Damned If I Do Read online

  Damned If I Do

  The Devilish Divas Series

  Book Two

  by

  M. J. Schiller

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-980-1

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2017 M. J. Schiller All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Meet the Author

  Chapter 1

  Danielle

  Yes, I'd been through Hell, but I had a glimpse of a way out. I'd stumbled upon the roadmap recently in the form of one Tucker McCord. A gorgeous form, I might add. Then, a few days ago, when we were getting close, I pushed him away. I wadded up my roadmap and pitched it out the window to watch it roll like tumbleweed down the shoulder.

  And now I was lost.

  From Lincoln, Nebraska, Tucker possessed a sunny, country boy charm mixed with enough wow factor to make him irresistible. Not only was he built, but he was also the kind of guy you could wake in the middle of the night because your cat got stuck in a tree, and he would be there in minutes joking around with you and saving the day at the same time. He was sweet, fun, and sexy as hell.

  To say I'd made a mistake was an understatement the size of Denver.

  I shook my head as I sprayed taco meat off a pan with an industrial sprayer. It was my first day back to my lunch lady job after returning from spring break. As I stared into the depths of the stainless steel pan, it was as if I could see Tucker staring at me in the reflection. His blond surfer boy hair was long enough on top to fall into his eyes at times. And what eyes. They were a mesmerizing green-gray that often made me lose my train of thought.

  "You okay?"

  I jumped. I was so caught up in my musings I didn't realize Alexis had entered the dish room. She stood at my left elbow. "Oh, man. I didn't hear you over the dishwasher. Sure, I'm okay. Why?"

  She nodded to the pan in my hand. "That's been clean for like five minutes."

  "Oh."

  She set an identical pan on the stainless steel counter, walking taco residue still clinging to the rim. "Man. Between you and Sam, I don't know who's more out of it. I know what's on your mind. What's up with her?"

  Alex knew my story with Tucker. How we met when he threw me and Samantha out of a backstage area at a Chase Hatton concert in Chicago. He was a roadie, and we didn't have passes. Even in those first few seconds, I sensed something was different about him. He was the first guy I'd felt anything for since my husband, Darren, died.

  She knew all this because I was an open book. Sam? Not so much.

  "Yeah. Give us the scoop," our boss, Maxine, said as she toted in a stack of cookie sheets, hefting them onto the counter beside me, next to Alex's pan.

  They both stared at me like expectant puppies waiting for their treat. "You guys, I know you think I know more than you, but I don't." They looked at each other, Max raising an eyebrow, before turning back to me. "I'm serious. Sam and I go to concerts together, but she's an intensely private person. She doesn't share with me either." I looked up. "Oh. Got one more pan?"

  Sam, my gorgeous friend, waltzed in, swinging a bin by her side. Alex and Max scurried away from me, trying to look busy, but their movements were totally suspicious.

  Sam eyed them, then looked at me. "Yeah. Sorry."

  I shrugged. "I just look at it as job security."

  She handed me the bin, holding on to it for a beat to get my attention and making eye contact before she let go. She gestured to Alex and Max and held her hands out, palm up, mouthing "What?"

  I shook my head and lifted my shoulders. She gave their backs one last stare. They had found some towels to fold and were being very meticulous in doing so. She frowned, spun on her heel, and left the dish room. She'd definitely be asking me to fill her in later.

  "So?"

  The girls stood at my side again, having abandoned their ruse of folding laundry. The eager puppy image they again conjured up was so strong, it was as if I could see tails wagging behind them.

  "What happened between her and Kyle in Denver? You never told us." Alex leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. Kyle was the cute Canadian referee that had a thing for Sam. And if Sam were being honest with herself, she'd admit that she was just as smitten. But she'd chased Kyle away the same weekend I told Tucker I couldn't handle a relationship with him.

  I cocked a hip. "Come on." They stared at me. They couldn't be that stupid. "You know what Sam's been through." Sam caught her ex, the scum, with her best friend, leading to their divorce a few years back.

  Alex's face fell and she uncrossed her arms. "Yeah. I guess if Chris had slept around on me, I'd be a little gun shy with guys, too."

  Gun shy? Sam?

  And if she was, is that what I was, too? The moment I started having feelings for Tucker beyond "He's so hot," the dreams began again. Dreams about the day Darren died in my arms. Yep, I was screwed up. But as Kyle said when I told him my story, seeing the love of your life die? "That would mess anyone up."

  At least I'd realized my mistake in dumping Tucker. Within hours, I decided to go back and apologize to him.

  What a surprise to find he'd checked out of the hotel we were staying at.

  After the initial shock, I eventually cut through the "I'll never see him again," haze in my mind and thought, okay, Lincoln is a big city, but I can find him.

