Sick Puppy (Maggie #2) Read online

  Yeah, it was a sucky week.

  Maggie parts ways with the officer and takes his advice on the Sundowner.

  An hour later, Maggie strips out of her vomit clothes and puts them in a tub of hot water. She scrubs them with the thin bar of hotel soap. After she rinses the laundry and hangs it to dry, she drags Louise into the bathroom.

  Maggie tries to lift her. The dog turns herself into something like a cruise ship anchor. “Come on, Louise.”

  The dog shrinks heavily into the floor.

  Maggie jerks Louise up and into the tub. She washes the dog’s long fur three times. After a thorough rinsing, Maggie pitches the soap into the trash and grabs the remaining towel. She’s already used the other one—plus the hand towels and the tiny tube of shower gel—on the interior of the truck. The squatty dog leaps from the tub and shakes, flinging water from her body.

  “Lew-eeze. Thanks a lot.”

  Maggie buffs her dry. When she’s done, Louise poses at the door, throwing a look over her shoulder at Maggie like a short-legged model on a catwalk. Maggie shakes her head and opens the door for her. Louise beelines for Maggie’s open suitcase and rolls in her clean clothes.

  “I’m shipping you back to Wyoming.”

  Louise settles into the clothing, her chin on the edge of the suitcase, her tail wagging like a fan above her.

  Maggie retreats into the bathroom. It smells like wet dog and barf, and she’s out of hot water. Still, she has the shampoo and conditioner she’s saved just for herself, and clean is clean. When she’s done, she drips onto the bath mat and blow-dries her wettest areas.

  She’s utterly exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  After cranking up the air conditioner, she pulls back a thin coverlet and flops naked onto the sheets. She stares at the popcorn ceiling. Bed sounds so good, but so does a couple of drinks. Because she not only wants to sleep, she wants to be numb. She rolls over and does a visual search for a minibar. None. She elbow-crawls on her stomach to the phone and presses zero.

  “Front desk.” The woman’s voice makes desk into a two-syllable word.

  “Do y’all have a bar?”

  “A what?”

  “A bar. With liquor.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our restaurant serves Miller Lite, Coors Light, and Budweiser. And a house white and house red. Wine, I mean. You can even get them with room service if you’d like.” Her tone is one of pride, and Maggie wonders if she’s speaking to Burrows’s sister. She’d been in such a hurry at check-in that she hadn’t mentioned him.

  And she’d forgotten she’s in the damn Bible Belt. Maggie rolls on her back and closes her eyes. They want to stay that way. “Thanks.” She doesn’t explain to the woman that wine and beer aren’t liquor.

  “Do you want me to transfer you to room service?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Louise hops onto the bed and licks Maggie’s cheek with tiny tongue darts.

  Maggie hangs up the phone, ducking her face away from the squatty dog. “You know I hate that.”

  Louise stares at her solemnly.

  “And if you think I’m feeding you anything tonight, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Louise lowers her nose and gazes at Maggie with contrite eyes.

  Maggie groans and levers herself off the bed. She’s held out since Raton, but she finally reads her messages. Hank’s texted twice since her phone-throwing meltdown, which brings the grand total since she left the hospital up to ten.

  His latest: Gene gave me the belt buckle. What’s up with that?

  Gene Soboleski. Hank’s best friend and business partner in the Double S, a bucking stock contracting business. Brother of Michele, Maggie’s best friend.

  Maggie doesn’t answer.

  She dresses in a rush, feeling naked without the buckle—she’s had it the entire fifteen years since Hank won it bull riding in Cheyenne. She’d thrust it into Gene’s hands the day before, then fled the state. Maybe Hank will give it to Sheila. Maggie doesn’t care. She’s done with Hank Sibley.

  Another text comes in from Hank. I’m worried. Please call.

  She doesn’t answer him. Worried. Yeah. She’s worried, too.

  She’s worried about where she’s going to stay when she gets back to Giddings. She’d stuck her toe into the whole vacation-renting-by-owner craze and rented her house. Now she’s returning earlier than planned, and she can’t freaking remember when Leslie—the short-term renter—is due to leave.

  She’s worried that someone will steal the trailer of Wyoming junk out in the hotel parking lot.

