Diana Anderson - Entering Southern Country 01 - Famous in a Small Town (28 page)

She had found out from Suzanne that Angus had stolen from her over the past several months. Raven didn’t understand how such a fine woman could end up with such a wretched man. And what it must be like for Cal to have to be the one to arrest his own father.

She thought back to her high school days. Cal’s mother had always seemed nice, but Raven couldn’t remember if Cal had ever mentioned his father to her back then. She had never asked either, but why would she, when she had never had a relationship with the people she had lived with? She’d been so conditioned to that life that she had assumed that others lived somewhat similar lives, so the thought had never occurred to her. The only positive family relationships she’d ever seen were on sitcoms on television, and she knew that they were pure fiction. The wonderful, hardworking fathers and the sweet kindhearted mothers and all were doting parents, loving their precious children. When she was a little girl, she used to fantasize about what it’d be like to have parents like that, but as she grew older she realized that there was no such thing. To come home from school to the smell of home baked cookies instead of beer and cigarette smoke, to hear questions of, ‘how was your day?’, ‘would you like to have a friend over this weekend?’, or ‘would you like to come sit in the kitchen with me while I cook supper?’, instead of ‘get the dishes done and supper started before Virgil comes home.’, ‘don’t even ask me if you can go on the field trip at school, I don’t have the money to blow on stupid shit like that.’, or ‘get out of my face, can’t you see I’m on the phone?’.

When Raven was twelve years old, she had caught pneumonia that winter. She’d had a head cold and had come home from school to find the front door locked. Her mother was in her bedroom entertaining her latest lover. Raven had sat on the front porch until it had started to sleet. With her books in hand, she looked around the perimeter of the house for shelter. She didn’t dare knock on the door. She tried the car doors to her mother’s car and her lover’s car. They were all locked. She went to the well house and crawled inside. She’d stayed humped over and shivered for what seemed hours. She hadn’t heard the guest leave but was jolted awake when her mother yelled her name. She crawled out of the well house, grabbed her books, and headed toward the trailer for what she knew would be a painful encounter. Sure enough, when she entered, her mother backhanded her all the way to her bedroom. She was angry because Raven hadn’t answered the first time when she had called her name. After her mother was satisfied, she went into her own bedroom, but had left instructions for Raven to clean herself up, and get in the kitchen, and start supper. Raven had washed the blood from her busted lip and leaned her head back to try to stop her nose bleed. After she had it under control, she went into the kitchen to start supper.

She had been standing at the kitchen cabinet next to the refrigerator, peeling potatoes when Virgil had come home. He walked in the door and headed straight for the refrigerator. He grabbed a beer, eyed her, and laughed.
“Looks like you pissed your momma off again.”
He then looked on the stove.
“Why ain’t supper ready?”
She told him that she had a head cold and didn’t feel well, but would have it ready soon. He looked her over and said,
“Liar! Ain’t a blasted thing wrong with you.”
He stepped over to her and yanked her around to face him. He looked down at her blouse, his eyes landed on her budding breasts. She glanced down and then tried to cover herself with her arms. He yanked her arms down.
“Well, what have we here?”

Raven looked up from her notepad and shivered at the memory.

She had run away that night, after he’d hurt her. She’d bundled up and had taken a heavy quilt and stayed in the woods. The next day, Virgil had found her. He had taken her to the hospital and threatened her to an inch of her life if she ever told anyone what he’d done. She had been admitted and stayed there for six days. Doctor’s and nurses had questioned her, but she refused to talk. She knew if she did, he’d kill her, and if he didn’t, her mother would.

She had learned how to suppress her emotions during that time of her life, and it wasn’t until she’d met Pastor Higgins and his wife in Oxford that she had learned how to allow herself to feel again and to trust again.

Raven had left a lot out of her novel, Shattered Lives. Some things she couldn’t begin to write. Returning to Cypress had let her know that she was beyond what had happened to her as a child and teenager, but only the love of her Savior had filled that void.

75

“I hate pumping gas,” Callie said as she stuck the nozzle in to fuel the car.

