Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 6

"He mentioned something about picking up T-shirts," Shelby Lynn said.

"T-shirts?" I turned to Stan. "What did you do? Sell advertising s.p.a.ce for the shirts on our backs?"

Stan slapped his forehead. "d.a.m.n. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Greetings, fellow earthlings!"

Van Vleet crossed the courthouse lawn and headed in our direction.

"Holy s.h.i.t. Would you look at that?" Stan said under his breath. "Talk about your friggin' twinkies. I almost feel sorry for you, Turner."

I could only stare. Drew Van Vleet wore what looked suspiciously like a Star Trek shirt.

"Captain Kirk, I presume," I greeted Van Vleet. "Nice, uh, top."

"Glad you approve, Turner."

I sensed yet another disturbance in the force. I know. Wrong outer s.p.a.ce show. But you get the point.

"I hope you're not suggesting that I-"

"I love it!" I felt a ham-fisted slap on my back. "It's perfect!" Stan gushed.

"You've got to be kidding," I said.

"What? You don't like Star Trek?" Van Vleet said.

"I don't like looking like a lame-oh in front of thousands of people."

"But we'll stand out from the crowd," Van Vleet insisted.

"Exactly my point. I prefer to ride below the radar."

Stan chuckled. "This coming from the person who finds bodies in car trunks and on boats, chases dunk tank clowns on the midway at state fairs, and nabs a campus crime spree perp with a zombie movie voice-over. Nice try, Turner, but no cigar." He stuck his own cigar in his mouth.

"I have an image to uphold," I tried again.

"Image? As what? Crime beat's Betty Boop?" Van Vleet sneered.

"At least I know a crime when I see one."

"Not too hard when the crime involves you."

"Your reporting should be a crime."

"Now, now children. Let's not quarrel," Stan put a hand on Van Vleet's shoulder. "After all, you're stuck with each other for an entire week. You'll need to pull together as a team. Cooperate. Play nice."

Stan Rodgers preaching on the benefits of working well with others almost made me forget the fashion disaster about to befall me.

Almost.

"But the shirt, Stan! The shirt!"

"Will be a big hit with the TribRide partic.i.p.ants and followers."

"I didn't think this a.s.signment required your wardrobe approval," I said.

"Nonetheless, I approve," Stan grinned. "I most definitely approve."

I shook my head. "Where's my friggin' T-shirt?" I asked.

Van Vleet tossed a plastic bag at me. I fished inside and pulled out the top. I held it up to my chest.

"Red! A red shirt! I'm wearing a red shirt? h.e.l.l, no!"

"What's the matter, Turner?" Stan asked.

"What's the matter? What's the matter? Have you watched an episode of Star Trek? Are you aware that the life expectancy of a Star Trek red shirt is roughly the same as that of the drone ant!"

"What are you talking about, Tressa?" Shelby Lynn said.

"I'm talking about the expendables. Star Trek expendables. Come on. Everyone knows when a red shirt transports down to an unknown planet, he isn't gonna beam back up alive-if he beams back up at all. No. h.e.l.l, no." I thrust the offending garment at Van Vleet. "You can wear the red shirt."

"I can't," Van Vleet said. "Remember, I'm the captain. The captain wears gold. Not red."

"What the h.e.l.l, Turner? Who gives a flying rip what color you wear?" Stan bellowed. "Let's get this little photo shoot wrapped up so I can get back inside my air-conditioned office. It's hotter than the devil's underpants."

"The devil wears underpants?" I said.

"Turner!"

"Okay, okay. I'll put the red shirt on for now. But I expect to take my turn at the helm wearing the gold shirt. Just so you know."

Stan shook his head. "Everyone's a prima donna."

I pulled the red shirt on over my head and yanked it down over my tank top. I set the bike helmet on my head (this time correctly) and stomped to the bicycle. I started to get on the front seat.

Van Vleet motioned to the rear seat. "Stroker, remember?"

I mumbled words that would have had me drummed out of Star Fleet and lowered my b.u.t.t to the back seat. Shelby Lynn's digital camera immortalized the moment.

I raised my eyes to the heavens.

Scotty! Anyone! For G.o.d's sake, beam me up!

CHAPTER SIX.

"Oh. Ow. Ew. Ahhh."

I repositioned the bag of frozen peas cushioning my tender bottom, hitched the temperature up a notch on the heating pad resting against my back, and prayed I wouldn't somehow electrocute myself.

I eased back against the sofa and flipped my laptop open, pulling up the web browser. The laptop was a hand-me-down from my bookkeeper/CPA mother. When she upgraded her home office equipment, I became the grateful beneficiary of her old lappy toppy.

Okay. So I also pirate her Internet service. Don't judge. You were probably a struggling young professional once yourself.

I keystroked Keelie Keller and hit enter.

