Once Broken (Dove Creek Chronicles) (8 page)

“Ladies first.”

I hefted the bow and hooked the release to the string. The weight was only slightly more than I was used to and I didn’t feel anything amiss with the balance, just as Gabriel had assured. I drew my left hand back to my cheek and took aim. The arrow whistled as I triggered the release, and buried itself just off center of the bullseye.

“Nice shot,” Gabriel said.

“Thanks. Not bad.”

We both went on, taking turns until we had empty quivers and targets that resembled pincushions. It was no small thing, having my own bow back. I was more grateful than I knew how to express, but somehow, I think he knew that.

chapter five

Despite the soaring temperatures the August afternoon had walloped us with, all I could think about when I left work that evening was a hot bath. I only have one bathroom in my apartment (honestly, how many
would one woman need?), but it’s decently spacious and boasts a fairly sizable tub. It’s wonderful to sit and soak in, though I rarely have the time to take advantage of it. On this night, though, I had no plans other than luxuriating in steaming hot water for a while and then maybe catching up on all the old Star Trek episodes I had stored up in the DVR. It was a little quiet for a Saturday night, but quiet was a rarity and I was planning to enjoy every last moment of it.

For a little while at least, everything went according to plan. By the time I stepped out of the tub, my hair was deep conditioned, my skin washed and exfoliated, and my nails were gleaming. My complexion was pink from the heat and I smelled like I had just left a sultana’s bathing house; I was more relaxed than I had been in several days.

Then the doorbell rang.

I had no idea who it would be, so I cursed mildly under my breath and hurriedly wrapped myself in my green cotton robe. I shivered slightly as I opened the door from the warm and humid bathroom and stepped out into the rest of the air conditioned apartment.

“Just a sec!” I shouted toward the entry door as I entered the living room. Snagging my pistol from where I had left it on the coffee table, I moved to the door and peered through the peephole. Of all the people who might have shown up at my door, an impatient looking Jocelyn wasn’t one I would have expected.

Hip cocked and pointy-toed patent stiletto tapping against the
Saltillo tile, the petite blond blew out a sigh as I unbolted the door. She dropped her hand from where she had been inspecting her precision painted plum manicure and sashayed in past me. She turned abruptly and gave me a once-over before shaking her curly head. “Well, that won’t do.”

“Hiya, Joss. Come on in, won’tchya?” My invitation laced with sarcasm, I made an open-handed gesture toward the living room.

Jocelyn pretended not to have heard the snark in my tone and turned toward me as I closed the door and reset the bolt. It was then that she noticed the weapon I had been holding.

“What the hell are you planning to do with that?” She questioned, eyes on the .45 in my hand. Without waiting for an answer, she rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Remi. You take this whole warrior-for-the-cause thing way too seriously. But that’s not why I’m here . . . We’re going
out.”

I scoffed, both expressively and audibly. It wasn’t a very ladylike gesture.

Standing there in my living room, it was glaringly apparent how much Jocelyn is my exact opposite. Joss is petite and curvy, tanned and radiant. Her hair is a blond, fashionably untamed mass of curls. She has big brown eyes, a button nose, and a breathy Marilyn Monroe giggle that turns any man with a pulse into Jell-O. These days, that includes my baby brother.

When Jocelyn didn’t budge, but folded her arms under her ample chest and raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, my shoulders sagged slightly.

“You’re serious?”

“As the grave,” she said. “You need to get out. Live a little.
Circulate
.”

Before I could launch a protest, she held up a hand to stop me. “It’s been three years, Remi. Don’t waste what’s left of your youth on grief. He wouldn’t have wanted it.” Jocelyn’s tone eased slightly at the allusion to my late husband, and she reached out to pick up my left hand. “Still wearing it, I see,” she said softly, admiring the glint of diamonds and the sheen of my platinum wedding band.

