Lucky and the Electrocuted Ex Read online

  Now she’s smiling broadly, though, as she nurses the last of her own drink and guides her car into along Snuffleupagus’ house toward mine. She brakes early when she sees Liam’s truck along with a car parked in front of the carriage house.

  The other vehicle is a 1997 Oldsmobile Intrigue that’s faded maroon in color and has two rusted rear wheel wells. It’s also missing a hubcap on the left front tire. I know exactly how it got knocked off, because I’m the one who did it. I had an unfortunate run-in with a curb that came out of nowhere when I was first learning to drive.

  And by first learning to drive, I mean when I got my learner’s permit and started sneaking Momma’s car out of the driveway in the middle of the night to go get Regina and ride through the countryside.

  This particular car is as happy a sight to me as all the Christmas lights in the world.

  “Momma Leona!” I squeal.

  Regina squeals, too, and hits the gas pedal, slinging us forward with a spin of gravel. “Crap,” she says, slowing down as she leans up to glance over at Mrs. S.’s back door as we pass. That’s one thing my landlady won’t tolerate. “Vehicular shenanigans” she calls them.

  Spinning up gravel in her driveway fits the bill.

  Before Regina can even get parked and dart into the house, Snuffleupagus is shooting through her door, which she does with surprising agility for someone who normally hobbles at best, ranting. “Slow down, you hoodlum!”

  She’s shaking her fist at us, her bottom lip crunched up into the territory of her top lip, brows drawn down in fury. If there was ever a need for an image to go with the age old “get off my lawn” elder personality type, my landlady would be a prime candidate. She’s a little bit terrifying. Even more so because there’s a good chance she’s got a gun stuffed up under her clothes somewhere.

  With Mrs. S. doing her version of chasing the car until it stops, and Miss Haddy’s black hearse rolling in behind us, and the front door opening as Liam tosses Lucy-fur my temperamental devil black cat out into the yard, it’s quite the picture of my chaotic life.

  I’m already smiling when I open the door to get out. It erupts into a full-blown laugh when I hear first a man-like scream and then a woman’s scream.

  Regina and I look at each other. “Fred.”

  Everyone has met Fred, my screaming goat, except for Momma Leona. My guess is that now introductions have been made. The hard way.

  I feel sure that, somewhere in the back yard, Ethel, my fainting goat, is on her side, playing dead until she recovers from Fred’s scream. My house is similar to a carnival fun house, only without the wavy mirrors. I have an assortment of rescue animals, all of which have different and distinct reactions to loud noises or surprises.

  Mr. Jingles, my French bulldog, snarls like he’s going to chew someone’s leg off. He’s not vicious at all. That’s just his defense mechanism. His snarling causes Gumbo, my tiny pig to oink and run in circles. Lucy-fur, the cat, growls and heads for higher ground, which is always the top of Gator, the hamster’s cage. He can’t see her because there’s a towel over the top, but when she lands, he runs to get into his wheel and run for his life. The wheel squeaks, which gets Squishy, my rescue parrot stirred up. He picks a random word or two and squawks them repeatedly until the madness settles down. For some reason, that’s always achieved by removing Lucy, which Liam knows and is taking care of.

  He also knows where my spare key is and isn’t afraid to use it.

  Obviously.

  The man in question is now standing on the porch, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. His customary glower is in place, which just makes me grin. He really is a grouchy guy, but it’s harmless for the most part. In fact, I’m beginning to think it’s just the expression his facial muscles default to rather than an indication of his mood.

  “This place is a circus,” he snaps when I get closer.

  Okay, maybe sometimes it is an indication of his mood.

  But that doesn’t bother me anymore.

  Still smiling, I walk up to him, lean my body into his, and tilt my chin toward his face. “Lucky for both of us I’m a good kisser then.”

  I nip his bottom lip with my teeth and then step back to watch the fireworks.

  To the casual onlooker, Liam’s expression doesn’t change much, but to me… Well, I see all the little ways in which I affect him.

