Red in the Hood Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-076-6

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For Sophia Sontheimer Wineland, who helped teach me women are strong and can do anything. Thanks, Aunt Sophie!

  RED IN THE HOOD

  Romance on the Go

  Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  Red happened to be her favorite color––warm and bold––so maybe it wasn’t such a surprise Tamara wore a red hooded jacket almost everywhere. Somehow, it went from being something to keep out the cold to a fashion statement and then became part of her identity. Red warred against the teams most everyone in the ‘hood followed, and opposed her former high school’s colors, green and white. It burned with the power of fire in the night and screamed rebellion. It whispered love with the romance of crimson roses and hinted at blood. Red suited Tamara, with her anger simmering just below boiling point. And everyone knew the girl in the red hood, even if they didn’t know her name.

  Sometimes Tamara loved her jacket, but just as often she hated it. She’d hang it over the worn lamp in her tiny bedroom in the little house where she’d been raised and still lived. Sometimes while AC/DC played on the stereo, the rough and rugged sound cutting through the night like a heartbeat, Tamara’d think how life might have been if she’d been born in a different neighborhood or another city. If she could’ve been a rich girl, if she’d owned red satin dresses, crimson silks, real ruby jewelry and a red fox fur that wasn’t faux. If her life turned out one of wealth and privilege, she might not be angry or on edge. As someone else, she probably would’ve opted for college and a career instead of just a job at the supermarket. Another woman might’ve kept a significant other, or at least a lover, and wouldn’t be so lonely.

  All day long, five and often six days a week she stood in her worn Nikes at the checkout stand, ringing up groceries with a pasted-on smile and a routine learned by rote. “Hi,” she’d say to each customer in the same false voice, “How are you today? Did you find everything all right?” She never bothered to listen to their answers, not knowing or caring if they said fine, terrible, dead or alive. Tamara didn’t give a damn if they found their Cheerios on aisle five or the red beans on aisle seven or the powdered drink mix advertised in the weekly sale circular.

  Once she’d passed everything across the scanner, keyed in any produce, and totaled it all, she would give them the amount, take their plastic, check, or cash and hand over the receipt with the falsely cheerful, “Thank you and have a nice day.”

  Most of them wouldn’t and probably never would. In her neighborhood, a tired old section just a notch or two above outright ghetto, she waited on tired single mothers with dark circles beneath both eyes from working two jobs, accepted food stamps from senior citizens who couldn’t afford their medicine and wheezed in her face, winos buying the next bottle to keep reality away, and kids who scrapped together pennies to buy peanut butter. Tamara endured each shift and walked away from it, uncaring and if it hadn’t been for the red jacket with the hood, she might just have blended into the gray crowds as another face from the neighborhood.

  As she exited the store late on Saturday night, she passed a skinny young mother fastening a baby into a car seat stuck into the back seat of another old clunker. Tamara wouldn’t have given her a second glance except the girl glanced up and said, “Tamara! Long time no see.”

  “Hey,” Tamara said, bored and almost indifferent. “How’s it going, Blondie?”

  Blondie, legal name Brenda Blevins, used to be her playmate. Their Barbie dolls outdid each other with glamorous outfits and soon stepped out with Ken, making a ménage before either girl even understood what it was. In high school they’d been locker partners, and sometimes besties, but after Blondie dropped out junior year, they drifted apart. Now with high school in the rear view mirror, Tamara hadn’t thought about either her old friend or the dreams she once harbored until now.

  “Oh, it goes,” Blondie, nicknamed for the home hair-coloring job she’d done in the eighth grade, said. “It’s just me and the kid now. Matthew took off again, this time for good.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tamara said, even though she wasn’t. Matthew, the presumed baby daddy for the drooling infant in the car seat, was a total jerk. “What’s your kid’s name?”

  “Marilyn,” Blondie said with a dreamy grin. “You know, for Marilyn Monroe. My idol.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” She remembered how Blondie dreamed she’d grow up to be Marilyn Monroe or a sexy star like her. That didn’t happen, but then her dreams of loving a half-wild, yet gentle, man turned out to be an epic fail too. Blondie wanted to become Marilyn. Tamara just wanted to play Belle to some Beast worth redemption. She’d tried a few guys, but the redemption turned out to be the issue. Tamara could find the bad boys, sexy macho men with wicked grins and evil ideas, but after the deed went down she always realized they had no quality worth redeeming. “She’s cute.”

  “Aw, thanks,” Blondie said. “You want a ride home? I could take you.”

  Tamara stared at the beaten-to-hell-and-back old Ford, the floorboards littered with hamburger wrappers, empty paper cups, soda cans, and other trash. She took a deep breath and inhaled the rank aroma of dirty diaper, one fresh and another aged to true stink somewhere in the mess. “Thanks, but I’ll walk. I like the exercise. Besides, I promised my grandma I’d bring her some donuts.”