  She’s worried about how she’s ever going to whip all the new items and her shop into shape in time for the massive Warrenton–Round Top fall antique show her livelihood depends on. That she’s worn out her welcome with the friends and family who’ve been covering for her while her life was falling apart in two places at once, fourteen hundred miles apart. Shit. Note to self: check in with Michele for an update on the investigation and insurance claim.

  She’s so worried, in fact, that she knows the Sundowner beer and wine selection aren’t going to cut it, no matter how wrung out she is. In the bathroom, she paints her face and diffuses her long, curly dark hair. She pulls a tiered blue-jean skirt, red tank top, and long, laced vest from the suitcase. They’re wrinkled and smell like Louise, so she doubles up on perfume. She adds gypsy hoop earrings and her favorite high-heeled cowboy boots.

  In the bathroom, she sets a full water dish on the floor. “Here you go. I’ll be back in an hour to take you out. No more barfing.”

  Louise doesn’t lift her head from the pillow she’s claimed on the double bed. A week ago, Louise was a stray sponging off the ranch dogs at Piney Bottoms, the site of Hank and Gene’s business. Louise adopted Maggie, maybe drawn to her because Maggie was a lonely stray like her—or maybe Louise just sensed Maggie was an easy mark—and Hank had made it official. Before Louise, Maggie’d had two golden retrievers, Janis and Woody. She’d thought she’d never open her heart to another dog after their deaths, yet here she is, heart definitely cracked.

  From the hotel, Maggie takes a right, toward bustle and bright lights. Immediately she comes upon a bar with an orange-and-blue neon sign that reads PUMPJACK’S. The entire front of the establishment is glass, giving the place the look of a repurposed Rexall Drug. She enters, and off-key singing and loud backing music assault her ears. On her left, a DJ is working from a karaoke station beside a small stage where a large man is slurring his way through “Strokin’.” Scrawled in white marker on the glass of the window behind them is THURSDAY KARAOKE SEVEN TIL MIDNIGHT, which she reads backward from the inside. She looks at her watch. It’s already ten o’clock.

  For a second, Maggie considers bailing.

  A man leans close enough to be heard over the bad singing. “Maggie Killian. You came.”

  In body if not in spirit. She barely recognizes redheaded Officer Burrows without the Ray-Bans and uniform. “Hey.”

  He guides her farther into the bar. The décor is primarily antique metal signs from oil and gas companies, stuff that would resell well in Maggie’s Flown the Coop. Even away from the speakers, Burrows has to talk close to be heard. “Did you get a room at my sister’s place?”

  She nods.

  He smiles. It makes wrinkles around his nice green eyes. “I already checked the song list. They have some of yours on it.”

  Maggie shakes her head vehemently. “Not happening.”

  “Want a drink? Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  She glances toward his hand. No wedding ring. Booze electrifies her sexuality, and she doesn’t allow her switch to be flipped around an inappropriate partner, just in case. Not that she’s choosy. Availability, safety, and ability, those are her criteria. She nods at Burrows. He beckons her to follow him to the bar where he orders a Corona for himself.

  The bartender, who doesn’t look old enough to drink or legally obtain the tattoos all over his body without his mommy
signing for him, motions for her to order.

  “Koltiska Liqueur on ice.”

  “Strike one.” He holds up a finger.

  “Balcones Whiskey on ice.”

  A second finger goes up. “Strike two. Will you swing for the fences or play it safe?”

  “Jack.”

  He claps. “And she’s on base. Sorry we don’t carry the others.”

  “I’ll believe you if you pour a double.”

  He shrugs as he pours, and keeps pouring. “Not my bar.”

  Maggie downs her double Jack like it’s sweet tea.

  “Thirsty?” Burrows asks, eyebrows up.

  “Did I mention my week sucked?” She holds up a finger and nods to the bartender.

  He slides one to her then throws his hands up when she catches it. “Through the uprights.”

  She rewards him with a smile, and he winks. To Burrows she shouts, “Ladies room.”

  Burrows gives her a thumbs-up. She returns to find a third drink waiting for her and hears her name blaring over the speakers.

  “Next up is Maggie, with ‘Buckle Bunny.’”

  Maggie slits her eyes at Burrows. “Not cool.” She remembers standing in the Occidental Saloon in Buffalo, Wyoming, a few days before, telling a psycho fan that she wouldn’t perform in public when he demanded she sing a song she’d dissed him on years ago. She would have traded a yes then for Burrows’s ambush now, in a heartbeat.

