Fall Into Me

Special acknowledgement to Jamie Sullivan of the Georgia State Patrol for providing me with the proper formulas for accident reconstruction.

Finally, much thanks to Anne for being willing to take a chance on a book I hadn’t finished yet and for her infinite patience with my being timeline-challenged.

Trust her sister Hope to have scheduled her for a cut and color on the same afternoon their mama was getting the ladies’ mission circle ready for Wednesday-night church. The caustic odor of perm lotion hanging in the busy salon attached to her parents’ home assaulted Angel’s nose. She set her bag on the shelf by the door and waved at her sister before crossing to plop a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

“Hey, Mama.”

Her mother landed an answering kiss somewhere in the vicinity of Angel’s cheek but never paused in backcombing Ella Sutter’s silver curls. “Hey, baby.”

“Miss Maureen, Miss Ella.” Pasting on her best pageant smile, Angel nodded at the ladies, each occupying one of the beauty stations. Their sister Lenora sat under the dryer and Angel gave her a wave.

Bestowing her own sister with a pointed look, she picked up a magazine and settled onto the loveseat under the picture window. Over her shoulder, Hope stuck out her tongue. Taking the high road, Angel brushed aside the leggy vine hanging in the window and insisting on attacking her. No question where her own green thumb came from—the salon overflowed with vigorous plants in all varieties, sharing space with shampoos, hairstyle books and photos of Hope’s girls at various ages.

“How have you been, Angel?”

Angel stilled, the tapping of her turquoise cowboy boot coming to a complete halt. Miss Maureen met Angel’s eyes in the mirror. Angel swallowed a groan. Like she hadn’t known that one was coming. She’d managed to avoid being in here on a Wednesday afternoon since Jim’s defection, just so she wouldn’t have to face the old biddy’s questions. Maureen watched her with an avid gaze, the salon’s bright lights glinting off her large gold knot earrings and matching necklace.

“I’m fine, Miss Maureen, thanks for asking.”

“Are you still running that bar?” Maureen’s voice dropped to a shocked whisper on the last word and Hope rolled her eyes, working the pick through Maureen’s thick hair.

“The Cue Club? Yes, ma’am, I am.” Angel leaned forward with her best devilish wink. “But I’m thinking of changing the name to the Den of Iniquity and getting some exotic dancers. You know, strippers.”

Miss Maureen’s eyes widened, pencil-thin brows nearly reaching the salt and pepper curls falling onto her forehead.

“She’s just teasing, Maureen.” Mama waved a dismissive hand.

Lifting her magazine again, Angel caught Lenora’s brown gaze and the glint of appreciative laughter there. Hard to believe the two women were sisters, but people probably said the same thing about her and Hope. Her sister, younger by a year, had never done anything to get herself on the gossip radar. Angel stayed there enough she probably had her own no-fly zone, closed to other transgressors.

“I guess you were surprised by Jimmy’s getting married like that.” The eagerness was back in Maureen’s voice.

Angel tried to act like the question hadn’t punched her in the chest. Darn it, she was supposed to be over that. Aware of her mama’s sudden attention, she shook her head, her best “who cares” laugh tinkling through the ammonia-laden air. “Yes, ma’am, I was, but he’s so happy I can’t hold it against him. She’s a real sweet girl too, and smart. She handles my accounts down at the bank.”

Again, she picked up a hint of admiration in Lenora’s gaze. Hope gave her a silent thumbs-up behind the chair. Angel subsided into her magazine. She hadn’t suffered through four years of Mrs. Louella Hatcher’s drama classes for nothing, then. She’d managed to control her voice and sound normal, almost cheerful. Let Miss Maureen take
that
to prayer meeting.

Hope made short work of finishing Miss Maureen’s curls. She layered on a protective shield of hairspray and spun the avocado monstrosity of a chair around. “All right, Miss Maureen, you’re done. Angel, hop in the chair while I check Miss Lenora for Mama.”