Keelie's claim to fame was dubious at best. Her parents didn't own a large hotel chain. Her daddy wasn't a high-powered attorney or financier. She didn't hold a royal t.i.tle and wasn't heir to one. Her sleuth series ending and acting roles drying up, Keelie's career seemed to be circling the drain until she started a highly publicized, on-again-off-again romance with rising country-pop heartthrob, Jax Whitver. That notoriety helped her nab a spot on a matchmaking reality TV show. She hadn't received a proposal of marriage, but her performance on the show got her an offer for her own reality gig. Since then, her popularity had skyrocketed. She boasted an army of social media followers, a handpicked, fame-obsessed clique, and a legion of paparazzi on her trail.

Keelie and her BFF, Tiara Fordham, had partnered up again for the reality TV gig and enjoyed frequent-and highly publicized-nights on the club circuit, partying along with third musketeer, Langley Carlisle III.

Langley, or "Lang" as his BFFs called him-a pale, wiry, flamboyant blonde with strawberry highlights-was perfectly cast as sounding board, therapist, and-mediator/referee for two gal pals who often found themselves at odds over boys, booze, and big bucks.

Between Keelie's "It's all about me" airs, Tiara's "Poor little me" boo hoos, and Lang's "You can talk to me" a.s.surances, the threesome made a colorful trio-which translated into an impressive ratings leader.

I shrugged. What did I care about the Tinsel Town Trio? The likelihood that I'd ever be within a TribRide mile of the threesome was roughly the same as me completing the rigorous course without one hint of a hemorrhoid.

Yes. That's right. Slim to none.

The doorbell dinged. I set my computer on the coffee table, inched my f.a.n.n.y off the front of the sofa, and pushed myself to my feet. I sucked in a painful breath and attempted to straighten my stiff back, gave up, and shuffled to the door, acquiring a whole new empathy for my slightly stoop-backed gammy.

I pulled the door open.

"This better be good," I mumbled.

Rick Townsend stood on my porch, fist raised, apparently ready to rap on my door.

"I've been told I'm good," Townsend said, with a lift of one eyebrow. "Very good, in fact."

I felt the telltale warmth of a betraying blush. It seemed all it took for my blood to boil was for Rick Townsend to c.o.c.k a "come hither" eyebrow at me.

Who was I kidding? All I had to do was think about the roguishly handsome ranger and the shiver-me-timbers night we shared on the Epiphany, and I got all sea legs shivery and quivery.

"Well, good for a laugh at least," I said, determined to keep things light and loose with the man who could turn what good sense I had into cannon fodder.

"Isn't that what all women say they want?" The ranger asked. "A guy who makes them laugh?"

I couldn't speak for all women, but what this ranger-type made me feel was no laughing matter.

"I do like a man who loves to laugh," I responded. "At himself as well as others."

"Absolutely," Rick said. "No sense taking oneself too seriously."

I nodded, uncertain of just what Rick Townsend was doing on my doorstep and equally uncertain as to whether I wanted him there or not.

Yeah. I know. I'm an idiot.

"Can I...come in?" Townsend asked.

I hesitated long enough for him to notice.

"Tressa?"

"Sure. Of course, you can come in. Why wouldn't you come in? There's no reason why you shouldn't."

Babble. Babble. Babble.

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n.

I stood to one side to let Townsend in. A potent whiff of his cologne, coupled with his own unique "Ranger Rick" scent, hit me with the force of a "snap out of it" slap to the face. My house suddenly smelled better than the movie theater on free popcorn refill Wednesdays.

I closed the door and followed Townsend into the living room, rubbing my lower back as I limped along behind him.

"What the heck is this for?" Townsend asked, and picked up the bag of frozen peas and the heating pad. "You do know there are easier ways to cook peas than with a heating pad."

"Really? I wondered why it was taking so long," I said, grabbing the frozen veggies out of his hand, longing to put it back where it belonged: on my aching heinie.

I moved toward the sofa, trying my best to cover the distance without looking like an arthritic octogenarian.

Townsend's next words told me I'd failed.

"What's wrong with you?" Rick said. "You move like one of the walking dead."

Kind of the way I felt.

"I'm fine," I said. "In fact, I'm better than fine. I'm fabulous. Better than fabulous. I'm...I'm...stupendous."

Blither. Blither.

"You're in pain, that's what you are," Townsend said, and took my hand and led me to the couch. "Give me that." He reached out and took my peas and dropped them on the sofa cushion. "Sit," he instructed.

I dropped to the sofa.

"Ahhh." I sighed. "That hurts so good."

Townsend took a seat beside me. "What the h.e.l.l am I going to do with you, Tressa?" he asked, and I frowned, trying to select what had prompted this latest query from a list longer than the list of slights (both real and imagined) my gammy swears have been perpetrated upon her by old foe and new neighbor, Abigail Winegardner.

"What do you mean, do with me?" I hedged.

"Why do you insist on keeping things from me?" Townsend asked.