In a Jam Read online

  In A Jam

  Cindy Dorminy

  In a Jam

  A Red Adept Publishing Book

  Red Adept Publishing, LLC

  104 Bugenfield Court

  Garner, NC 27529

  http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/

  Copyright © 2018 by Cindy Dorminy. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: April 2018

  Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE | Andie

  CHAPTER TWO | Andie

  CHAPTER THREE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FOUR | Andie

  CHAPTER FIVE | Andie

  CHAPTER SIX | Gunnar

  CHAPTER SEVEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER EIGHT | Andie

  CHAPTER NINE | Andie

  CHAPTER TEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER ELEVEN | Andie

  CHAPTER TWELVE | Andie

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN | Andie

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN | Andie

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | Andie

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Andie

  CHAPTER NINETEEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER TWENTY | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Gunnar

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | Andie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY | Andie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | Andie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX | Andie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | Gunnar

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT | Andie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT | Andie

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FIFTY | Andie

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE | Gunnar

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO | Andie

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sign up for Cindy Dorminy's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Left Hanging

  Also By Cindy Dorminy

  To all the small towns throughout the South. Stay sweet.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Andie

  Some might consider waking up in the drunk tank rock bottom. I call it Thursday. Even with my eyelids closed, the light burns my retinas as if somebody is pouring salt in them. The slight turn of my head sends the room into a spin, not to mention the remaining contents of my stomach. Yes, I’m in the drunk tank or, as Officer Tinsley likes to call it, “Andie’s home away from home.”

  “She lives.”

  “Go away.”

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” The shuffle of the officer’s shoes across the concrete floor scrapes right through what’s left of my brain.

  I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. “You walk too loud.”

  My thick tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and every time I try to swallow, a bass drum plays a wicked beat straight into my temples.

  Officer Tinsley taps my shoulder. I squint at the burley policeman from South Boston as he hovers over me. He waggles a Dunks coffee cup in front of my face. Nothing better than a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee after an all-nighter. “I got ya something.”

  On the third attempt, I rise from my scratchy cot of a deathbed and lean back against the concrete block wall, doing my best not to topple over. He sits down beside me, and the slight shift in weight pushes the remaining contents of my stomach into my throat. Tinsley hands me the cup, and I take a tentative sip of coffee. I moan into the paper cup when I taste Dunkin’ Donuts’s dark roast with a double shot of caramel, exactly the way I like it.

  I smile at him even though it makes my head pound. “Yum. You remembered the extra caramel.”

  He wags his head. “It was Arthur’s turn to buy it for you, but he got called away, so you got me to wake you up instead.”

  I pat his knee. “Thanks, but please stop the room from spinning.”

  The cot trembles when he chuckles.

  “Not funny. God, I’m never drinking again. Ever.”

  He raises his hands in victory. “Ha! I win. It was under five minutes this time.”

  “I hate you guys.” I lean my head back against the concrete wall and close my eyes. He knows I don’t hate any of them. If it weren’t for the boys at district C-6, I wouldn’t have anyone to spend my holidays with. “What happened?”

  Tinsley stands and paces the small room. His jaw clenches. “You were arrested for hitting some fella at the Black Rose pub.”

  My eyes spring open. “Nuh-uh.”

  “Ya-huh. But lucky for you, he dropped the charges.”

  I rub my temples, trying my best to remember the events from last night. “Why would I hit some random dude?”

  “Turns out the bouncer said the loser got fresh with you, and that’s why you punched him.”

  Bits and pieces of last night fall into place. I should have known better than to trust a handsome reject from the Vineyard.

  “Then why am I still here?”

  He groans. “Ya blew a point two and then got mouthy with the sarge. You know how he gets when you do that.”

  I gulp down the coffee, and the scorching-hot liquid burns my parched throat. “I’m not mouthy anymore. I’ll apologize, and we’ll be pals again. Case closed.”

  Sergeant has a soft spot when it comes to me. I think I’m like the daughter he never had.

  Tinsley clears his throat and runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.” He leans against the wall and crosses his legs at his ankles.

  I bolt off the cot and pitch forward. If it weren’t for Tinsley’s catlike reflexes, my face would be planted on the floor along with my Dunks coffee. A “one more thing” is never something good like “Hey, the loan department decided to let me skip a payment.” In my world, it usually means I got fired again or I owe someone money. Or worse, it means someone thinks I have a problem with drinking and I should consider getting help.

  He props me against the wall then squeezes his eyes shut. “You need a toothbrush in the worst way.”

