2 Queenie Baby - Out of Office
Read 2 Queenie Baby - Out of Office Online
Authors: Christina A. Burke
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QUEENIE BABY: OUT OF OFFICE
by
CHRISTINA A. BURKE
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Ebook Edition
Copyright © 2013 Christina A. Burke
Cover design by copyright Lyndsey Lewellen
Gemma Halliday Publishing
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
To Sam and Julia, my future rock stars
Table of Contents
HAPTER ONE
Flying will suck the rock star right out of you. There's just nothing romantic about it anymore.
Wedged between Sir-Talks-A-Lot and Lady-With-a-Baby made my flight to paradise feel more like a bus ride through Baltimore. Don't even get me started on airport security. The TSA must be profiling tall blondes with guitars, because the row of screeners perked up as soon as I stepped up to the metal detector. The buzzing had been like music to their ears. A metal guitar pick in a recessed pocket had earned me a pat down the likes of which new inmates at Baltimore City Detention Center—known locally as BCDC—had yet to experience.
"How long you staying in Puerto Rico?" Sir-Talks-a-Lot asked. His big hambone of an arm took up all of the narrow armrest. "I'm just here for a meeting, myself. In the tire business. I'm flying back Sunday."
"I'm not sure," I replied. "It's kind of a business trip."
"That why you have a guitar?"
"Yes, I'm a performer."
Lady-With-a-Baby was interested. "Ohhh, are you on the radio?" she asked in a soft voice, her Spanish accent making it clear she was flying home from a visit to the States.
Sir-Talks-a-Lot sniffed. "No way. If she was famous, she wouldn't be sitting back here with us."
Thanks for pointing that out, jerk. "You might've heard a song that I wrote on the radio," I shot back.
Her eyes widened. "Which one?"
"'The Rum Song
.
'"
Her reaction was immediate. Her eyes narrowed. Her lip curled. "It's no a funny joke," she said angrily in accented English, with a few Spanish words thrown in at the end.
Sir-Talks-a-Lot chimed in, "Told you she wasn't famous. She's a rock star wannabe."
"Shut up," I snapped.
"No," Lady-With-a-Baby responded. "He right. Carlos Rodriguez is the singer. I see a show right before I leave Puerto Rico all about him. He say he wrote the song after a bar he was at ran out of the rum."
I ground my teeth. "That's my story! I was at a bar called McGlynn's in Annapolis, Maryland two years ago drinking rum—something I never do; I usually drink martinis—when the bartender announced he was out of rum."
The baby howled, and the woman pursed her mouth. She shook her head and clucked her teeth. "It's no' nice to impersonate a rock star."
"Maybe she's drunk now," suggested Sir-Talks-a-Lot.
"Jes," agreed Lady-With-a-Baby. "She just like my father. Drinking make him cuckoo."
She twirled her finger around her head. The baby looked up at her and cooed.
I jammed in my earbuds and sank down in my seat. What had I gotten myself into this time?
Traipsing off to Puerto Rico had seemed like a good idea when Mark had asked me. Besides helping him find his wayward cousin, David, I was going to track down the producers who had stolen my song. The short story was I had written "The Rum Song" a couple of years ago and had been performing it all over Annapolis ever since. Last summer my band had been asked to play in the background of the opening scenes of a television pilot being shot on the eastern shore of Maryland with up-and-coming singer, Billy Prescott. The producers had loved my original music, especially "The Rum Song." After filming had wrapped up, they had asked me out to L.A. to record the song, with promises of a tour and an album. I hadn't heard a word from them in months. So imagine my surprise when Mark called to say the song was a hit in Puerto Rico, of all places. All my hard work without any credit? No way. I was going to track down Carlos Rodriguez and get to the bottom of this.
Oh, and there
was
the whole finally being able to get naked with Mark thing. It was hard to resist a guy who looked like a model and smelled like heaven. It was those naked thoughts that had helped me get through all the flack from my family. Unfortunately, my mother and my sister had been together when I called my sister to ask her to watch Max, my Shih Tzu-poodle with an overbite and an attitude.