  His pupils swell, changing his light green-gray eyes to something the color of a storm cloud, the muscle along his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, and his nostrils flare the tiniest bit. Like a predator scenting his prey.

  To me, what this equals is attraction. Liam’s attraction to me. His alpha male desire to jerk me to him and plunder all my treasures.

  Or something like that.

  We haven’t really gotten to the real plundering part, but I know the look of pure lust when I see it.

  I’ve seen this reaction many times over the last couple of weeks, now that we’ve stopped trying to hide from what’s between us. If we were alone, I’d be in his arms already. But, alas, we’re not, so he’s just standing on my porch, staring at me, all hot and stoic.

  I love to torture him, which I figure is only fair since he’s spent so many months torturing me.

  I wink as I push past him to go inside. If he’s holding back, then so will I.

  Beebee and Momma Leona are sitting on my couch. Both start cutting a shine the minute they see me.

  Just for two different reasons.

  “There’s my baby girl,” Momma Leona says with loud enthusiasm, leaping up and running toward me. “You look so beautiful!”

  Beebee on the other hand…

  “These critters are a menace. I don’t know how you live with all this racket. It can’t be good for your heart, chère. It just can’t be.” Beebee chastisement is gentle, but it’s still chastisement.

  I ignore it, though (I’ve heard it all many, many times before) and focus instead on Momma Leona who pulls me into her arms for a bone-crushing and very welcome hug.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” she says, giving me an extra squeeze.

  I inhale her familiar aroma. Gardenia with a hint of vanilla. The gardenia is her perfume. The vanilla is just what she’s always smelled like. I think her love of cooking, baking in particular, has permanently scented her skin.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I tell her when she leans back a little. I let my eyes wander over her face—the familiar planes and angles; the dark, rich skin and even darker eyes; the broad, loving smile. She and Beebee look so much alike. They’re like two photographs of the same person, one past and one present.

  “It’s been too long,” she says, giving me a little shake.

  “I know. I missed you at Thanksgiving. Beebee was so vague about you not coming. All I could get out of her was that you had to work extra at Goodwill. What happened?”

  Even when Beebee gave me that load-of-crap excuse, I knew there was more to it. The thing is, when Beebee stubs up, no amount of harassment can get her to open up. She’s probably the best keeper of secrets the south has ever seen.

  Heck, she might be the only one who can still keep a secret.

  With the possible exception of Miss Haddy, Salty Springs’ very own pseudo mob boss and purveyor of information. I’m guessing she’s like a vault, one that you’d need more than a blowtorch and the promise of torture to get open.

  Momma’s expression melts from glee into something I can only describe as bothered. It brings my internal antenna to immediate attention.

  “What is it, Momma?”

  “I…I didn’t really have to work. Actually, I came by here. Well, sort of. I just went farther north, up to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.”

  “The Outer Banks? Why? Who do you know up there?”

  “Supposedly you.”

  “Me?”

  Now I’m confused.

  “Lucky, it’s about Gavin,” Momma begins, which only adds to my bewilderment.

  “Gavin?
Gavin Rossdale?” My ex is the only Gavin I know, but I’m really hoping there’s one I’ve forgotten, because that Gavin, my Gavin…

  He spells trouble. With a capital, flashing, bright red T.

  Momma Leona nods. “He…he’s been looking for you for a couple of months now. Well, looking harder, I should say. And we were afraid he might try to follow us here, so we split up. To throw him off.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore.” I say it to comfort and reassure Momma Leona, but even as I do, my insides quiver just a little.

  “Well, we weren’t taking the chance. And we didn’t want you to be alone for Thanksgiving, so we decided Momma should come and I’d lead that lunatic ex of yours on a wild goose chase.”

  Momma Leona calls Beebee “Momma.” Regina calls her mother “Momma.” We all call Momma Leona “Momma Leona.” A lot of Mommas around when I was growing up. You could go to any grocery store in Gator Cove and holler “Momma!” and at least twenty heads would turn. Then it just a matter of making sure the right momma and the right kid got matched up.