Anyone could have seen the passing of wistful desire through Jocelyn’s eyes. Her own marriage had been a failure, and a remarkable one at that. She was grateful to have escaped with her life – and her freedom, for that matter. The last backhand had proven to be one too many, and Joss fought her way out of the miserable union with a baseball bat. Thankfully, the court saw fit to dismiss the charges her ex-husband had the gall to file. Joss said she had never looked back, but sometimes she wondered what it would be like to have a real man put a ring on her finger – a man like my Dominic had been. A man like Dylan
is
.

I pulled my hand away and ran my thumb protectively over the ring. I still haven’t found it in myself to take it off. It was a habit that did not escape the notice of others, but no one had pointed it out to me quite so bluntly. It hit me harder than I expected.

“So?” I shrugged defensively.

“So nothing,” Jocelyn retorted.

She might have said ‘nothing,’ but I could see that Jocelyn was trying to make a point. A point that had merit, even if I didn’t want to admit it.

“C’mon. Let’s go see if you have anything in your closet that isn’t jeans.” Jocelyn switched back to her objective as she grabbed my arm by the elbow and steered me toward the bedroom. She wasn’t so feisty that I couldn’t have made some sort of resistance but in spite of myself, I thought maybe Joss did have the right idea.

My every activity for the past few years has centered around the Amasai. Focusing on the ever important tasks of protecting people and killing the bad guys has kept me from sinking into melancholy. A social life isn’t something I’ve cultivated much.

Just after I lost Dominic, there were times when it was difficult to
breathe
, let alone consider socializing. People hadn’t exactly made it easy. I might as well have had the plague, what with how people treated me at first. I made them uncomfortable, and it was as though they were afraid to be happy around me. The couples were the worst. I could see that they avoided me, the new widow who must be miserable in the face of their partnership.

It was impossibly difficult in the beginning. Eventually, though, I learned to relish spending time with married people. I still considered myself to be at the same stage in my life, after all. Death might have separated us, but I was devoted to my husband for a long time after he was taken from me. In many ways, I still am.

Others, like Jocelyn, have taken a decidedly different approach with me. Now that a few years have passed, she came to the conclusion that it’s time for me to “circulate” once again. I wasn’t so sure about that, but the fact that I didn’t put up much of a fight must have been a sign that I wasn’t so resolved toward the contrary that I would refuse her newest plan of action.

“What’s wrong with jeans?” I asked feebly.

“Nothing. But you can wear jeans any old time. This is Saturday night.” Joss answered as though what night of the week it happened to be was all the answer I needed.

I unwound the towel from around my head and began to fluff my hair dry with it as Joss rummaged in my closet. She was muttering under her breath and I nearly jumped three feet in the air when she came out with a triumphant shout.

“Perfect!”

Two hangers dangled from Jocelyn’s fingertips, holding
a sparkly silver halter top and skinny black pants. It was an outfit I had picked out in happier times. I had been no slouch in the dressing up department back when I’d had a reason to, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Anymore, my focus was on practicality and with a nonexistent desire to attract the opposite sex, I was out of practice.

By the time Joss finished with me, my hair flowed in rippling waves, I had perfectly smoky eye shadow, and I was wearing high heels for the first time in years. I couldn’t sneer at her handy work, though I did feel a little ridiculous. The woman in the mirror looked so much like my former self that I felt tears creep up behind my eyes. I blinked hard and turned away.

“So where are we going, cruise director?” I asked briskly.

“How about the Dirty Dozen?” Joss had glanced down and pretended to wipe an imaginary smudge off the toe of her shiny shoe. I wondered why she was suddenly shy.

“Sure, but aren’t we a little overdressed for that?” I asked, and immediately wanted to kick myself for opening my big fat trap. I remembered only too late that Dylan’s band was playing there that night.

“You can never be overdressed for a concert,” she replied pertly. “C’mon. I know you wanna arm yourself, so stuff some weapons where you can and let’s get going.”

Jocelyn high-tailed it out of my bedroom, so I took the opportunity to arm myself just as she’d said. I put my crucifix around my neck and hid it under my shirt, carefully slipped a pair of silver daggers in their sheaths into the back of my waistband, and added a retractable stake loaded into an ankle holster just above the hem of my pants. For all Joss’ tough talk, I suspected that she was equipped with more than just an hourglass figure under her killer dress. It was reassuring to know that we were ready for anything . . . And that the Dirty Dozen doesn’t have metal detectors at the entrances.

