”
“First, you know how much I hate when you refer to him as my ex-boyfriend.” Mostly because it would mean Riley Durant and I had exchanged something other than bodily fluids over the course of our six month affair. Boyfriend conjured up images of pet names and flowers, not phone sex and fuckboys. “Second, why would there be a problem?”
“Come on, boss. Everybody knows the two of you didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”
I suppose that was one way to describe the situation. I was willing to admit it probably wasn’t very often a man nearly seven feet tall who looked as if he could have doubled as an extra on Sons of Anarchy broke down in tears at one of the most popular restaurants in Manhattan before upending a table and throwing a nearly full glass of Malbec in the face of his dining partner. I was also willing to admit it probably wasn’t very often said dining partner simply asked to be moved to a different table before the main course arrived.
It took me almost nine months to get a reservation at Per Se. There was no way I was going to let a little thing like an on/off fuckbuddy’s bruised feelings ruin the experience.
“Riley’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I eased off the interstate, cruising down the ramp and taking the turn toward the truck stop. “Besides, we don’t really run in the same circles. I doubt we’ll do anything other than pass each other in the hall.”
“If that’s what makes you sleep better at night.” Bill sighed, the line filling with static for a brief second before clearing. “I’m texting you the hotel information. Drive safe, boss.”
––––––––
LATER THAT EVENING, I kicked the hotel room door shut behind me, dropped my bags on the floor, and stumbled over to the bed, falling face down. For five glorious minutes, I allowed myself to wallow. The second I felt myself start to drift off, I slid off the mattress, detouring to retrieve my toiletry bag before heading to the bathroom, peeling my clothes off as I went.
I loved my job. I did. I had built the magazine from the ground—or rather the blog—up and it was, without a doubt, the most important thing in my life.
But Christ Jesus did I miss sleeping in actual beds and not pieces of plywood disguised as mattresses.
I had a vague impression of the bathroom—white floors, white tile, a shower large enough for a tasteful orgy—but nothing really registered. Tomorrow morning, after a full—and sober—night’s sleep, I’d take a full inventory and find out how far Allison had gone over budget this time. No matter how many times I told her I didn’t need even close to the best room in a hotel, she insisted on booking me a suite better suited to the CEO of a small tech company and not the owner/head writer of a still in its infancy travel magazine.
Just because the lean years were behind me didn’t mean there wasn’t the possibility of more in the future. Nothing made you count your pennies quite so much as growing up dirt poor in a rich town.
Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I finished rinsing my hair before killing the water and stepping out of the shower. I was in the middle of detangling my hair when my cell started ringing. I ignored it—after last night, I was too peopled out to talk to anybody.
And then I recognized the song.
Kids Say the Darndest Things.
I sprinted out of the bathroom, slipping on the tile floor and catching myself on the doorframe at the last second. By the time I reached my purse, she’d hung up and I cursed, upending the bag and dumping the contents on the floor. I grabbed the phone just as the song started to play again, fumbling with the screen before finally managing to connect the call. “What’s wrong?”
“Hey, Aunt Jeannie.” Tammy—named after my sister’s favorite old school country singer—sounded calm, which oddly enough did not make me feel better. My second oldest niece and sister’s third child was the type of person who could stay absolutely serene while the entire world was going up in flames around her only to lose it completely when faced with something as simple as a field mouse. “I know I’m only supposed to call you if it’s an emergency and maybe I’ve overreacting a bit—.”
“Tammy.” I took a deep breath because whatever she wasn’t telling me wasn’t bad. It was catastrophic. “What happened?”
“Mama and Harold got in another fight.”
That wasn’t surprising. The third time hadn’t been the charm for my sister, which hadn’t stopped her from making Harold husband number four. I took another deep breath, pressing the heel of my palm to my breastbone and wondering if I’d remembered to pack my heartburn medicine. “And?”
“Well, to make a long story short, Mama shot Harold.”
“Oh.” The headache kicking up behind my left eye had nothing to do with the tequila from last night and everything to do with where I could already tell this conversation was going. “Is he dead?”
“Yep.” I heard a crack and I realized Tammy was chewing gum, which only added to the strangeness of the phone call. “Sheriff Pete—you know, he used to be Deputy Pete and then Sheriff Jack died and Deputy Pete became the sheriff—he took Mama to jail.” She paused and I thought she was finished and she started rambling again and I realized she’d only needed to breathe. “Mrs. Burns is staying with me and Dolly and Conway right now but Sheriff Pete said he’s going to have to call Social Services tomorrow.”
“No.” I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “No, tell Sheriff Pete and Mrs. Burns I’ll be there in a few hours. There’s no need to call Social Services.”
“Okay.” There was another half beat of silence and then she said, “Thanks, Aunt Jeannie.”
“Yeah.” I ended the call, dropping the phone on the floor and leaning my head against the edge of the bed. Before I could give in to exhaustion, I picked the phone back up and hit the speed dial for my assistant. When she picked up, perky and perfect even though I knew she’d been awake at least fifteen hours, I almost cried. “Allison—I know you’re off the clock but I need your help. There’s been a change of plans.”