Divorced, Desperate and Dead (Divorced and Desperate Book 5) (3 page)

At least he hadn’t hit the kid. But he
had
hit the woman. His gaze shot back to the body, lying so still. Oh, shit! Was she dead?

Another woman stood at the curb screaming.

He looked at the beer in his cup holder. At his gun on the floorboard beside what was left of his white powder. Panic churned in his stomach. This one wasn’t his fault. But he couldn’t hang around to be proven innocent when he was so damn guilty of other stuff.

Guilty. It was his fault. His fault that other dude died. He had to open his mouth and tell Jax what he knew. He’d wanted to fit in. Thought by sharing the info, Jax would accept him more. But look at the price. J.D. could still see the fear in that ol’ dude’s eyes right before the bullet took off most of his head.

The cop hadn’t been part of that plan. Why had the cop shown up? He’d seen the guy’s gun, and fired his own weapon before he recognized him. It was the same cop who’d arrested him a few months back. J.D. hadn’t meant to shoot anyone, just to make sure he didn’t get shot. J.D. couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That cop was just unlucky. Now J.D. was gonna be unlucky. Everyone knew what cops did to people who shot one of their own.

He released his foot off the brake and hit the gas. Doing what he’d done since he was fourteen and his stepfather had beaten the shit of out of him for the third
time. He ran away.

• • •

“Room Six,” a voice said. But Chloe couldn’t see who said it. Everything was all black. Then the blackness started to fade. Replaced by a blinding light. Slowly, things started to come into focus.

“Excuse me?” Chloe asked, feeling lost and completely out of it. Where the heck was she? She eyed the walls, all white. The ceiling. All white. The floors. All white. Then a guy—obviously the owner of the voice—dressed in . . . all white . . . standing beside a big white desk, staring at a computer screen.

“Room Six. It’s to your left.”

“But, I don’t understand. Where—?”

“Chop. Chop,” he said, smiling, exposing . . . extra white teeth. “It’ll be peachy, young lady.” He pointed down the hall.

Peachy?Who the hell said peachy anymore?
Questions sat on the tip of her tongue. She frowned at the guy, and then decided not to argue. Maybe someone in Room Six would be a tad more cooperative.

She started down the hall to the left. The doors were clearly marked. She found the door with a big six on it and cautiously pushed it open and took a tiny step inside.

She started at one end of the room and let her gaze shift around the chairs lining the wall. Most of them were occupied. Her gaze shifted from one elderly person to the next. Where the heck was she? The place reminded her of Denny’s at four in the afternoon. Or her grandmother’s retirement condo in Florida.

Chloe had just come back from there three weeks ago. She loved her Nana, but if she didn’t have to play another game of pinochle for a year, she’d be happy.

Just as her complete circle around the room was almost done, her gaze lit on a man. And not an elderly man. Brown hair that flipped up on its ends and a chiseled face that reminded her of . . . Wow. Johnny Depp. Only bigger. She’d heard that Johnny was actually a small guy. Even sitting this man towered a head above all the little old people in the room. Wearing jeans that fit his long legs and a navy short-sleeve button-down shirt—left open with a T-shirt under it—he sat with one ankle thrown over the other. Cowboy boots covered his feet. In his lap was an AARP magazine, and he flipped pages like a bored kid.

The sight of him, amongst everyone else, reminded her of the kid’s workbooks where you picked out what didn’t belong. He didn’t fit here.

Neither did she. The thought ran around her addled brain, but she wasn’t sure what it meant.

Unlike all the senior citizens, he hadn’t looked up. She could almost hear him muttering something under his breath. The chair next to him stood empty.

“Another young one,” an elderly man said.

“A shame,” said a woman.

What was a shame?

Chloe felt her stomach knot.

The young, didn’t-belong-here man stopped flipping through the magazine and lifted his gaze. Dark brown, piercing eyes studied her. Yup, Johnny Depp all right.