I found her checking her lipstick in the mirror by the entry door, so I snagged my keys off of the peg next to it.

“I take it you’re driving?” She looked up and asked.

Unlocking the door, I opened it so we could step out. “Yep,” I said. “Don’t worry. The top’s on, so it won’t mess up our hair.”

THE DIRTY DOZEN WAS ALREADY
packed when we arrived. For a hole-in-the-wall dive bar, it really draws a crowd on a Saturday night. It started out as a drive-in back in the day, so now it’s a half-indoor, half-outdoor venue that does well with the summertime partiers. It helps that they make a hell of a Red Draw. Every type from honky-tonkers to hipsters do their drinking there, so there’s always an interesting mix of people.

Jocelyn and I worked our way into the throng and made it to the bar. We ordered our drinks from a woman about
five years younger than us with streaked blonde hair and the kind of cleavage that comes only from a plastic surgeon. The pin on her black tube top read “Candi,” which seemed like an appropriate name for her. She had on a pile of makeup and it was no mystery as to why there were so many men in her line.

I took my Red Draw and Joss her peach concoction, and we each left a tip in the jar before turning to find some room near the stage. We worked our way to the inside part of the Dozen, threading our way out of the shoulder-to-shoulder crush near the bar and around the perimeter of the dance floor.

Jukebox music was playing as one band was removing instruments and equipment, and Dylan’s band was starting to set up. Loud conversations were being held all around us, though the crowd was tame. I wondered if that would change as the hours grew smaller and the bar tabs got bigger.

Dylan’s band, The Real McCoy, took the stage and I was pleased to see that the crowd took notice. Their style is a foot-stomping blend of rock and honky-tonk, irresistible if you like loud and upbeat.

Jocelyn looked like she was enjoying herself, whooping and clapping along with everyone at the end of each song. I let myself get into the spirit of it, too, and grinned at her as we enjoyed the show. When she had shown up at my door that night, I wouldn’t have guessed I was actually going to enjoy myself.

As I watched couples spin around the dance floor, a disturbing sight caught my attention. Two women hovered near the edge, chatting with a very handsome man. The kind of man that made other women look on in disdain because they weren’t the subject of his attentions.

But he wasn’t just a man.

I elbowed Joss, but she didn’t look away from the stage. She must’ve thought it was just a brush with another
concertgoer. Tapping her again, I yelled a loud, “Hey!” over the din. She turned toward me and I hooked my thumb toward the vamp. We couldn’t communicate verbally, but I could see in her expression when she recognized what I was pointing out. If she was worried at all, it was trumped by annoyance. She pressed her lips together and grabbed my hand, directing me to the ladies’ room.

We pushed through the swinging door, and the music and crowd were muffled enough that we could hear each other. The problem was, so could the other eight women packed inside.

Jocelyn turned toward the mirror and pulled a tube of lipstick out of the top of her dress. As she puckered up and spread on a fresh layer of crimson, a look of resolve appeared in her eyes. I realized what she intended to do.

“Do your thing, girl.” I looked into the mirror and met her eyes. I pretended to be concerned with my hair so that we blended in with the rest of the women.

Smoothing her dress, Joss turned to me. “Five minutes. Back alley.”

As my blonde co-conspirator sashayed back into the crowd, I went in the opposite direction and headed outside. The sound of Dylan crooning a heartfelt ballad followed me to the outdoor half of the Dirty Dozen, and I felt a pang of guilt for missing part of his show.

The outdoor area was nearly as full as the inside, but the only people I passed were either tipsy or preoccupied by a member of the opposite sex. Some were both. With witnesses like those, I didn’t worry overmuch about trying to be inconspicuous as I was sneaking around to the alley.

I loitered at the corner of where the patio met the building so that I could give Joss time to lay the trap. The slurred voice that came from somewhere to my right was unwelcome.

“Hey therrr, purty laydee.”