Hell's Belles

Erica downed the last of her Coke, then crossed her jeans-clad legs. Adjusting the ankle strap of her spike-heeled sandals, she suddenly looked thoughtful. “Thirty-five, maybe. I gotta admit, any older would be freaky.”

“We’ll make our meeting, then, an even twenty years from now,” Della said, straightening as she always did with the brilliance of an idea or a piece of juicy gossip. “That means we’ll be back here on this same day, at the same time—” she did the math, ticking off the years on her fingers, red nails flashing “—in the year 2005.” Her gaze fell to her engagement ring, and she bit her lip. “Jeez, that sounds like something from a science fiction movie.”

Mattie tugged Della’s hand across the table, admiring the tiny diamond that adorned it. “At least one of us knows what’s in her future.”

Erica rolled her eyes, grabbed a bar napkin and tore it into four squares. She scribbled the future meeting date on every small scrap of paper, then slid the pieces of napkin across the table to the other three.

When each girl held a square, they looked up like reluctant knights of the round bar table, each making brief eye contact with the other. Shay looked relieved, hanging on to her scrap of napkin like a teddy bear. Della looked suddenly uncertain and Erica defiant, as usual. Mattie’s gaze wavered under the scrutiny of her friends, then strayed to the stack of envelopes with a look of pure longing….

Kristen Robinette

could never decide what she wanted to “be” when she grew up. She wanted to become an archaeologist, a firefighter, a psychiatrist, an equestrian, an artist, a police officer…all at the same time. After deciding that her affliction was actually the urge to write about such things, she set out to become a writer. Now a multipublished author with ever-changing fictional careers, she couldn’t be happier!

Kristen lives in Alabama with her husband and three daughters. When not at the keyboard, she can be found horseback riding, boating and generally avoiding domestic chores.

Hell’s Belles

Kristen Robinette

MILLS & BOON

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To Josh and Christina

You’re the only ending that fit.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Haddes, Georgia

May 11, 1985

The four girls crashed the Stop-N-Bowl a few hours before its official opening, as they had virtually every Friday night for the last two years. They were now perched at a long-legged bar table, sipping colas and wondering what they’d gotten themselves into. Four white envelopes lay piled in the center of the table, the name of each girl written in her own handwriting across the outside.

Erica Donovan reached for her envelope only to have her hand slapped away by her friend Della Murphy.

“Don’t even think about it,” Della warned.

Despite her blond starlet looks, Della was the undisputed matriarch of the group. Though the girls were all eighteen, she had a worldliness and maturity that made her the natural leader of the pack.

At last night’s sleepover at Mattie Harold’s house they’d each agreed to participate in a self-improvement exercise found in a back issue of Cosmopolitan. “Make your own fantasy time capsule…” the article had dared. They’d since come off of their cheese-curl and pizza high and were now eyeing the envelopes with regret. Private thoughts took on a life of their own when pen met paper.

“This was so stupid.” Erica tossed her straight black hair over her shoulder and pretended not to care.

Della shot her a look. “Then what did you do it for?”

The two girls were as opposite as opposites came but they had a bond that thrived in the gray area that separated their opinions. Della had managed to go from mood rings and Rod Stewart to an engagement ring and impending mortgage without flinching. Erica, on the other hand, thought Della had lost her mind and had every intention of sowing her friend’s wild seeds for her.

“Search me. The only fantasy I have is to get the hell out of Haddes…”

“You’ve mentioned that.” The comment belonged to Shay Chambers. Shay had long since grown weary of Erica’s wanderlust. She pulled her long, shorts-clad legs up to sit yoga-style on the bar stool.

The pre-opening hustle and bustle as the waiters wiped down tables and stacked glasses was as close to the bar scene as the eighteen-year-olds had ever been. And it was as close as they were likely to come at the bowling alley, since Della’s family owned the place. In fact, Jack Murphy, Della’s older brother, would soon escort the underage girls out of the bar, ending their small taste of adulthood.