In the traditional male way, his gaze shifted down and then up her body. Chloe suddenly realized she was wearing her exercise clothes. Short yoga pants and a sports bra. Not that it was indecent, and considering most of the females in the room wore muumuus or nightgowns, she probably shouldn’t feel self-conscious.

She still did.

When those eyes focused back on her face, his right eyebrow arched ever so slightly, and he offered her a slight nod. A smile pulled at his lips. She got a crazy feeling he was happy to have someone his own age joining him. She took the seat next to him—not because of her silly crush on Johnny Depp—but because . . . well, just because.

She sat straight, aware of everyone’s eyes on her.

He shifted and his shoulder almost touched hers. Her heart jumped a few beats. “You okay?” he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she voiced her question. “Where are we?” Chloe waited for dark-haired hottie to answer, trying not to squirm in her chair, feeling as if every elderly person in the room had her in a locked gaze.

He leaned in. “That depends on who you believe,” he said, his voice low as he motioned to a very unhappy elderly man sitting right across from them. “Sylvania over there says it’s hell, ’cause that woman wearing curlers and the blue nightgown next to him is his ex-wife. Don’t ask why they got divorced, it gets nasty.” He smiled but quickly ran a hand over his face as if to hide his expression. He motioned to another woman wearing a bright purple housedress. “Gertrude Talbot says it’s heaven ’cause her bad hip isn’t hurting. And Mr. Jefferson,” he pointed to an African American gentleman sitting still with his hands folded in his lap, “says it’s purgatory. He’s Catholic, by the way.”

When he finished talking, a memory flashed across Chloe’s mind. The little girl in pink. Lucy. Lucy running into the street. A black truck racing forward.

She gasped and placed a trembling hand over her mouth.
Had the little girl lived? Please let her be alive. “
Oh, God.”

“Where?” said one of the little ol’ ladies, rousing as if she’d been half asleep. “Where’s God?”

Chloe looked at the woman. “No, I just . . . sorry.” Then she looked back at the guy, heart still pounding. “What do you believe?” she asked.

“I was leaning toward believing Edward’s hell theory until you walked in.” He grinned and Chloe couldn’t believe he was flirting with her. “Now, I’m thinking maybe Susie’s on to something. It could be heaven.” His smile widened.

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” said another gray-haired old lady pointing her cane at the man sitting next to her.

“That’s Beatrice Bacon,” the guy next to her whispered. “Don’t say anything about the name.”

“This ain’t heaven, hell, or purgatory,” Beatrice continued. “This is the waiting room.”

“The waiting room to what?” asked an old man, whose bald head was so shiny that Chloe could see the whirling fan above reflecting on it.

She leaned forward to make sure she heard the woman’s answer.

“The waiting room to the other side,” the little old lady said. “And if it ain’t your time, you go back. Right now you all are on hold.”

“And you’re not?” the woman wearing purple asked.

Beatrice just shrugged.

“So I’m not dead, but I may be dying?” Chloe’s breath caught and she leaned back in her chair and looked at the guy sitting next to her. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” she asked ‘Johnny,’ wanting and needing him to say it was true.

“I’ve considered that a possibility, too.”

She recalled again running out in front of the truck to get the little girl. She didn’t regret it, but she fought the emotion swelling in her chest at the thought of what this might mean.

Was this really the end? Was this just a crazy dream? Was she really in a waiting room to see if she lived or died?

A knot formed in her throat and she tried swallowing it.

“Hey,” the Depp-looking character said. “It’s gonna be okay.” He leaned over and bumped her with his shoulder.

The touch, his touch, sent a jolt of raw emotion right to her heart. And bam, she was watching this man standing in an alley. A black pickup came hurtling right at him, he dove over a car, and then popping sounds echoed, and bits and pieces of asphalt started flying around.

She saw him land on the other side of the car and pull his leg up to his chest. Blood, lots and lots of blood, squirted from the wound.

She gasped and jerked. As soon as his shoulder shifted from her, the vision stopped and she was staring right at him.

