Where There's Smoke
“Go to hell.”
Since there were still people milling about and visiting in the aisles of the auditorium, there was nothing more she could do except conceal her wrath, turn on her heel, and flounce away. She gave clipped replies to those who bade her good night as she stormed up the aisle.
Key followed at a more leisurely pace, feeling amused, pleased, and vaguely dissatisfied all at the same time. Darcy deserved his digs, but he hadn’t derived as much pleasure from insulting her as he had anticipated.
Like a dutiful servant, Fergus was waiting for her beside their El Dorado, holding the passenger door open. As Darcy slid into the seat, Key overheard
her say, “Hurry up and get me home, Fergus. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
Key felt sorry for Fergus, but not because he’d slept with his wife; hell, just about everybody in pants had at one time or another. But even though his motel made money, he would never be an entrepreneur. That required a certain attitude that was clearly lacking in his long, thin face, his bad posture, and in his conservative approach to business. There were the Jody Tacketts of the world, and there were the Fergus Winstons. The aggressors and the vanquished. Some steamrollered their way through life while others either moved aside for them or got rolled over. In life and in love, Fergus fell into the latter category.
Such passivity was beyond Key’s understanding. Why would Fergus ignore Darcy’s unfaithfulness? Why was he willing to be an object of scorn? Why did he accept and forgive her infidelity?
Love?
Like hell, Key scoffed. Love was a word that poets and songwriters used. They vested the emotion with tremendous powers over the human heart and mind, but they were wrong. It didn’t transform lives like the saccharine lyrics claimed it could. Key had never seen any evidence of its magic, unless it was black magic.
Love had caused his young heart to break when his father was killed, leaving him without an ally in a hostile environment. Love had kept his sister emotionally and psychologically chained to their mother. Love had cost Clark his promising career as a statesman. Had love also compelled Randall Porter to stay with his whoring wife?
Not for me, Key averred as he crossed the parking lot, his stride as long as his injured ankle would allow. Love, forgiveness, and turning the other cheek were concepts that belonged in Sunday school lessons. They didn’t apply in real life. Not in his life, anyway. If, during a mental lapse, he ever got married, and if he ever found his wife in the arms of another man, he’d kill them both.
Reaching his car, he jammed the key into the lock.
“Good evening, Mr. Tackett.”
He turned, stunned to find Lara Mallory standing beside him. A breeze was gently tugging at her clothing and hair. Her face was partially in shadow, the remainder bathed in moonlight. Although she was the last person he wanted to see at the moment, she looked damned gorgeous and for a moment he felt as though he’d been poleaxed.
His reaction was irritated, as was evident in his voice. “Did you follow me out here?”
“Actually I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m touched. How’d you know where to find me?”
“I’ve seen you driving around town in this car. It’s distinctive, to say the very least.”
“It was my daddy’s.”
The Lincoln was a mile-long gas-guzzler almost two decades old, but Key had left instructions at Bo’s Garage and Body Shop that it always was to be kept in showroom condition. He drove it whenever he was home and by doing so felt connected to the father he had lost.
The car had mirrored Clark Junior’s flamboyant personality. Yellow inside and out, it sported gaudy gold accents on the grille and hubcaps. Key affectionately referred to it as the “pimp-mobile.” Jody frowned on the car’s nickname, possibly because she knew it to be fairly accurate.
“You’re still limping,” Lara said. “You should be using your crutches.”
“Screw that. They’re a pain in the ass.”
“You could do your ankle irreparable damage.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“How’s your side? You didn’t come back to the clinic.”
“No shit.”
“That drain should be removed.”
“I pulled it out myself.”
“Oh, I see. A tough guy. Well, at least you’ve shaved… with a butter knife, I suppose.”