  I take in Momma Leona’s nervous expression—dent between the brows, clouded eyes, teeth pinching into the bottom lip. There’s only one conclusion to draw. “I assume since you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin that it didn’t work.”

  She exhales, her shoulders slumping. “Not exactly. We just found out that he headed up here toward you a couple of days ago, so we came on a little early.”

  “Wait, what? Gavin? Is coming here?”

  All my false bravado just flew right out the window. Now my guts are really jittering.

  I tighten my tenuous grip on my expression, though. I can’t let Momma Leona or Beebee see my fear. It’ll just worry them more. I’m much better off showing them that it’s not a problem and that it’s nothing to worry about.

  Then I can worry myself sick about it later. In the privacy of my own bedroom where I can lie awake all night, listening to every sound like someone is coming for me.

  I smile. And I mean smile.

  A good one.

  A convincing one.

  “Momma, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m safe here.” I make my statement as definitive and persuasive as possible.

  “But you’re alone, honey. That scares me.”

  I resist the urge to gulp. She’s right. I am alone. And if he finds me…

  Sweet Mary.

  Despite all the terrifying thoughts racing through my head, I pull up my big girl panties and do what must be done.

  I lie.

  “But I have my animals. They’ll protect me.” I nod as I tell her. You know, to make her believe it. I read somewhere that it makes the other person want to agree with you when you nod. That might be utter malarkey, but it’s worth a try.

  “What do you need protecting from?” comes a gruffly familiar voice from behind me.

  My legs feel so weak with relief that I nearly fall back into Liam when he steps up to my back and sets his hands on my shoulders.

  Instantly, I feel safe.

  Instantly, I feel reassured.

  That’s why my next words to Momma Leona carry confidence. Real confidence. “I’m not alone, Momma. I have Liam.”

  I raise a hand and put it on top of his. The warmth and strength I can feel radiating from his skin into mine work to calm my inner turmoil.

  Momma Leona smiles at Liam over my head and then looks back down at me. “He seems wonderful, Lucky, but no one can be here to protect you all the time.”

  “I’m never alone for very long. Someone is always around or stopping by. My landlady, Mrs. Stephanopoulos. Miss Haddy. Suzie Lynn. Liam. Regina. I have a lot of friends here. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Liam gives my shoulders a light squeeze. “What’s going on?”

  I was hoping he wouldn’t ask again. It’s hard to tell what he might make of this situation. Or what he might try to do.

  But of course, he’d ask again. He’s Liam. He’s like a dog with a bone.

  Thankfully, we’re interrupted before I can answer.

  “Hey there, lucky lady,” comes another familiar voice, this time from my left. I turn to see Clive standing in the doorway, smiling his gentle smile. “Mind if I borrow you for just a quick minute?”

  “No, of course not.” I smile at Momma Leona. “Give me a minute and then I’ll introduce you.”

  “I’ll be here,” she says.

  Liam adds, “Hurry back.”

  I walk over to Clive and he takes my arms and steps with me to the door. “What’s up, Clive?”

  “I hate to intrude on what looks like a mighty fine reunion, but I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  Clive raises a thin, gnarled hand and rubs it along his jaw. It makes a sound like sandpaper going over the rough grain of wood. “Now, you know I don’t mean no offense, but I have to ask.”

  This prompts a frown. I can feel it pulling my eyebrows together. “You could never offend me, Clive.”

  “Well, I sure hope not, but you see, there’s a man that’s missing and his family says they have reason to believe he was headed here, to see you. They’re saying they haven’t seen or talked to him since he left Louisiana.”

  Every drop of saliva in my mouth dries up.

  Gavin.

  He must be talking about Gavin.

  “Oh? Wh-who is it?”

  I’m like a turtle when it comes to defense mechanisms. I can’t yank my head in to protect myself when I feel threatened, but I can play dumb like nobody’s business.

