Just Let Go.... Kathleen O'Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ drummed her nails on the desk. “Can you get a patrolman out there?”

      “You want Martin to take it? You know it’s their anniversary. They’re headed for San Angelo for the night.”

      Gillian’s frown deepened. “And I bet Delores knew that.”

      “Everybody knew that, Gilly.”

      “She hates me.”

      “She wanted head cheerleader. You’re going to pay for that for the rest of your life.”

      “Fine,” snapped Gillian, quelling the flicker of excitement in her gut. “Can you put out a call from dispatch, saying that I’ll be on patrol?”

      “You got it. Five-oh on the scene.”

      “This isn’t Hawaii, Jo.”

      “Sorry. Sometimes I get caught up in the drama,” muttered Joelle as she fussed with her curls, now having been put in her place, and making Gillian feel like a heel in the process. Life had been a lot easier when Gillian didn’t have to worry about whether other people thought she was a bitch or not. High school had been all about being the alpha girl, the top dog, the queen bee. When Austen had left town, everyone snickered, because then she was only the alpha girl who’d been ingloriously dumped. That was one trend that nobody wanted to follow. Jackie O had never been dumped.

      Gillian gave Joelle an uneasy smile. “Dano, put out the call.”

      Joelle grinned, good spirits back in place. “That’s a big ten-four, boss.”

      Pushing back from her desk, Gillian slipped on the dark sunglasses and checked herself in the mirror. Khaki wasn’t her best color, it washed out the blond of her hair, but the tiny handcuffs pin at the collar was a nice touch.

      These days she carried a Glock 19 instead of pompoms, and wore a sheriff’s star-studded uniform instead of the blue-and-white tank top miniskirt of the Tin Cup Lionettes. Her hair was a foot shorter, too. Now, she had a nice sensible bob that fell a few inches below her shoulders. No way would Austen recognize her in a regulation brown, cotton-polyester blend.

      No, the princessy Gillian Wanamaker had disappeared forever. She patted the revolver at her hip. Hot, armed and dangerous. Just the way God had intended women to be.

      2

      THE SPOTLIGHT INN WAS on Interstate 78, just behind the orange-and-white stripes of WhataBurger. The hotel was far enough from town that cars would not be spotted in the parking lot. It was close enough to town that those that weren’t smart enough to park their cars behind the hotel would most likely get noticed by the UPS man, who was close friends with the receptionist at the Tin Cup Gazette, who also served as a deacon at First Baptist on Sundays. People joked about six degrees of separation, but in Tin Cup, one degree of separation was usually overstating the truth.

      As Gillian pulled into the front drive, the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, casting a red tint to the sky. The dusky heat was still a killer, waves of it rising from the concrete and making everything look hazy and surreal. In the movies, when the world shimmered, it signaled a trip to the past, but when summer hit Tin Cup, the world was in permanent shimmer, a town not ready to give up its past, while simultaneously trying to grab hold of the future. It was a dilemma that Gillian understood well.

      It wasn’t exactly that she wanted to see Austen, she told herself as she poked around outside, looking for egg-shells, egg-streaked road signs or any other indication that somebody was egg-spressly messing with her town. It was more that she wanted to see Austen in order to finally write him out of her life.

      For ten sweat-pouring minutes, she wandered outside the hotel, searching for evidence, but now all she had was frizzy hair, dusty boots and the sure knowledge that something was rotten in Tin Cup, and it wasn’t the mysteriously disappearing eggs. Feeling cranky, she chose to blame Austen Hart because if he wasn’t in town, nobody would be messing with her.

      Maybe the myth of the man was bigger than the reality, she thought optimistically as she headed toward the motel’s covered entrance. If there was a lick of justice in the world, he would have a spare tire around his middle, and his hairline would be four inches behind the crown of his head.

      A trucker roared by and sat on his horn and Gillian waved in response, before pushing her sunglasses on top of her hair. At the very least, the man could have written her a note to explain his actions. Another memento that she could have kept buried back in her closet. It was that sort of what-if thinking that made it hard to forget him. Hard to forget the too short nights spent star-gazing together on Peterson’s Ridge. Hard to forget the way he would twist her hair around his finger and then pull her close for a kiss.

      Even Jeff, perfect, perfect Jeff, couldn’t affect her the way a mere boy had. There were prickles on her arms again, and furiously she rubbed at them until they disappeared because she was too smart to get stupid again.

      Before she confronted Delores, she double-checked her reflection in the glass doors, making sure the hair was in place, making sure the mascara looked fabulous, making sure that Gillian was still the most well-put-together female in three counties. When she was satisfied with the face looking back at her, she pulled open the doors and strolled inside. Casual. Easy. Confident.

      “Didi! Look at you,” she purred in her best-friends-forever voice. “I love what you’ve done with your hair. Something new?”

      Delores Hancock was twenty-seven, the same age as Gillian, and had a husband of ten years, two kids and had presided over the front desk at the Spotlight Inn since her great-uncle Hadley had died near eight years back. Her hair was glossy black, coordinating nicely with the snapping dark eyes that were particularly pretty when she wore a little extra liner.

      Unlike Gillian, who knew the value of a wide smile—fake or otherwise—Delores could never mask her appreciation of a compliment—fake or otherwise—and some of the sharpness faded from her eyes.

      “Thank you for noticing. I had it blown out yesterday, but Bobby hadn’t said a word.”

      Gillian’s smile relaxed a bit. “Men don’t care about good hair, or dirty dishes. All they want is a piece of tail and a cold beer on Sundays. You can’t hold him responsible for something that’s not part of his DNA.”

      “God’s truth, honey,” Delores agreed, but then shot her a smile that was a little too sugary. Joelle was right. Delores was going to hate her for the rest of her life.

      Abandoning the token attempt at an olive branch, Gillian leaned in on the counter, one shoulder cocked low. It was a move that she’d seen in a lot of old Westerns, and Gillian used it whenever she needed to act rugged. “So tell me about those kids. I nosed around outside, but didn’t see any sign of them, broken-egg yolks or splattered cars.”

      “I cleaned it all up,” Delores answered quickly. A little too quickly.

      “Really? And none of the irate drivers stuck around?”

      “Would you stick around this place?” Delores asked, nodding toward the wide stretch of highway and the exit sign that was still spray painted over with ODESSA-PERMIAN SUCKS, exactly as it had been since before Gillian was born.

      “Got a point. Did you get a look at the kids involved?”

      “No. The sun was СКАЧАТЬ