Charmed and Dangerous (7 page)

“You shot my truck! I can’t believe you just shot my truck.”

“You need a grown-up truck, anyway. What is the deal with you?”

“You’re nuts!”

“Yeah, like that’s a news flash. I need you to follow that Saab.” She climbed in, keeping her gun trained on him.

The sirens were closer now.

He gazed past her to something in the parking lot, and his expression darkened, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. “Lady,” her hostage said, seething and obviously straining not to fire his Glock, “unless you want a bullet hole in that cute shirt, you’d better get out. I’ve got my own emergencies.”

“You think calling my shirt
cute
is going to make me go
all wilty and fluttery and step out of this truck? You have seriously been dealing with the wrong kind of woman.” She aimed Fred’s gun at the fancy GPS/DVD/CD player. “Either you follow that car, or the DVD bites it.”

“What’s so all-fired important about that Saab anyway?”

“They stole . . . something.” She followed his glance to the Saab a couple of blocks away and disappearing fast. “I’ll make it worth your while if you help me get it back.”

Oh dear Lord
. That look he was giving her would melt steel. Steel protected in a nuclear fallout shelter. She tried for
nonchalant
as she glanced down to make sure her clothes were still intact.

He holstered his own gun. “Fine.
Just don’t shoot the truck
. It took me three years to get this thing in shape.”

“Start sharing life stories, and I may have to shoot
you
.”

“Promises, promises.”

He raced after the Saab, cutting off the silver Taurus which was pulling out of the bank’s exit.

Wow, that was easy. Really easy. Too easy. What was wrong with this picture?

“What kind of reward?”

So much for freaking
easy
. She had no money for a reward. Nothing to hock. And the Saab was so far away, if this guy didn’t keep going . . . She glanced his direction and caught him reading the text on her shirt. And grinning. What had he paid Satan to have a grin like that?

“I am
not even
a part of the reward,” she said, waving the gun in his face. “It’ll be a real reward. Of some sort.” Her Hormones voted that it wouldn’t really be a bad thing to be a teeny part of a reward.
Shut up shut up shut up
. . . then she saw his bemused expression and realized
oh crap, that was out loud.

“Don’t even ask,” she answered. “I’ll figure out a good reward.”

“If I’m going to risk jail time, lady, it better be worthwhile.”

Holy freaking geez, what on earth could she give a guy
who was such a guy’s guy that he obviously liked stupid big-wheeled trucks and guns and . . . oh. Yeah.

“I know where there’s a 1929 Indian Scout you could have.”

He eyed her. She didn’t blame him for being suspicious.

“Almost completely restored. It was my brother’s.”

“Was?”

“You help me get back that thing they took, he’ll sign it over to you.”

“Why in the hell would he sign over an expensive collector’s motorcycle?”

“Do I strike you as the kind of big sister that takes ‘no’ for an answer?”

“You strike me as a total loon, but I suspect that works in your favor.”

If I have to take on Bobbie Faye as a client, I quit.

—Diane Patterson, former high school guidance counselor

Bobbie Faye crowded the truck’s driver as they passed the intersection where Eva’s Grocery sprawled, all four hundred square feet of it, with two whole gas pumps and three locals in the gravel parking lot selling everything from shrimp to watermelon out of the back of their camper-trucks. She spied the car running along a parallel street, and as she craned to get a better perspective, she blocked the driver’s view of the road. He whipped the truck into a sharp left turn and the momentum smacked Bobbie Faye against the passenger door.

“You did that on purpose!”

“Yeah, it’s called ‘driving’ and I thought that was the point.”

Her cell phone rang; it was Nina. She snapped it on while watching the Saab ahead of them make a sharp right turn. “Not a good time right now,” she answered.

“Sure, B. I just thought you might want to have a say in whether or not your trailer got winched up.”

“Winched? . . . What the hell? I thought you were going to protect my stuff?”

Bobbie Faye heard the crack of a whip and she sunk her
face into her free hand. “Oh, God, please tell me that wasn’t the whip.”

“The whip?” the hard-assed pit-bull driver asked, but she ignored him.

“Okay. That wasn’t the whip.”

“Jesus, Nina, it isn’t even ten a.m. Don’t you think it’s a little early?”

