Look Before You Jump



  LOOK BEFORE YOU JUMP

  Book One in the Bartender Babe Chronicles

  By D. A. Bale

  Copyright by D. A. Bale, 2016

  ISBN 9781310593703

  Cover design by D. A. Bale

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the author and copyright owner listed.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  There’s no better feeling for an author than putting a book to bed – and there are no words great enough to praise the selfless souls who helped bring a novel to that state.

  Thanks just doesn’t measure up, but here’s a big thank you anyway to the GK Brainstormers who are always the first to cut their teeth on the initial draft of all of my stories (even the ones that never made it to publication). Brian, Gary, Julie, Richard, and Tonya – Vicki would never have become as interesting as she is without your insight into the realm of humor. You’ve helped my stilted-at-birth funny bone to grow three sizes during the writing of this novel.

  A great big thank you and digital air hugs go to my beta reading crew. Benette, Deb, and Sandra – you three will never know how much your ability to relate to and/or simply love Vicki and her antics helped resolve one of my critique group’s biggest beefs with that character. As much fun as I had writing her and living vicariously through some of the memories she evoked from my college days, I worried about having gone too far. Y’all helped me realize I hadn’t.

  Dedication

  To Toni

  Because even though you eventually stabbed me in the back and stole twelve thousand dollars from me, it was the memory of our college trip to Dallas Alley and the Historic West End that became the germ that grew into this series. For this and many other good memories from those days long gone, I thank you.

  Chapter One

  They say life’s challenges either make you bitter or better. In my case, there’s a third option – bat-crap crazy.

  But sometimes crazy can be good, the necessary catalyst for change. I know it was for my life all those weeks ago. Er, months? Okay fine, it’s been a few years now.

  Back then I had both feet firmly planted over the line. You know – ethics, morality, self-control, etcetera. My ethics were at times questionable. More like in the interest of self-preservation. My morals – can I plead the fifth? Self-control? Yeah, you’ll see where that got me in a minute.

  The desire to practice a little control of self was what had me tilting at a certain windmill by the time that particular night rolled around and forever changed things in my self-absorbed existence. It’s what brought my life and my Corvette to a screeching halt as I rounded the street corner to my apartment instead of spending it at someone else’s. Just wish I’d realized that little tidbit when I saw the blue and red lights near my apartment building flashing like a strobe on steroids. Same players – change direction.

  But I digress.

  Life prepared to teach me lessons. And for a hard-headed, smart-mouthed woman with a Texas-sized attitude only a mother could love, I had to learn them the hard way.

  ***

  I knew I was in trouble even before opening my eyes.

  The hangover headache shattered into my consciousness. Cotton mouth came next. Grit clouded my vision until sunlight batted it away like a sandblaster.

  The early afternoon worsened when the unfamiliar surroundings came into focus. Floor to ceiling windows – I hated them very much at that moment – shimmered like heat waves off a parking lot in July. Industrial-style loft space opened beyond the railing of the upper floor bedroom. So not my apartment. Too chic. Jealousy festered. Under different circumstances, I’d have enjoyed hanging out awhile in such surroundings.

  The cold claws of panic gripped me until snippets of last night’s rendezvous filtered into my sluggish brain. A groan escaped from someone – I can only assume me – as I sat up amid a cloud of white down comforter and tangled buff sheets, revealing my passed-out companion. A chiseled face lay buried in a pillow, squared jaw under tousled brown hair looked like a luscious male model straight off the cover of a magazine. Not fair for a guy to look this good first thing in the morning. If only I could remember the color of his eyes. Strong broad shoulders graduated down to an amazing six-pack, slender hips, and – oh yum.

  Awareness lurched before the headache returned to reclaim it. Oops, I’d done it again. Does forgetting the name of a sexual encounter make me a slut?

  Don’t answer that.

  It was time to swear off men. Become a nun – well that was out of the equation. I’d long ago relinquished virgin status. But if they could reconstitute orange juice, why couldn’t I become a reconstituted virgin? Either way, last night’s obvious and unnamed entanglement would have to last me for awhile if I planned to practice celibacy anytime soon. At least I’d have the memories – that is, if I could only recall the guy’s name.

  As I slithered from the bed, the aches in my body told me we must have had a good time. The fact my strappy, four-inch heels were the only thing that had made it up to this floor suggested we’d had a very good time. Bits and pieces of last night’s wardrobe revealed themselves as I limped down the stairs and shrugged into them on my way toward the front door.

  The keys looked like they’d been launched across the granite countertop of the bar, the stem on the cute little martini glass keychain broken beyond repair. My head thundered like a stampede as I tried to recall who had driven last night. I was barely coherent enough to drive this morning – or afternoon. Oh hell. All I could think about was whether or not my Corvette had survived the trip in one piece. Perhaps I should take a vow of abstinence from not only sex but alcohol too.

  Yeah, right.

  A groan from upstairs. Time to make my stealth escape and vanish. I scurried – more like teetered and tripped – to the front door, carrying my heels and keys and praying to find my purse in the Vette. A stealth escape? Let’s just say if bartending didn’t work out for me, the CIA or MI6 wouldn’t be beating down my door anytime soon.

