Chirp(68)

“Help me get him up,” Seth said.

“Damn, Rance. What’s got into you?” Nick asked. “It’s coming a storm.”

Rance’s head weaved. Hell, hell, the gang’s all her. I mean—here. Shit. Chirp’s afraid of storms. Damn her. His lids fluttered, but he couldn’t get his eyes to roll down. “Oh, hey, Nicky.”

“We’ve got to drag him inside.” Seth’s voice came in a fog.

Rance tried to raise his arms, but they were too heavy. Rain must have soaked me to the bone. “Give me a minute. I’ll get up.”

They tugged him forward, and he opened his eyes. “See, I can do it by myself.”

“No, you can’t. Dammit, Rance,” Seth said.

He squinted up at Seth and slurred his words. “What day is it? I thought you were in Houston breaking up with bachelorette number one.”

“Yeah, how’d that go?” Nicky asked.

“Once I told her about Noah and how I planned to get custody, she said that was a deal breaker and handed me my ring. Didn’t even shed a tear.”

Rance chuckled. “Her or you?”

“Her, you fucking moron. Now, on three, we’re pulling your sorry ass up and getting you out of the rain. One. Two. Three.”

A minute later they let go of him, and he fell onto the couch.

“I’ve been on the road all day and half the night so I wouldn’t have to stay in Houston,” Seth said. “Then I come home to this. She’s gone, Rance, and she’s not coming back. Understand?”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Seth. She is coming back because I’m going to find her.”





Blaze


Blaze rinsed her hair and raked her fingers through it. Looked strange to see her natural color. She’d liked being blonde. The brunette staring back at her in the mirror would take getting used to.

Just as planned, by now Hanna’s car had probably been stolen. Even the taxi driver warned Blaze about being in that part of town. She’d used the excuse that her jerk of a boyfriend had dumped her there. Thank goodness the cab had arrived minutes after she’d parked. The dark street had given her the heebie-jeebies.

After opening a package of peanut butter crackers she’d bought at the bus station, she took a bite out of one, washed it down with water, then stacked the remaining squares in a neat column. Those two items could keep her going for days.

Whispering Pines motel wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and they accepted cash. She walked to the window and stared out. Not much of a view. A parking lot with the hotel sign flashing No Vacancy. Desk clerk said she’d gotten the last room. Even though the fear of starting over squeezed air from her lungs, things were falling into place, which convinced Blaze she’d done the right thing.

But there was also a sense of relief. No more lying to people she’d grown fond of. By now Hanna knew the truth. Soon Nick, Tiffany, and Seth, too. Then they’d all hate her, because friendship was based on honesty, and her whole life was a lie.

She ate her last cracker, brushed her teeth, and settled onto the scratchy sheets. If only the PI hadn’t found her, she’d be curled next to Rance listening to his steady breathing. She dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain taking her thoughts. No. No more dreaming about a guy who’d never love her. Instead she forced her mind to Muttly. What she’d give to have him here. But traveling by bus made it impossible. With that final thought, she drifted to sleep.

She got up early the next morning. Ate an apple and finished her remaining bottle of water. She should be in the state’s capitol city by noon, hopefully have an apartment by the end of the day, and reinvent herself one last time. Blaze Bledsoe. Austin artist.





31


Blaze


Blaze sat on a park bench and read the ad again.

Constructed with the same quality and style as the one-hundred-year-old main house, the furnished single bedroom garage apartment provides a private entrance. Hardwood floors. Washer and dryer. An upper patio overlooks an arbor to the courtyard and fountain. Located in the historic district.

The place looked vacant. Nobody going in or out. No lights on. Leaves littered the stairway and porch. Palming her phone, she dialed, and a woman with a French accent answered.

Once she found out the place was still available, she walked across the street, set her duffel bag down, and rang the bell. When Odette Fontaine opened the door, she wasn’t anything like Blaze had pictured. She’d imagined someone older and fat from years of eating rich cuisine instead of the beautiful woman with dark eyes. Black hair was twisted into a messy bun, and wisps dangled around her flawless face. A beaded turquoise necklace, weighing at least a pound, rested against her orange-and-red brocade tunic.

Odette eyed Blaze from top to bottom, and Blaze felt uneasy. Although she’d removed her nose ring and dressed in basic black slacks and a white cotton shirt, she hadn’t completely filed away her punk identity. She picked up her bag, straightened, and pulled her shoulders back.

“Mrs. Fontaine?”

“Yes. Come in, my dear.”

Blaze followed her into a dizzying cacophony of color. It’d been a while since she’d thought about French decor, but she hadn’t forgotten how gaudy it could be. The woman eased into one of two orange velvet chairs and motioned for Blaze to sit. She chose the opposing crewelwork Victorian. On either side of the fireplace, urns full of leafy plants sat on stone columns, and a wall tapestry depicting a grape harvest hung above the mantel.