Читать книгу: «A Different Kind of Man»

“Is this your family?”

Jackson, half-smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question.

Returning the pictures to the table, she went into the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself. This might be a subject that makes him angry.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.”

“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know.”

He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.

“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”

The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she would run out the door. But she didn’t. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.

Dear Reader,

Life in small Mississippi River towns has been fodder for books since Mark Twain wrote his stories about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Throw in the spice and character of Louisiana’s Cajun culture and you have a setting that simply asks for a story. This is what led me to create the town of Cypress Landing. I hope Louisiana residents will forgive any geographical liberties I have taken for the sake of this story and laissez les bon temps rouler!

I’ve always been awed by people who freely give of their time and talents to help others in distress. That’s why I wanted to tell the story of volunteer search and rescue member Emalea LeBlanc. Like many of us, her life hasn’t always been a bed of roses. But I hope that, like Emalea, we can learn there’s still a lot of good in the world and a lot of love. We simply have to learn to look for it without trying to paint everything with colors from our past. People sometimes ask if the things I’ve written are based on my life, and I have to admit that I only wish I were as capable as Emalea. I never did learn to ride the Harley by myself and although I can scuba dive, I’m not nearly as fearless as she is. The only true adventures are those of the real Jade, my sister-in-law’s cat, whose real-life exploits are quite bookworthy!

I hope you enjoy my first book. It’s been a long but thrilling ride to get here. I’d love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at suzannecox@suzannecoxbooks.com, or by post at Suzanne Cox, P.O. Box 18836, Hattiesburg, MS 39404. You can visit me on the Web at www.suzannecoxbooks.com or at www.superauthors.com.

Hugs,

Suzanne Cox

A Different Kind of Man
Suzanne Cox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Note From The Author

I wrote my Dear Reader letter nearly three months before life in south Mississippi and New Orleans was irrevocably changed. My editor was kind enough to let me squeeze in this last piece. I hope you find the chapters in this book bring to life the image of small-town life, which I found greatly tested in these times. In the most frightening early days when water, gas and food were in short supply for many, those in the smallest communities depended on the help of their neighbors, churches and friends for survival and recovery. At the moment the chapters set in New Orleans are the most heartbreaking for me because we are yet to know what direction this beloved city will go. I am certain by the time you read this great strides will have been taken to restore the things along the Gulf Coast and in New Orleans that we loved most to something we will love even more. I am in even greater awe of the real-life heroes seen during this time, from the search-and-rescue teams to the everyday citizens who held out their hands to help one another. And again I say, laissez les bon temps rouler! For I know they will. It is the spirit of the people.

To my husband, Justin, for believing and being perfect without fail.

To my mom for all the reading.

I know you’ll always be my biggest fan.

To Lisa White, for the critiques that helped me get here.

To Jan Sears and Stephanie Buhrer, for all your help, support and trips to Maria’s.

To Kathy Harvey, for all your support over the years.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE

THUNDERING MOTORCYCLE ENGINES caused Jackson’s beer mug to vibrate on the smeared copper bar. He twisted the frosty glass, then took a swig. Someone put money in the jukebox, sending an old Guns n’ Roses tune blasting. For a biker bar, Sal’s was all right.

From the road, it appeared to be a quaint restaurant, with French doors across the front and back walls. Maybe the place had once done time as a fine dining establishment, but now it was more of a beer, pizza and burger joint.

Outside, someone whooped as the definitive thump, thump of another arriving Harley-Davidson filled the air. Jackson glanced through one of the open doors just in time to see a motorcycle come to a stop in the parking lot. He sat up straighter, staring. Royal-blue paint etched with a red scrollwork design covered the gas tank and fenders. The rest of the bike sparkled with shining chrome. Whoever owned that bike certainly hadn’t purchased it straight from the store. At the moment, the owner, or at least the rider, of that racy machine claimed his undivided attention.

“Definitely, a custom job,” Jackson said under his breath.

“Doc ain’t gonna ride nothin’ but.”