"Your dog hates me," my sister, Ashley, had said. "Why would I want him at my house for a week?"
"Because I'm your sister, and you should do it out of your love for me."
"Fat chance."
"And because I know all your secrets."
There was silence on the other end.
"You know," I suggested, "things that might've happened last summer."
She caved just like I knew she would. Our run-in with Billy Prescott had not only produced a career opportunity, but also some top-shelf sibling blackmail material. At least for me.
"You've got Sally the next time we go anywhere!" she snapped.
Sally was a big, dumb Lab who peed when you looked at her. But my sister had three kids and a redneck husband who thought a vacation was going camping at the state park ten minutes from their house. This was a pretty safe bet for me.
"Deal," I said, thinking I had gotten off easy.
"Fine. Mom wants to talk to you." Ashley handed the phone to my mother.
"No, I don't have time. I have to get ready to—"
But resistance was futile.
"Diana," my mom began in her country-singer twangy voice. "Did you really dump Rick for a new guy?"
"I didn't dump Rick," I replied patiently. "We just agreed that the time wasn't right for us."
"After spending most of last week gettin' all hot and bothered with him? Really?"
I imagined her frosted blonde, Farrah Fawcett hair bouncing with each over-punctuated word.
"I didn't get 'all hot and bothered' with Rick."
Okay, I had gotten a little hot and bothered with him. Rick was my high school sweetheart,
and
I hadn't seen him in over a decade. Did I mention he was also tall, dark, and handsome? And coming out of a messy divorce? But I had finally realized that he was part of my past. I wanted to move forward with my life and see how things worked out with Mark.
My mother snorted. "Well, I don't know what you call gettin' naked in the back of your sister's van with a man these days, but I call that hot and bothered."
Well, she had me there. "What's your point, Mom? I need to go."
"I'm just worried about you, girl. We don't know this Mark guy. And you just met him, and now you're running away to Puerto Rico with him. It makes me nervous is all."
"I'm not running away," I said with a sigh. "I'm going on a working vacation. I will call you as soon as I get settled. Okay?"
"Fine," my mother replied, "but as soon as you two get back, you are bringin' him to meet the family."
Great. Just what a new relationship needed, dinner with The Parents and The Grands.
The Parents were my mother, Brandy, and my stepfather, Dave, my father, George, and my stepmother, Anne. They all lived next door to each other in The Meadows, a 55+ golf community, so it would be easier to take care of The Grands, four of the unruliest senior citizens you'd ever want to meet outside of a game of Bingo. Before hanging up, I arranged to meet my sister the following morning at the Route 50 rest stop, the half-way point between her house in Dover, Delaware and my condo in Annapolis, Maryland.
I looked out the window at the blue sky and puffy clouds. It was hard to get excited about this trip with everything in such a tangle. At the request of his Uncle Ed, the owner of Greene's Staffing Services, Mark had gone to Puerto Rico in search of his cousin David. David had gotten wrapped up in a data theft scheme with his real father, Charles, a career-criminal who had spent much of his life in jail or on the run. I had worked for Greene's as a temp for over three years and had become friends with Carol, the manager. For a while there, I wasn't sure either one of us would have a job if news about the theft had gotten out. Luckily, I'd found the flash drive when I was digging around the staffing agency for information on David. The flash drive had contained the payroll records of thousands of temporary employees belonging to Greene's, until—completely by accident, really!—I'd corrupted the file trying to open it. Mark and Ed had decided to let Charles and David keep thinking the file was valuable in the hopes of convincing David to return home to Ed and his mother, Marcie.
Luckily, I was currently on an assignment that allowed some flexibility. I was transcribing hand-written manuscripts for a visiting professor from Yugoslavia. The fact that he wore a cape and his name was Vann Pyres kept things interesting. He was fine with me taking the transcription work on the trip; however, he wasn't happy about my stepping away from his special project—online dating. Yep, helping Vann Pyres find love online. Such was the life of a temp. And I was pretty sure he wasn't drinking their blood or anything.