“There’s an appropriate time for a whip?” her hostage asked.

Bobbie Faye scowled. “It’s not
my
whip, so quit looking hopeful.”

“Oooooh. You have a man there interested in my whip?”

“No. He is not a
man
.”

“He definitely sounds like a man to me. And he sounds sexy.”

“Don’t even go there. He’s not a ‘date’ kind of man. He’s my
hostage
.”

“Oh, Bobbie Faye. Not again.”

“Lady, I am
not
your hostage. Aside from the minor detail that you said there’d be a reward, I only
let
you in the truck since you seemed so distraught.”

Nina laughed. “You know how to look ‘distraught?’ Is that anything like ‘homicidal’?”

“Quite a lot like ‘homicidal,’ ” Bobbie Faye said pointedly to the driver, who obviously could hear Nina. “I shot his truck.”

“Is it nice?”

“No, it’s a big candy-ass monstrosity.”

“Figures. But at least he was interested in the whip. He shows potential.”

“No. He is most emphatically not interested. In the whip or any of the other, um, things, you might be carting around in the trunk of your car.” Bobbie Faye cast a questioning look toward the driver, whose wicked grin made her want to throttle him. And then she mentally slapped herself, because she definitely did not care what he was interested in, no matter how nice those biceps were.

“What a shame,” Nina said, and Bobbie Faye heard her
crack the whip again and a male voice yelped. “You planning to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Maybe later. I have to go get something first.”

“Like your mind?”

“Why are you my best friend again?”

“I’m the stable one.”

“Yeah, you and your whip.”

“Well,” Nina drawled and Bobbie Faye could sense the catlike satisfaction of her toying with the men around her, “this whip is way more efficient protection than the ice tongs. Right now, however, you have a decision to make. I can either protect your trailer or your stuff.”

“What do you mean, ‘protect the trailer’?”

“The LeBlanc brothers are here and they’ve both got winches on their trucks. They’re pretty convinced they can pull your trailer back upright, but I thought you should know your neighbors have them at two-to-one odds of failing badly.”

“Oh, holy shit.”

“If it’s any consolation, the disaster betting pool has completely filled up, though there was a huge fight over who got the spot where you definitely killed someone.”

“If Claude winches up my trailer, someone’s gonna win, quick. Put Claude on the phone.”

The Saab made another left turn, and they followed, gaining.

Bobbie Faye could hear Nina calling nineteen-year-old Claude over, and when he sounded reluctant, she heard the whip crack and she cringed. The pit-bull truck owner was still following the car through the industrial backside of Lake Charles when Claude came on the line.

“We’re just tryin’ t’ help,” Claude said, and Bobbie Faye could picture his scrunched-up earnest expression, the one she always associated with a chubby overgrown puppy who really, really didn’t mean to pee on the rug. Again.

“Claude, I swear to God, if you and Jemy try to winch up my trailer, I will tell everyone I know that you were kissing
your cousin and that’s why Mother Superior fainted dead away when she saw y’all.”

“When the hell was this, seventh grade?” her driver asked.

She mouthed, “Last year.”

“I was just practicing!” he claimed. “I had a big date and how am I s’posed to learn? You won’t teach me.”

“Claude, we had this discussion already.”

“But how am I supposed to get out of the T-ball league if I don’t have a coach?”

“League rules, Claude. Sorry ’bout that.”

Bobbie Faye heard the phone being handed back to Nina.

“Oh, B, he’s pouting now. He’s too precious for words.”

“Do not, under any circumstances, get any ideas.”

“You are so not fun.”

“And sit on the damned trailer if you have to. Can’t you pile the stuff close enough for that whip to reach both?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nina said, and hung up.

Bobbie Faye frowned at her driver and squelched an irrational urge to punch him in the middle of his amused grin.

“Just shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Have you always been
this
cracked?”

“Buddy, this is normal. You don’t want to see
cracked
.”

“It’s Trevor. You know, for when I’m dead and they ask you who you kidnapped.”

“You are a real positive thinker there, Trevor.”

“It’s a little something I’ve picked up as a result of the female nutcases like you in my life.”

“I am
not
a nutcase.”