He jerked around to see the large, burly bartender standing across from him. The guy scratched his ragged beard then leaned nearer. “I guess you were talkin’ ’bout the motorcycle. But now, Doc’s a custom job herself.” He winked then clomped to the other end of the bar to wait on someone.

Jackson couldn’t help but be captivated by the driver of the flashy motorcycle. She settled the kickstand in place and slung her leg over the bike. There was absolutely nothing but legs, forever. Bare legs. Her cutoff denim shorts were short. Not indecent, he had to admit, but really short. Underneath her thick leather jacket, he saw flashes of a blue-and-red shirt with the same design as the motorcycle. He wasn’t surprised at all to see that the bandanna tied around her head also matched the paint job.

Realizing he hadn’t breathed for a moment, Jackson gulped in air followed by beer. Checking out women was not why he was in this bar. He’d planned to ride his Harley and investigate his new hometown. Cypress Landing, Louisiana, was a far cry from Chicago, but it was just what he needed. Sitting high on the east bank of the Mississippi River, it was a place where people seemed to be able to know their neighbors. Calm and quiet, that’s what he wanted. Chicago held nothing but a life and memories better left behind.

The woman, along with the other riders, crowded inside, shoving tables together as the waitress chatted with them. The biker girl pulled off her jacket, dropping it on the back of her chair, then tossed her thick brown braid across her shoulder. Legs weren’t all she had going for her. She definitely had plenty of curves in all the right places. His hand tightened around his glass when a pair of almond-shaped green eyes caught him staring. Jackson realized he had spun sideways on his stool to watch her. Now, he was busted.

He could vaguely remember when he’d found it easy to attract a little female interest. What would it hurt to practice some of those old charms? He met her stare for a few seconds then gave a slow smile inclining his head. The green eyes narrowed, and the biker girl—Doc—frowned before dropping into her chair. Turning his back to their table, Jackson grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Possibly, his charms had rusted like an old lawn mower left neglected in the rain.

Using the mirror on the wall, he studied the small group directly behind him. A few of the other patrons in here appeared to have been straddling a bike since they were old enough to walk, and they sported the tattoos to prove it. With their clean-cut looks and expensive leather, Doc’s group obviously didn’t fall into that category. Much like himself, they had become representative of the new breed of motorcycle enthusiast, the middle-to-upper-class, college-educated biker. A friend in Chicago had convinced Jackson the bike could make a difference in his life. He guessed in a way it had. He’d decided to move here not long after the purchase.

He spotted the restroom sign over a hallway into which the jukebox had been shoved. He sighed. Attempting to exorcise the past from his mind every day exhausted him. He left his stool and headed to the restroom, squeezing by the big jukebox.

In the worn but decently clean bathroom, Jackson washed his hands without looking in the spotted mirror. A pair of shining green eyes would be all he saw and his eyes were brown. It was that woman. Why had her image locked itself in his mind? He hadn’t thought twice about a woman in years, not since Christa.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen a bit of tension at the base of his neck, then shoved through the door as though hurrying would clear his head. Just as he reached the end of the hallway and prepared to squeeze by the jukebox, a figure in blue turned the corner. He tried to slow down and even made a grab for the glass in her hand, but he’d been traveling with much more purpose than he’d realized. The woman called Doc bounced off his chest and banged against the wall, her drink soaking the front of her shirt while her handful of coins clattered to the floor. Jackson gripped her shoulders in an effort to steady her. Even before he met her eyes, his body tightened in a gut reaction. Some kind of soft powdery scent, mixed with fresh air from her ride, floated around him. This woman had a presence. That was for sure. Their surroundings seemed to shrink into the background when he finally focused on those eyes.

Beneath his fingers she quivered like a scared puppy for a moment, then she wrenched from his grasp with a force that surprised him. The liquid remaining in her glass landed on the floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You could hurt somebody barreling down the hallway like that. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” He squatted to round up her change. The bartender appeared beside them, and Jackson thought the guy smiled before he handed her a towel.

He frowned at Jackson. “You need to be more careful, big fella.”