While Hope turned off the dryer and lifted the helmet, Angel settled in the seat and released the clip holding her mass of blonde hair, letting it fall past her shoulders. She fingered the ends. Maybe she should listen to Hope and lose a couple of inches.

Hope returned and ran a brush through Angel’s hair, pulling harder than strictly necessary. “I wish you’d let me give you a darker blonde. That new Sunlit Wheat would be gorgeous on you. This is too light.”

Angel blew out a breath. They had this conversation every six weeks when she had her ends trimmed and roots touched up. What would it hurt to entertain her sister’s enthusiasm, just a little? “Show me the color.”

Hope gave a little squeal of delight, bouncing on her toes and clapping silently. “You’ll love it.”

She handed Angel the color card. Angel studied the sandy tone then gave her California bleached blonde a critical stare. The darker blonde was a pretty color, a few shades lighter than her natural dark, dark almost-brown blonde.

Hope sifted her fingers through Angel’s hair. “It would be really pretty with some highlights and a shorter, layered cut. Something up to date, a little more sophisticated.”

They had this discussion every six weeks or so as well and Hope tried to convince her to give up the one-length cut with big bangs, the style Angel had kept because Jim had always liked it.

She touched the dry ends once more. What did it matter what Jim liked any longer? The years she’d spent wearing his engagement ring intermittently meant nothing, especially since he’d brought a new wife home from Biloxi little more than three weeks ago.

Rat bastard.

Maybe she should thank him. His sudden switch in affections had pushed her out of her routine, made her examine other possibilities in her life, in other men, like what could come from her on-again, off-again flirtation with Cookie.

She shivered in remembered pleasure. She liked him, always had, liked his sense of humor beneath the gruff exterior, liked the quiet way he seemed to take in everything around him. She wasn’t crazy about his habit of not returning phone calls, but she’d had extensive experience with that during her long on-off relationship with Jim. She absolutely loved the way he made her feel physically—the man was hell on wheels in bed. Besides, he was busy, she was busy, so if they hadn’t reconnected yet, no big deal. She had no doubt they would, soon.

“What do you say, Angel? Let me give you a brand-new look.”

Angel narrowed her eyes at her reflection. A fresh look. Wonder what Cookie might think of that? She could swing by the sheriff’s department before she opened the bar, see him in person.

“Angel?”

“I’m thinking. Give me a minute.” Sheesh, Hope was pushy when she got on a tear about something.

“Ella tells me Tori has a new beau,” Maureen tittered.

A pleased smile tipped the corners of Lenora’s mouth. “She does. I couldn’t be happier. Mark’s a good man.”

Angel’s mama gave Ella’s curls a final fluff and reached for the hairspray. “Mark Hatcher?”

“No.” Lenora shook her head. “Mark Cook.”

Mark Cook? A too-familiar icy shock slithered through Angel’s veins, the same sensation she’d experienced when Jim appeared on her doorstop and stammered through his explanation about returning from a week-long gambling expedition with a new wife and needing Angel to return the diamond ring she’d worn erratically since their early twenties.

Ah, darn it, not again. Surely not.

In response to Maureen’s and Mama’s questions, Lenora chattered about her daughter’s blooming relationship with sheriff’s investigator Mark Cook. The same Mark Cook Angel had finally gone to bed with not quite three weeks before, the one she’d pinned her brand-new hopes on.

She released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and met her sister’s sympathetic gaze in the mirror. She let go of her hair. “Do what you want with it.”

An hour later, her new blonde color and highlights were done. The ladies had departed and Mama had disappeared into the main part of the house to start supper as Daddy would soon be ambling in from a long day at the factory. Angel was glad for the silence. She felt…raw. Stupid. Naïve.

She hurt.

Hope removed the damp towel from beneath the neckline of the plastic cape Angel wore. Angel squinted at the mirror, rubbing a fingertip over her forehead. It had to be there, even if she couldn’t see it.

“What are you doing?” Indulgent laughter vibrated in Hope’s voice, mingling with lingering concern.

“Looking for the invisible tattoo.”