  ***

  “What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

  My head threatened to crack like a champagne flute serenaded by a soprano, though I’d much rather just drink the champagne. Said soprano and best friend, Janine, could strip the peel off a potato with her squeal. ‘Cept this time it felt as if it stripped the scalp from my skull.

  I moaned. “Bring it down about twelve octaves, would you?”

  “Most pianos only sport six octaves.”

  “Hanging up now.”

  “Spill, Victoria,” Janine huffed. “I want details not excuses. A name. Number of climaxes. Types of positions. That sort of information. And don’t you dare skimp out on me just because you’ve got a hangover the size of Texas.”

  “Ugh, you sound like my mother.”

  That silenced her for a split second. “When did you start talking to your mother about these exploits of yours?”

  My mother. The thought got a chuckle out of me that sounded more like gravel in a blender. Talk to my mother about Mr. Yummy? If I even mentioned the word sex in conversation, my mother’s head would explode. If it hadn’t been for having little ol’ me, I’d have sus
pected my mother of still being a virgin. Hmm. Maybe I was adopted.

  “You know, calling me Victoria instead of Vicki,” I mumbled, reaching into my fridge and pressing an ice cube against my temple. “It’s irritating enough when my mom does it. I don’t need it from my best friend too, especially after last night.”

  “You’re really pissy when you’ve got a hangover.” I could almost hear Janine’s smirk.

  “Some friend,” I mumbled around a nibble of Oreo.

  There’s just something about a chocolatey cookie that settles the stomach – at least for me. I guess that’s why my pantry is full of them.

  “So speaking of last night,” Janine prodded, “give it up.”

  “I think I did enough of that last night.”

  The snicker echoed too loud through the cell connection. “You gave it up a long time ago.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The thought jolted my sluggish and slutty mind back to that night more than ten years ago. The sex wasn’t that great compared to what I now knew. But at fifteen, losing your virginity to the pastor’s son wasn’t such a bad way to go. Breaking in the bed of his brand spanking new Ford F-150 dear dad had bought him for graduation, let’s just say getting caught by the police with your pants down – or hanging from the tailgate, or tossed into the grass several feet from the truck – made the experience that much more memorable.

  Eleven years later, I was still making experiences – minus the memorable part.

  “I tell ya,” Janine said, interrupting my trip down memory lane. “The way you two were bumping and grinding on the bar top last night, I didn’t think you’d finish dancing out the set before he took you right there.”

  “I have a vague recollection of dancing on the bar,” I acknowledged.

  Janine sighed. “What’s the point of getting taken advantage of by gorgeous hunks of steamy man-flesh if you can’t remember the experiences?”

  “Let me get back with you on that when I have the brain capacity to figure out an acceptable answer.”

  A little bit of this and too much of that, I finally succeeded in putting an end to Janine’s interrogation. I really couldn’t blame her. The closest Janine has come to losing her virginity was when she hit an enormous pothole while riding our bikes when we were twelve. If her mother had her way, Janine would still be a virgin even after her wedding night.

  The ice cube had melted into a puddle that threatened to warp the fake wood kitchen floor. In my somewhat precarious condition, bending down to wipe it up almost sent me sprawling on my backside. Laminate in the kitchen – whose bright idea was it to put wood by-products in a room dominated by water?

  Gee, I was beginning to sound like a snooty impression of my parents.

  For the millionth time that year – and it was barely June – I glanced around my little one-bedroom apartment with the laminate flooring, tattered and stained Berber carpet, and a cracked kitchenette countertop straight out of the eighties. When you’ve grown up with anything and everything money, power, and status can buy, it’s a bit difficult to go without those perks. At first. After more than two years of freedom, it’s hard to imagine giving up my independence to return to what I considered slavery. On occasion, Dad’s voice still crept into my head – why do you choose to live like a pauper?

  “Because I no longer have to bow and scrape to your sorry ass anymore, ol’ Daddy dear,” I said to the apartment walls a little too loud.

  Slinky, my sweet tabby cat, didn’t even flinch from his perch in the window well. The only species of the male persuasion who understood me, he stayed far away instead of tangling in my legs while I suffered through the effects of a hangover. If only the other men in my life would take a lesson from Slinky, my life would be a hell of a lot easier.

  My dad’s a ridiculously wealthy and powerful son-of-a-bitch – oops, sorry Grandma. Like the Texas oilmen of yesteryear, Mr. Frank Bohanan cut his own trail in the industry with a lot of bribery, power plays, and just damn luck on his part. As a selfless philanthropist – emphasis on the self – he built the new building for the church we all had attended while I was growing up. One of those mega churches. Seats ten thousand with video screens two stories high so you can get a really good look at what Pastor Dennis had for breakfast. Maybe Dad considered it some sort of penance to the congregation to make up for bringing me into their midst. Nah. Probably more because it made for a great tax deduction several years running.