“Thanks for the towel, Mick,” Doc called as the man lumbered away.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to make you spill your drink.”

“Or knock me into the wall?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, either.” He didn’t know what else to say. It had been an accident. She scrubbed at her wet shirt while Jackson wondered what to do next.

“I’m really sorry.”

“You said that already.”

He had, but she hadn’t accepted it.

“Why don’t you go and cause someone else trouble?”

Did bumping into someone always make her this mad? Of course, her soaked shirt wouldn’t help her mood and she might even have a lump on her head, considering how hard she’d banged it against the wall. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” He lifted his hand in an attempt to check her for injury.

She jerked away, her arm raised defensively. “Don’t touch me.”

He took a half-step back. “I’m just concerned. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, just give me the money.”

Her voice carried in a temporary lull in conversations and a few people looked their way. She scuffed the toe of her boot almost self-consciously and stuck out her open hand.

Jackson quit any attempts to respond and emptied the coins in her palm. What kind of person went berserk when someone bumped into her? She began dropping coins in the jukebox. He had to wait until she finished because he couldn’t get past her without knocking her into the machine. The idea was tempting after her rudeness, but she remained stiff, tense, as though waiting to spring into action if he should try to get past. That’s when he noticed it. Her fingers trembled slightly each time they deposited money into the slot. When the last coin dropped, she left.

He returned to his seat hoping there wouldn’t be more trouble from her friends. He didn’t know how or why he’d upset her. But he had.

In front of him, the bartender set a fresh beer on the counter. “Looks like you need this.”

What was the guy’s name? Rick? No, Mick. “Mick, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Aw, Doc ain’t hurt. She’ll get over it. She just gets a little wired up over some stuff.”

“I’d like to buy her another glass of whatever she’s drinking, since I spilled most of the one she had.”

“That ain’t gonna help. ’Sides, I took her one already.”

“Yeah, well, what else can I do?”

Mick shrugged then filled a glass with soda and left the bar. In the mirror, Jackson saw him place the glass on the table with a few words. The woman only shoved the full glass to the center of the table. He couldn’t be sure why he felt disappointed. The whole jukebox thing was a misunderstanding and he didn’t like being misunderstood.

When the bartender returned, Jackson reached for his wallet.

“Don’t worry, her drink’s on the house. And don’t leave yet.”

“Why?”

Mick bent to rinse a glass, using a clean towel to pat it dry. “The races will start in about an hour.”

“What races?”

“Every Saturday afternoon folks show up here with their bikes and race on the old highway, just the other side of the store. Sometimes there’s even a little friendly betting.”

Motorcycle races sounded interesting. What else did he have to do but go stare at half-unpacked boxes?

EMALEA LEBLANC TRIED to appear unperturbed. Her table was quiet. Probably had something to do with her reaction and the fact that guy nearly had her cowering.

“Big klutz,” she said with a forced grin.

Her friends laughed and everything was back to normal again. Sort of. She half listened to what was going on around her as she watched the back of the man sitting at the bar. Her head ached a bit from its brief encounter with the wall. Guys like that thought they could push people around, run over women. Not her.

He’d made her lash at him like a bullwhip. She hadn’t done that in a long time. Her ranting had managed to attract the attention of the whole bar. She pressed a finger to her forehead to slow her runaway thoughts. Accident, Em. The guy hadn’t attacked her, but when he’d put his hands on her shoulders, she’d felt the need to get away and had ended up embarrassing herself. That part wasn’t his fault, but if he hung around long enough she might give him a turn at looking silly, just for fun. She tried to read the faded lettering on the back of his shirt. Was that FBI? Yeah, right. Like that thug was ever in the FBI. More likely wanted by the FBI.

“You all right, Em?”

Emalea broke her gaze from the man’s back and focused on her friend. “Fine, Lana. Why?”

“You’re awfully quiet. That guy wasn’t rude, was he? Or I guess I should say, was he any more rude than you?”

Emalea’s mouth dropped open. “You think I’m rude?”

