Runaway Girl Page 2

  I pick up a bag of something called Funyuns on the way to the bathroom and open them, shoving a crunchy, onion-flavored ring into my mouth. “Oh,” I mumble around the bite, looking down at the bright yellow bag. “These are really good.”

  When there’s no one in the bathroom, I whisper a thank you to the man upstairs and carefully roll up my Funyuns, leaving them on the counter. I’ll have to get money out of the car to pay for them, not to mention perform a second walk of shame, but pay for them I will. I might have left a church full of people in the lurch, but I draw the line at shoplifting.

  A split second before I close myself in the stall, a young woman about my age walks in and does a double take. “Nice dress,” she says, scratching the corner of her eye. “You need some help?”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  She comes forward anyway. “You need help or half of the skirt will end up in the toilet.”

  Her bluntness turns my face hot, but manners keep me from declining a second time. “Very well, thank you.” We enter the handicapped stall out of necessity, thanks to our need to fit my giant skirt and two full-grown women. It helps that my gas station savior seems very no-nonsense about the whole operation, simply yanking up my skirt while I die a little inside. Because her soft chuckle tells me she’s definitely seen the pee spot. “Got a little excited, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I croak, tugging down the white, silk underwear from the back waistband. Deciding I have nothing to lose, I bury my face in the gathered abundance of my dress and sigh as my bladder gives up the fight. Oh Lord. That feels good. “This afternoon, I was getting a pre-wedding massage and doing photoshoots in a rooftop garden,” I say, my words muffled. “Now I’m peeing with a stranger in a mini mart in—where are we?”

  “Arlington.”

  “Oh. What a lovely town you have here.”

  “I’m from Clearwater.” I cringe over my conversational hitch and the fact that I am still nowhere near being finished relieving myself. Needing to fill the non-silence, I start to say how unseasonably cool it is when my savior clears her throat. “You need to talk about anything?”

  Talking is the absolute last thing I’m interested in right now. Not when I’ll only sound like I’m flying by the seat of my…dress. Which I am, but still. This woman might be a stranger, but I wouldn’t want her to remember me as a no-plan Nancy. I lift my head and smile, just as my never-ending stream of bodily fluids drips to a halt. “Actually, if you could just tell me how people go about hunting for jobs these days, I would truly appreciate it.”

  My savior looks surprised. Probably because I’m wearing a wedding dress in a gas station and employment seems like a problem for another day. “You have a résumé?”

  “Why, sure,” I lie.

  *

  Wanted: Pageant Coach for Temperamental Teen. Email Jason.

  Not the most enticing advertisement I’ve ever read. It’s only eight words, and I swear I can already sense that Jason is blunt, frustrated and lacking in tact. I have no choice but to answer the no-frills call for employment, though. My gas station savior turned out to be a truck driver who must have been sent straight from the lord Jesus himself. She let me sit in the front seat of her truck while she ate a hoagie and I performed my cursory job hunt on her cell phone.

  I had a moment of panic watching the blinking cursor in the job search engine. What to type. What to type. I can’t very well seek employment as a scrapbooker or gift-wrapper—it’s not even close to Christmas. I’m one heck of a party planner, but I have no professional experience or references to speak of. That left my oldest and strongest talent. Pageantry.

  Until I left my fiancé at the altar, I was set to move into his extravagant mansion on the Battery as soon as we returned from our honeymoon. Prior to that, I’ve never lived anywhere but my parents’ home and the sorority house, both of which had display areas for my pageant crowns. Forty-eight of them, to be exact. I’ve been stuffed into more bathing suits, ball gowns and high heels than there are countries in the world.

  Did I enjoy a single second of it, though? As I cross the street toward a single-story, red-shingled house with a giant detached garage and a boat out front, I admit I have no idea. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t being paraded around for someone’s approval—it always just seemed natural. The thing to do.