  “Sorry. I even disgust myself.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. The only sound is the gong crashing through my head every time I swallow.

  “I’m not going to rehab. I do not have a problem. I was out celebrating. That’s all.”

  “Celebrating what? Thursday? Andie, a point two? You should be dead. A gal your size can’t handle that muc
h booze in the system.”

  I hold out my hand to make him stop the lecture. “I know. Okay? I can’t help it if guys like to buy me drinks. That’s hard to pass up. Jeez. Shh. And please whisper.”

  He takes a deep breath and motions with his head. “Come with me.”

  Tinsley helps me off the cot, and when I’m able to take three steps without wobbling too much, he leads me down the familiar hallway. My hand finds the wall every third step to keep from pitching to the side. They must have replaced all the light bulbs in this building since the last time I was here because I don’t think I remember it being so frickin’ bright.

  “How’s Ginger?”

  Tinsley glances over his shoulder. His grin consumes his face. “She’s past the first-trimester puking stage. Now she can’t keep her hands off me.”

  “Aw. You are gonna make such a great daddy.”

  He blushes as he gives me a bashful shrug then points to the last door on the right. I’ve spent too many mornings in this room, apologizing, and heard too many lectures about how I’m wasting my life away. I don’t think I can handle any of that today.

  When he opens the door to the sergeant’s office, my lungs forget how to work. Instead of the fatherly sergeant in a rumpled police uniform, it’s an African-American man about my age, dressed to the nines. Papers spill out of the briefcase he’s rifling through. He pulls out a document and places it on the desk in front of him.

  Tinsley exchanges handshakes with the man. “Sir, this is Andie Carson, District C-6’s favorite gal.”

  The man is very expressionless. “I’m David Christian.”

  I shake his hand because I’m not quite sure who he is or what he wants with me. Fear prickles down my spine. Maybe he’s a detective and I killed somebody last night. Oh God, it’s worse than Tinsley led me to believe. Mr. Christian motions for me to take a seat. It’s a good thing because my legs forget they have bones in them. Tinsley sits in the chair beside me, and the screeching sound of metal on concrete spreads through my skull like the noise of the commuter train coming around a corner.

  He pats my shoulder and says, “Last night, we were looking through your phone contacts for anyone that would possibly bail you out.”

  I gasp. “You figured out my password?”

  He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “You never changed it from the factory settings.”

  “Whoops. So who was going to come get me?” I pick at a fingernail, doing my best to act nonchalant.

  Tinsley frowns. “No one.”

  Wow. I thought maybe one of my bar-hopping friends would be there for me, but I guess not. I shrug, pretending it’s no big deal while at the same time praying tears don’t fall down my cheeks.

  “Anyway,” Tinsley says, “we did see several voice mails from Mr. Christian that you hadn’t retrieved yet.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was another bill collector. Sorry. You’d think after the third call, they’d get the message that I’m broke.”

  “Not too broke to go clubbing.” Tinsley raises his eyebrows, daring me to argue with him.

  Mr. Christian’s stoic expression doesn’t change.

  “So why did you need to speak with me? Did I win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes? Doubt it since I didn’t enter.”

  Tinsley points to Mr. Christian. “He’s an attorney.”

  Son of a... “It was self-defense. He attacked me, right?” I think Tinsley would have told me if I started the fight.

  Mr. Christian crinkles his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here about your grandmother, Mary Grace Landry.”

  The sound of her name sends a warmth through me I haven’t felt in forever. I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old when I last got to see her. And by the time I was an adult, I was too self-centered to even think about family.

  He clears his throat, flips through the folder in front of him, and retrieves a legal-size piece of paper. “She passed away.”

  A twinge of sadness mixed with a huge heap of guilt rests on my chest. Fifteen years. Fifteen birthdays and Christmases and way too many missed opportunities have passed me by. Tears well up, and I swipe a stray one away before Tinsley or Mr. Christian sees it.

  “Oh. I thought she died when I was little. Was she sick?”

  “She had a heart attack.” His face softens as though he’s retrieving a memory. “Nice lady.”

  “You knew her?”

  He nods.

  I glance down at my hands, my white knuckles tight around my coffee cup. “I hadn’t seen her in forever. She and Mom had a falling out when I was little. Then she told me Granny died, which really ticks me off right now. I didn’t know she was still alive.”

  “That’s too bad.” Tinsley pats my arm. I almost forgot he was in the room.

  “Did you know she liked to play the lottery?” Mr. Christian asks as he reads over the paper in front of him.