“You didn’t exactly sound as if you were applying to be Ms. Manners.”

“He should be more careful. He practically bounced me off the wall.”

“It highly resembled an accident to me. You could at least have accepted the soda he sent over.”

Rubbing at the sweat on the glass of soda, Emalea sat quietly for a moment not bothering to respond to her friend. Lana was right. What about this guy had set her off? Was it the hungry look he’d given her when she’d come in or was it that slow sexy smile? Maybe she just flat didn’t like him. She took a quick drink. Yep, that was it. She didn’t like him, no particular reason needed.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lana still watching her. “I’m not accepting the soda.” Emalea knew she sounded childish, but she couldn’t help that. “I don’t want to encourage him.”

“One day you’re going to run off the perfect guy.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Lana, there is no perfect guy.”

Lana reached beside her to pat her husband’s thigh. “Sure there is. I found mine. You’ll find yours.” Lana continued to run her hand farther along her husband’s thigh until he turned to look at her and raised his eyebrow, then winked.

Emalea snorted. “You know, you two have been married seven years. When are you going to stop all that? Anyway, I don’t expect I’ll find Mr. Perfect bashing me into the wall at Sal’s.”

Lana touched her arm lightly. “It could happen, Em.”

Emalea pretended to study the view of the Mississippi River through the French doors that lined the back wall. Who did it happen for? Maybe women like Lana. But did it happen for women like her mother? Like herself? Never. Em downed her drink to wash away the beginnings of the lump growing in her throat. Lana didn’t understand. She tried to, God bless her, but she just didn’t.

The waitress placed Emalea’s hamburger and French fries on the table. Grabbing the ketchup, she began shaking a large puddle onto her plate.

Not willing to be thwarted yet, Lana leaned closer. “You have to admit this guy has potential.”

The ketchup bottle banged as Emalea set it back on the table.

“Potential for what? To be arrested in the next five minutes?”

“Come on, Em, he’s practically sizzling.”

Emalea peered at the man. Jeans hugged massive thighs and a rear that could have been carved from stone. A well-trimmed goatee surrounded lips that weren’t too full, weren’t too thin, but were, well, inviting. The black bandanna tied around his head gave him a roguish pirate appeal. She shook her head, not a pirate—an ex-con or a mafioso hit man.

She squinted at Lana. “Are we talking about the same person? Lana, the guy’s a thug.” Best not to give Lana any ammunition by agreeing the man could be model material.

Lana picked up a fry, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re covering.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re covering. You think the guy’s attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t? So you’re pretending not to be interested.”

With a quick shake, Emalea dumped hot sauce into her ketchup and stirred the concoction with a fry. “Could we please move on?”

Lana grinned. “Whatever.”

Biting into her hamburger, Emalea ignored Lana. What else could she do? Her friend seldom let things go easily. Especially when it concerned Emalea and a man.

Muscles bunched under the tight, dark T-shirt. She shivered, realizing she had been staring at the thug again. It would be better for her to think of him that way, even though Lana was right. The guy had a look that wasn’t all bad. In fact she needed an extra amount of self-control to keep from staring at him constantly. She wondered briefly what color his hair was. His mustache and goatee were dark, so his hair was probably brown or black. He had chocolaty-brown eyes. She did love chocolate.

Dropping the burger onto her plate, she wanted to kick herself. Was she drooling over ex-cons now? So maybe he wasn’t an ex-con. In truth, there was a stiff, almost Dudley Do-Right aura about him. But in the middle of her chest—or maybe it could have been her stomach—she got the feeling he could be trouble. The image of him towering above her made her queasy. Not many men could look down on her five-feet-nine frame. But this one had, easily. He was a bull of a man. And he likely had the temperament to match. She shivered again and this time it wasn’t from admiring his physique.