  When I replied to the advertisement for a pageant coach, I had to do some quick thinking due to my lack of résumé. Instead of sending a list of credentials and work experience—um, car washes count, right?—I replied with a cheerful message and some links to pageant websites that listed my name as a past winner. Within five minutes, I received an abrupt reply, which sent me to this address in St. Augustine, Florida, an old-fashioned, palm-tree’d, narrow-streeted town on the water. Hopefully no one in the house saw me wrestling my way out of a wedding gown in the backseat and donning a white linen dress with nude, strappy sandals. That definitely wouldn’t do.

  I raise my hand to knock on the door and pause when I realize I’m having a hard time swallowing. Buck up, Naomi. A job interview can’t be so different from the question round in a pageant, right? Simply smile and give the most diplomatic answer. Shine. Sparkle. Wave. Woo. The Battle of Waterloo was nothing compared to the backstage at a beauty competition. I should be able to handle a temperamental teen and a terse advertiser.

  With a deep breath, I knock on the door and wait. Seconds pass before I hear a heavy tread approaching. Very heavy. Kind of ominous, really. Nonetheless, I put on my most dazzling smile as the door is jerked open.

  My smile drops, but I yank it back up. Despite the thunderhead of a human being looking down at me from the height of the doorframe. Not a gentleman. Not a gentle anything. Tattoos peek out of the neckline and sleeves of his dirty gray T-shirt. His jaw is covered in coarse-looking black hair, as is his head, which has been the recipient of a ruthless buzz cut. The smell of motor oil and cigar smoke wafts toward me, nearly knocking me back a step, but there’s an underlying note of cinnamon that is oddly pleasing layered under the rest of it. And it’s the last pleasing thing about him, this man who looks suited to climbing out of a swamp with camouflage paint on his face to the soundtrack of chopper blades. That seems like an unusual thought, until I realize the tattoo on his right arm is the Army logo. Fitting. Although this man is so large and riddled with muscle, he could be his own army.

  His mouth turns down into an even deeper frown, and I realize I’ve been counting the unseemly bulges of his abdomen. Are those meant to be seen clear through clothing?

  “Good evening. You must be Jason,” I say brightly, holding out my hand. “I’m Naomi Clemons. Charmed.”

  He props a meaty forearm on the doorjamb and shakes his head. “Yeah. This isn’t going to work.”

  I keep my hand extended. Just hanging there, like it has no protocol for being ignored. Can he sense how useless and inexperienced I am? He must. “I’m sorry?”

  A single dark eyebrow goes up. “About what?”

  His deliberate obtuseness rankles, and I’m surprised to find myself growing kind of irritated. At least it’s a welcome change from the insecurity. “I’m sorry, as in, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘this isn’t going to work.’ We are midway through introductions, sir. You haven’t even taken my hand yet.”

  “Don’t plan to.”

  “I’ll just leave it here,” I say, ignoring the growing strain in said limb.

  He shrugs a mountain-like shoulder. “Be my guest.”

  I’ve never been more tempted to stomp a foot. “Take the hand.”

  A sigh gusts out of him. “Fine.”

  The man takes my hand and gives it a firm squeeze—and promptly covers my palm and fingers in thick, black grease. He revels in it, smiling just enough to reveal a set of strong, white teeth that look absolutely indecent set against his dark beard. He’s waiting for me to whine or admonish him, too. I can tell. And it’s shocking to have anyone display such impolitene
ss toward me. Especially a man. Where I come from, men bend over backwards to make me feel welcome. I am the furthest thing from welcome right now. I am distinctly unwelcome.

  I’ve had a bad day. I’m tired and hungry. Those delicious Funyuns were not enough to tide me over. This unfamiliar town has me feeling like a fish out of water, and I don’t even know where I’m laying my head tonight. That has to be the only reason I’m hit with a burst of defiance the likes of which I’ve never experienced. At least since this morning.

  Pasting a pleasant expression on my face, I wipe my greasy hand straight down the front of my white linen dress. Hallelujah is all I can think when Blackbeard’s smile loses power, enough to hide his teeth. “Well, now. Let’s start over.” I breathe deeply and square my shoulders. “You must be Jason.”

