Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

"I won't argue. And this is the woman we let raise Sammi. Isn't that what child services is for? Did anyone even call them when she was little?"

"Probably too scared to interfere."

"I've known Sammi since she was twelve. I wasn't afraid of Janie, but I still didn't do anything."

"By that time? Too old. Wouldn't want to leave."

"How do I know that if I never tried?"

"Gave her a job. No one else did."

"Too little, too late. No wonder she hated me - hated all of us." I undid my belt. "Okay, back to work. So how are we going to interrogate a guy who's passed out dead d

runk in a truck in a public place?"

"Could be tricky."

"A master of understatement, as always."

I peeked in the passenger-side window. The man inside was in his fifties, with dyed black hair that he probably wore in a comb-over, but was now sticking straight up. He had his face planted on the steering wheel, every snore making that rooster comb quiver. We wouldn't need to see him wake up. We'd hear it.

The passenger door was locked. The driver's side wasn't, but I couldn't risk that slap of cold night air waking him when I opened it. I slid the slim jim in and jostled the passenger door open. Then a low whistle from Jack stopped me. I glanced over as a drunken couple wobbled my way, arms wrapped around each other. I dropped and rolled under the truck.

The woman's giggles twittered across the quiet lot. "Can you believe that place? It was like something out of a honky-tonk movie."

"Or a meeting spot for Rednecks Anonymous," the man said.

They roared with laughter, pleased by their incredible wit. More giggles. More jabs about the "rubes," who'd probably treated them with respect, served them full-strength drinks at reasonable prices, fed them an unlimited supply of peanuts and pretzels, and peppered them with suggestions for the best hidden fishing spots and scenic lookouts. I could rail against the stereotype, but the truth is that more than a few residents are just like me, with a high school education, driving a fifteen-year-old pickup, and only wearing makeup on special occasions. Doesn't make us worse; we just have a different set of values.

Apparently, though, all that crisp fresh air and undiluted booze was bringing out Mother Nature in this citified couple. Or maybe it was just all the drunken stumbling, grabbing each other for support. Before they were halfway across the lot, their giggles gave way to moans, their jibes to whispers of "oh, baby," proving they weren't any more articulate than our local high school dropouts.

The wet sound of sloppy kisses tempted me to do a little moaning of my own. Move along, people. I'm sure you have a perfectly good bed in your fancy inn. Undress out here, and you re going to freeze.

"Hmm, is that an open pickup bed over there?"

I had a mental flash of Janie's truck... and missing tailgate.

No. Please, no.

Two pairs of feet stumbled my way.

"Wait," the woman said. "There's a guy in there. Sleeping, I think."

"Then let's give him a thrill. Show these country bumpkins how it's done."

No. Please...

The truck jolted as they banged into the back. Rust rained down. The woman's feet disappeared as her partner lifted her onto the bed. A pair of panties landed in a puddle. He stayed standing, presumably just hiking up her skirt.

The bed rocked once. Twice. I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the rust shower.

Three. Four.

It stopped. Shit, they'd woken him up. I braced for a shout or, worse, the engine starting.

"Good?" the woman panted.

"Yeah, babe."