  I had to believe that.

  * * *

  After work, I returned home and started making my way through all the McCords I could find online. It wasn't until I'd gotten through nearly half, (forty-five!), that I had the brilliant idea of limiting my calls to lawyers' offices. Tucker only worked as a roadie to earn some extra cash for his kids' college education. His full-time job was in the legal field. He was an attorney. Only fourteen of those were listed in Lincoln.

  "Good morning," I said dully, becoming discouraged after only seven calls to lawyers' offices. I lay in my bed, watching m
y ceiling fan blades circle around and around, feeling as if that was what I'd been doing all afternoon. Spinning endlessly from one call to the next. I tried to brainstorm another way to find Tucker if this tactic didn't pan out. "I would like to speak with Tucker McCord, please." Maybe hire a detective? I was so distracted, her response didn't register at first.

  "Are you a client of his?"

  My heart flew into overdrive, and I sprung so quickly to a seated position I got a head rush. I put a hand to my head to steady it. "Actually, no. My name is Danielle Capodice. I'm a... friend of Tucker's. We ran into each other in Denver last week, and I forgot to get his number before he left." I thought fast. "And umm... I needed to try to pay for his dry cleaning. You see, he rescued a friend's purse, and fell into the creek in the process—"

  The secretary laughed. "That sounds like something Tucker would do. He's left for the day, but... wait, you said your name is Danielle?"

  "Yes. I—"

  "He mentioned you." She spoke the three words slowly, her voice rising in the end, making them sound like a question. "He said if anyone should call by that name he wanted to speak to her." She hesitated, and I held my breath. "If you can wait for a moment, I'll look up his home number."

  I found him.

  Tucker

  I lounged at my kitchen table staring off in the direction of the little window to our backyard, but not really seeing anything. A Budweiser was popped open in my left hand, and my legs were stretched out underneath the table. The tie I put on in the morning had come to rest in the pocket of my gray suit coat, and my white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar as I sat and thought about Dani.

  It had been days since I returned from Colorado, and I thought of her practically non-stop, imagining conversations we had going in different directions than they did, imagining fate-filled reunions in various places from the grocery store to Turkey—don't ask me how my harem girl Dani became a part of my fantasies, she just did. I couldn't quite believe it was over between us. I mean, I know we'd only known each other for a brief period—this could hardly even be considered a break-up as, technically, we'd never really been together, much to my regret. But I couldn't help but think something timeless was lost. She was, after all, the only girl who caught my attention in fifteen years—that had to count for something. And the way I couldn't stop thinking about her, it was like an insidious infection lurking in my blood stream. It made me kick off my covers at night, frustrated from my sleep, and miss conversations during the day, like a man whose hearing aid is stuck on low. In depositions I'd find long pauses between questions because I couldn't focus on the material in front of me. My only comfort was returning to my two kids, who I could hear screaming and running around upstairs.

  "Hey!" I yelled, only mildly irritated at them, but afraid some of the masonry in the old farmhouse would fall on my head.

  A minute later, Scooter rushed in, sliding across the linoleum in his socks, holding out his ragged green backpack, his face red, and deep creases furrowing his brow. "Look what Zoe did to my backpack."

  He held the flap open so I could see. On the sewn-on tag where a student could put their name and address, my sweet, teenage daughter wrote: Scottie McCord, 22 Dork Lane, Loserville, Turdland. You had to give her points for creativity. I smothered a laugh. "Come on, Scoots. I know she shouldn't have done that, but you kind of need a new backpack for school next year anyway, don't ya?"

  "I guess," he said begrudgingly. "But while you were gone she took all my baseball cards and threw them down the stairs."

  My eyes widened. "And she's still breathing?" Scottie's baseball card collection was his pride and joy. And mine, too, since I'd given him all of my own collection as a starter set. I patted the bill of his baseball cap as he tried to wipe away the permanent marker his sister applied to his backpack. "I'll talk to her. Send her down." He flew off, content justice would finally be meted out in the McCord household. "And just tell her I want to see her, don't add any 'nah-nah-nah-nah-nah's.'"

  "Whatever."

  I rolled my eyes. Apparently his sister taught him her favorite phrase while I'd been gone. Another reason to avoid leaving the two of them alone. I took a swig of my beer to bolster myself for the confrontation with Zoe and wondered if Dani was trying to have some sort of similar conversation with her little Tabby right now. Probably not. Probably their biggest problem at this point was deciding the sex of a roly-poly, or figuring out how to free a kite tangled in a tree. Oh, for those days again. Thinking of the kite in the tree made me remember Sam's purse stuck on a branch, and I was quietly chuckling when Zoe entered, defiance written across every feature. She stomped past me to the kitchen counter and slammed a cabinet open, then retrieved a package of popcorn, and banged it shut again. My eardrums protested. She yanked open the microwave, and I cringed, imaging the door coming off in her hands. It crashed closed, buttons beeped, and the familiar buzzing filled the room. She turned and leaned against the countertop, her arms crossed in front of her, staring at me balefully.