  She held up the white waxed bakery sack as proof she wasn’t lying. Her grandmother lived up by the old walled cemetery, out of her way home, but she’d like the pastries even if they were day-olds from the bargain rack. Tamara planned to eat them at home, dipping them into chocolate milk––but plans changed easily enough.

  “Oh,” Blondie said, her face flushed enough that Tamara knew she’d caught the lie. “Okay, then. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Tamara said but knew she’d walk blocks out of the way to avoid her old pal. Whatever they might’ve had in common once, they lacked now. “See you around sometime.”

  With that, she put up her red hood as a light mist began to fall. She could see it in the glow of the streetlights as she headed off down the business thoroughfare, toward the short cut to Grandma’s. As Tamara walked down the cracked, aged sidewalks she thought how the urban setting maybe wasn’t so different than some forest. In the woods, there were trees and hills and rocks and animals. The city had plenty of animals, half of them human, and instead of trees utility poles and streetlights stretched toward the sky. There were a few hills, some actual trees, and pavement could be as hard as any rock.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea, but she ducked down between the old shoe store, now closed, and the little bakery to reach the alley. Most of the light failed to reach the narrow space and she almost fell over a collection of trash cans. Something scuttled off into the night and she shuddered, almost sure it must be a rat. When Tamara reached the alley she turned left, her footsteps echoing in the quiet. Her nerves crawled with something almost like fear and a sense she wasn’t alone grew along with her unea
siness. Just as she was about to emerge from the alley back onto a street, a figure stepped out of the darkest shadows.

  Fear filled her throat as she realized she’d been an idiot to come this way alone. The black silhouette came nearer and light from the adjacent street illuminated his face: long, lean, and familiar. His thin lips curved into a grin as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her without saying a thing. His mouth tasted hot and sweet, like cayenne and candy all in one. Tamara tried to push him away but she liked his kiss and surrendered to it, her body arousing with speed. Tingles of pleasure skated through her body with the speed of roller blades as she leaned against him, her red jacket rubbing against the black denim one he wore. His tongue pushed into her mouth, bold and insistent, but the French kiss heightened her body’s growing delight. Just when Tamara thought she’d give in for once, he pulled back and stood, his arms still wrapped around her.

  “You should be more careful out after dark,” he said, his voice deep and rich the way she thought dark chocolate would sound. “You might have run into somebody or something else.”

  “Hi, Wulfric,” Tamara said, thinking as she always did how much his name suited him. His German-born mother had chosen it as if she’d somehow known her baby boy would grow up to be wild. Wulfric sounded powerful, as if it conjured up images of wolves howling their plaintive cry beneath a full-bosomed moon.

  He grinned. “Everyone but you and Mutti call me Ric,” he said. “Most people don’t even know it’s not my name.”

  “I know,” Tamara said, savoring the small fact. Maybe she’d run him off, and maybe he didn’t belong to her anymore but she still had personal, private knowledge. “But you never did look like a ‘Ric’ to me.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Wulfric asked, his thumb trailing along the edge of her cheek. His touch sent all kinds of delightful messages through her nervous system. She tried not to shiver with pleasure, but did, and he noticed.

  “Good,” Tamara told him, ignoring his pleased smile. “It’s a good thing because there are lots of guys named Rick out there, but I don’t know anyone else called ‘Wulfric’. You’re unique.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Mutti always swears they broke the mold when they made me … but if I’m so great, how come you hate me?”

  Tamara shifted in his arms, hoping the shadows would hide the blush heating her cheeks. “I don’t hate you and you know it.”

  She loved him, more than ever, but she didn’t plan to share the knowledge any time soon.

  “I wish I did know it,” Wulfric sighed. “I used to think you cared…”

  Her response rocketed from heart to mouth before she could contain it. “I do care.”

  “Yeah, right,” he sneered as she felt his unhappiness roll out in waves. “That’s why you broke up with me and won’t go out with me.”

  “I told you why,” Tamara said, trying to get free of his embrace.

  “I don’t think it was the truth,” Wulfric said, tightening his grip. “I wish you’d tell me.”

  She opened her mouth then shut it. She would if she could but she really didn’t know, not totally. On the night Tamara told him she didn’t want to see him anymore, she’d been hurt because she heard he’d been hanging around Players, the local strip club, while she worked at the stupid supermarket. Another factor had been her desire to do something beyond the mundane life she lived and Wulfric, different as he might be, didn’t seem to mind the trap of their lives. When he took classes out at the college, she’d hoped they would find a way out and away. But he quit, took a full-time job at a local bread factory and her hopes dried up like puddles in the hot sunshine. If she hadn’t, Tamara figured they’d be married by now, living in some little shack with linoleum on the floor just like home sweet home, and juggling bills every payday.