  Burrows puts a palm on his chest. “I put you on the list before you came. Just in case. It fills up fast. Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

  The DJ is watching the crowd, looking for his tardy performer. “Is that her, John?” The DJ points their way.

  John nods.

  “Hey y’all, it looks like Maggie has stage fright. Let’s give her a little encouragement.”

  The crowd cheers. Maggie wonders if it counts as assault on an officer if she punches Burrows. She’d rather turn back to the bar and let the bartender show her his tattoos than sing here. But with everyone looking at her, Maggie is afraid she’ll be recognized. One picture to TMZ and she’s labeled a snotty bitch too good to party with the locals. Out they’ll trot all her failures again, for her mother to obsess over with her church friends.

  The drunken crowd chants at the DJ’s urging, mob-like. MAG-GIE, MAG-GIE, MAG-GIE.

  She holds up a finger to the DJ and downs her drink. Warmth flushes her face and her body buzzes. By the time she finishes the song, her drunk will have caught up with her and she’ll be on her way to fast forgetting. She glares at Burrows one more time. His return smile sticks in her craw. She balls her fists, and stalks to the stage.

  “Here she is, folks. Maggie, doing ‘Buckle Bunny.’”

  Conversation noise continues unabated in the bar. Inspiration strikes. She’s performed the wrong songs for the wrong crowds too many times to risk her own beloved material here. She stops at his monitor. “How about ‘Bombshell’ instead? The Ava Butler song.”

  “No problem.” He presses a few buttons. “Make that . . . Here’s Maggie, doing ‘Bombshell.’”

  The crowd whoops. Apparently “Bombshell” is more popular than “Buckle Bunny.” Louise has better musical taste than these rubes.

  Maggie’s never sung Ava’s hit other than in the privacy of her own truck, and then with a healthy dose of sarcasm. But she knows she has more talent in her left pinky than Ava has in her whole body. She’s going to give herself the gift of blowing Ava’s version out of the water, even if the only witness will be the few Pumpjack’s patrons sober enough to listen.

  She launches herself into it. No warm-up. No run-throughs or blocking. Nothing like the old days. Just her instincts and what Rolling Stone once called the voice of a wayward angel on a three-day bender. By the time she reaches the end of the song, the crowd has gone from surprised to shocked to raucous. Burrows is doing a Magic Mike impression while people around him jump up and down and sing along to the chorus. When Maggie finishes, she lifts a fist and drops her head. The crowd raises the roof.

  Okay, so sue me. I have a voice and I ain’t afraid to use it.

  Two

  “Holy shit, what-what-what?” the DJ shouts into his microphone. “I think we have a ringer. Okay, Pumpjackers. I’m willing to break the rules if y’all want to hear some more of that. What do you say—Maggie again?”

  The crowd chants and claps, more mosh pit than mob now. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.”

  From the right, a tall blonde woman touches Maggie’s hand. “Maggie? As in Michele’s friend Maggie?”

  Maggie whoops and jumps off the low stage to embrace the woman. “Emilyyyy. I forgot you live in Amarillo.”

  Maggie had met Emily the previous spring at Michele’s, when Emily was visiting with Laura, her partner in an equine therapy camp business. Hank’s sister Laura. Hank and Gene had been with them. Sparks had flown between Maggie and Hank—not the good kind. At least not then. The next week, they’d generated a lot of heat, first between the sheets, then during Hank’s implosion when Maggie sent him back to Wyoming without her. Maggie pushes the memory away. Thinking about Hank hurts.

  “What are you doing in the feedlot capital of the world?”

  Maggie laughs. “Singing karaoke.”

  The DJ interrupts. “So do you want to do ‘Buckle Bunny’ now, Maggie?”

  “Hell no. More Ava Butler. Your pick.”

  Burrows presses another drink into Maggie’s hand. “You are freaking incredible.” He and Emily hug.

  Friends, obviously. Maggie drinks like a camel that’s just crossed the Sahara.

  The DJ nods. “More Ava Butler. Got it.”

  “Why are you singing Ava’s songs?” Emily asks.

