Ruby cast a puzzled glance my way as she pulled out onto Line Avenue.
“Stephanie has a dog.” I plopped my foot on the dash and rolled up my yoga-pant leg. No blood, but I’d have a nice bruise just the size of a Yorkie’s mouth. I pushed my hood off and grabbed the hem of the hoodie, ripping it over my head. My tank top was soaked in sweat, and several chunks of hair had fallen from my ponytail to cling to my sweaty neck.
“I hope you punted that thing to Albuquerque.”
“It was kinda cute . . . if not absolutely vicious,” I said, wincing as I probed the bite on my hand.
“I wish you hadn’t taken off before I could finish what I was saying.”
“Well, I had to do something more than sit on my hands,” I said, pulling out a compact mirror from my purse and dabbing at the deeper scratch on my cheek I’d gotten in the bushes. “Do you know how hard it was to do nothing . . . for days?”
“But you don’t need to confront him this way. You don’t need to show him that kind of crazy.”
Okay, so maybe dressing in black, staking out the other woman’s house, and trying to get a picture of Scott with her was a few bricks shy of a load, but being proactive made me feel . . . not so much a victim.
Until Julie Van Ness had uttered those horrible words, I’d lived in a bubble of my own design, and by all accounts, it was a very nice bubble filled with good fabrics framing the windows, gas lanterns hanging beside the right address, and a family that looked mighty nice on the Christmas cards I ordered at the local stationery store each year. I had been floating high in that shiny bubble—even higher since I had reopened a new and improved Printemps.
I had felt valued. Loved. Somewhat successful.
But now I was nothing but a husk of the woman I’d been. I’d been robbed of my security, sidelined as a woman, relegated to a leftover . . . and why?
I had no clue.
Sure, at forty-two I fought crow’s-feet and cellulite. After giving birth to my daughter, I’d gone from a size 8 to a size 10. Okay, sometimes a size 12 in brands that ran small. But I worked out and tried to avoid french fries. I used so much freaking cream with retinol, it was a wonder my face could curve into a smile. And I got regular pedicures, showered daily, and never farted in front of Scott.
But maybe this wasn’t about me. Maybe it was because I wouldn’t try the anal beads, whatever the hell those were. A woman had to draw a line sometimes, and shoving things up my bottom was one I wasn’t interested in crossing.
“Maybe Stephanie likes anal beads,” I muttered.
Ruby hit a pothole. “What the—”
And that’s when I felt the car tilt drunkenly with the telltale thump of a flat tire.
“You gotta warn me when you’re gonna say things like that,” Ruby said, pulling my limping car to the side of the road near a cluster of houses on a dark street.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling my phone out of the hoodie I’d dumped on the floorboard. “Just came out.”
“Anal beads?” Ruby asked, putting the car in park and turning to me.
“Never mind. Forget I said that,” I said, wishing I’d filtered myself with the sex-toy talk. “And I have Triple A.”
I clicked the home button on my phone, and my sweaty, pale face emerged on the screen . . . instead of the picture of Scott violating Stephanie on her porch step. Like an idiot, I’d hit the turnaround button and taken a selfie. My eyes were narrow, mouth pressed into a line, determination etched into every feature . . . even though my neck looked suspiciously turkey-like. Perfect selfie of a very pissed, hurt woman. Proof of disaster right in my hot little hand.
Ruby shook her head. “Anal beads . . . good Lord.”
CHAPTER FIVE
RUBY
Griffin Moon, my first cousin and a somewhat upstanding member of the Balthazar clan, wasn’t the kind of man who made people feel comfortable. I knew this, but I also knew that if I called him, he would come tow Cricket’s car and that he would have a gun. Hey, we live in one of the more dangerous cities in Louisiana. And Triple A was probably going to call him anyway. Might as well skip a step.
Griff climbed out of the tow truck looking a bit dangerous himself . . . and miles away from the men who peppered Cricket’s land of golf courses and stucco mansions. Griff practiced spitting and scratching himself regularly. Probably simultaneously, too.
Cricket’s eyes widened as my cousin approached wearing tight jeans and an equally tight T-shirt. A wicked curved tattoo inched up his neck. Scruffy boots clomped onto the cracked pavement as he eyed the wounded car.