fire of alcohol. Get his mind off his immense desire to drive his hand into Jack Dillman's mouth, wipe the grin off his face once and for all. Hell, the pleasure he'd experience feeling Dillman's teeth shatter would almost be worth spending the next three years back in Corcoran.
He shifted his focus from the short-skirted pom-pom queens to the red Ford Escort hitched to the wrecker just pulling into the impound lot behind the hardware store. His mouth curled at the thought that the pretty lady snoop with a camera would pay a hefty fee to Juaquin Gonzales to get her car back, especially when he discovered she was an out-of-towner.
Freelance writer, my ass, he thought. The female smelled of reporter. She reeked of it. They had a way of carrying themselves, like they were soldiers in God's army, ready to strike a blow against any man or woman who saw fit to fight his or her way out of mediocrity.
That's all he needed, some young, hungry reporter blowing the whistle on his whereabouts. Every freaking rag in five countries would be swarming through Ticky Creek within a week. Barbara Walters and Oprah would engage in hand-to-hand combat to be the first to pin his back to the wall with questions like "So what would drive a man who looks like you and who is as successful as you—desired by women the world over—to subject himself to the perversions of a woman like Emerald Marcella?"
Then Sam Donaldson, looking like a Vulcan from Star Trek, would elbow his way between the women and demand: "How could you do it, Carlyle? You had it all. Fame. Fortune. You blew it, and the world deserves to know why!"
He fished a cigarette out of his pocket, held it between his teeth as he flipped open his lighter, and cupped his hands around the flame, drawing in the smoke as he glanced back at the caries. Sliding the lighter into his pocket, he wove his way between several parked cars, paused at the intersection long enough for a powder blue Impala with tinted windows to crawl around the corner, muffler scraping the brick street and exhaust spewing out the back in a acrid black stream. The car stopped in front of him, rumbled like a tank, muffler tap-tap-tapping on the pavement. He moved around it, flicked his cigarette ashes onto the street as he ran toward Juaquin Gonzales, who looked up from locking the impound gate, his expression registering surprise.
"Hey, man." Juaquin grinned. " Como esta?"
"Not too bad, Juaquin." Brandon pointed his cigarette toward the Ford Escort. "I wanna have a look at that car."
Juaquin looked back at the Ford. His heavy black brows drew together. "I can't do that, man. Dillman will have my ass."
"So don't tell him."
Brandon shoved the gate aside and slid past the nervous man. The car was still attached to the wrecker, front end in the air. He opened the door, climbed onto the front seat that was littered with Twinkie wrappers and an empty Diet Dr Pepper bottle. Nothing on the floor. He opened the glove compartment. A map fell out, along with a partially melted Hershey bar and a small bag of Fritos. Damn, for such a junk food freak, the woman had a hell of a body. Not that he was in the least interested in her body…
He grabbed the keys from the ignition as Juaquin shook his head and splayed his arms. "Shit, man, you're gonna get me fired! Don't be fuckin' with dem keys! Are you loco?"
"As a loon, Juaquin. Haven't you heard?" He flashed the man a smile. "Dillman gives you any grief, you tell him I said he can kiss my butt."
"I don't see what kinda good that's gonna do me." Juaquin walked to the closed gate and looked toward the courthouse, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. He glanced back at Brandon as he shoved the key in the trunk lock and turned it. The lid popped loose with a thunk, exposing a black canvas bag and a pair of muddy Ropers. He opened the bag, turned it upside down, and shook it, spilling an array of socks, panties, and bras onto the trunk bottom.
Jesus, the woman was a walking
He shifted his focus from the short-skirted pom-pom queens to the red Ford Escort hitched to the wrecker just pulling into the impound lot behind the hardware store. His mouth curled at the thought that the pretty lady snoop with a camera would pay a hefty fee to Juaquin Gonzales to get her car back, especially when he discovered she was an out-of-towner.
Freelance writer, my ass, he thought. The female smelled of reporter. She reeked of it. They had a way of carrying themselves, like they were soldiers in God's army, ready to strike a blow against any man or woman who saw fit to fight his or her way out of mediocrity.
That's all he needed, some young, hungry reporter blowing the whistle on his whereabouts. Every freaking rag in five countries would be swarming through Ticky Creek within a week. Barbara Walters and Oprah would engage in hand-to-hand combat to be the first to pin his back to the wall with questions like "So what would drive a man who looks like you and who is as successful as you—desired by women the world over—to subject himself to the perversions of a woman like Emerald Marcella?"
Then Sam Donaldson, looking like a Vulcan from Star Trek, would elbow his way between the women and demand: "How could you do it, Carlyle? You had it all. Fame. Fortune. You blew it, and the world deserves to know why!"
He fished a cigarette out of his pocket, held it between his teeth as he flipped open his lighter, and cupped his hands around the flame, drawing in the smoke as he glanced back at the caries. Sliding the lighter into his pocket, he wove his way between several parked cars, paused at the intersection long enough for a powder blue Impala with tinted windows to crawl around the corner, muffler scraping the brick street and exhaust spewing out the back in a acrid black stream. The car stopped in front of him, rumbled like a tank, muffler tap-tap-tapping on the pavement. He moved around it, flicked his cigarette ashes onto the street as he ran toward Juaquin Gonzales, who looked up from locking the impound gate, his expression registering surprise.
"Hey, man." Juaquin grinned. " Como esta?"
"Not too bad, Juaquin." Brandon pointed his cigarette toward the Ford Escort. "I wanna have a look at that car."
Juaquin looked back at the Ford. His heavy black brows drew together. "I can't do that, man. Dillman will have my ass."
"So don't tell him."
Brandon shoved the gate aside and slid past the nervous man. The car was still attached to the wrecker, front end in the air. He opened the door, climbed onto the front seat that was littered with Twinkie wrappers and an empty Diet Dr Pepper bottle. Nothing on the floor. He opened the glove compartment. A map fell out, along with a partially melted Hershey bar and a small bag of Fritos. Damn, for such a junk food freak, the woman had a hell of a body. Not that he was in the least interested in her body…
He grabbed the keys from the ignition as Juaquin shook his head and splayed his arms. "Shit, man, you're gonna get me fired! Don't be fuckin' with dem keys! Are you loco?"
"As a loon, Juaquin. Haven't you heard?" He flashed the man a smile. "Dillman gives you any grief, you tell him I said he can kiss my butt."
"I don't see what kinda good that's gonna do me." Juaquin walked to the closed gate and looked toward the courthouse, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. He glanced back at Brandon as he shoved the key in the trunk lock and turned it. The lid popped loose with a thunk, exposing a black canvas bag and a pair of muddy Ropers. He opened the bag, turned it upside down, and shook it, spilling an array of socks, panties, and bras onto the trunk bottom.
Jesus, the woman was a walking
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