Hope sprayed water over Angel’s hair. “What?”

“You know, the one only men can see that says ‘Brainless bimbo, use as directed’.”

Hope popped her arm and reached for the scissors. “Stop that.”

“What is wrong with me, Hope?” She rubbed at the slight sting left by her sister’s love pat. The tangible hurt was preferable to the emotional one holding her chest in a death grip.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Angel. It’s your approach. Daddy’s old saying about why buy the cow if you can get milk for free is true.” Hope waggled her ring finger, thin wedding band gleaming.

Angel pushed her sister’s hand away. “I don’t necessarily need one of those. But I’d like to be something more than the wrong guy’s good-enough-to-fuck.”

“Oh, Angel.” Hope wrapped her arms around Angel’s shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Angel shrugged away from the easy embrace. “Just give me a cut that’ll make me brand new.”

She was late. Angel popped another MickyD’s fry in her mouth and pressed harder on the accelerator. If the drive-through line hadn’t been so long…but darn it, she’d needed a dose of hot, crispy therapy after the day’s revelation. She reached down to turn up the radio, letting Carrie Underwood blast through the small interior. She also needed a dose of loud music with attitude.

She swooped around the curve and noticed too late the sheriff’s unit parked under a pecan tree off to the right. The white car pulled out behind her and blue lights flared, headlights sparking.

Damn, damn,
damn
.

She didn’t need this, not today.

Slowing, she pulled to the side of the road, the low-slung Mustang bouncing a little over the rutted shoulder. The patrol car slid to a stop behind her.

A tall familiar figure unfolded from the car and pique twisted through her. She killed her engine and pushed the door open. Arms crossed over her chest, she met the deputy at the rear of her vehicle.

“Anyone ever mention you drive too fast?” His rich voice rumbled over her, the timbre and rhythm of it hinting at the raw power he could belt into a microphone.

“Just write me a ticket, Troy Lee. I’m not in the mood to go through the whole ‘Do you know why I stopped you?’ scenario.”

“Hey, you cut your hair. I like it.” A wide grin creased his handsome face and crinkled the tanned skin around his vivid blue eyes, fringed by long dark lashes she knew most women would kill for. Good thing he had a ruggedly square jaw or he’d be too pretty.

She rested her elbow on her hip and waved a hand. “Did you not hear me? I’m not in the mood. So just get out your little ticket book and start writing.”

With one finger, he tipped the rim of his campaign hat up. “Actually, I wanted to see if you had a couple of Saturday nights open on the club’s band schedule.”

Tension gathered in a knot at the base of her neck. “Then stop by the bar when you get off duty and check. I’m late.”

He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “Which would explain why you were going seventy-two in a fifty-five.”

Her French fries were getting cold and the clock was ticking. And again, there was that not-in-the-mood angle. “Troy Lee.”

His easy smile reappeared. “Okay, okay. I’ll check in later. But slow down. Better to get there late than not get there at all.”

Jesus help her, he sounded like her daddy. Another engine hummed in the distance and moments later a steel-silver unmarked unit appeared around the curve and slowed to a stop behind Troy Lee’s unit.

He cast one glance at the car and tensed. “Shit.”

Her thought exactly. She knew that car, knew who the driver would be—the last man she wanted to see. Sure enough, the driver’s door swung open and Mark Cook emerged. Tick Calvert climbed from the passenger seat with slow, cautious movements.

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Troy Lee’s entire body went even tighter. “Wonder what I did wrong now?”

“Am I free to go?” Angel rubbed at her arms and tapped a toe against the grass as the two men approached. Darn it, the wind was cold against her bare legs and she really didn’t want to stand here and indulge in a “hey, how are you” conversation with Mark Cook, aka Rat Bastard #2. No surprise he hadn’t returned her calls, if he’d been busy getting involved with Tori Calvert.

Wonder if that had been before or after they’d run into Tori the night of that single date? Oh, God. Her face burned and she somehow kept from pressing her palms to her cheeks. She’d been the one to bring Tori up that night, right after… Darn it, he could have said something then, if he’d not been interested in anything further than a roll in the sheets.