She had spent a big part of her life learning the hard way about men like that. Her own father had given the very first lessons. They should be required by law to have Keep Away stamped on their foreheads. But since they didn’t, she’d learned how to spot them. Lately, the bad ones seemed to be everywhere. But for some reason, she couldn’t quite get a fix on this guy’s personality, something she could usually do in minutes. Perhaps that was why he kept drawing her attention, like she was searching for the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

EMALEA PATIENTLY WATCHED the man as he stood next to his motorcycle on the edge of the old section of closed highway. Up and down the asphalt, bikes roared as people took their Saturday off to become the decadent bikers they secretly dreamed of being while sitting behind their desks. Her plan to embarrass this guy had formulated in her mind while she ate. It had become her quest for the day, even though she realized he might not deserve it. She felt driven to show him, to prove to him…something. She just wasn’t sure what. The need to prove anything to a stranger was ridiculous and she knew it. She tried to suppress the idea that she was actually attracted to him—better not to dwell on such things now.

With a toss of her head, Emalea slipped away from her friends and started down the path of a woman bent on revenge. She strolled toward him as seductively as she could in her dusty leather boots. He noticed her and visibly stiffened. She met his gaze head-on. Mmm, chocolate.

Giving herself a mental shake, she ran her hand across the seat of his bike. “So you’re the one riding this piece of junk.”

The chocolate became brown granite. “Lady, don’t start with me.”

Emalea heard footsteps on the gravel behind her, but chose to ignore them. She figured it was only Lana, who wouldn’t be too happy when she heard what was coming next. Emalea refocused on the man in front of her.

“What? You think you’ve got something special here?”

“I think it’s a lot better than that flashy girl bike you’re on.” He tried to look serious but couldn’t quite hold it, so he grinned instead.

She tried not to smile with him. She had a mission. She wanted to embarrass him a bit, and maybe show him what this “lady” was made of, all in the name of fun, naturally. “I imagine I could blow you and this piece of junk straight off the road with that girl bike.”

He paused in the middle of digging his key from his pocket and swiveled his head around, his mouth partially open in amazement.

“Are you trying to say you want to race me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Em, for heaven’s sakes.” She heard Lana’s voice behind her but waved her hand.

Mr. Thug grabbed on to his handlebar and straddled his bike, his brawny thigh bumping into her. She swayed for a moment and clutched his shoulder to keep from falling.

“I’m not racing you.” He had a hand on the key to his bike, and Emalea realized she still had a fistful of his shirt.

She unclenched her fingers and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Oh, come on, we’ll make a little bet. It’ll be fun.”

“A bet, huh? What will we be betting?”

“You say whatever you want then I’ll decide something for myself.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed as though he didn’t believe her or maybe he was really intrigued. She should have been able to tell, but a fog kept obscuring her senses.

“In that case, I’ll do it. If I win you’ll go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Emalea’s heart surged into her throat for a moment before breaking into an erratic rhythm. Trying to make a valiant recovery, she tossed her braid over her shoulder. He caught her fluttering fingers between his and grinned. “What do you think?”

She pushed her feet solidly into the ground, using all her determination to keep from turning tail and running. The scent of him—leather, beer, man—filled her nose, causing a certain amount of dizziness. Her hand was already starting to burn. She wanted to blame that heat on the late evening sun, but she knew exactly where it was coming from. She was attracted to him. It was a mind-numbing realization.

She put the brakes on her runaway feelings. She wasn’t going to lose. Pinning him with a sweet smile, she said, “I’ll take that bet.”

They shook hands. He had a nice laugh and for a minute she felt a little guilty about what she was going to do. Just a little joke and she’d clear it up tomorrow, right?

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, when I win, I want your bike, to keep. As in, you give me the papers.”

The thug flinched. “Have you lost your mind?”

Emalea felt a bump at her side. Lana hovered next to her shoulder. “Please excuse her, sir. She seems to be having an attack of pure insanity.”

Lana tugged at her arm. “Stop it!” Emalea hissed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I doubt that,” Lana said, but let go, retreating a half step.

“You better listen to your friend.”

She widened her eyes innocently. “You’re not afraid you’re going to lose, are you?”

Jackson frowned. The woman just didn’t know when to quit.