“I think it’s good to write down our goals,” Shay added. “It helps to know what we want in life. Right?”

“Um…” Mattie Harold pulled the napkin from beneath her glass and wiped up the ring of condensation that had bled through. “Were we supposed to be writing down our goals? I thought we were writing down…. Well—” she lowered her voice as Jack passed behind their table “—more like our fantasies.”

Della scowled at her brother for the intrusion, oblivious to the way Mattie’s eyes followed him as he disappeared behind the bar. What she hadn’t missed was the way shy little Mattie had torn into her fantasy assignment like a groupie after Michael Jackson’s white glove. She was clearly hot for something—or someone. Della eyed Mattie’s envelope with a surge of curiosity. “Is there something you want to share a little early?”

Jack chose that moment to crank up the music. “Like a virgin….” Madonna’s voice rang clear and excruciatingly loud as if in answer to Della’s question. The foursome convulsed with laughter as Jack adjusted the volume.

“So now we need to agree on a date.” Shay straightened, refocusing on the task at hand. Her gaze fell on Mattie. “What year are we going to open the envelopes, see if we made good on our goals? How about when we turn thirty?”

Mattie sniffed away her laughter. “What if we’re not married by the time we’re thirty….” She let her sentence trail, luminous blue eyes growing seriously horrified at the prospect. She stroked the bare skin of her arms below her tank top and shivered.

Erica shot Mattie a look. “Who said everybody’s future fantasies included marriage?”

The other three stared her down, Erica’s tough-as-leather exterior transparent to her friends. “Get real,” Mattie said.

“If we’re not married by thirty, we’ll have to do something.” Shay examined the ends of her long auburn curls for splits before nervously smoothing her hair into place.

Shay’s life hadn’t been as carefree as that of her friends. She’d lost her parents in a car accident at eight years old and had long ago stopped questioning fate. If not for the tragedy, she wouldn’t have moved to Haddes to live with her aunt and uncle and would never have become part of this circle of friends. They were her family. But in three weeks they would graduate from high school and their adolescence would end. Who knew what lay ahead?

Mattie tugged Della’s hand across the table, admiring the tiny diamond that adorned it. It winked in the dim light of the bar. “At least one of us knows what’s in her future.”

Della smiled, a lovesick expression on her face. “Donald,” she whispered dreamily, then pressed the ring against her chin. “Wouldn’t it be neat if we all got married and lived in the same apartment building—right here in Haddes?”

Erica groaned. “Spare me! Besides, who says I even want to be married by thirty?” She downed the last of her cola, then crossed her legs. Adjusting the ankle strap of her spike-heeled sandals, she suddenly looked thoughtful. “Thirty-five, maybe. I gotta admit, any older would be freaky.”

“We’ll make it an even twenty years from now,” Della said, straightening as she always did at the brilliance of an idea or a piece of juicy gossip. “That means we’ll meet back here on this same day, at the same time—” she did the math, ticking off the years on her fingers, red nails flashing “—in the year 2005.” Her gaze fell to her engagement ring and she bit her lip, marring her perfect candy-apple gloss. “Jeez, that sounds like something from a science-fiction movie.”

Erica rolled her eyes at the sudden change in mood, grabbed a bar napkin and tore it into four squares. She scribbled the future meeting date, down to the half-hour, on every piece, her large handwriting dominating the small scraps of paper. Then she slid the pieces of napkin across the table to each friend with a challenging smile.

When each girl held a square, they looked up like reluctant knights of the round bar table, each making brief eye contact with another. Shay looked relieved, hanging on to her scrap of napkin like a teddy bear. Della appeared suddenly uncertain, and Erica defiant as usual. Mattie’s gaze wavered under the scrutiny of her friends, then strayed to the stack of envelopes with a look of pure longing.

CHAPTER 1

May 11, 2005

Della spun the chair around with a whoosh, and Mattie found herself facing a familiar image in the salon mirror.