  His grunt is apparently the only answer I’m going to get. A tangle of wills ensues. It reminds me of the Battle of Fort Sumter, because once a winner is declared and the loser surrenders, it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be over. More like, it’s going to kick off a whole darn civil war. Thankfully, neither one of us is required to raise the white flag. We’re interrupted by another set of approaching footsteps, this one far lighter than Jason’s.

  “Is that her?” a young girl calls. “Jesus, Jason. Invite her in.”

  Jason doesn’t budge. He’s too busy frowning at me and my grease stain.

  “Move,” she says, her hands appearing on his sequoia tree waist and pulling ineffectively. “She’s the only one who answered the ad.”

  Having claimed the upper hand, I wink at him. “How surprising, when it was so beautifully written.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment, before stomping into the house. In doing so, he reveals the temperamental teenage girl outlined in the doorframe, in all her pierced, blue-haired, ripped leather glory.

  Lord have mercy. This is going to be a challenge.

  What if I’m not up for it?

  CHAPTER THREE

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  If you’re having girl problems, I feel bad for you, son.

  I’ve got 99 theories and spontaneous combustion is actually a completely viable one.

  Jason

  I don’t like surprises.

  Especially in the form of little blonde beauty queens.

  Didn’t help that I saw her changing in the back seat of her car. In my defense, the windows of her Rover were tinted, and with all the wiggling around, I initially thought some kids were making out in the backseat across from my house and was preparing to go send them on their way. By the time I realized it was a solo, half-dressed woman, I’d already witnessed the whole damn show. That was before I saw her walking across the street in the fading sunset light, one hand holding down the wind-fluttered hem of her skirt, her mouth moving in what looked like a rambling pep talk. What was she saying?

  Annoyed at my own curiosity, I follow the girls into the living room. And there she is again. Still here. I’ve never seen someone arrange themselves on a couch before. That’s exactly what she’s doing now. Knees pressed together, ankles crossed and out to the side, fingers smoothing out her dress, hair being rested behind shoulders, hands folding together. Watching her glide across the street, I’d had not a single doubt in my mind that my wild child little sister would run roughshod over this smiling Disney princess. Then she’d gone and wiped motor oil on the front of her white dress without batting a single one of her curled black eyelashes.

  Well, if Miss Clemons thinks that grease streak is going to make me feel guilty, she’s got another think coming. That’s what I tell myself. But when I notice she’s transferring oil to her other hand, too, thanks to her having folded them like a damn Sunday school teacher, I stomp toward the bathroom to hunt up a washcloth.

  This isn’t going to work.

  Even if she turns out to be a match for Birdie’s temperament, this blue-eyed Southern belle can’t have the run of my house. Coming and going as she pleases looking like…that. Maybe I should have dug down a little deeper into the links she sent me. I gathered a pageant winner would be attractive, but I didn’t expect her. She’s not merely attractive. With her glowing skin, soft, swollen mouth and limber-looking body, she’s insanely beautiful. How is it that she doesn’t have a single imperfection? This house is a fucking mess, due to my profession and lack of shits to give. She fits in here like a square peg in a circle.

  In other words, she doesn’t.

  My time in St. Augustine is limited. The Army gave me an extended leave due to our family emergency, but it’s quickly coming to an end. I don’t want distractions. I want to keep my head down, push through the next few months to my next deployment and go wheels up. A few minutes around Miss Clemons and I can tell it won’t be as easy to switch off my surroundings and go through the motions until I can get back to serving my purpose.

  Yeah. She’s got to go.

  I throw open the bathroom linen closet and grab the first washcloth I see. It would be too rough against skin like she’s got, though, so I trade it for one relatively newer. As in, purchased in the last decade. I pinch it in the corner, so I don’t get my boat filth all over it, and return to the living room, wondering why the hell she was changing in her car.

  “Why the hell were you changing in your car?”

  Birdie slaps her hands over her face. “God help us.”

  Naomi stalls out mid-sentence, gaping at me and the dangling washcloth. “Did you actually…see me changing?”