“We’ll run this strip like everyone else. The first one to pass the orange stripe at the end of the road will win.”

He gritted his teeth. “Is this something you do on a regular basis, challenging people to races for their bikes?”

The shorter woman moved forward. “No, she does not.” She glared at her friend. “She needs to reconsider what she’s doing.”

The woman—Doc—pushed her friend to the side. “I know what I’m doing.”

He glared at the two of them. So what? He’d race. When he won, he’d tell her to forget about the dinner. Part of him still wanted to go, but that wasn’t a part he needed to be thinking with. Good sense was beginning to tell him this might not be the type of woman he needed to spend time with or even let know where he lived. Images of mad stalkers and pet rabbits in cooking pots flashed in his mind.

He twisted the key, then thumbed the start switch. “Get on your bike, honey. Let’s do it.”

When he pulled onto the road she was right behind him. The asphalt stretched before him into the distance. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the races didn’t seem especially interested. Though, at the moment, they didn’t know what was at stake.

For a second, he considered backing out. What was he thinking? This was not the way he had imagined he’d start life in his new town. She raced ahead of him, and he gunned the engine to pull alongside her. She needed to learn a little lesson. Now was as good a time as any. With a wave of her arm, she began to slow, then came to a complete stop.

Beside them, Mick had come to be the official race starter, leaving someone else in charge of the bar. Jackson revved his engine. He was way too old for this. Doc rolled her motorcycle into position and he did the same. The dark shades she wore hid her eyes, leaving him wondering if a hint of worry might be lurking there. Probably not. She was a little too cocky for that. He adjusted his own sunglasses, then faced forward, twisting the gas, his engine roaring.

Mick raised a towel into the air as Jackson had seen him do several times already for other races. Before he could reconsider, Mick brought the cloth down with a flourish.

The race was on. Jackson’s lips twitched upward slightly as his front wheel inched past hers, then half his bike was ahead. He could just imagine her desperation, now that she was beginning to realize she would lose. A full bike length ahead, his mouth curved into a victorious smile.

A thundering noise exploded next to him and his hands nearly slipped off the rubber grips. A flash of blue streaked past him, a long braid blowing in the wind. His wrists flexed as he begged his machine for more speed. But it was completely spent. The wind whistled in his ears, and he felt a little sick.

JACKSON SLAMMED HIS FIST on the seat of his Harley. Or was it her Harley? “What kind of motorcycle is that you’re riding? You shouldn’t challenge someone to a race when you’re on a souped-up machine.”

The long-legged witch grinned at him as she stuffed the keys to her motorcycle in her pocket. With a deft move, she straddled his bike. Her friend ran up.

“Em, you’re not really going to take this guy’s bike, are you?”

“Of course I am. If he had won I’m sure he’d have collected on his bet.” She regarded him disdainfully. “You can just leave the papers at the bar. I’ll come for them later. I know you won’t try and shirk on this bet, not with all these witnesses.”

The other woman stepped back from the motorcycle, giving Jackson a brief but worried glance. “You need to admit yourself for therapy, Em. Enough is enough. Now end this little joke and give him the bike back.” She stomped over to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today. But she’ll give you your bike back, I’m sure.”

He could barely hear her, as Doc or Em or whoever she was revved his motorcycle. He wasn’t so sure he’d ever get it back. She gunned the engine one more time then roared onto the highway. A moment later she disappeared from sight. He stood there, stunned.

“I’m Lana.”

The woman standing next to him held out her hand. If he hadn’t been so angry he’d have laughed. He grasped her hand. It really wasn’t her fault, anyway. “Well, Lana, your friend should be locked in a padded room somewhere.”

“She’s really a nice person. She’s never done anything like this.”

“So what are you saying? She suddenly developed a split personality?”

Lana tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know.” She pulled on the arm of a man who had been at the table with them earlier. “This is my husband, Lance. Lance, tell him how Em is usually not like this.”

The man put an arm around Lana. “Em’s not usually this bad.”

Jackson fumed. “Yeah? Well, looks like she chose today to be off-the-chart bad.”