“Now then,” Della announced. “You’re presentable.”

Presentable. Why did that word grate on her nerves? It was true, that was why. Presentable and totally boring, though she’d broken out the most alluring thing in her closet today. But from her mouse-brown hair to her white slacks and aqua twin-set, she was merely…presentable.

Mattie touched the freshly cropped ends of her hair, causing the bob to swing at chin level. “Do you think I should let it grow out a little?”

“Why would you?” Della asked, obviously confused. “It would just make it harder to care for. As it is, you can wash it and be presentable in ten minutes.”

There was that word again. Normally Mattie didn’t spend much time fretting over her appearance, but today was different. Or was it? She wondered if anyone else would remember the reunion date. She met Della’s eyes in the mirror but couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Disappointment settled in her chest. Della had forgotten. It was foolish, but she’d carried the scrap of bar napkin in her billfold for twenty years. Lately, though, it seemed to serve more as a reminder of her failures than her fantasies.

“I guess you’re right.” Mattie responded to Della’s comment and was rewarded with a satisfied smile. Della liked to be right.

The world could begin spinning again. Mattie Harold, spinster bookstore owner, wasn’t going to let her hair grow out. Much less let it down. God forbid.

Mattie wrote out a check to Della and resisted the urge to dot her name with a smiley face as she’d done as a teenager. Her eyes stung. She was feeling ridiculously nostalgic today. Blinking away the tears, she glanced around the salon.

Della had hired a new stylist named Kimee. With jet-black hair cut in a geometric bob and more piercings than a pincushion, Kimee needed no introduction to Haddes’s youth. She was the poster child for the generation gap, hired, as Della said, “to bring in the teens and their allowance.” And bring in the kids she had. Teenage girls lined the waiting area, sitting two to a seat and giggling in nervous anticipation of their Kimee makeover. She was currently stroking fuchsia eyeshadow on a young girl of about fifteen. Her red hair had been cut frighteningly similar to Kimee’s and now sported a streak of white down one side. The girl looked like she’d won the lottery. Her mother looked like she’d just swallowed one of Kimee’s nose rings.

Just say no, Mom, Mattie thought. But obviously Mom was more interested in making her daughter happy than asserting her parental rights.

Several of the salon’s patrons, all over sixty, were obviously waiting to see Della. Mattie sighed. It didn’t look as if Della could get away even if Mattie reminded her.

Which she refused to do.

Mattie tugged off her cardigan as she left the air-conditioned salon and entered the Georgia heat. May had arrived with confidence, chasing away the cool air. Already the heat was pooling against the asphalt, swirling and rising against her ankles and sandaled feet.

She lifted her face to the sun, a little sad that her wrinkle-busting, age-defying youth-radiating foundation had an SPF of 30. She hadn’t had an honest-to-God tan in a decade. Back in the good old days, they’d slathered themselves with baby oil mixed with iodine, plopped down on a quilt and fried like teenage eggs. No guilt involved. She forced herself to stop frowning and rubbed the furrow between her eyes. Maybe she should just ditch the wrinkle-defying foundation and zap any intruders with Botox. She’d been thinking a lot about Botox lately. She’d been thinking about a lot of things like Botox lately.

Mattie sighed. Too much thinking was bad for the soul, not to mention the complexion.

She tried to clear her mind as she began the three-block walk to her duplex but her thoughts circled back with a will of their own. It seemed like some cosmic joke that she was pushing forty and still single. In her mind she’d freeze-framed her age at about twenty-three. But lately she’d been catching reflections of herself in unexpected places—the window of the drive-thru lane at Hamburger Heaven, the mirrored tile behind the florist’s counter. And the woman who looked back at her was definitely not twenty-three. More often than not, the woman in the reflection was scowling. Mattie touched her forehead again and massaged away the tension.

It suddenly occurred to her that she’d drifted through life like someone drifting through a supermarket, perusing aisle after aisle with an indefinable craving.