  I sighed. Another one of those conversations. "You want to tell me why you added the colorful remarks to your brother's backpack?"

  To my surprise she sputtered and burst out in laughter. I'd never figure women out. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I couldn't help myself."

  I glanced over my shoulder to see if Scottie was around, then leaned forward. "That was pretty good. Loserville, Turdland. Where do you come up with that stuff?"

  She shrugged, but a smug smile crossed her face. "I don't know. I was inspired, I guess."

  I grinned, then cleared my throat, trying to shift back into my authority figure persona, and almost accomplishing it. "You know, Zo, he's pretty upset. And he told me you dumped his baseball cards down the stairs while I was gone, too."

  She laughed again. "You should have seen them, fluttering all over the little twerp's head—" She changed her tone when she saw I was not amused. Outwardly, that is. "He was so pissed. Did he tell you he chased me with a baseball bat, and I had to lock myself in the scary basement?"

  "No, he left that little detail out," I returned with a frown. "And, you know I don't like you using that word, Zo," I added sternly. The smell of buttery popcorn made my stomach rumble.

  "What? Pissed?"

  "Yes. It's not very ladylike."

  "Whatever." Probably seeing my eyes light up, she backtracked. "Okay, Dad. I'll try to use some other word, happy?"

  "Ecstatic. Now, about the backpack and baseball cards—"

  "What? You aren't gonna talk to the little maniac about almost bashing my skull in with a baseball bat?"

  "Whether I do or not is really none of your concern. We're talking about your behavior right now." I got so tired of having my every parental decision questioned. "And he didn't actually take a swing at you, did he?" I asked with belated concern.

  "No. But he wanted to."

  "Then I applaud his restraint."

  "Look. Just because you're upset about some girl you got it on with in Denver—"

  I gawked. I didn't understand why she couldn't see when she crossed the line. "What did you say?" I roared. "Don't you talk to me like that. I did not 'get it on' with some girl in Denver, for your information."

  "So, even worse. You wanted to get it on and you didn't, so you're taking your sexual frustrations out on us."

  I was flabbergasted. "Zoe Marie McCord!" I knew if I went further than that at the moment I'd really blow a gasket. "To your room. NOW!"

  "Can't I wait for my popcorn?"

  I growled.

  "Oh, fine." If I had a nickel for every "fine" or "whatever" she uttered, I'd have enough money to buy Orlando Bloom's affection for her, and we'd have world peace. Having made her pronouncement, she stormed out, but I noticed she was smart enough to give my chair wide berth, just in case. She was mouthy, not stupid.

  "Man!" I said to the empty kitchen table. "Where did she learn about 'getting it on' and 'sexual frustrations' in the first place?"

  I'd tried t
o have "The Talk" with her, but I knew it would be much easier with Scott. I understood things from the guy point of view; I was a bit more uncomfortable with the other part. She was blowing off teenaged steam, but it really ticked me off to hear her talking about my relationship—or non-relationship—with Dani that way. It wasn't about the sex. Okay, it wasn't solely about the sex, anyway. And I didn't want to have the memory of our time together cheapened.

  My phone buzzed in the pocket of my coat, draped over the back of my chair. I hurriedly fished it out, bobbling it and not getting to it on time. I set it on the table to wait for it to buzz with a message. Ten seconds later it did, but with a text, not a voice message. I opened the menu. From Zoe. "This ought to be good." I pressed the button to read it.

  HAPPY NOW, HITLER?

  I pushed buttons and sent my answer.

  THRILLED. YOU LOST YOUR PHONE NOW, TOO. PUT IT ON MY DRESSER.

  The easily discernible sound of my baby girl tramping across to my bedroom pounded on the ceiling. Then, right on time, the crash of her door. I imagined Zoe throwing herself on the sunny pink quilt her grandma made her.

  I finished my beer and got a second one. I wasn't driving anywhere else tonight, so I thought I deserved one. I leaned against the kitchen sink, looking out the window again at the swing blowing in the newly stirred breeze, imagining Zoe there as a little girl and wondering where that little girl went.

  My phone buzzed again, and I snapped it up, angry Zoe actually didn't turn over her phone like I told her to do. But when I thumbed open the cover, an unknown, long-distance number was displayed. Warily I pushed receive, barking hello.

  "Man. Do you know how many T. McCords live in Lincoln?"

  It was Dani.

  Kyle