I sighed. Maybe my family was right. Maybe it was time to get a real job.
* * *
My guitar case was supposed to be waiting for me at the door of the plane with the strollers and other over-sized carry-on items. Only it wasn't there.
"That's not my case," I said, as the male attendant tried to hand me a glossy black guitar case.
"Well, it's the only one here," he snipped. "Are you sure it's not yours?"
Like I wouldn't know my own guitar case. I'd had the same one for almost a decade, and I had a ritual of making tick marks in the lid for each performance. "It's not mine. I have a sticker that says 'The Rum Song' on it, and my case is old. That one looks brand new."
A smile creased his face. "I like 'The Rum Song.' Just heard it this trip. Can't remember the name of the guy who sings it?"
Before I could say a word, a Spanish accent behind me chimed in. "His name is Carlos Rodriguez, but she tell everyone on the plane
she
the singer." The woman shook her finger at me.
"I wrote the song. And I have been singing it for two years!"
The male attendant took a step back. "No need to get irate," he said in his best don't-make-me-call-the-air-marshal voice.
"See," said Lady-With-a-Baby. "I tell you she cuckoo. She drink like my father. Make her cuckoo."
"I'm not cuckoo!" I shouted.
Lady-With-a-Baby grabbed her stroller and hurried down the walkway.
"Good chance she's drunk right now," Sir-Talks-a-Lot called from behind me. "She was pretty out of it on the plane. Maybe it's drugs. You know how those rock star wannabes are."
The male attendant took another wary step back and pressed a button. A female attendant stepped out of the hatch. "What's going on Marvin?"
"That isn't my guitar." I pointed to the case. "I just want my guitar."
She furrowed her brow. "There were two guitars. The other one belonged to a lady in first class. If you run, you can probably catch her in baggage claim."
I grabbed the guitar case, saying, "I'll trade her when I catch up to her!" and raced down the gangway.
"Hey, you can't take that!" the attendants yelled.
Oops! Didn't really think this through, but no time to stop. I had to catch the woman before she left the airport.
A loudspeaker blared: "Security to Arrivals!"
Uh-oh, that didn't bode well. I needed to find this woman before I got arrested.
I caught a glimpse of my case as I scurried down the escalator toward baggage claim. A slim woman with long black hair was weaving in and out of the crowd with it. She was headed towards the sliding glass doors that opened onto the taxi stand.
As I reached the end of the escalator, I saw security guards barreling my way. I was trapped in a Keystone Cops movie; there was no way out. A group of passengers waiting for their luggage slowed the guards down. I picked up my pace, sure at any moment someone was going to put out a leg and trip me.
I dashed through the doors. "Hey! Lady! You've got the wrong guitar!" I screamed above the roar of the taxis.
She didn't hear me. She walked up to a sleek black limo crouching at the curb. The driver opened the door for her. I caught a glimpse of a posh interior as the woman struggled to get my guitar inside.
"Diana!" called a familiar voice behind me. "Where are you going?"
I knew it was Mark. He sounded desperate, but I didn't have time. Security was starting to pour out of the doors. I only had a couple of seconds before they caught up to me.
"Wait! Stop!" I screamed as I raced towards the limo. The driver looked up and quickly pushed the woman into the car, taking a protective stance in front of the door.
I tripped over a grate in the road and lost my footing. I went down to one knee, gasping in pain. I watched in horror as the guitar case flew from my hand and landed with a thud in the road. Seconds later a speeding taxi ran over it. There was a sickening crunch as wood and leather collapsed.
The driver slammed on the brakes and jumped out, cursing in Spanish and waving his arms about. Cars screeched to a halt around us.
"Arms up high! Do not get up," a stern voice warned behind me and then repeated in Spanish. I complied. I loved my guitar, but it wasn't worth getting shot over.
"Diana!" Mark yelled. "Let me through!" I could hear the anger in his voice. This was not how I had pictured our reunion. Kisses, hugs, maybe some roses, but definitely not this.