Despite the encroaching heat, which would soon rule Haddes during the summer months, it was a picture-perfect day. A few residential areas remained downtown, snuggling comfortably against the businesses as they had for decades. Not much had changed in the nearly four decades she’d lived here, but the few changes she’d seen were for the better. Old homes were being renovated by enterprising early-retirees, morphing into quaint tearooms and antiques shops.

The shops in the original part of the little city were old two-story brick buildings that shouldered one another along Main Street, causing shoppers to wedge their SUVs in side alleys and narrow parking spaces. Mattie took it all in, both content and discontent to walk the same path she’d walked all her life.

But then she spotted the bookstore and the doubt melted away. Something in her chest swelled with recognition and pride. Looking at the bookshop was like looking in a mirror but actually liking the reflection. Or maybe it was more akin to looking at your child, an offshoot of yourself of which you could unabashedly be proud. She wasn’t sure. But nothing and no one else belonged in that store.

She’d created it and it was hers alone.

Mattie had built the bookstore from nothing. In fact, the idea had come about eight years earlier when a stack of paperbacks on her nightstand careened over. When she went to pick them up, she realized they’d hit another stack of novels on the floor, knocking them over as well. She’d cleaned up, packing the books neatly in a plastic crate, but when she went to store them in her closet, there was no room—thanks, in great part, to her shoe collection. Mattie grinned at the memory. The left side of her walk-in closet had been stacked to the ceiling with crates of books, the right equally as jammed with shoe boxes. Since she refused to give up either prized collection, the idea for a used bookstore was born.

She took two weeks vacation from her clerical position at the bank and rented some space in an old building previously used as a saddle shop, signing for the run-down real estate on a month-to-month basis. The venture was little more than an organized yard sale at the time and she had every expectation of returning to her old job when her vacation time was up. But the day she opened for business a fierce spring storm blew through Haddes and the shop lost power. Mattie lit a half-dozen candles and opened the front door. The damp air lifted the dormant smell of leather and oil, mixing with the scent of the lemongrass candles and books. Mattie was in love.

Not only had the storm blown in that day, but customers had, as well. Somehow parting with her books had been not only easy but enjoyable when she watched them leave with a happy customer. When her own personal collection began to wane, Mattie went in search of more. Her clerical job was history. She began selling new rather than used books but also began acquiring books from estate sales. She lucked out on some rare editions and started educating herself on collectibles. Before long, she’d gained a reputation for handling antique and rare books as well as stocking popular fiction.

These days the bookstore was well known for hosting book signings and writers clubs. There was always hot tea and slices of lemon cake and good conversation. Mattie loved the shop like a friend, was proud of its success. So why did the accomplishment feel a bit abstract, as though the shop itself was responsible for the success rather than her?

She sighed. Possibly because, after nearly four decades in one place, she’d managed to misplace her self-esteem. Mattie ran her hand through her hair, surprised at the feel of the short strands. Della had been a little overzealous today. But then she thought of Kimee Scissorhands and shivered.

Though she’d hung the “Closed” sign on the door in honor of the big reunion—which suddenly seemed like a short road to depression—Mattie slipped through the door, locking it behind her. She breathed deep and smiled. It was home away from home. Like a favorite pair of faded Levi’s, or slipping into fresh sheets at the end of a long day, the shop was an instant shot of pleasure endorphins, despite the work required to run the place. And it was hard work.

Three stacks of boxes sat next to her desk, their cardboard edges battered and suspiciously dirty. Mattie knew what was inside without checking. A large order of children’s books had been missing in action for two weeks now, lost in the mysterious realm of overnight delivery. She dug her box opener from her desk and slit the wide tape from the top box. The first book in the shipment was a picture book. The artwork was delightful, sporting a neon-green cricket, the author’s name boldly splashed across the front in blue. Mattie ran the pad of her thumb across the author’s name, mentally substituting her own.