  The way Emily says Ava’s name is almost like she knows her. But Maggie doesn’t have time to ask Emily about that or answer her question, because the music starts. Burrows and Emily step aside, heads together, deep in conversation, until Maggie begins crushing “Fire on the Mountain.” Then they join the crowd in a fist-pumping sing-along with Maggie.

  When it’s over, the DJ holds his hand up. “Whoa there, Maggie.” He rolls back from his monitor and stands. “Okay, y’all, I got the scoop. This here is not a humble karaoke amateur. This is Maggie Killian. Maggie frickin’ Killian. I thought I heard an alt-rock vibe to her “Bombshell.” She’s retired from the biz, but she was a huge star. And apparently a big fan of Ava Butler.”

  Maggie doesn’t correct him about Ava. People cheer and rubberneck around each other at her. Some snap selfies of their big faces in front of her on the stage. She imagines one hundred simultaneous Facebook posts going up. She’d figured she’d be identified, but it’s time to step out of the limelight, even a dim one. She bows at the waist, waves, and joins Burrows and Emily, who have joined a larger group.

  Burrows hands her another drink. Maggie is thirsty. She gulps it down.

  Emily hooks her arm through Maggie’s. “Oh my God. I just realized I’ve seen you perform before. When I met you at Michele’s, I had no idea that you’re famous.”

  “Famously infamous. Or I used to be.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie is about to ask her about Ava, and about where Emily saw Maggie perform, but Emily’s already speaking again.

  “Jack, Wallace, Ethan, this is Maggie. She’s Michele’s best friend.” Emily smiles at a tall, slim man with dark skin and hair and arresting amber eyes. “Maggie, this is my husband, Jack—”

  “Hot husband.” Maggie shakes his hand, then purrs. “Nice to meet you, hot husband Jack.”

  Jack turns red and mumbles something unintelligible.

  Emily stands on tiptoe to kiss Jack’s cheek. “Jack’s not much of a talker.” She touches the elbow of another man. “This is Wallace. He triathloned with Michele back in Houston. He’s one of my best friends.”

  The man who sticks out his hand has floppy hair with blond highlights and a body type Maggie recognizes from Michele’s endurance eve
nts.

  “So you’re a psycho like Michele?” Maggie asks.

  He raises his hand. “Guilty.”

  With one word, Maggie identifies him as Houston. West side. Maybe Katy.

  Emily bumps Wallace with her hip then turns to the last man in the party. “And this is his husband, Ethan.”

  A thin, very well-dressed black man with eyelashes like a mascara ad kisses Maggie’s hand. “My pleasure.”

  Dallas. Oak Lawn area. “Which makes it mine.” Maggie nods at Emily. “I like this one.”

  “Excuse me.” A group of middle-aged women are standing near them. Their spokesperson says, “Could we get your autograph, Maggie?”

  “No problem.” Maggie signs her name a handful of times. She poses for pictures and allows herself to be hugged. When the women leave, she says, “Damn. I’m drunk.”

  Wallace raises a glass to her. “Delightfully so.”

  And in that moment, everything in the last week, especially the last two days, crashes over Maggie in a wave. Like a balloon with a pinhole leak, Maggie deflates. Her legs are rubber. Her lids are heavy. She’s tired like she’s been pulling a sled of bricks all the way from Wyoming, and she can’t make it another step. Not a single one.

  “I should jet. It’s been fun, but I’m bushed.”

  “Don’t go,” Ethan says. “You haven’t seen Wallace do ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ yet. I promise, it’s life-changing.”

  Maggie feels it coming and tries to turn away, but she’s not fast enough. She doesn’t do tired well, and this is more than tired. It’s tired, hurt, sad, and drunk. A tear leaks out and runs down her cheek. She swipes at it angrily, then laughs at herself. “I’m sorry. That sounds badass, Wallace. But I have to go.”

  Emily stops her with an embrace. In Maggie’s ear, she whispers, “What’s the matter?”

  Never mind that they’re not close, that Emily’s friends can hear them, or that Maggie is by nature a closed diary with a padlock and key, Maggie spills her story on Emily’s shoulder. All of her story. All the way back to meeting Hank in Cheyenne fifteen years before. It comes out in a boozy rush, and she doesn’t stop even when Emily has released her and the group is clustered around Maggie, nodding her on.