Excerpt: 'Truth or Consequences'
Scheduled for release May 2014
My
hand slides over the smooth surface. I flip the lever with the tips of my
fingers. Light illuminates the bathroom walls. Stepping inside, I lock door
behind me. The vanity is heather-gray and a floral border lines the walls. I look
into the oval mirror. My eyes are red and blood-shot, which now match my hair
color. God, how I wish my grandmother was
here. But she’s not, and honestly, I’ve never
felt so alone.
I
turn the brass knobs on the faucet. The water is cool against my tear-stained
face. I’m surprised to find my hands are steady as I dry off. Opening the door,
I venture out into the small hallway. Indistinct voices sound in the distance. A
door swings open. I gasp as I’m slammed against the cream colored wall.
“Why
dear, did I hurt you?” Mrs. Rankin eyes me closely.
I
draw in a deep breath and plaster a forced smile across my face. “No. I’m
fine.” Should've known it was the bat
out of hell, again.
I
can’t help but think the day is getting better and better. If this pace keeps
up, I’ll encounter flying monkeys by noon, especially since I met the warped
and twisted version of the scarecrow, named Stephen, this morning, who,
evidently, is in serious need of a brain and some scruples.
“Oh.
Thank goodness.” Mrs. Rankin’s pinched face softens.
I
gaze right then left. My heart sinks. Crap.
I’m turned around. I don’t remember how to get back to the office.
“You
look lost, love. Do you know where you’re headed?”
“Mr.
Crawford’s office—”
“I’m going that way. So, follow me.” She removes her granny glasses. They dangle on
a chain around her neck. I watch as they swing back and forth like a pendulum
as she waddles back and forth down the hall.
“Thanks,
Mrs. Rankin.”
“What’s
your name, dear?”
“Danielle
Herring . . . Herrington, but most people call me Danny,” I say as we enter the
waiting room.
“You’re
Danny Herrington?” A familiar voice booms behind us.
I
spin around and come face-to-face with the man from the restaurant. He glares
at me. His lips are pursed tightly into a thin white line. I nod then swallow
what feels like a large lump in my throat.
“Who
the hell do you think you are?”
“Excuse
me—” I take a few steps back.
“You
heard me.” He towers over me. “I didn’t stutter.”
“Drake,
what on earth has gotten into you?” Mrs. Rankin asks.
He
looks down at me with clenched jaws. “Why don’t you ask her?”
My
mouth goes dry, and my heart is pounding, racing in my chest. Did I hear Mrs. Rankin correctly? Did she
just address him as Drake? I square my shoulders and lift my chin, meeting
his cold gaze. Oh man. All I can think is
this is not going to end well.
“Who
. . . who are you?” I ask, barely above a whisper, unable to keep the tremor
out of my voice.
He
takes a step into my personal space. I place my hands on his chest. However, pushing
him away is akin to trying to shove a brick wall back a few inches, which is
not going to happen.
“Don’t
be coy with me.”
Standing
on the tips of my toes, I peer over his shoulder, making eye contact with Mrs.
Rankin, who turns and walks down the hallway. Where the hell is she going? And why isn’t she doing something—anything?
“So,
was that all staged in the restaurant?”
I
snap my head back and glare at him. “What did you just say?”
“You
heard me.” He leans down closer to my face.
“Do
I look as if I want strange men falling on me? Or touching me for that matter?”
Okay. Perhaps that was not the right
thing to say to the angry six-foot refrigerator.
“You
didn’t complain in the restaurant.”
“Well, let’s not
forget, he was your friend, not mine.”
Oh. My. God! I did not just open my big
mouth.
“What
did you say?”
I
attempt to slide out from under him. He grabs hold of my shoulders, pressing
his body against me. Crap. What do I do
now? And, why the hell does he have to smell so good?
“Oh.
Excellent. I see you’ve met Miss Herring,” says Mr. Crawford. He puts his arm
around Drake’s shoulder, peeling him off my body. “Come on son. Let’s take this
into my office.”
Mrs.
Rankin takes a step forward. She brushes hair out of my face. Wrapping an arm
around my waist, she gives me a tight squeeze accompanied by a quick wink.
I
shudder, exhale, and then walk toward the hallway.
“Don’t
mind him, dearie. His bark is far worse than his bite.”
“I’m
not sure about that.”
Mrs.
Rankin walks with me to Mr. Crawford’s office. I stop in the open doorway,
frozen in place as the blood drains from my face. Drake’s eyes fall upon me. A
shiver runs up my spine. As if one sociopath a day is not enough, encountering
two in the same room, at the same time, is well above my threshold.
“Come
on, dear. I’ll walk you in.” Mrs. Rankin guides me to the table. When I sit,
she nods at Mr. Crawford then exits the room, closing the door behind her.
Stephen
looks at me. “You okay?” He sets his coffee down on the top of the table.
“Do
you really care?” I regret the words before they’re even off the tip of my
tongue. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
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