The goal of owning the bookshop had been consuming at first, and her need to see it become successful had fueled her for years. But two years ago the shop had settled into a sort of easy rhythm that worried her. Then that indefinable craving had returned.

Mattie thought of her writing and shook her head. She’d gotten the urge to see her own name in print, but the stories, the characters and erotic worlds she created under cover of night would never see print. That part of her would remain saved on a CD, safely tucked away in the closet where she did her late-night work. So she’d targeted the children’s book market instead, a much better fit for Mattie. Or at least the Mattie the rest of the world knew.

With her usual determination, Mattie formed a local writers’ group and had been working steadily toward publication ever since. But so far she’d only met with rejection. Some days she wondered if the goal to write was just another distraction, something no more achievable than marriage and children. After all, marriage required a man, and children required, well, something to which she didn’t currently have access. Especially without a man.

The number of dates she’d had in the last ten years—or rather the lack of them—was scary. Some days, especially after a rerun of Sex and the City, when it seemed the whole world was having sex, she’d vow to join them and just do it. Like the Nike commercial. She was straight. She was still relatively young and attractive. But then she’d go out with the postman, or the nephew of her insurance agent, and somehow the urge was lacking. She really didn’t want to sleep with the postman. In all honesty, she didn’t want to sleep with someone she wasn’t in love with. She’d only had sex with one person, her college boyfriend, Brad. A.k.a. a distant memory. Brad had been a disappointment. Or maybe she had. Who knew? But she’d sort of given in, then given up.

Now she considered herself a sort of pseudo-virgin, and she was actually kind of comfortable with that. She figured there was some sort of statute of limitations. If you hadn’t had an orgasm in a certain number of years, you got to reclaim virginhood. It made sense to her.

She spent the next two hours unloading the boxes, making order out of chaos and managing to avoid smudging her white slacks with dust. Finally she shelved the last book, stacked the empty boxes for recycling and made her way to the ladies’ room to freshen up before heading to the Stop-N-Bowl. What’s the point? her inner crab complained. Go home. Eat ice cream. Watch Oprah. Avoid more rejection. No, she countered. She kept her promises. If she was the only one that showed, she’d at least have the satisfaction of being the only friend with enough honor to remember. She smoothed pale pink lipstick across her lips, powdered away the afternoon shine on her face and mentally braced herself. No one would remember the reunion date but her. Unlike her friends, the wheel of Mattie’s life turned at a predictable pace. Manageable. Comfortable. Familiar. As easily shelved as one of her books.

She decided to walk to the Stop-N-Bowl rather than hoofing it back to her duplex to get her car. Besides, she wasn’t too anxious for her friends, in the unlikely event that they showed, to see her recent purchase. The land barge, as she thought of her Crown Vic, had been retired from the local police force. And it was as ugly. Dirty white, with the outline of the police shield still visible from the side, it had turned out to be more embarrassing to drive than she’d expected. Mattie sighed, feeling a niggling of regret. Oh well, it was big and cheap, which was why she’d taken the plunge and bought it at auction. She could stack boxes of estate-sale books in the trunk and back seat and still have room for a pony.

When Mattie rounded the corner to the bowling alley, she was surprised to see several cars, none of which she recognized. Probably the cleaning crew, she reasoned. The Stop-N-Bowl shouldn’t even be open this time of the afternoon. She paused when she reached the door, her hand icy despite the fact that she clutched the sun-warmed handle. In all likelihood, the door would be locked and she would spend the evening in a blue funk, watching someone eat bugs on reality television while she downed a pint of rocky road.

Mattie squeezed the latch and the door swung open easily, enveloping her in an air-conditioned cloud of familiarity. She took a deep breath. The Stop-N-Bowl was her own personal time machine. Her writers’ group held its share of meetings there, taking advantage of the deli and private party rooms available in the back. But no matter how often she came, she always experienced the same sense that time had stood still.