  That’s a defense mechanism, right?

  “Man by the name of Gavin Rossdale. You know of him?”

  “Uh, if it’s the same one from Gator Cove, then yeah.”

  Clive nods. “One and the same. They’re up to thinking that you might’ve had something to do with him disappearing.”

  “What?”

  He keeps nodding. “Seems like they’re insinuatin’ that you’d have reason to want to harm his person.”

  I don’t want to harm his person; I just never want to see his person.

  Ever, ever again.

  “No, sir. I would never harm another person. You know that, Clive. Nope. I would never,” I say adamantly, shaking my head. I’m getting everyone to agree with me today, dang it.

  Clive is still nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Figured as much. But as a man of the law, I’m performing my due diligence, you understand.”

  “Of course. And I’d expect nothing less, but I can tell you one hundred percent for sure that I haven’t seen Gavin since I left Gator Cove, Louisiana.”

  Clive gives his ancient gray head one last nod. It’s sharp and final. Resolute. “S’all I needed to know.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. It’s short-lived, though. Regina interrupts it with another alarming little tidbit of news. What’s up with today?

  “Uh, Lucky, I think your pig is escaping through the back of your fence,” she says rather blandly.

  “What?” I whirl around and spring into action, racing across the kitchen and out the back door. Thankfully I’m wearing shoes and pants. This happened one other time, but Gumbo got caught under the edge of the fence. His terrified squealing woke me up from a dead sleep. I leapt out of bed, flew through the house, and ran out the door in the direction of the sound. It didn’t occur to me until much, much later to put on pants. Or shoes.

  I head toward the place he almost got out last time, the place I thought I’d fixed. Sure enough, I see a tiny pink butt trotting happily up the hill, toward whatever it is that caught his attention.

  Rather than going around to the gate, I hook the toe of my shoe in one of the diamond-shaped chain links and heft myself up and over the fence. My intention is to kind of hop over the top and land on the other side and keep going. They make it look so easy in the movies. But that’s not what happens when I do it.

  Shocker.

  The tip of my s
hoe gets stuck in the fencing and I more or less roll over the top of it. One of the ends of the metal grabs hold of my sweater as I do, so that when I let go and try to land, I end up dangling with one arm and leg almost touching the ground and the other flailing around in midair, caught in the fence. With any luck, no one is watching.

  I give my sweater a yank and keep on yanking until I hear a tearing sound and I’m dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. I scramble to my feet and barrel up the hill to continue my pursuit of the pig. Unfortunately, I don’t have cloven hooves, though, so when I hit a grassless place on the hill, my foot slips out from under me and I do a very uncomfortable split.

  I claw at the dirt and grass for a few seconds trying to gain enough purchase to keep going. There’s debris under my fingernails, a twig caught in my hair, and I’m pretty sure I have a hole in the knee of my jeans. Maybe I can singlehandedly bring that look back into style. This whole look. I shall call it “prison escapee chic.”

  When I finally top the hill, I see Gumbo scurrying down toward the quarry, which lies directly behind my carriage house. My heart jumps up into my throat. If he gets down there, he could drown. I’m not sure pigs can swim and now’s not the time to wonder or test the theory.

  The sides of the pit are fairly gently sloped or else I’d be rolling after Gumbo. One side of the quarry even has a sort of beachy area that the local kids use during the summer. It’s not a bad spot, unless you’re trying to reach your runaway pig before he gets hurt.

  I barrel toward Gumbo at breakneck speed. My teeth are jarring in my head and if my boobs were bigger, I’d probably be sustaining some damage to my chin. Possibly even a fat lip.

  “Gumbo, noooo!” I holler as I go.

  At the sound of my voice, he stops and jerks his head around. I can’t hear it, but I see his snout tip up and I know he’s giving me an oink of acknowledgement.

  “Stay!” I add with as much sternness as my frightened heart can manage.