She sighed. Conferring rat-bastard status on him wasn’t fair. Flirting with her forever, taking her out once for a hamburger and following that with pretty damn good sex didn’t exactly constitute swearing an undying commitment. He could, however, have returned one of five flippin’ phone calls and told her he was seeing someone else now.

Obviously, she didn’t rate common courtesy from either of the men who’d found someone better. Good heavens, she needed a French fry.

Tick glanced through the driver’s side window as they passed Troy Lee’s car and his eyebrows lifted. He tagged Cookie’s chest and pointed at something on the dash. Troy Lee closed his eyes on a muttered oath.

“Troy Lee.” She really wanted to get out of here. There’d be people standing in the parking lot, her fries would be a cold, gummy mess and then there was the whole never-wanting-to-look-Cookie-in-the-eye-again thing. “I asked if I could go.”

His lashes snapped up and color touched his prominent cheekbones. “Yeah.”

He flipped open his ticket book, scribbled across the top page and tore a sheet free. Incredulity shot through her. He was writing her a ticket. Damn it. Dumped via the gossip grapevine and now a speeding ticket. Could it get any worse?

“Here.” He extended the yellow copy in her direction. She fixed him with her best glare, the one that could shut down a brewing bar scuffle in less than two seconds, and took it without snatching or crumpling. “And slow down. I mean it.”

“Thanks.” She spun away as Tick and Cookie reached them, but not before noting that Cookie looked everywhere but at her. Even his obvious discomfort didn’t lighten the squeezing around her heart or the constriction at her throat. She slung the car door open and sank behind the wheel. She fired the engine and shifted into gear, glancing in the rearview to see if the road was clear. In doing so, she caught a perfect glimpse of Cookie’s face. Her eyes burned and she blinked hard. Oh hell, no. She wasn’t going to cry over him, any more than she’d let herself cry over Jim and those ruined hopes.

She eased onto the road at a sedate speed. As of today, she was brand new. No more speeding. No more pinning her hopes on any man. She lifted a fry and bit into it, cringing at the soggy texture.

And definitely no more cold fries.

“Let me see that.” As Angel’s Mustang purred away, Calvert indicated the ticket book and Troy Lee passed over the stainless steel cover. He straightened his shoulders and waited, a blend of anger and anxiety churning low in his gut, sending a wave of heartburn into his chest.

Calvert raised his eyes, disbelief all over his features. “Seventeen over the limit and you wrote her a warning?”

Troy Lee lifted his hands. How to explain he’d never had any intention of writing Angel a ticket? Stopping her had been primarily a way to slow her down and secondarily an opportunity just to see her, with the excuse of checking on band slots at the Cue Club. Once he’d glimpsed the hurt tension on her face, no way was he writing a ticket. The woman seriously looked like she’d lost her last friend in the world. He wasn’t used to witnessing that expression on Angel Henderson, natural-born optimist.

Calvert was still giving him the look. Troy Lee shrugged. “She was…having a bad day.”

Wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth and aggravated disgust bloomed on Calvert’s face. Troy Lee bristled under that too-familiar look. Damn it, he wrote more tickets than any deputy in the county. Hell, he probably wrote more tickets than any state trooper who worked Chandler County. So what if he’d let Angel off with a warning?

“At least you didn’t trade her out for it.” Calvert snapped the book closed and shoved it back at him.

This time the anger sent a flood of heat up his nape and into his face. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Opening his mouth always seemed to make things worse with Calvert. He’d damn well keep any comment to himself. God knew he was tired of the “at least” statements.

He balanced the metal book on his palm and hooked his other thumb in his belt, forcing a relaxed posture. “So were you looking for me?”

“Yeah.” The way Calvert bit off the single syllable didn’t bode well. Troy Lee cast about for anything he’d done recently that would fall under the umbrella of Calvert’s definition of dumbass.