  A warm grin comes over my face. A flash of one memory washes over me. It’s quick, but I see myself as a five-year-old, standing on a stool, helping Granny bake muffins. Her gray hair hanging in a long braid down her back and the red-and-white-checkered apron are about all I can remember of her appearance. That and a nice twinkle in her eyes when she smiled. I do remember she loved to bake, and I loved to eat whatever we made together. The smell of blueberries wafts through the air as if I’m back there with her.

  “That’s Granny for ya. Did she win two hundred on a scratch-off?”

  He swallows hard. “Uh, no. More like two hundred fifty million.”

  Tinsley whistles. “Holy mother of God.”

  My jaw drops. I scan the room to see if I can find the hidden cameras. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not. She won it a few weeks before she died. Poor old soul passed away before she could spend the first check.”

  I chuckle as I watch Tinsley. He’s going to catch a lot of flies in his mouth if he doesn’t close it soon.

  “Now I know for sure we’re related. That sounds like something that would happen to me. The state got lucky on that one, huh? They don’t have to pay her off year after year.”

  Mr. Christian chuckles. “That’s correct, because with your grandmother getting on up in age, she knew she wouldn’t be living long enough to see yearly allotments. So she asked for her earnings in one lump sum. She got one hundred fifty million after taxes.”

  “Holy frickin’ cow. Let me guess. She left it to the local church, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes and no. It’s the church’s money if you don’t behave.”

  I blink. I’m sure I heard him wrong. “Could you repeat that, please?”

  He chuckles. “You get the entire fortune if you behave. Those were her words.”

  “Hmmm. Behave?”

  Tinsley groans. “Oh dear.”

  I lean back in my chair and cross my legs then give Tinsley a sneer.

  Mr. Christian clears his throat. “Sober up.”

  Tinsley chuckles until I give him the evil stare-down. “Sorry, but you gotta admit...”

  I roll my eyes, pain searing through my sockets from the movement. “Granny hated booze. I remember that much about her. It was, in her words, ‘the devil’s juice.’”

  “She wants you to sober up and settle her debts with her bakery in South Georgia.”

  I lean forward and read his face. There has to be a catch. The good Lord and Granny wouldn’t exactly drop that dough in my lap without some stipulation. But one never knows.

  “That’s it? Done. Where do I sign?” Hello, I’m rich!

  Tinsley whispers in my ear, “Point two, Andie. Point two.”

  Okay, the drinking part will be a challenge, but this time of year is when a cold brewski tastes excellent with everything. I have to keep my eye on the prize, and when it’s over, I can party. With that kind of money, I can do anything I want, go anywhere I want. I’ll never have to hear I’m fired from another job again. I’ll never get another phone message about b
eing late on another payment.

  Mr. Christian holds up a finger. “Oh, there’s one additional small item.”

  I lean back and stare at the ceiling. Of course there is one more thing. “Lay it on me, Judge Judy.”

  Tinsley clears his throat and mouths, “Stop.”

  “You have to work in the bakery for six weeks, live in the apartment upstairs, and then you can sell it for whatever you can get for it. That is, if you want to sell.”

  There is no way in hell I’m living in Podunk, South Georgia, for six minutes, let alone six weeks. “That’s not one little thing. It’s a bunch of big things. I can manage the business from here.” My big smile has gotten me out of pickles before. Might as well try it now.

  He taps the paper on the desk. “It specifically states you have to live there. Nonnegotiable.”

  Granny, why are you doing this?

  “But if you don’t want the money...”

  “Of course I want the money, but have you ever been to Georgia?”

  He grins. “Born and raised there.”

  “And that’s why you’re here now. They eat grits and chew tobacco while they read from their Bibles.” I slap my hand over my mouth to keep the bile down. Oh dear, grits and tobacco. I don’t need that visual right now.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you know this place pretty well. Where are you from?”

  I cross my arms and stare at him. “Boston.”

  “Boston? Are you sure about that?” His brown eyes twinkle as though he knows the answer before I say it.

  “Yes. Boston... Tennessee.”

  Tinsley belts out a laugh. “You little devil. You’re a closet Southern belle. I have to say, you had me fooled.”

  “Oh, hush. I moved here a decade ago, so technically, I’m a local now.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Come to think of it, when you’re really lit, you start to draw your words out. I should have known. Can you say ‘y’all’ for me?” Tinsley’s having way too much fun.

  I point a finger at Mr. Christian. “You know how small towns work. You can’t just go to the store. It’s a social event. And the worst part? Everyone knows everything about you. I don’t like people in my business.”

  He slides the document back into the file folder. “So you’re saying you don’t want the money?”