“So far, you’ve kidnapped me at gunpoint, you have what sounds like a homicidal friend with a questionable whip fetish doing things to people I am afraid to ask about, and you’re threatening a Tennessee Williams play on one poor soul who sounds like he’s just trying to help. You’re not driving in the ‘normal’ lane today, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, bite me. Where are the geek boys?”

“I kinda want to hear about this whip thing, though.”

“I kinda want to shoot your truck again. The geek boys?”

“Just up ahead.”

“Thank you. Was that so hard?”

“Lady, you have no idea.”

“It’s Bobbie Faye.”

She strained to see the white Saab, leaning into his line of sight. He pushed her back to her side of the truck just as her cell phone rang. Bobbie Faye noted the caller ID, paled, and answered.

“I swear, Roy. I’m trying to get it. Really.”

“Where are you—wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘trying’?”

“Well, there was a robbery at the bank.” She smacked Trevor on the arm, motioning him to hurry. “They got the thing, and I’m trying to get it back. It’s got to be on the news by now.”

She glanced out toward the Saab, which was gaining distance on them, and waved the gun toward the dash, saying to Trevor, “Do you even
know
where the gas pedal is?”

Trevor grumbled something about how he just should have shot her, pleaded self-defense, and he’d have been home for breakfast already. She ought to just shoot his dash on principle, except she’d probably shoot the engine, too, and fry them both to crispy critterdom. Then she heard Roy babbling something about the TV footage and she snapped back to attention.

Roy watched Vincent hit a remote control, and ebony wood panels on one wall folded aside revealing a state-of-the-art TV and satellite system. News footage on one TV interrupted the local programming to show an aerial view of the bank parking lot swarming with police and reporters.

The picture cut to a young and overly enthusiastic reporter who flailed her arms toward the bank behind her as if she thought she was still competing for cheerleader tryouts; Roy half-expected her to whip out pom-poms at the end of the telecast.

“We’re speaking to eyewitnesses here,” the reporter said, waving her microphone toward the bank teller, Avantee Miller, knocking her in the nose. “How many people were in this gang?” she asked, oblivious to Avantee’s pain.

“At least six,” Avantee squeaked. “Lots of big guns, too.”

“Did you fear for your life?”

“Oh, totally. They were shooting up the whole place, threatening our lives. And that Bobbie Faye, man, she’s really scary when she’s in a bad mood.”

“You’ve heard it here, folks,” the reporter shouted, flailing again as Avantee ducked to dodge the mic. “This brutal, vicious gang,
allegedly
led by local clerk, Bobbie Faye Sumrall, gone mad.”

Roy leaned forward as the station cut to the bank surveillance footage.

“Hey, your sister looks pissed,” Eddie said, now a little less bored. He even set down his interior design magazine.

And sure enough, there it was, in grainy black and white, Bobbie Faye walking over, grabbing the money from Avantee and then handing it to a nervous little guy with a gun; they spoke (there was no sound) and then, suddenly, both ran—and fell—and Bobbie Faye grabbed the gun as it skittered across the floor, and then out the door she went.

Roy shouted, “Holy
shit,
Bobbie Faye, you robbed the bank!”

Bad luck: 10,381
Bobbie Faye: 0

—Graffiti seen on overpass

“I did
not
rob the bank,” she shouted back, still leaning forward as if that would urge Trevor’s truck to speed up. “I may have
accidentally
robbed the bank, which is not at all the same thing.”

“You robbed the bank?” Trevor said, slamming a palm against the steering wheel. “What the hell was I thinking? Of course you robbed it, you had the gun. And I fell for your sob story.”

“I didn’t
tell
you a sob story, you jerk, I shot your truck. And you,” she said to Roy over the phone, “should know better. The other people robbed it. If I
had
robbed it, I’d have the money, and the, uh . . . thing.” She glanced at Trevor, aware he was listening. “And we’re going after it.”

“We?” Roy asked.

“Not important.”

“What the hell is this thing they took?” Trevor asked, and she waved him off just as another man’s silky baritone voice eased over the line.

“Bobbie Faye,” the man said, a seething level of impatience cutting through the silken tones. “I want that tiara. Now.”