14 - J. T. Ellison [51]
It wasn’t until she was older, had gotten junked out of boarding school and was back home on the prowl that she found the raucous city life, the after-hours clubs, the raves, the ecstasy-driven techno punk music throbbing through her veins. Hmm. A hit of X wasn’t such a bad idea. She got up and rummaged through her bag until she found a prescription bottle with Klonopin on the label. The little pills of X fit so well with the legal medication—same color and shape. Someone without a practiced eye would have to look closely to see the difference. She shook out a tab and swallowed it with the whiskey, enjoying the burn and near-immediate effects of the combination. That was better.
The joys of traveling in a private jet meant she could bring her pharmaceutical stash with her and not worry about security. It was always such a pain to travel commercial; she had to be much more discreet than hiding a few pills in with her medication.
She lay back on the bed, thinking about Baldwin. And that bitch, Taylor Jackson. How that country frump had captured the eye of a man like John Baldwin was beyond her. Baldwin’s strong arms, the thick, unruly black hair, those green eyes… Charlotte started regretting the hit of X. She should have known better; it always made her horny as hell.
Well, tomorrow was another day. She finished the whiskey and lay down on her right side, facing away from the windows. Just as she began to drift off, her cell phone blared to life.
She reached across to the night table and picked up the phone.
A gruff voice greeted her. “Hi.”
“How’s the old man?” she asked.
“Just that. Old. Bent and crabby and missing his former glory. Just like you said.”
“I wouldn’t steer you wrong. I told you to trust me. Aren’t you glad I did? You’ve been having some fun, haven’t you?”
“Mmm,” he said. “I miss you.”
Charlotte rolled onto her back and slipped her free hand into her panties. “How much?”
“You can’t even imagine.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, baby. Tell me all about it.”
Sixteen
Nashville, Tennessee
Thursday, December 18
9:00 a.m.
“I gotta make.” The little boy was muttering, plucking at the front of his ski pants. “Mama, I gotta make.”
“Jeffie, where in the world did you hear that phrase?” Tami Gaylord looked in amusement at her three-year-old son. He was at that stage, picking up every word that floated past his tender ears.
“Don no. Gotta go, Mama, gotta make.”
A sledding outing had been the perfect respite for Jeffie’s boundless energies. But the reality of nature would strike at the most inopportune moments. The young mother looked around the park. They were on the opposite end from the bathrooms, and a three-year-old with a full bladder wasn’t going to survive a five-hundred-yard walk in the snow back to the restrooms. She looked around—no one was close. He was a boy, after all. They could step into the short brush, strip off his snowsuit, point and shoot. She knew his father had been teaching him to write his name in the snow the other night. She’d caught them at it, on the far side of the garage, and scolded while she laughed. Men. She was blessed.
“Come here, sweetie. We’ll go right here behind these bushes. Remember what Daddy taught you the other night?”
“I write my name?” Jeffie started stripping out of the snowsuit, and Tami laughed, reaching over to help her precocious son. When he was unbundled, they stepped into the screen of bushes, shielded from the rest of the park. Tami played with the branch of a pine tree while Jeffie started peeing, singing a happy, tuneless song, spelling his name in the snow just like his daddy taught him.
“Big J. Little E. Little F—Aaaah! Mooommmyyy!”
Startled by her son’s scream, Tami flew to his side. “What, baby, what’s wrong?” Jesus, did he get bitten? Was there an animal lurking in these woods?