She tapped her foot and glanced around the parking lot while she waited. The parking lot was not well lit and sat off the side of a two lane highway sixty miles south of Cypress. The beer, bait, and tackle store had signs taped to the windows advertizing—beer, bait, and tackle—and buy one Snicker’s candy bar and get one free. Next to the store was a small motel and on the other side of the store was a bar with a few cars and several motorcycles parked in front.

The motel’s marquee light flashed ‘Vacancy’. She could see why. The doors, from one end of the building to the other, were spaced about eight feet apart from each other. Through the shades over the office, she could see a flickering light from a television screen.

The sign over the bar read Sullivan’s Bar and Grill. The weathered wooden front porch ran from one end to the other. Posts supporting the roof of the porch were roughly hewn from trees and gave it the appearance of an old time saloon. Neon beer signs hung in the darkened windows. The steady sound of a bass guitar thumped.

Her attention was brought back to the gas pump when it shut off.

“That was fast.” She eyed the pump. “Five gallons!” She looked at the store and then back at the pump. She groaned.

She took out the nozzle and hooked it on the pump. At the rumbling of tailpipes, she turned and looked toward the saloon. She watched a biker get off his Harley, remove his helmet, and head inside the bar. Music grew loud as he entered and then muffled when the door closed.

The aroma of grilled meat drifted across the parking lot. Callie’s stomach growled. She attached the gas cap and turned to go back into the store and complain about the gas pump when a different kind of rumbling came from the west. She turned her head and looked. Lightning flickered from a large thunderhead in the distance. A moment later it rumbled again.

I can’t drive in rain, especially at night.
She looked at the bar again.
And I don’t like being alone in a thunderstorm.

She opened the car door and slipped into the driver’s seat. She reached into her purse, took out her cell phone, and turned it on. She noticed that she had several missed calls and all from a number she didn’t recognize. She looked up her location on the GPS app. She was a hundred miles from a decent motel. She looked back at the thunderhead. It was fast approaching.

Crap!

She glanced over her shoulder at the motel a moment and sighed.

Thirteen minutes later she was in the cramped room. A full sized bed with a lumpy mattress sat across from the door. Beside the door was a small dresser with a mirror. A box shaped television sat on top of the small dresser. The bathroom door had to be closed before she could sit on the toilet. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and something else unpleasant that she couldn’t identify.

She changed her clothes and shoes and then applied her makeup. She went into the bedroom, scooted the television over, and looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser. She adjusted her tight mini skirt and the low neckline of her skimpy top and then smiled at herself.

“I should have gone redheaded a long time ago.” She pursed her lips and blew herself a kiss. She grabbed her purse, took the duct tape out, and tossed it on the bed, and then headed out the door.

A minute later, she stood in the doorway of the bar, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. She walked over to the bar, leaned up against it, and looked around the room. Several bikers were lined up on bar stools with a beer in front of them. Southern rock came from a jukebox against a wall across the room. A large rebel flag hung on the wall behind the bar.

The sleeves of the bartender’s faded denim shirt had been cut off and were frayed, and revealed his large biceps that were covered with tattoos. His head was shaved, and he wore a goatee.

He took a long drag from his cigarette and set it in an ashtray. He stepped over and gave her a long look. “What’ll you have?”

She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled. “Cosmopolitan.”

“Budweiser, Bud Light, or Wild Turkey, lady. We don’t do mixed drinks. You wanna shot, a beer, or both?”

She curled her upper lip. “Wild Turkey? Is that the best you’ve got?”

He didn’t respond but gave her a steady look.

“Okay … Bud Light.”

“Can, bottle, or draft?”

“Draft.”

He poured her beer and slid the overflowing mug in front of her. The foamy liquid sloshed out onto her hand. She looked up at him.

He tilted his head at her. “You needin’ something else?”

She squinted at him, lifted her hand, and licked off the beer.

He held out his hand.

“What?” she asked.

“We don’t run up tabs in here.”

“Oh.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a five dollar bill. She handed to him. “Keep the change.”