  ‘Course I was considered the bad influence on the pastor’s son when we got caught that night. Caused nothing short of a scandal to have the police catch us in the act in the bed of that F-150 and call our parents. I still remembered the ridges in that truck bed, jamming against my spine with each thrust.

  Maybe I was the one who needed to do penance. Did I or didn’t I take a vow of chastity after last night? Was I becoming my pubic – er, publicly benevolent father? Perish the thought.

  Dear Dad loved playing the saint on Sunday. That was after playing the Saturday night sinner. With Lisa. Or Lola. Or whatever the pick of the week was. Or is. I try not to pay attention to the sperm donor and his revolving door of girlfriends too much these days.

  Yup, like father like daughter. Only difference, he’s married and acts as if he isn’t. I’m not married and act as if I am. In some ways. One particular way. But at least I can admit my sins of the flesh while he pretends to be the epitome of a Christian man.

  Far from it. Believe me. I grew up in that household and had a front row seat to the train wreck of false smiles and hearty hugs, pretending to be the happy family when in reality life with my dad sucked ditchwater by the fathoms. From prosperity theology to a God just waiting to play the Santa Claus Savior and fulfill all the demands of His saintly sinners, the sperm donor has ridden every theological bandwagon the televangelists proclaimed – and ridden at least half the women in the local congregation. In a church seating ten thousand a service, that’s a lot of screwing around. Okay, maybe I exaggerated a bit – it’s probably closer to a smidge south of half.

  Don’t get me wrong. I believe in God. I just lack faith in the people He left in charge down here. Then there’s my Jezebel ways, and I’m not going to juggle two different lifestyles simply to satisfy the morality patrol. You know, the whole Saturday Sinner/Sunday Saint thing? Doesn’t work for me.

  Give me freedom. Or at least some semblance of it. I’m no William Wallace, that’s for sure, but I’m not above the occasional shopping trip to Macy’s and Neiman Marcus with my mom and her no-limit credit card. Just because my dad and I have zero relationship doesn’t mean I can’t have one with my mother. Otherwise I’d never be able to afford my wardrobe on a bartender’s salary.

  Gee, does that make me sound shallow?

  Don’t answer that.

  Chapter Two

  I usually looked forward to Tuesday lunches and shopping excursions with Mom every week. Usually. It gave me a day to recover from my weekend extracurricular activities and before I had to head back to work on Wednesday nights. I love her for more than her credit card, mind you, even if we have a difficult time relating to one another outside the mall or boutique. Audra Elizabeth Bohanan, a respectable southern belle, gave birth to a holy hell-raiser – that described our relationship to a tee.

  Secretly? I think Mom’s proud of me for standing up to my dad. It’s more than she’s done, and Mom deserves everything sainthood promises for putting up with her husband. Why she hasn’t left him I’ll never understand, though it’d be awfully hard to live without the luxurious standards she’s grown accustomed to after all these years.

  I know this firsthand.

  Then there’s the whole scandal of divorce, which in her circle would create even more problems. After being the public face of disgrace for my family, I know what I’m talking about here. Difference is, I just don’t care anymore.

  Mom, on the other hand, also once sported the title
of Miss Texas and would never do anything to taint that proud heritage. With long elegant legs and exotic green eyes that put the ‘eyes’ in Irish eyes are smiling, it’s easy to see how she won the pageant that year. Even with the great genes I inherited from her side, you’d never catch me dead in some beauty contest.

  Okay, maybe dead. But I’d be resisting in spirit form and haunting the hell out of whoever put my body up to it, I’m telling you.

  But I digress.

  Lunch and shopping were made for mothers and daughters. Quite literally it seems. Having Janine show up only doubled the fun. If only my best friend hadn’t brought her mother in tow, I’d have yelled out a hearty howdy. But the presence of Mrs. Thomas De’Laruse – Charlotte to my mother – did not bode well for fun and frivolity. Hence the usually in how I felt about all but this particular Tuesday excursion.

  Besides the biggest hair in all of Texas – and that’s saying something around these parts – Mrs. De’Laruse sports the deepest Louisiana drawl this side of the Mississippi. The wealthy De’Laruse clan was one of few who’d successfully transitioned after the Civil War. Now they weren’t only rich, they were filthy rich. ‘Course some say her great-great grandfather colluded with the Union, resulting in the reprieve that was granted to their plantation mansion instead of it becoming a pile of charred and blackened ashes like so many of the others.

  Charlotte then added to the family tradition of breeding whispers behind closed doors by eloping with a man of solid Creole stock – but Janine and I are prohibited from mentioning the eloping part in conversation. So instead of dear old Papa De’Laruse throwing him into the bayou as gator bait, Thomas received a thorough education and grooming in what it would require to someday take over the family financial empire. This, of course, only after agreeing to drop his surname in favor of the De’Laruse name. I guess some traditions are okay to toss out the window in today’s hyphenated world.

  “Victoria, dawling,” Mrs. De’Laruse drawled as she returned her teacup to the saucer like a well-trained debutante. “What’s been keepin’ you so busy on Sunday mornings you can’t make it to church anymore? I haven’t seen you there in, what, a year?”