  Part of her ached for just that, an ordinary existence––but she’d burned her bridges and had been afraid to stir the ashes in case nothing remained. Her secret, that she still loved him, wasn’t something she wanted to share.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Not now, anyway. Let me go. I’m taking these donuts to Grandma.”

  He snatched the sack out of her hands. “That’s what you’re doing in this back alley? Still taking shortcuts and chances?”

  “I guess,” she said as she tried to grab back the donuts. “Come on, she’s expecting me.”

  Wulfric laughed with a booming sound, which always reminded her of a good bass guitar, musical and deep. “Yeah, sure she is. Funny she didn’t mention it when I stopped by earlier to see how she’s doing these days.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Tamara said. “Stay away from her and let go of me.”

  He released her and, once freed, she immediately longed for his arms. “Ask her. She’ll tell you I was there. I do stuff for her all the time.”

  “You don’t need to go over there,” she said, “It’s not going to make me change my mind.”

  She started past him and he stepped into her path. “What would? I’d like to know.”

  Get a career not a job, she thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud or he might do just that. Tell me you’ll take me away someplace far away and exotic, somewhere pretty and different.

  “Nothing would,” she said and went around him.

  Wulfric followed, his long legs keeping up with her short strides without any effort. “I’m walking you over there, then. I don’t want you to run across some gnarly dude in the dark.”

  His courteous gesture pleased her, deep within, but she snapped, “I already did.”

  As soon as the harsh words blasted from her mouth, she wanted to retrieve them. His calm face, shadowed beneath the street lamps, changed and she read the hurt in his expression. Tamara didn’t mean to wound him, just drive him away.

  After a long silence and more than a block, he spoke. “I wonder all the time what happened to put you in such a permanent bad mood.”

  Tamara snorted. “You know what. And besides, you’ve experienced my home life and you still need an explanation?”

  He slowed his step. “It’s no worse than mine.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever.”

  Any time she thought about home, she wanted to run fast and hard in another direction. By the time she got home, her mother would be dead to the world on the sofa, television blaring and the rank odor of beer permeated the living room. Most likely there’d be a half-finished beer sitting on the floor beside her mother’s favorite rump sprung chair and often, pooled on the floor, spilled. If her dad happened to be home, which wasn’t likely, he’d reek of marijuana smoke as well as tobacco. He’d stagger home from the nearest bar on foot because he lost his license two years earlier. No one cleaned house any longer unless Tamara made an effort to clear the clutter, toss out the stacks of unread newspapers, collect the empty beer cans, and wash the mountain of dirty dishes. She did for a long time but these days, she came in, trailed around the trash to her room and left as soon as possible. Tamara had no idea why she stayed there. At twenty-four she could move out anytime and rent an apartment or a mobile home somewhere, but she’d spend almost every penny she earned keeping it up if she did.

  Maybe she feared if she split her parents might kill each other or her mom might drown in her own vomit. Her dad might burn the house down with a smoldering joint or just never come back. A rare moment of longing for the old days, her childhood years when things were different rose up in her heart and the tears she stayed angry to deny burned in her eyes. A few escaped down her cheeks and she brushed them away, mad she cried. Wulfric halted and wiped them away with his big hand. As if he read her mind, he said, his voice so gentle more tears gushed out, “Don’t be so hard on your folks. They weren’t like this until Anthony crashed his bike.”

  “I know,” Tamara said through a rush of pain. Her façade, her defenses tumbled as she remembered her older brother. Anthony represented the best of their little family unit. He’d played football so well he earned a full ride scholarshi
p to the state university and he’d majored in biology. In high school and then on campus, he’d been popular, a magnet for pretty girls and nice guys, people from a social strata far above the neighborhood. He pulled straight A’s every semester, worked part time at JC Penney’s in the menswear department, and dressed like someone out of GQ. Her parents were so proud of their son and Tamara, as a teenager, all but worshipped her brother. He’d never been mean to her like so many brothers she saw, and he helped her chart a plan to take her to the heights he traveled.

  Everything crashed when he died five years earlier, when he took a curve on some two-lane highway in the middle of the state late at night too fast and shot off the road into a tree. Tamara would never forget the late-night visit from two highway patrol officers, who broke the news of Anthony’s immediate death with professional kindness and true compassion. With him in the mix, they’d been a family but on the night of the awful funeral home visitation for her brother, her dad had spoken terrible words. His outburst scarred Tamara’s soul and fed her anger. She couldn’t forget or forgive or even cut him slack, because he’d been drinking all afternoon. It wasn’t justified.

  “If one of my kids had to die,” her dad said, eyes red and staring at her like a demon straight out of hell’s back acre, “why in the hell couldn’t it have been you and not my son?”

  Tamara had walked out of the funeral home and walked, not arriving home until early morning. She might not have gone back at all, but Wulfric found her, loved her, and brought her home. From then until the day two years ago she cut him out of her life, he’d been with her through everything as both rock and lover.