Without a thank you, he took the five, and put into the register, and then pocked the change. He picked up a bar rag and began to wipe an area of the bar.

She didn’t like the way he treated her. Nobody treated Callie Wallace like that. She eyed him and thought that she could teach him a thing or two. When she got through with him, he’d be licking the soles of her shoes and begging for more.

“Do y’all serve food?” she asked.

He glanced at her and nodded toward a chalkboard at the end of the bar. She looked that way and then walked over toward it. She read the short list, and then came back to the bar, and sat down on a stool. She placed her arms on the bar, leaned in, and watched him a moment as he served a bottle of beer to customer.

When he’d finished, she asked, “What’s your name?”

He tossed the bar rag across his shoulder. “Who wants to know?” He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray, took a drag, and then put it out.

She thought a moment and then said, “Raven, Raven Sawyer.” She took a strand of hair and twisted it around her finger as she eyed him.

He stepped in front of her and leaned on the bar. He studied her a moment and then said, “Raven, huh? You’ve got red hair, and your folks named you Raven?”

She stiffened her shoulders. “I’d like to order now.”

“Order what? Another beer? You haven’t finished the one you got.”

“Food.”

“Kitchen’s closed.”

“What? I smelled something cooking on the grill a few minutes ago.”

“That was a few minutes ago. The kitchen’s closed.”

“But I’m starving.” She pointed at the chalkboard. “Y’all have potato chips. Couldn’t I buy a bag of those?”

“I don’t sell potato chips, I sell beer. The kitchen’s closed, lady. If you’re hungry, go over to the store and buy yourself a bag of chips and a moon pie.”

“I don’t want a moon pie, and why must you be so mean?”

“Mean?”

“Yes, your voice is …
mean
.”

“Good. Now, I don’t have to work on that anymore.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Are you mean like this to all the women who come in here?”

“Why do you care?” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, stuck it in his mouth, and pocketed the pack. He took a lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lit it.

She poked out her bottom lip. “I’ve been nice to you, so I don’t understand why you’re so grumpy.” She’d never had to work this hard before to get the kind of attention she liked from a man. She grabbed her glass and took a sip of her beer. It was warm. She snarled her upper lip.

He pocketed his lighter and walked a short ways down the bar to an ashtray.

A few minutes later, the bar began to empty out. She eyed several bikers as they walked out the door.

“Are y’all fixing to close?” she asked the bartender.

“Nope.” He rung up the last biker, opened the cash register, and gave him his change.

“Why is everyone leaving then?”

“Rain.”

She looked at him long enough that he turned toward her and said, “Most bikers don’t like to ride in the rain.”

“Oh.” She watched him wipe down the bar. “Are you a biker?”

He fixed his eyes on her but said nothing.

“I meant to say, do you own a bike?”

He walked down the length of the bar and stood across from her. “Do you always ask so many damned questions?”

She tilted her head. “I’m just trying to be friendly. All the bartenders I’ve ever known have been friendly.”

His gaze dropped to her cleavage and then back up to her face. “Friendly, huh?”

She smiled. “Of course.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

An hour and a half later, the storm was over with and long gone, and so was the bartender, and—so was her wallet as well as the envelope of money in her purse. She’d seen him take her car keys too. He had left her naked on the bed in her motel room. She struggled to free herself from the duct tape wrapped around her wrists and a wooden post on the headboard. She couldn’t yell for help because of the strip of tape across her mouth.

She fought against the restraint for over an hour. She twisted her body around until she was on her knees and faced the headboard. She yanked several times, but the post wouldn’t give. She leaned down and held her face close to her hands. She fingered the edges of the tape across her mouth and managed to get a good grip. She had to lean back and use her head to pull the tape loose.

She winced. The tape peeled off of her lips but dangled from her cheek. She leaned down and chewed at the tape around her wrists. She made a face at the taste of the sticky fabric. She continued to chew on and off for almost an hour until she broke through. She tore it loose from her wrists with a quick yank. She fumbled with the tape until she had it off of her.