aggravated look and grabbed the papers. "Stags," I hissed. As I exited the courthouse, the scent of
Townsend clung to my clothes.
CHAPTER 4
"You're going back to Des Moines tonight? Mighta let me know ahead of time. I put on a chicken." My gramma slammed the pots
and pans around in the kitchen like an aggrieved spouse.
"What kind of chicken?" I asked.
"The only kind I make. Baked. I got a couple of them stuffed chicken breasts from the Meat Market and I brushed 'em with butter
and sprinkled on some seasonings."
Seemed harmless enough. My gramma and I are not known for our culinary competence, but we both have major, long-term attachments
to our Slo Cookers and microwaves.
Gramma had moved back into her double-wide mobile home--and, consequently, in with me--last autumn after "breaking out" of
the "penal institution" run by my mother, Warden Jean Turner. Too many falls and near misses had forced Gramma to move in
with my folks several years before. Since I was still living at home (I know, how pathetic is that?) we'd traded spaces. I
took the double-wide and she took my bedroom. And the living room. And the kitchen. And the dining room.
I had hoped the lure of a toasty, crackling fire in the fireplace would entice Gramma to return to hearth and home--my folks'
hearth and home--when winter set in, but instead she'd settled in for a long winter's nap with me, and cranked the thermostat
up to eighty. That first morning I'd awoken to sheets and undies so wet you could wring water out of them. I'd thought I was
already experiencing night sweats. As a result, I was for the first time sleeping with my window open in the dead of winter
and shucking my jammies at bedtime in favor of a tank top and undies. I just couldn't bring myself to sleep "nekked" as my
gramma likes to say. One of us was more than enough.
"Uh, sides?" I asked, the lure of food getting me back on topic.
"Broccoli and cheese sauce--one of them microwave cook-in-the-bag numbers--and garlic bread."
"I don't have to leave for a while yet," I waffled, zeroing in on the garlic bread reference. "And I wouldn't feel right if
I didn't eat after all the work you've gone to," I told her.
"Oh, you got something in the mail from that college," Gram said, setting the broccoli on the table while I removed the chicken
from the oven. It smelled surprisingly good.
"College?"
"Could be a bill. You get a lot of them."
I sighed. Sad, but true.
It turned out to be a notice of a substandard grade report for a D+ I was currently carrying in Investigative Journalism.
At a C, my Principles of Reporting grade wasn't all that much better.
This cinched it. I desperately needed to bring home an outstanding grade on my project to salvage my GPA and dreams of financial
success. Plus there was that office furniture and computer upgrade to consider.
"I saw Manny in town today," Gram said between the forkfuls of chicken and stuffing she was shoveling into her mouth. "He
had a message for you."
I stopped chewing. I'd been trying to avoid Manny Dishman-DeMarco--de-whatever the heck he was calling himself these days.
Manny had been of assistance to me some months back, but had a disturbing habit of popping back into my life when I least
expected it. Built like a Rock--literally a younger, stronger, sexier version of the pro wrestler turned Scorpion King--Manny
was your classic bad boy, with all that those sinful, but seductive danger-ahead signs implied.
I'd agreed to do a teensy-weensy favor for Manny when we'd both thought his poor, sick Aunt Mo was on her deathbed. I'd signed
on to pose as his girlfriend/fiancee so the ol' gal could drift off into the hereafter comforted that the boy she'd raised
from a pup and loved like her own had found his soul mate. At the time, Manny had slipped a ring on my finger the size of
one of those Ring Pops, and I'd expected my performance to be limited to a onetime, one-act play. However, Aunt Mo had
Townsend clung to my clothes.
CHAPTER 4
"You're going back to Des Moines tonight? Mighta let me know ahead of time. I put on a chicken." My gramma slammed the pots
and pans around in the kitchen like an aggrieved spouse.
"What kind of chicken?" I asked.
"The only kind I make. Baked. I got a couple of them stuffed chicken breasts from the Meat Market and I brushed 'em with butter
and sprinkled on some seasonings."
Seemed harmless enough. My gramma and I are not known for our culinary competence, but we both have major, long-term attachments
to our Slo Cookers and microwaves.
Gramma had moved back into her double-wide mobile home--and, consequently, in with me--last autumn after "breaking out" of
the "penal institution" run by my mother, Warden Jean Turner. Too many falls and near misses had forced Gramma to move in
with my folks several years before. Since I was still living at home (I know, how pathetic is that?) we'd traded spaces. I
took the double-wide and she took my bedroom. And the living room. And the kitchen. And the dining room.
I had hoped the lure of a toasty, crackling fire in the fireplace would entice Gramma to return to hearth and home--my folks'
hearth and home--when winter set in, but instead she'd settled in for a long winter's nap with me, and cranked the thermostat
up to eighty. That first morning I'd awoken to sheets and undies so wet you could wring water out of them. I'd thought I was
already experiencing night sweats. As a result, I was for the first time sleeping with my window open in the dead of winter
and shucking my jammies at bedtime in favor of a tank top and undies. I just couldn't bring myself to sleep "nekked" as my
gramma likes to say. One of us was more than enough.
"Uh, sides?" I asked, the lure of food getting me back on topic.
"Broccoli and cheese sauce--one of them microwave cook-in-the-bag numbers--and garlic bread."
"I don't have to leave for a while yet," I waffled, zeroing in on the garlic bread reference. "And I wouldn't feel right if
I didn't eat after all the work you've gone to," I told her.
"Oh, you got something in the mail from that college," Gram said, setting the broccoli on the table while I removed the chicken
from the oven. It smelled surprisingly good.
"College?"
"Could be a bill. You get a lot of them."
I sighed. Sad, but true.
It turned out to be a notice of a substandard grade report for a D+ I was currently carrying in Investigative Journalism.
At a C, my Principles of Reporting grade wasn't all that much better.
This cinched it. I desperately needed to bring home an outstanding grade on my project to salvage my GPA and dreams of financial
success. Plus there was that office furniture and computer upgrade to consider.
"I saw Manny in town today," Gram said between the forkfuls of chicken and stuffing she was shoveling into her mouth. "He
had a message for you."
I stopped chewing. I'd been trying to avoid Manny Dishman-DeMarco--de-whatever the heck he was calling himself these days.
Manny had been of assistance to me some months back, but had a disturbing habit of popping back into my life when I least
expected it. Built like a Rock--literally a younger, stronger, sexier version of the pro wrestler turned Scorpion King--Manny
was your classic bad boy, with all that those sinful, but seductive danger-ahead signs implied.
I'd agreed to do a teensy-weensy favor for Manny when we'd both thought his poor, sick Aunt Mo was on her deathbed. I'd signed
on to pose as his girlfriend/fiancee so the ol' gal could drift off into the hereafter comforted that the boy she'd raised
from a pup and loved like her own had found his soul mate. At the time, Manny had slipped a ring on my finger the size of
one of those Ring Pops, and I'd expected my performance to be limited to a onetime, one-act play. However, Aunt Mo had
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