“Friggin’ hell,” he said, shaking his head as if he’d experienced something as well.

“Watch your mouth, young man,” the elderly lady on the right said. “If this is the end, I don’t want your bad language tainting my passage to heaven. Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.” She held her hands up and closed her eyes.

Chloe blinked and stared at the Johnny Depp lookalike, who appeared as puzzled as she felt. “You were shot,” she whispered, somehow not questioning what she’d seen as the truth.

“You were hit by a truck.” He exhaled. “A black Chevy just like . . .”

“This is crazy,” she said.

“No shit,” he agreed and then laughed as if he just remembered something.

“What?” she asked.

He hesitated, shrugged, and then leaned closer and whispered, “Bob? You’ve got a Bob?”

• • •

Cary watched her eyes widen. “Don’t,” she seethed.

“What?” he asked, still grinning. When she glared at him, he pushed a hand over his face to wipe the smile away. But damn it, he preferred focusing on sex to all the other craziness.

Sex he understood. Sex he liked. And he liked her—whoever she was. This, this place, whatever this was, was crazy, and he didn’t understand it. And yet he felt as if he could understand her. Why was that? Why did a stranger feel so . . . familiar?

“How did that happen?” she asked.

“What?” he asked, still stuck on the strange feeling when he glanced up and saw her standing in the middle of the room.

“That?” she said. “Me seeing you and you seeing me? Is it because you touched me?”

“Good question,” he said and reached for her hand.

She pulled away.

“Don’t you want to know?”

She frowned. But, then hesitantly, she slipped her palm in his.

Her soft palm melted against his. A current of electrical emotion stirred in his chest. The stirring, the feel of her hand, had him back to wondering why she felt familiar. The next thing he knew, he saw her sitting at a table with a man. She was laughing at something the man said. She was happy. He studied the smile on her lips, so perfect, so . . . innocent, it almost hurt to look at it.

Then the guy dropped to his knee and pulled a little black ring box from his coat pocket.

Cary studied the look of sheer joy in her eyes. She loved the guy. Tears, not bad tears, but happy tears, filled her eyes and she said something to the guy on his knees. Cary couldn’t hear what she said, but he could tell from her expression, she was going to say yes.

Suddenly, the image started to fade. And he realized she’d pulled her hand away. The lack of warmth and the gentle weight of it leaving his palm felt wrong.

He blinked and found himself back in the strange room, looking at Freda, a woman with purple hair. She was smiling and staring back at him.

“You,” Freda said. “You look like that actor. The crazy one who played the Lone Ranger.”

He nodded, still feeling half out of it. “Yeah. I’ve been told . . . Yeah.” Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the girl sitting next to him. She was staring at the floor, as if feeling the same thing he did, her breathing quick. He ducked his head down a little closer. “You okay?”

She shook her head. “No. That was awful.”

“What? What was awful?”

“The boy. The teenager. He was . . . shot in the head.” She looked at him, her gaze filled with empathy. “You’re a cop, right?” she asked.

The image of Marc flashed in his mind. He nodded. “Yeah.” He paused. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“Neither should you,” she said, and for some reason the fact that she cared felt odd.

“True,” he said as he continued to study her. “Do we know each other?” You would think he would have remembered a pretty face and body like that, but the odd déjà vu feeling . . .

“I don’t think so,” she said.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes. “What did you see?” she asked.

He remembered the vision he’d had. “You’re married.” For some reason, he didn’t like knowing that. He looked down at her hand, suddenly realizing he hadn’t noted a ring.

A good reason, too. Because there wasn’t one there. He suspected there was a story to that.

“No, I’m not married,” she said.

“You got engaged. A guy got on his knee and proposed.”

“You saw that?”

“Yeah.”

She looked away. Her dark brown hair, up in a ponytail, swayed across her shoulder. He remembered his earlier vision of her chatting with a friend before getting hit by a truck. “Was he the Jerry guy, the one you said sucked in bed?”