  “Relax. I didn’t catch anything important.” I toss her the cloth, but she doesn’t even acknowledge it when it lands on the couch. “Just enough movement to know what you were doing.”

  A laugh tinkles out of her. “I think you must be mistaken, then.”

  I sigh and nudge the washcloth closer. “I don’t make mistakes.”

  She flicks a look at the washcloth. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Clean your hands off with it.”

  “Oh.” She smiles and tilts her head at me. “No, thank you.”

  I growl.

  Birdie throws her booted feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. “Now this is what I call entertainment.”

  Naomi dismisses me with a blink of those blue eyes and refocuses on my sister. “Where were we?” She claps her soiled hands together, and I grind my teeth. She’s doing this on purpose, isn’t she? “Right. You were telling me about the pageant you entered.”

  “Yeah.” The same booted feet she slapped up onto the table with confidence a moment ago jerk and Birdie sits up straighter. She twines a finger in the rubber band around her wrist, twisting, letting it go with a snap. Day and night. That’s my sister. One minute, she’s the planet’s biggest wiseass, but she can look so small and nervous at the flip of a switch. I hate it. But God didn’t exactly bless me with the tools to fix it. “Miss Saint John’s County. It’s my first and last. I just need you to help me win the one.”

  “Oh, just the one?” Naomi has a teasing smile on her face—she never seems to stop smiling—but she’s watching Birdie fidget with the rubber band, a small crease between her brows. “Forgive me for asking such a frank question upfront, sweetheart, but what made you want to participate in one single pageant?” She sends me a bemused look. “Most of these girls will have been competing since childhood.”

  “Yeah, I know. I go to school with some of them.” My sister rolls her eyes and plows a handful of fingers through her shock of blue hair. “Pastel hell in heels.”

  “You’re going to love my wardrobe,” Naomi says without missing a beat. “So entering the pageant is to get a rise out of the…pastel hell girls?”

  “No. That’s just a bonus.” Naomi waits, and I watch the remainder of Birdie’s bravado drain out of her in one awful wave, leaving a pale face behind. “My twin sister Natalie wanted to compete in this pageant. She used to go sit in the audience and support her friends
. With all the plays she performed in at school and baton-twirling…she just hadn’t gotten around to the pageant yet.” Her chin levels up. “And now she can’t, so I’m going to do it in her place.”

  A drape seems to spill down around the perimeter of the room. If the situation wasn’t so fucked up, I might have laughed at the way awareness creeps over Naomi. She thought she was walking onto the set of Legally Blonde: The Musical, but it has turned out to be Shakespeare. And the fact that I know enough to reference Broadway is a true testament to the elephant in the room. My missing sister. Birdie’s twin. She was the drama club queen, the one with the all-pink wardrobe and boy band crushes. She would have been in awe of Naomi, but she’s not here. Her ghost, however, is alive and well. One look at Birdie’s stiff demeanor would clue anyone in, and Naomi is no different. Her blue eyes trip around the room, landing on framed photographs of the twins at various stages of their life. Several ticks pass.

  “How long ago did you lose her?”

  “Six months.” Birdie shakes out her hands, as if trying to distract Naomi from the fresh horror of it. It’s an impossible feat, however, seeing as we’re living in our childhood home. I’ve become numb to the loss of Natalie, throwing every ounce of my energy into building a scuba diving business from the ground up. Running a household. Keeping an eye on Birdie. I couldn’t protect my own family, and because of that, I’m not sure I’ve allowed myself to mourn. Some part of me doesn’t feel deserving of it. I’m the big brother. The son. I didn’t do my job.

  There is no way to forget who I’m letting down by being here, either. The backs of the men I no longer have. The sights and sounds and grit of battle that run in my veins. I was overseas with Special Forces so long, I can’t process the normalcy of what’s around me. So much so that I don’t want it, even though I know I’m doing right by Birdie.

  It seems that no matter where I am, I’m in the wrong place. But there’s only one place I feel adequate and it’s so far from here, I have to constantly remind myself it exists and that I’m needed there. Far more than I’m needed here.