Nothing. He had nothing. The last few weeks had gone well, probably because Calvert, out on sick leave, hadn’t been around to push him into the cycle of being nervous, trying too hard and then fucking up accordingly.

So what was he in deep shit for now?

He sighed. “What did I do?”

Again, the wrong thing to say or maybe the way he said it came off wrong. Regardless, the wall of disapproval grew at least another foot. He glanced sideways at Cookie, who’d been watching the interplay with folded arms and a bored expression. Now, the investigator shook his head, a pained grimace twisting his brow.

Calvert rested his hands at his waist and leaned forward slightly, emanating the air of a pissed-off drill sergeant. “Let me tell you about the phone call I just fielded from Bubba Bostick. You know, the cochairman of the county commission.”

Oh, shit. Shitshitshit. This was going to be about that ticket he’d written…damn. He braced himself, chewing the inside of his cheek again. He wouldn’t launch into an explanation that would only set Calvert off further.

Would. Not.

Blood flowed against his tongue. The sizzling knot of heartburn moved higher in his chest.

“Your little method for coding your tickets?” Calvert circled a finger over his palm. “Seems Judge Barlow shared that information with Mr. Bostick. It also seems you wrote Mr. Bostick’s son a couple of tickets last week and he’s taking offense to how you coded his kid.”

Yeah? Well, Troy Lee had taken offense to the little prick’s attitude.

With Calvert’s color high, he’d keep that observation to himself. Actually, even flushed with annoyance, Calvert was still pretty pale. Was it too much to hope that the guy would have sudden complications from his surgery and have to go home for a few more weeks?

Or maybe a year.

“Troy Lee?” Cookie’s quiet voice broke between them. “Explain the system to me. I didn’t take the phone call so I’m lost.”

“And maybe why the hell you need one,” Calvert snapped.

“Maybe because I write at least twice as many tickets as anyone else on the department and I lose track of who’s who when I go to court.” The words were out, brimming with attitude, before he could call them back. He shifted his attention to Cookie. At least he could breathe when he had to talk to Cook. He straightened his shoulders. “All I do is code the corner of the ticket according to the driver’s attitude so I can refer to it in court. A smiley face for positive, a blank circle for neutral and a—”

“A circle with a dot in it for the negative, right?” Calvert crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

“A circle with a dot…” Awareness dawned in Cookie’s gray eyes and he guffawed. “You drew an asshole on Paul Bostick’s ticket?”

“He smashed his radar detector at my feet and called me a son of a bitch. Hell yeah, I drew an asshole on his ticket, after I wrote him a second citation for littering. He’s lucky I didn’t run him in.”

“Good Lord help us.” Calvert rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Does Bostick want me to drop the ticket?” Troy Lee tapped his ticket book against his thigh. If so, he’d fight that, politics or not. The kid had deserved the speeding citation. Maybe writing the littering one had been vindictive, but still…

“No.” Some of the agitated aggression fell away from Calvert’s posture. “But he seemed to think it might be inappropriate to have assholes drawn all over the copies going through Judge Barlow’s office.”

Actually, Scott Barlow thought it was the funniest damn thing he’d ever seen. Or so the young judge had told Troy Lee after a pick-up game of hoops one Saturday morning.

Cookie heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Troy Lee, couldn’t you use a numerical system instead? One for positive, two for neutral, three for negative?” He quirked an eyebrow at Calvert. “Don’t you think that would satisfy Bubba?”

“Probably.” Calvert passed a hand over his jaw. “Just no more assholes, all right, Troy Lee?”

No more other than the one standing in front of him. “Yes, sir.”

“Then get back to work.” Calvert swept a hand in the direction of Troy Lee’s unit. “And if someone is doing seventeen over, write ’em a ticket, whether they’re having a bad day or not. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.” He rubbed his palm over the burning in his chest and tried to remember that Calvert was fifty percent of the reason he’d wanted this damn job in the first place. Definitely a hundred percent why he stayed. Before it was all over, he’d find a way to show the son of a bitch he had what it took.