Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

A pang in her chest, Ryanne blew a kiss to his picture, which hung above the bar, right alongside postcards of every country she’d ever dreamed of visiting. Greece. Egypt. Finland. Iceland. Actually, all the lands! Ireland, Greenland, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Thailand, and England. Australia. Africa. Costa Rica. France. Germany. Israel. China. Mexico. Russia. The Virgin Islands. Basically, she planned to travel from one end of the earth to the other, and everywhere in between.

Throughout the rest of the building, she’d preserved Earl’s country-western motif. The walls had patches of exposed brick, and above the dance floor were the words Wild West, every letter surrounded by colorful neon lights. For bar stools, saddles were welded to metal bases. In the corner, swinging saloon doors partitioned off the bathroom hallway.

Do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?

Jude’s words rolled through her mind, and curiosity got the better of her. With her favorite .44 holstered inside her boot, she marched to the rear exit. In the alley, cool night air couldn’t mask the pungent scent of garbage due to be dumped. The overripe smell hadn’t driven away the people who sat along the wall.

At the end of every shift, she liked to give leftover food to the homeless, and word had spread.

“Hey, guys,” she said with a wave. “Anyone seen anything suspicious going on out here lately?”

A man known only as Loner stood to wobbly legs. Dirt streaked his skin and caked his hair while stains littered his ragged clothing. Her heart ached for the man. She didn’t know his story, only knew his eyes were dulled by hopelessness. Life had given up on him, and he’d given up on life.

“There’s been a young man skulking through the shadows,” he said. “Tall, blond. Looks constipated all the time. We thought he worked for you ’cause he paid us to report any drug sightings or—” Loner tugged at his collar “—flesh peddlin’.”

Constipated? Only Jude. The man hated every second of his existence.

Why did Jude care what happened on her property, anyway? Why did he think people were selling drugs and sex? Oh...crap. What if people were selling drugs and sex? Acid churned in her stomach, quickly burning a path up her throat.

“And did you have to report anything to him?” she asked.

Loner shifted from one foot to the other. “Past few nights, different men have climbed inside a van and, uh, it started rocking soon after. Those men took off about fifteen minutes later.” Again he pulled at his collar. “Not sure if no money was exchanged, though.”

Poo on a stick!

Ryanne had heard so much cursing on a daily basis, she’d decided to keep her words and thoughts, like, superclassy. Snort.

She sooo did not want to call the cops about this. While she loved the hardworking, honorable men and women who worked for the Strawberry Valley PD, she didn’t fall under their jurisdiction. Instead, Blueberry Hill PD would be sent out, and one of their officers—Jim Rayburn—wanted her shut down by fair means or foul. Sometimes he showed up at the bar to card and question her patrons. Other times he pulled them over for suspicion of drunk driving. Ryanne suspected Jim was the one who’d written “Ryanne Wade is a slut” and “For a good whore call Ryanne Wade” on the men’s room wall.

He despised her, all because she’d helped her friend and ex-stepsister Lyndie Scott leave her husband, Chief Carrington, Jim’s former boss.

The abuses the chief inflicted on the delicate Lyndie, turning a buoyant young girl into a woman with crippling shyness and constant panic attacks... For the first and only time in her life, Ryanne had contemplated cold-blooded murder.

A jealous husband did it for her, giving the beater and cheater a taste of his own medicine. In Jim’s mind, Lyndie and Ryanne were responsible. What if he blamed the sex and drugs on Ryanne? What if he jailed her?

Can’t risk calling for help. “Thank you, Loner. Please report any other shady activity to me instead of the constipated man. Okay?”

He nodded. Determined to hunt down the van, she surged into the crammed parking lot. As she wove in and out, peeking into windows, the loud wail of a jackhammer registered. Her gaze zoomed across the street, where halogen lights were posted around a construction site.

Not too long ago, a man named Martin Dushku had come to see her. Though he’d had violent tattoos on his neck and hands, he’d worn a sophisticated suit that probably cost more than her SUV.

He was opening a strip club nearby, he’d said, and hoped she wouldn’t mind having competition.

She’d smiled and said, “What competition? I run a bar, not a strip club.” Besides, economic theory suggested two competing businesses being located right across from one another was actually better for each business, because the competition fueled more activity and therefore more business.

He’d laughed. “And your place is low end while mine will be high end. But,” he’d added, “I’d prefer to buy you out and run both businesses, which would free you up to travel.”

Her desire to travel wasn’t a secret, but he’d still managed to creep her out. She’d refused his offer. She wanted to travel, yes, but she also wanted a home to return to, something she hadn’t had as a child. More specifically Earl’s home. Also, she enjoyed providing meals for the homeless. Mr. Dushku struck her as the type of man who would treat the less fortunate like dirt.

She’d expected a fight, but he’d accepted her refusal gracefully and taken off.

Mind on the task at hand. He’s not my worry tonight.

Right. Almost done. Only a few more cars to check. In fact, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the van or foul play when she came to a shadowed corner in back, with only two vehicles. One—a van. The other was a sedan. Her stomach sank. Both vehicles had tinted windows and, just as Loner reported, the van rocked back and forth.

What should I do?

Light suddenly flooded the sedan, allowing her to lock eyes with the man behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette, casual and unabashed. Beside him sat a man with a snake tattooed on his jaw.

I should...run? They had to be pimps or bodyguards, because their charge was clearly doling out goods and services in the van.

Run? No! Fury sparked inside Ryanne, tempered only by dismay.

Calling the cops was no longer a should-she-shouldn’t-she situation. She should. She would. First, she needed proof of her innocence, just in case Rayburn tried to turn the tables on her. So, despite possible dangers, Ryanne withdrew her phone and took pictures of the men and the license plate on both vehicles. No one would be pinning a crime on her.

When she stood at the rear, the passengers decided now would be the perfect time to emerge. Well, crap. She began to stream a live video on her phone. A weapon in and of itself: it proved her innocence, while ensuring the guys couldn’t do anything violent without a boatload of witnesses.

“Say hello to the world,” she said, and grabbed her gun as a just in case.

Cigarette was over six feet tall while Snake topped out at about five-five. Both males were muscled, heavily tattooed and glaring at her.

Ryanne stood her ground. How many times had she been forced to break up fights involving big, scary men? Countless.

Cigarette slapped a hand against the van, once, twice, and it stopped rocking.

“You and your crimes aren’t welcome here.” She was proud. Her voice, like the rest of her, held steady. “Leave, and don’t come back.”

Snake looked her over slowly, leered and licked his lips. “You might want to watch your mouth, little girl. You don’t, and bad things are likely to happen.”